Reputation By Association

When I was in High school, I was rewarded for my exceptional mental acuity as well as my great manual dexterity by receiving the highest honor our society can bestow upon a teenage boy. I got my drivers license, and it only took me three tries . . . again because of that great dexterity and acuity thing . . . right. Well, it wasn’t my fault if two inspectors didn’t recognize the greatest driver of all time sitting right there beside them. The third one sure did.
I had actually been handling many items of farm equipment since I was old enough to reach the pedals and Dad had been letting me drive the cars and trucks around the farm and even down some gravel roads since I was thirteen so I really could handle a vehicle. The main problem was that I thought I could do it at any speed and I tried to. I had two speeds "stop" and "How fast will this go." By the way, a farm tractor on the right hill with just the right amount of tail wind can achieve speeds of nearly thirty miles per hour . . . but that’s another story.
As soon as I got my license I started hanging around with some guys whom I wouldn’t want my kids hanging out with. They smoked and drank and did some drugs but didn’t really get into any big trouble. That is to say they weren’t in trouble with the cops or the school administration or even their own parents, but the other kids all knew them and they didn’t have a good reputation. I didn’t do drugs and I didn’t drink alcohol even though I was hanging around with these kids who did, but Dad had a saying I’ll never forget. "Reputation by association." It was proving to be true in my case and that bothered me. I didn’t like the idea of folks thinking I was someone I wasn’t.
I was no angel and I got into minor trouble from time to time, but my parents never had to face a police officer standing on the door step with me in handcuffs, or come into the local constabulary to bail my ass out of jail after a night of carousing. In fact my worst encounter ever, with the police, was being pulled over by a local cop who decided it would teach me a lesson if he tore Dads car apart on the main street of town looking for drugs.
With my help, removed the spare tire, the back seat, the hub caps, the floor mats and the lining form the trunk. He found nothing because there was nothing to find. He then told me that I had five minutes to get the car off the street or he would be back to charge me with obstructing traffic. It took me about two minutes to pile all of the stuff into the trunk and the back seat and get out of there. I don’t know to this day whether he came back to check on me or not, but if he did I was long gone.
I never told Dad about that little incident but years later noticed that any time Dad and I drove past that spot, he seemed to have a funny little smile cross his face for just a second. It never happened if he knew I was looking at him though. Hmm, I wonder . . . I never bothered with drugs much or with drinking either. I was afraid of getting caught. Hmm, I wonder . . . Come to think of it, I stopped hanging around with those kids right about then too. HEY!