Buick LeSabre, 2003, had to drive Minneapolis to San Diego with my wife in 40 hours.

Reaching the Utah border, we decided to celebrate our first visit to Utah by doing an act that was illegal there from just over the state line in Colorado.

Pants were left in the back seat because wouldn’t it be fun to be able to say I’d never worn pants in Utah.

About half way through, my wife stops for a restroom break, leaves me in the car in the middle of a huge, empty lot.

Time passes.

More time passes.

Even more.

A rusty pickup drives through the lot and parks alongside my pantsless self.

I start having visions of Mormon deliverance.

Then a cop car shows up. The pickup drives off. The cops park alongside.

I debate a desperate rush to grab my pants but some asshole put a bench seat in this thing. The only way I’m getting them is reaching so far over my lilly white English ass will be waving to the cops.

I wait.

I envision Mormon jail.

They look at me.

I nod back.

We wait some more.

They finally drive off, bored.

I cry a little.

My wife finally wanders back, having decided to go to Burger King while she was in there. We don’t speak until Vegas.

I blame this entirely on the sketchy LeSabre and its stupid bench seat. None of it was my own poor choices. I have learned nothing. I refuse to learn!