Scooter Goes For A Ride In A Chevy Cop Car

Scooter Goes For A Ride In A Chevy Cop Car
By Scott Strenzel, aka Scooter from Scooter’s Garage

The garage is open and we’re radically busy working on our ‘57 Bel Air Rat Rod! It’s either gonna be you love it and it’s Bad. Or you will be welcome to throw up all over the trunk if you have to. Harv likes it, but hey he knows who feeds him. Time for another true Scooter’s youth story.

A few issues ago, I told of the Cam Busters Car Club, and it’s rented Sinclair station, and of the break in we had with that guy getting caught via leaving finger prints on my Craftsman tool box. If you remember? He didn’t get but a few days in the county jail. For the time, it took for my dad and his buddy attorney to let him off to be nice to him.

And our police chief Don Frye had hired a fresh deputy. Turned out, it was a younger guy named also Don. And he had a sweet ‘53 Chevy Bel Air hard top with splits and some other cool stuff on it. Plus as a younger kid, he had been the lot boy as I now was for the dealership a few years ago.

Ok, I’m in the family garage at home, slinging some bondo at my buddies ‘47 Plymouth coupe. It’s about 10:30pm on a school night. All of the sudden, the young Don cop is standing in the garage in full uniform. Hi Don what’s up? You been having any runs-ins or doing any thing stupid around the guy that got caught breaking into your Cam Busters Club house? Hell, no Don. He’s five or six years older and meaner than this 15 or 16 year old. I’m not that stupid. By this time my dad had seen the cop car parked in the driveway. He was in his T-shirt and standing on the back steps of the garage. Hi Don. What can I do for you?

He explains that the guy that broke in to the club house had had all of his muskrat traps stolen and they have ID tags on them. Someone called his house and told his mother that Scott had been seen with a large pile of traps a day or so ago. My dad gave me the look. He spoke. Son never lie to me. If you have anything to do with this say it all now. I tell him and officer Don. No way. I quit trapping at age 13 once I found out about how cool girls were. Don then asks if it’s OK to take a look around the garage. Dad says yes go ahead. We have nothing to hide. We must re-call about a past SG story about the Atlas plycrons tires that I flattened doing a burnout for this special girl named Carol. I also told you all to make a note of the fact that I had hid them in the garage to see if maybe I could have them re-capped at a later date.

As Don gets around to the far corner of the garage, I mutter to him “Don please don’t look in the new car canvas cover that’s lying under the bench.” I’ll tell ya later why not. He speaks up loudly, “Scott, why are you telling me not to look here?” as he grabs the tarp and pulls it out from under the bench. I am looking at my dad. He’s furious. I can tell he’s gonna make my life miserable about those damn Plycron tires. He almost screams. Don! Take that stupid kid to jail! I don’t want to see him until I cool down. He needs to learn a lesson!” Damn dad. You are losing it over some tires. Then I glance over by the tires I have stacked up under the bench. Shit! Here’s a pile of muskrat traps! And they are the correct ones, with the ID tags on them.

I’m cuffed and off to the local state police station that has a holding cell via the Chevy cop car we had messed with in an earlier article. My dad and my mom show up about an hour later. Sergeant Emerson Lake was there to fingerprints me and places me in the cell. I am brought into a room, with my dad, my mom and Forrest the attorney buddy of my dads that I was named after. We talk. They ask questions. I’m frustrated and scarred because I am telling the truth about the traps. Then all of the sudden, I hear my best buddy Jerry’s ‘56 327 Chevy pull up outside. He blips the gas and shuts it down. Then he walks into the post. “Mr. Strenzel, bet you’re mad at Scott? Well, I’m here to tell you all that he didn’t do the muskrat trap thing”.

Then he looks at me and quirks.” Scott old buddy. I was lying on the driveway cement under your Vette unhooking the shifter rods to play a joke on you for tomorrow when you fire it up to head to school. I saw Art coast down the hill and around on to the dirt street next to the garage. Then he slowly made his way up into the garage with two arms full of traps. He came out empty-handed in about two minutes. He then got in his car and coasted the rest of the way down the hill, fired up his car and drove off.

To shorten the story, Dad wouldn’t let anyone do anything about it to his boss man’s son. He was afraid for his job I guess. This was an ongoing problem for me with the boss’s son. If you recall him running me over with the ‘62 Chevy wagon. I got to go home. But dad never did actually say he was sorry. His way was to tell me was that is was a good thing that I hadn’t lied to him. He was proud of that. He said “Hey we’re havin’ fun and I am for sure gonna get even with Jerry on his ‘56 Chevy for trying to pull the shifter rod joke on me.”

The garage is bared up like a jail cell. I’m out of here.

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Originally posted on Thursday, July 19th, 2012 at 10:13 am
Category:  Auto Round-Up News

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