Police Protection

 Way back in the 1960s, Thornton Colorado was a much smaller place than it is today. It still sits nestled within the dips and crowns of gently rolling hills that make up large amounts of land known as the Front Range, but it has kept pace with twenty-first century progress. Back in the 60s it was a very comfortable place to spend your teen years. Close knit. People knew local authority figures by name. Parrish priests, the local mayor, business owners and city cops. They were all our friends and neighbors.

It was one of those friendly city cops that changed my way of thinking one warm September day in 1964 and saved me from a life of crime. His name was Curtis Hanks. Officer Hanks to me.

Meritt Hutton High School, which I was attending, sat on top of one of those rolling hills; prominently overlooking the convenience store where students purchased necessary daily items such as gum, candies or sodas before and after school. In those days it was a serious crime to leave school grounds during a school day and was not permitted under any circumstance. A mid-week doctor’s appointment required a parent to come into the school office and sign the student out. Enforcing this strict rule was the job of our high school’s Assistant Principal, Mr. Ervin Deboer. Cast out Monday through Friday onto neighborhood streets looking for miscreants. He drove a white panel van and it had no windows. Very creepy looking like something a kidnapper would drive. We called it the “Ditcher Van” and if any of us had managed an impromptu escape from that prison-on-the-hill, successfully ditching school for one period or the whole day, we were constantly on the lookout for it. It lurked around corners, ready to scoop young rebels off the street, transporting us directly back to face any punishment Mr. Roy, our Principal, dished out.  The ditcher van was not our nemesis on this particular day, Officer Hanks of the Thornton Police Department was.

On this warm, sunny fall day three of us thugs roamed freely, having made a clean escape.  We were out and high on freedom.

Escaping undetected, Pat, Debbi and I headed for the Thornton Shopping Center, home to CreamLand ice cream parlor, King Soopers Grocery Store, Ace Hardware Store, Brown’s Shoe Repair and several other small mom and pop businesses.

 Something you should know about Pat and Debbi; they were hard core, died-in-the-wool greasers. And that fact alone meant they were never ready to leave their houses in the morning until hair was teased up at least four inches and sprayed solid, eye liner ringing each eye with dark black circles, skirts and mohair sweaters worn as tightly as humanly possible while still allowing just enough swishing movement to call it walking, and gum popping loudly. I was a greaser-in-training; not yet sure where I belonged in the hierarchy of high school, this being my first year there. A brief stroll down school hallways clearly identified greasers and soshes. Boys with slicked back hair, greasy with Brylcreem and tight cuffed jeans (greasers) or hair falling shaggy over forehead and ears and madras shirts topping high-water khakis (soshes), girls with teased high hair and tight skirts (greasers) or long, straight hair and granny dresses (soshes). Clearly a line was drawn and I needed to make a choice. I was leaning towards the world of grease.

This particular fall day we had managed to make it into the ice cream parlor and were gloriously giggling our way to the bottom of ice cream sundaes when Pat got bored with ice cream childishness, saying she wanted a cigarette. All three of us had just spent our money on sundaes. What to do? Pat suggested King Soopers with a suggestive eyebrow raising, sounding suspiciously like she was an old pro at whatever it was she had in mind.

 “This is not gonna be good,” said the little voice inside my head but was promptly ignored. Another voice said, “This could be my test. I’ll prove myself worthy to be a greaser.”  That’s the one I listened to. Not that I needed a cigarette.  I did not smoke. Pat and Debbi did. 

Now, in the 60s, cigarettes were not kept under lock and key as they are today. Condoms were.  Many an adolescent male survived shame, ridicule and a lesson on sexual responsibility while on a quest to lose his virginity. They had to ASK the pharmacist for them. Condoms were highly guarded and hidden from view but cigarettes?……they had their own aisle. Cartons lined up for the picking. And that is exactly what we did that day.  We were sure we hadn’t been spotted as we crammed long rectangular cartons under sweaters, securing them with skirt waistbands.  One carton per girl. The heist was a success! That is, until we heard the cashier holler, “Hey! You three girls!”

Ten minutes later, crouching as far down as possible in the back seat of Officer Hanks’ patrol car, we were transported to the police station dominating yet another hill and taken inside. Entering that concrete stronghold, I was sure my mug shot would soon be plastered on the “Most Wanted” list. They marched each of us into separate rooms to be “interrogated” individually. It must have been a really slow day at the Thornton Police department.  I did say it was a small town.

Officer Hanks waited calmly for my tears to become somewhat controlled then told me if I promised to tell my parents what I had done, he would not call them. He would not call them? A glimmer of human kindness? I promised and we met Pat and Debi in the hallway (whose eyes were dry. What, no tears?) and taken back to school. None of us criminals spoke a single word nor looked at each other as we crouched in the back seat of Officer Hanks' patrol car.

At school we had a welcoming committee of one. Arms folded across his chest, military stance taken, Mr. Roy waited.

Dumped from a police cruiser in the front school parking lot was devastating for this would-be greaser. But that day’s heist went a long way to raising Pat and Debbi’s standing with the greaser group. I, on the other hand, tried very hard to slink unseen back into the building.

 School punishment was handed down from Mr. Roy and we were once again admonished to tell our parents and take our “at home” punishment as well. I did and Dad promptly hauled me back to that grocery store to apologize to the cashier that caught us. She said she never wanted to see me in that store again. She did not.

 She saw Pat and Debbi from time to time though. Those two kept right on smoking and shoplifting. Neither one ever told their parents a thing about that day nor did I ever find out what they were told at the police station. My status with the greasers was forever doomed and I was teased unmercifully thereafter.

Greaser-in-training days officially ended not long after that September afternoon in 1964. Choosing instead, the madras shirts, granny dresses, bangs in the eyes world of soshes, later morphing into hippie-dom. I have known freedom ever since. Not total innocence; just freedom.  My everlasting thanks go out to one very kind, very patient police officer.  

So, Officer Hanks, thank you. You may just have saved me from a life of crime. Or, at the very least, a life of smoking…..cigarettes, anyway. Peace on ya, baby.