Red Tape

The Big Brown Log

When I worked at Universal Recording in Chicago right after college, I usually took the bus and the El to work with my roommate Lukas. The studios were at 42 East Walton Street above the Hamburger Hamlet, long before it became the luxury building it is today. Every once in a while, though, Greg would let us drive what everyone affectionately called The Big Brown Log. It was an early-'80s brown Ford Thunderbird—brown on the outside and burnt orange on the inside. Greg didn't love the car, but he respected it. He took care of it. When he started letting me drive it because I planned to buy it, I did what a lot of guys in their early twenties do.

I stopped taking care of it.

One of the taillights broke. Instead of replacing it, I bought a roll of clear red plastic tape and covered the hole. At night it kind of glowed. During the day it looked exactly like what it was—red tape stretched across a broken taillight. At the time, that seemed like a perfectly reasonable solution.

It was the summer of 1989 during Chicagofest. Lukas and I hadn't gotten very far on our way to work before I saw flashing lights in my rearview mirror. I pulled into a gas station and looked over at him. He was still half asleep and couldn't have cared less. A male officer walked up to my window while his female partner came over to Lukas' side. He asked where we were headed, and I told him we were going to work. Looking at our shorts and T-shirts, he asked where anyone worked dressed like that. When I said we worked at a recording studio, he looked a little surprised. Maybe even a little impressed. Just not impressed enough to forget why he'd pulled me over.

Then came the words I was dreading.

"License and registration."

I immediately started digging through my pockets and the glove box as though the paperwork might somehow renew itself while I searched. I handed him my license.

"You know this is expired."

"Oh...really?" I said, pretending I had no idea. "I don't believe I ever got anything in the mail."

Then he asked for my insurance card.

I handed it over.

"These are expired too."

"Oh...really? I could have sworn I took care of that."

I hadn't.

The officers walked back to their squad car while they checked everything. I remember sitting there for what felt like hours as people filling up their cars kept glancing over at us. In my mind, they all thought we were criminals. I had no arrests and no driving record to speak of, so I at least had that working in my favor. Still, I knew I was in trouble.

When they came back, the officer looked at me and said, "You've got a broken taillight, an expired license, and no current insurance. What are you thinking driving this car?"

There really wasn't much to say.

"I wasn't."

Somehow the conversation drifted toward recording studios. If I remember correctly, I think he was convinced we were actually headed to Chicagofest to get into trouble. I kept telling him we were going to work. He mentioned he had friends who had worked at Chess Records. Then, almost out of nowhere, he asked, "You don't record any of that rap shit, do you?"

The funny thing was...once in a while, we actually did.

But every survival instinct I had took over before honesty could.

"No."

"Good."

He looked over at his partner.

"Well...what do you think?"

She slowly raised her hand and gave him a thumbs-up.

I couldn't believe it.

He looked back at me and said, "We're going to let you go. But I can't let you drive this car another mile. Pull it over on that side street, get to work some other way, and don't drive it again until you fix all of this. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

LuKas and I parked the Big Brown Log, walked to the El, and spent the ride talking about how unbelievably lucky we'd just been. I renewed my license. I got the insurance taken care of.

The taillight? Honestly, I don't remember if I ever fixed it.

What I do remember is how I looked at life back then. In grade school I always wanted to get to the playground before I packed my backpack. I've used that expression with my kids for years. Before you run outside, make sure you've packed your homework. It's funny how often I was really talking to my younger self.

Back then I always wanted to get to the fun part first. The responsibilities could wait until tomorrow. The problem was, tomorrow had a habit of becoming next week. Then next month. Sometimes I simply forgot.

If I'm being honest, I still catch myself doing it. There are phone calls I put off because I don't feel like making them. Paperwork that sits on my desk longer than it should. Things that would take ten minutes somehow stay on my list for two weeks. It isn't because I don't care. It's because my mind is already thinking about the next project, the next idea, the next place I'd rather be.

I've always admired the people who just seem to be on top of their life. Their oil gets changed on time. They know exactly when their license expires. They file paperwork the day it arrives. Nothing seems to sneak up on them. I honestly don't know if they were born that way or if they simply figured it out earlier than I did.

I've gotten better over the years. At least I think I have. But every once in a while I realize I've put another piece of red tape over something that really should have been fixed.

That's probably why I still think about that police officer. He probably forgot about me before his shift was over. I never forgot him.

Every now and then, when I catch myself putting off something important, I can still picture that brown Thunderbird sitting at the gas station with red tape stretched across the taillight.

Thirty-seven years later, I'm still trying to remember to pack my backpack before I run to the playground.