Willie, an Accessory to the Crime

For those of you wondering whether or not you can alter your fingerprints when the desire and desperate need presents itself, the answer is yes. I came by this information quite inadvertently at the age of five. I had neither the desire nor the sudden urge to become someone else, what I did have was opportunity. Really, thats all an inquisitive 5-year-old needs. The year was 1980, and we were spending the better part of a Saturday shopping in Cheyenne. Those of you who are Podunk dwellers or who have lived in Podunk understand that in order to purchase many items, a trip to the largest, closest metropolitan area is a necessity. For this reason, we had traveled to the town of 50,000 that day in order to pick up some supplies. The trip was even more significant though because my parents were spending some serious cash on new furniture. This would be the trip that we brought home the olive green velour couch (or davenport, as my dad says) and loveseat. These would later become the main pieces in my first home (yes, here in Phoenix and yes, in 1999). Due to this, we had to take the pickup in order to haul the furniture the 70 miles north after the purchase. Our hauling machine at the time was a 1971 Dodge truck. I dont recall the why, but I do know my brother and I were waiting in the truck for the duration of the shopping expedition. I can certainly guess that we were fighting, being obnoxious and causing problems, which led to our isolation in the pickup we called Willie. Indeed, all of our vehicles had names. This is a family tradition, and I think my oldest brother, Jeff, started it by naming the 1963 silver Chevy Impala Super-Fred. Thereafter, all of our vehicles had names, and we all used the names when referring to said vehicles. For nostalgias sake, I would like to give a shout-out to Brutus, Dudley and Turk. You carried us well, good men. All vehicles are guys, too.

Sitting in Willie (kind of an odd, yellowish brown color, lets call it brown mustard), outside of a furniture store, in the heat, without supervision, along with only an older brother who cracked my toes as torture was not a situation that was going to lead to a positive outcome. This is the moment when we take a look at this situation. A five-year-old and a ten-yearold are looking at the need to occupy themselves for a long period of time in a parking lot with little to keep them busy. This would never happen nowadays. Well, it might still happen in Wyoming, but it wouldnt happen in most civilized places. If it did happen, the kids would not face sitting idly on the cream-colored bench seat of an old truck with an AM radio with a built-in 8-track player. The children today would have a Nintendo DS (or two), 32 games, a DVD player (or two), five books, stacks of scratch paper, colored pencils, markers, two cell phones, a netbook, an iPod Touch, an undressed Barbie, a twisty flower from the Dollar Store and a red superball. At least, thats what my children would have if I left them in a car (minus the cellphones and netbook). As they would say, they need these items to occupy us. We didnt have any of that. Not even a damn bouncy ball. When youngsters face situations in which they are bored and unable to remove themselves from the pain, they make do. They make do with the items at their fingertips. Items at disposal for us were few. We had the AM radio, with 8-track. And a glove box. Inside the compartment were some napkins, a few wrapped McDonalds straws, a tire gauge, the truck manual, a pen and the homemade book my dad created that required logging each gas fill-up. Any passenger old enough to read and write had the duty of logging all pertinent information date, present odometer reading (the writer left the blanks for previous odometer reading and difference open until a later time when a calculator was available), gallons filled, dollars filled,

price per gallon, octane rating, miles per gallon (to be determined later, calculator required), name of gas station and location of gas station. Some of you detail-sticklers might claim I am pulling a James Frey Million Little Pieces here because I couldnt possibly remember what was in the glove box. Well, this is what was in every glove box of every vehicle I ever rode in owned by my parents. Its pretty much whats in my glove box right now (minus the straws). As for the detail regarding the gas book, I am looking at one right now from 1997. Its the last one I filled out when I owned my 1993 Chevy Cavalier (went by the name of Chip). It was around that time that I took a hard look at why I wrote everything down when I filled gas every single time. I realized I didnt really need all of that information once I knew the average mileage the car consistently produced. Now the car gives me some of this information (not all I have to simply wonder where the hell I filled gas last) on a digital readout right in the dash. Crazy, I know! I kept my last gas book for nostalgias sake. Ill tell you, its an interesting fact to know that on September 12, 1996, I paid $1.20 per gallon to fill my car with gas at the Coastal station in Cheyenne, Wyoming. The total for the tank was $14.50. My car got 29.2 miles per gallon on the previous tank. I do realize I am shortchanging myself out of some of this critical information now. I can handle it though. I have talked it out. Nothing much in the truck was providing entertainment. We knew we would get lickens if we doodled on the all-important gas book. Ditto if we damaged or wasted the straws or napkins. We certainly couldnt even think about touching the steering wheel or pedals. Those were way off-limits. A kid can unlock and lock a door and roll a window up and down only so many times. Therefore, after about five minutes, we found ourselves with nothing to do. Jamie is definitely more of a rebel than I. Stories of those experiences will appear elsewhere at a later time. I just want to clarify that he was the risk-taker. I usually sat by and

watched. I also knew that I would get in trouble if I pushed the limits or tested the waters. His past and future experiences helped him to realize that he likely would escape punishment. Considering what happened next, this moment probably helped me to develop my fear of taking the wrong risk and facing negative consequences. I havent talked this one out yet, so I cant definitively say this, but it makes sense. Jamie grew tired of the restricted items in the truck and had little place else to turn. He faced the dash and pushed in the cigarette lighter, standard issue for trucks like Willie. We both sat watching it as it stayed in its position, heating up. After a short while, it popped out. Jamie didnt reach for it. I hesitated and decided I should take action. I pulled it out with my right hand (after all, I am right-handed unlike Jamie, the freak of nature who is part of the 11% of the population) and immediately pushed it fully against the middle finger of my left hand. Well, in case youre wondering, it burned. Like hell. Fire. Hot. Pain. The feeling was excruciatingly terrible, especially for a cute, little spoiled five-year-old girl. I threw it down and screamed and cried and had an extreme fit of gargantuan proportions. We had strict instructions to not leave the truck, so we waited until my parents came out of the furniture store. No one in the family has any recollection of treatment or if I got an ice cream cone after. I am sure some of that happened though. Since the incident, my fingerprint on this finger looks nothing like those on the rest of my fingertips. All of my other fingerprints are loops. The altered one is an arch. If I commit a serious crime, and I need to go underground, I know exactly what I need to do. I can create nine other arches. It wont be pretty, but when desperate times call for desperate measures, delving back to the past for good ideas can be very effective. At the time, my tiny five-year-old hand suffered, but the payoff is now. I know what to do. If I have to.