Road Trip, Part II.

A lot of the interesting things on the Turnpike happened on the "Hoot Owl" [the night shift] but there was one day shift that stands out in my feeble memory. The names have been changed to protect the, uh, perpetrators which I understand are still living.

Only on a few occasions did my 19-year-old self enjoy a solid week of 8-to-4, working days like a real person and able to visit evenings with friends. And remember this was a summer job, not a career, so I treasured these day shifts. One beautiful summer morning I reported to the gate at El Dorado to relieve the "Hoot Owl" man. It was the morning after a storm had powered through, clearing the skies, lowering the humidity and refreshing all with a cool breeze. Truly a magnificent specimen of a day. Into this idyllic setting drove one Fred Grimes, Kansas State Representative for Butler County, Democrat, and lawyer from nearby Augusta.

I had heard of Grimes and seen his pictures around for years. He represented the whole county and had served for some years. Dad knew him slightly through the county Bar Association but we'd never met in person and I'd never given it a thought at all. Until that beautiful morning.

He drove in to my gate to exit from the Turnpike, and handed me his ticket. [The way it worked was you entered the Turnpike at a toll booth, and the attendant would hand you a stiff card with your vehicle class, the name of the point of entry, the time and date, and a chart with the tolls to all the other exits from that one. You would surrender it at the point of exit so the collector would know where you came from and thus how much to charge--it still works like that to this day.] As I recall, he paid the toll from Topeka where he had entered, and then said, "Can I ask you something?" [These conversations are as accurate as I can recall, having occurred almost forty years ago.]

"Sure, what can I help you with?" I replied.

"Can I keep that ticket?"

No one had ever asked me that before. I thought he would be seeking directions to something. I shook my head. "I have to turn it in. It's part of the accounting. It has to stay here so I'll balance with the bank." I wasn't kidding. The auditors checked every collector each day for cash errors and those tickets were part of the audit. I studied his young/old face. "Why do you want it?"

At this point the honorable legislator squirmed uncomfortably behind the wheel. He paused, and I could see he was choosing his words carefully. "It's for my wife."

That really confused me. But he continued, "I'm Fred Grimes. I'm the state representative for this district." He stuck his hand out the window of his car. I gave it a shake. The warm morning sun was in his face and he was squinting to get a good look at me and measure me up. "I worked late last night at the Capitol and started out for home, but I was just too tired to drive all the way back home so I stopped and slept a few hours at the rest area by Emporia. I've been gone all night and should have been home hours ago. My wife is never going to believe me, that I was sleeping in the car."

Aha! Suddenly he looked familiar. Indeed he needed a shave and to run a comb through his hair, and his shirt was rumpled, so his predicament seemed genuine. "But why do you want this?" I asked, waving the treasured ticket. I also wanted to ask him what he had done previously to earn the wife's suspicion, but for once I kept my big mouth shut.

"That has the time printed on it when I entered the turnpike, doesn't it? Look on there, you can see when I went through the gate last night." And sure enough, atop the little card in familiar blue ink, his entry had been preserved for all eternity by Topeka's entry machine at 12:30 AM. "That will prove to her that I was on my way home on the highway, and that I wasn't still in Topeka."

This was my first encounter with an adult who would openly discuss marital problems with me, and it was really more than I wanted to know. And, my training reminded me that the ticket had to be turned in. It was the state's ticket, not mine to give away.

"Oh, I see," was about all I could think to say. I really didn't care to see his marriage suffer, but then automation took over. "I'd like to help but they are clear that I have to turn this in. I don't have the option to let it go."

I glanced behind him, and around to the entry lane behind me. Fortunately no other cars were waiting during this prolonged encounter. He said, "Well how about this: when do you go off duty?"

"At four." Here we go, I thought. He's estimated my character; now he's making a deal.

"If you let me take the card home with me I will bring it back to you before you leave this afternoon." I must have grimaced, because he went on: "Look, I am an elected official and you can trust me to do that. I give you my word you'll have it back before you go home." He was nodding as he spoke, and had the slightest touch of urgency in his voice.

Mr. Grimes had found a chink in my armor. He knew I wanted to help. And I was a little concerned about not helping since he was a state official and I worked for a semi-governmental entity. If I didn't go along with this character could he cause a problem for someone at the Turnpike Authority? His marriage obviously had trust issues; how angry would he be if they were complicated by some college kid following bureaucratic rules? Who did he know at the Turnpike Authority?

So I said, "OK, if you promise to get this back to me before I close out to go home I guess I can trust you." Then I thought to add, "But if I don't get it back I will have a variance and be in all kinds of trouble--so help me out." I reluctantly handed him the card, hoping he would understand that if he crossed me lots of people would hear about this little encounter.

He took the card and asked my name. When I told him he perked up a little because he was acquainted with Dad, and he asked about the family. He once again presented his hand, saying, "Thank you, thank you very much. I will have this back to you before four, I promise." We shook hands again and Fred Grimes, Kansas State Representative for Butler County, Democrat, and lawyer from nearby Augusta, drove out of my life.

By lunchtime the sun had thoroughly warmed everything and the freshness of the early hour was gone. And I had seen nothing of the Representative or his turnpike ticket. "You dummy," I admonished myself. He isn't going to make a 20-mile round trip to give that stupid card back and now you are going to have a variance." I am sure my pulse was up all day in anticipation of my cash drawer not balancing. What bothered me the most was that up until that day I had very few cash variances. That three-dollar toll would stand out like a red-headed stepchild. Talk about trust--I wondered if my employers would trust me after that. Three bucks was a lot to be out of balance back then, and the turnpike people were strict.

One o'clock, two o'clock, two-thirty all dragged by and no one showed. I had resigned myself to having been duped by a minor politician. Finally, at three, an old pickup truck drove up and an even older man, lean and wiry, got out. He wore a western shirt and blue jeans. I can still see him in the mind's eye, walking up toward me, leaning slightly forward as he walked. He had a weathered, deeply lined face. In his hand was the card. The pressure that had built all day vanished. I stepped out of my booth to meet him.

"You the one lookin' for this?" he asked, jabbing the card out at me. I had no idea who he was but at that point I really didn't care. I was just glad that Rep. Grimes had kept his word. And he had.

I took it. "Yes, thank you very much. I'm sure glad to see this."

"Fred said you wanted it." Apparently satisfied his duty was done he began to turn away.

Then curiosity got the better of me. "Hey!" I yelled. "Did it do him any good?"

The old fellow turned all the way around and faced me with his eyebrows raised in shock, apparently surprised that I knew the real reason for the transaction. Then his face melted into a shrewd, wily grin. He shook his head slightly saying, "I don't think so, the poor sonuvabitch!"

He walked away cackling with an emphysematic laugh. I slipped the rumpled toll ticket back into the card bin where it belonged and watched him drive away wondering what kind of day old Fred must have had.