Sometimes it’s not who you are, it’s who you know…

I grew up in rural Western Pennsylvania, Beaver County.  My mother worked at the Beaver County Courthouse, she was a clerk in the tax office where all taxes, including motor vehicle, were collected.

One sunny afternoon just after my junior year in college, I heard loud, resonant knocking on one of the plate glass sliding doors on the front of the house.  It was a Beaver County Police officer and he wanted to know if I was John Maruskin.

I told him I was and he said, “I have a warrant for your arrest. You have to come along with me.”  A rush of hippy horror roiled my brain’s convolutions like volcanic oatmeal, I probably shook, but I managed to ask, more or less calmly, “Why?”

The officer explained that I never paid near 100 parking tickets in Beaver, PA, ranging over a number of years , that I was a “Scofflaw” and that since I had ignored summonses, I was going to be arrested.

When I explained that I hadn’t lived in Beaver County for most of the last three years as I’d been in school in Washington, DC, he gave me an exasperated scowl and said: “Is your name John Maruskin?”  Since I’d already admitted it, I couldn’t suddenly change my story and say I was just a cousin visiting from “the old country.”

“Yes,” I said, “but…”

“No buts.  I’ve got a warrant for your arrest and you’re coming with me.”

“Wait,” I said, “I haven’t been in Beaver a hundred times in my life.  In fact, the only time I’ve been there in the past few years is when I’ve gone to have lunch with my mother who works…”

And then, as they say, it hit me.

“What kind of car was illegally parked?”  I asked.

“A yellow Chevy Malibu.”

“Oh,” I replied, breathing a sigh of relief, but trying not to seem flip. “That’s my mother’s car.  It’s registered under my father’s name, the same as mine, but my mother drives it to work every day at the courthouse.”

The officer’s attitude changed from adamant to jovial in a moment.

“You’re Dorothy Maruskin’s son?”

“Yes.  She works in the tax office.”

“Yeah, I know her, she’s a real nice lady.  Okay, I’ll go talk to her. Sorry.  Goodbye.”  He walked away.  I sank on the porch glider and recovered.

That evening when my mother got home I asked, “Why aren’t you in jail?”

She held up one index finger, gave a me coy smile, and one of those looks that said, this is just between us.  Then she said, real breezy, “Oh yes, a police officer came by and said he’d notice my car was parked near an expired meter.  He warned me not to do that because I could get a ticket.”

End of story. Whether or not she paid the fines, I never found out.  I doubt it.  My uncle was the police captain in Aliquippa, and a shot and a beer were sufficient to clear a ticket if the offender caught him off duty.  Heck, on duty.  Not corruption, comity

Sometimes it’s not who you know, it’s who knows your mother.

In preparing him, Dad emphasized, “Jake, they don’t want to know your philosophy on life. They want to know what you would do as a driver in different situations.” J
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Driving with Susy 

Susy’s family lived on our block,  just a few houses away,  and our parents were close friends.  In my mind’s eye I can still see our mothers sitting together in our kitchen,  me watching in fascination as Susy’s mom twisted the string around her teabag to get the last drop of flavor.

And I remember calling for Susy after school and we’d roller skate together for hours around and around the block.  (See Skate Key)

And I remember running down to their house early one morning to tell them my baby sister was born,  and discovering the date was Susy’s dad’s birthday as well.

A decade or so later I danced with her dad at Susy’s wedding and he told me,  “I’ll dance at your wedding too, Dana.”,  and he soon did.

But back in high school,  altho we were still close friends,  Susy was a grade ahead and we began to hang out with different crowds.  And yet one June day in her senior year it was me she called to say she’d gotten her driver’s license!

Her dad had agreed to lend her the car, and she invited me to drive with her to Orchard Beach that Saturday.   In Pelham Bay Park,  and situated on the western end of Long Island Sound,  Orchard Beach is the only public beach in the Bronx.  It may not have made the list of best beaches on the east coast,  but for us it might as well have been the French Riveria.   It was the place for nighttime hanky panky in cars,  and on summer days it was our beachy Paradise.   We even went to Orchard Beach to study for our final exams,  or so we told our folks – naively thinking they believed us.

Truthfully I don’t remember what we did once we got to the beach on that memorable day – surely we met friends there and Susy proudly showed off her new drivers license,

But I do remember that long-ago drive  –  two young women feeling very grown up and very free,  driving all by themselves to Paradise!

– Dana Susan Lehrman