Thick as thieves, the two of us. Second cousins, born just a few short months apart. Miles didn’t matter; we were inseparable.

As kids, we were mischievous, almost in a Huck Finn & Mark Twain way. I laughed every time he talked like Kermit the Frog and he thought my jokes were funny. We smoked the Winston Red cigarette butts our great grandfather threw out behind the old Caprice, only getting caught once. After becoming bored climbing the bigger than life magnolia tree out front, we’d make our way to the back yard, where we would throw rocks at old glass bottles to break them. At some point, we learned that rubbing alcohol burned.

Years later, my cousin lived in a single wide mobile home, sitting behind his grandfather’s transportation and oil company. In the front of the property was a gas station, formally owned by him as well. The gas station was situated right off of the main east / west highway. The night that we were almost hauled off by the local police department, we had been at his house playing cards.

It was the night before our great-grandfathers funeral. (The man who smoked the Winston Reds.) We had been there by ourselves, playing phase ten and drinking copious amounts of rum. Deciding to go for a food run, we loaded up in his 1997 Chevrolet Z71.

We pulled out onto the highway, not knowing that a burglary alarm had been tripped at the gas station. All of the sudden, flashing blue lights appear behind us. We both knew damn well we wreaked of alcohol. All I remember was the officer asking my cousin, “Don’t I know you?” He replied with, “Yes sir. My dad is the fire chief.” The next thing I knew a flashlight was in my face and the officer said, “What’s your story?” I think I actually laughed and then replied, “It’s my first week in highway patrol.”

The local, law enforcing, ol’boy driving the Crown Vic cut his flashing lights off and left. There are no more late night “food runs” for these two “thick as thieves” fools.