more than watchmen for the morning

The Rock Quarry

The summer after we graduated high school was a time of foolishness and laughter.  They were the days of fast moving fun and the scent of over-chlorinated swimming pools by hyper-protective mothers who had not yet been swept away by the tide of saltwater backyard oceans that now frequent the affluent neighborhoods of sunny cities and towns. 
The exhilaration of having graduated from high school was too much for our hormones to contend with.  Late at night we would venture to a rock quarry on the outskirts of town.  I don’t know which of my adventuring friends explored this lost city first, but it was a treasure at night making us all feel a little like Indiana Jones.  Our cars would wind through the dusty roads and finally emerge over rocky cliffs and to find what was, in my memory, a vast lake. I do not know that if I were to return there now, in broad daylight, if I would find it to be as impressive as I did then. At the time it was an oasis in a rocky dessert.  The water was perfectly clear and cool, even in summer, thanks to the temperature of the spring from which the lake had been formed.  We swam for hours in the middle of the night.  We would perch on damp rocks and discuss the thoughts that we were sure made us towering intellectuals.  Our life experience had produced diplomas and wisdom and the moon was a polish that revealed those things in us. 
News of the lake quarry spread throughout the summer until one night there was a group as large as perhaps a quarter of our senior class.  In our infinite wisdom we determined that we should park our cars in the lots of the business park that was located at the back entrance of the quarry, the entrance that was easy for us to enter. It was best for us to leave some of the cars behind and pack in as many people into as few vehicles as possible.  
As some of us waited in that parking lot for our other friends to arrive we heard the barking of a dog. Quite surprised, we looked up and saw this dog standing sentinel at the front of an open door of one of the businesses. Towering behind the large dog was a massive man who was not wearing a shirt. He was studying us with a scowl of worry and curiosity painted across his face. I yelled for us to go, and so we dove into our cars and sped away.  Within a moment the man was tailing me in a vehicle of his own, which happened to be a Ford F-350 with flood lights bright enough to disturb the dead from their sleep. 
Friends in other cars pulled away, but this man was trained on my 1984 Chevy Camero, built with 8 cylinders of American-made and gas-guzzling glory.  
I carried on through the back roads of our little town, finally making my way to a Kroger, where we spilled out of my car and ran inside, somehow hoping that this beast would be turned away from such an upstanding business as a supermarket for not wearing a shirt. 
Eventually we emerged again to find our pursuer talking with some police. I snuck to the side and got into my car, but it was only a few moments later when a policeman pulled me over.  Interestingly, he was only able to legally pull me over because he said that my back left tire looked a little low. 
“Oh.  And since I have you here. Could you come back over to the Kroger parking lot and answer some questions?” 
Noticing his gun at my eye level, I felt obliged to come along.  
When we got back I concocted some story about how we were going to swim at somebody’s house, how we wanted to car pool because gas was really expensive (upwards of a buck ten a gallon), and that we knew that our cars would certainly be safe from carjackers if parked in these secluded and dark lots. 
The policeman looked it me with a puzzled expression and said something along the lines of, “Well. For now on just park at the gas station.”  
In retrospect, I realize that we were stupid. Why did I need to make up some story? What did I think was going to happen if I told him we wanted to swim in the quarry?  Were they going to arrest me on Intent to Trespass? Were they going to fill up the lake with cement? Were they going to handcuff me to a chair in the interrogation room down at county with a bright light on my face and tell me that I’m scum? 
Further, why did we panic and drive away from the large man in the first place?  Likely, he was only concerned about us burglarizing his cogs or sprockets company or whatever it was.  Perhaps if we would have stayed and explained then he would have been happy for us to park there.  Maybe I could have asked him what series of events led him to sleeping at the office. Maybe I could have been a shoulder to cry on.  Who knows. 
Those were good summer days, they were.