Holiday Road

See our entire trip in 4 min or less. 

The rumors are true, you guys. This summer, the Craig family pulled off a Griswold-worthy cross-country trip across this-here land of the free and home of the highway-bathroom stops! And it was glorious.

It all started when Katie’s parents declared they wanted to hold a family reunion. We’re fans of family reunions and of our families, in particular, so we were in. Then, they doubled-down by suggesting that since we are all spread out across the fruited planes and purple mountains (Katie being one of 10 children), that we should meet in the middle.

Kansas.

Which begs the question: Is Kansas … is that … is Kansas the middle? I’m pretty sure no. I’m pretty sure Hawaii is the middle. But then we crunched some numbers and turns out that if you’re going by budgets and expenses, Kansas is for sure the middle.

Then we decided that if we were going to drive all the way to Kansas, we should just make this trip – how the kids of 2014 say – epic. Yessir, we decided to go all the way! From sea to shining sea, baby!

Mostly.

If you're counting the Great Salt Lake as a sea, then yep! From Utah to Boston, Massachusetts!

For those of you keeping score at home, Katie and I have 8 children. (If you’re really a baller, then you know that one of our children is serving an LDS mission in Brazil and was not available for this road trip. But he’ll be available in 16 months, ladies…)

Anyway, the 9 of us piled into our 12-passenger van (alias: Big Red) and drove off into the sunset! Then we realized that was the wrong direction, so we turned that bus around and drove east! Like the old saying, “Go east, young man!”

We took 3 weeks, covered 17 states, and racked up 6,270 miles.

We made 8 lip sync videos. Technically, we made nine. But we never posted this one.

If you want to see the rest, they’re on YouTube.

We saw lots, my friends. Lots. The landscapes, the cultures, the people, the foods. But not everything. And that was maddening to me. It was like ordering a sampler plate. You know how when you are eating a sampler plate and you’re like, “Well, that was the right amount of stuffed potato skins (Hershey, PA), but I could have easily eaten an entire dinner of those sliders (Washington DC).” It was like that. We were in New York for precisely 10 hours. TEN HOURS. Sure, we saw Lady Liberty and walked the Brooklyn Bridge and played in Central Park. But is that enough? (It’s not. It’s like one and half sliders.) But I think we really nailed some cities. Have you EXPERIENCED the St. Louis City Museum? (Answer: You haven’t, and you should be ashamed.) We embraced Washington DC. High-fived Boston. And gave Philadelphia a sporty bum-smack. But some places, like Chicago, demanded more of our attention. And we just couldn’t fit everything in, or we’d still be out there. I even saw a billboard in Iowa that said, “Next Exit: Ride a boat pulled by mules.” And I thought to myself, “YES. That’s precisely what I want to do!” But time mocked us right to our faces.

But, perhaps most importantly, you don’t drive across America the Beautiful without learning a few things. Here are a few nuggets from this trip:

1. Our van fits in parking garages with a minimum 6’8 clearance. Not 6’6, not 6’7. We learned this the hard way at a garage in Washington DC. Worst. Sound. Ever. The good news is that we’ve traveled in this van for 7 years, with 8 children, on road-trips, eating countless meals, and nobody but nobody is interested in buying this used van from us. We clearly do not care what it looks like. We’ll just continue to abuse it until it refuses to run anymore. Which, if it were a person, and that person were me, that would have been 6 years ago.

Parking my 12-passenger van in downtown Manhattan. What? 

2. Everything takes longer with a big family. EVERY. THING. And when I say everything, I am mostly talking about bathroom breaks. Try this with me. Hold your thumb out in front of you. Close one eye and really focus on it. See your thumb nail? Not the entire thumb, just the nail. Have you got it? That’s the combined-size of my three youngest children’s bladders. If we were a band, this would have been called The Bathrooms Across America Tour. And for reasons as varied as the urinary habits of children everywhere, each bathroom stop took 45 minutes to three days. After I realized this pattern, I had to weigh our opportunities before parking anywhere. “Hmm. Do we want to see Midtown Manhattan, or go tinkles? There’s only time for one.”

3. I am willing to spend big bucks for good treats. And we ate some good treats. We made several ice cream stops. If we weren’t stopping at bathrooms, we were stopping for ice cream, my friends. And it was easily $40 every time. But I dare you – I defy you – to drive across America in the summer and not stop at mom n’ pop ice creams shops, fresh fruit shake stands, or frozen custard places every time you see one. Never mind meals or souvenirs or toll roads or parking garages or museum tickets or subways or taxis or whatever else – you will go broke on ice cream. And you won’t care. Because it’s delicious and you’re American and if you had to, I bet you could find a bank that would let you open a line of credit just for ice cream.

4. When I’m out of my routine, and there aren’t any other demands on me, it is the most wonderful thing to sit and watch my kids. At the end of our day in New York, we were taking the subway from Central Park to Battery Park, and we were the only ones in our car. Connor (17) was flag-polling on one of the vertical subway poles, and Tanner (12) grabbed his legs and was running him in circles. Some of the kids were singing. Hillary (4) was laughing. She was just laughing so hard with Becca (10) and Lucy (7). What was so amazing about this moment? I can’t tell you. I was just looking at my people, and I was overwhelmed with how much I loved them, and how much I liked them, and how much I liked being with them. I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world than on that subway, with my favorite people. And I missed Garren (18). 

5. Sometimes I’d just be doing my thing, lost in my thoughts – driving or sitting on the bed planning the day or wondering if there was something back home I was supposed to be doing – and I’d turn and catch Katie watching me. Just silently, intentionally watching me. And when I’d look at her, she’d just give me this huge smile, and say nothing. It is by far her most powerful way of flirting with me.

6. You may learn some starting things about yourself on road trips. I was standing in the parking lot of a Walmart on the Indiana/Illinois border when I had a moment self-reflection. It was 8 AM and the parking lot wasn’t overly crowded. The kids were waking up and stretching, and I’d already gone inside to buy fruit, muffins and a 3D Chrome VIP Lounge Toilet Seat. (Just kidding – I just Googled “weird things to buy at Walmart” and that was the first item mentioned.) Anyway, we were anxious to get to Chicago, so rather than sleep, we had driven through the night from upstate New York. With no hotel room or other accommodations, but still needing to look and feel presentable before heading to the Art Institute of Chicago ... (you can see where this is going) ... I resourcefully turned to the Walmart parking lot. I stepped outside, rubbed on some deodorant, ran a comb through my hair, and thanks to a conveniently located drain, brushed my teeth. Then I changed clothes ... in the front seat of my van. I remember thinking, “This can’t be the first time people have done all this in a Walmart parking lot.” And though my logic was solid, somewhere in the part of my brain that sorts through social mores, I could sense that this was something I should be more embarrassed about. But also, I was tired, I knew I’d never be in this place ever again, I didn't know a soul there, and kind of, I just didn’t care. And that’s when I realized who I had become.

7. I really, truly love the history of this country. I was inspired over and over as we visited these old cities and read about those who “more than self their country loved, and mercy more than life.” I felt profound respect for those who collaborated, compromised, worked, and served to create one nation under God. And I felt that plea that God shed his grace on us, and crown our good with brotherhood.

8. We did the hotel thing for a few nights, but our favorite is always the people we get to stay with. We truly appreciate siblings, cousins, even friends I’ve known since I was 4 years old. I also got to visit with a friend I hadn’t seen in 28 years, from when I lived in Hawaii, and another friend I worked with 20 years ago…about the time that Katie was the age that Abbie is now. (For reals.) Sincerely, friends. This country’s greatest commodity is its people! Not the ones you see on TMZ, necessarily, and not the ones you did or didn’t vote for, in particular, but the ones running ice cream shops and the ones riding with you on the Staten Island Ferry and the ones who welcome you into their home and feed you delicious food and the ones who sit with you in the ER and the ones that help you get your keys out of your locked car and the ones who apologize and the ones who forgive and the ones who tell you that you can buy the CD for the Gettysburg Driving Tour or you can look it up for free on YouTube and the ones who confide in you and the ones who trust you and the ones that hug you and love you.

My friend, Ann Marie, from Hawaii. We went to her Junior Prom. 
Most recently, we had lunch together at Katie's sister's house.  

My friend, Terry, and his family. We've been friends since 1974. We were both single then. 

My friend, Debby. She's great for a number of reasons - 

but getting us a table at Grimaldi's and knowing the NY subway system makes her a national hero.

Katie was able to meet up with her high school pal, Beth. 

And yes, it was as adorable as this picture makes it look. 

One Sunday, we went to the church that Katie went to growing up in Reading, PA, and drove around her old neighborhood. It was so sweet to hear people gushing about Katie's family and their influence in the area. It was also sweet to hear Katie tell this heartwarming story about the first time she fasted, and Becca's hard-hitting follow-up question, "Which stall?" 

 If you don't have any MalleyCats in your life ... why? 

Katie's cousin, Meredith, and her adorable daughters. It was minimal time, but maximum party.  

Our friend Jjana, who literally gave up her bed for us. 

And her husband Cliff (not pictured) bbq'd for us and it was insaaaane. 

Katie's cousin, Marliese, and her family!

I have a sister named Marlise. TWO Marlises in my life? Yes, please.  

Katie's sister, Shellie. Behind her? The Capitol Building. 

But if you want something done, my money is on Shellie.  

Katie's sister, Stephanie, and her kids. There was just enough room for me to sleep right in the middle, there. 

9. I love cold cereal. I do. The “free-breakfast” hotels we stayed at all featured a variety – waffles, eggs, muffins, yogurt, bagels… No thanks. I’ll just have four bowls of Frosted Flakes and Froot Loops. Breakfast of champions.

10. At some point you begin to sense that back home, reality has not pushed “pause” while you’ve been gone, and Real Life is waiting for you at home. In fact, Real Life is mounting back at home. And you’re sad to see the trip come to an end, but grateful that you have a Real Life that you’re actually excited to get back to.

So that's it in a very small nutshell. In the end, we had one minor hiccup. It didn’t seem minor in the moment, but things are looking up. On our second to last night, our youngest, Hillary, took a spill down some stairs … and broke her clavicle. A quick trip to the hospital and an x-ray revealed a pretty bad break. The ER doc said that when we got back to Utah we should speak to a pediatric surgeon. We told the ER doc he was fired. Our doctor back in Utah assured us there was no need for surgery, and Hillary is on the mend!

Hillary, after hearing she wouldn't need surgery. 

Also after eating a donut. 

Gettin' the Heck Outta Dodge

I have never felt defined by the car I drive. I believe my dad cured me of this when, upon turning 16, he gave me a 1976 Honda Civic that had been sitting idle in the garage since 1952. The paint had faded (I’m assuming, since no self respecting car should ever be this shade of orange), there was no air conditioning, no stereo, and the passenger seat was broken, so that the left half of the seat kind of fell to the side, letting the passenger rest on the driver’s shoulder. This was perfect for dates, but not so great for my friend Steve.

Anyway, being 16, I threw in a stereo, and the car was perfect. I could not care less about what anybody else was driving, or how I looked cruising through the high school parking lot listening to Beastie Boys with Steve nestled on my shoulder. In fact, I specifically remember one time seeing a guy get out of his Chevy Camaro in the parking lot, and he was blasting Lionel Richie’s “Dancing on the Ceiling” on his car stereo.  I thought to myself, “How embarrassing for him. He’s Once…Twice…Three Times a Nerd-o. He’s Nerdy Like Sunday Morning. I wouldn’t trade cars with him if he threw in a Brick…House!”  So clearly, to me, music was more defining than the car.

And now, as an adult, I am equally disinterested in the kind of car I drive. My criterion is that the vehicle be able to comfortably get me from one place to another as inexpensively as possible. Alas, our 1996 Dodge Caravan could no longer perform this task, so we had to finally get rid of it.

We bought said Dodge Caravan in late 2001. At the time, it had about 42,000 miles on it. Final count as of April 2008: 193,842 miles on that baby, thank you very much. Really, it had wanted to die since last April. But we just wouldn’t let it.

The final hoorah for this poor van was last August. My parents and siblings and us were all getting together for a reunion in Breckenridge, Colorado.

We left Vegas and headed north that fateful morning. The sun was up and it was already 146 degrees. We got about 3 hours into the trip, just outside of Cedar City, Utah, when the air conditioning went out. It wasn’t Vegas Hot, but it was still miserable. Hours later we were all sweaty, stinky, suffering from heat exhaustion, and a little bit cranky. The stereo had gone out on the car months and months prior to this trip (so in my mind, the car had already been useless for quite some time), so we just drove in silence. Nobody was saying much to anybody, unless they were breathing threatening remarks about staying on their side of the seat or shouting “Stop singing songs from High School Musical!”  But in my defense, with the oppressive heat, things were hazy, and I just couldn’t think of any other songs to sing.

As we finally reached Breckenridge, the temperatures were bearable. However, the transmission started acting really funny. It would take a while for the gear to catch. Hmmm. But we were distracted for a few days by the fun and frivolity of family and outdoor recreation. No sense worrying about the van. Who knows if we’ll ever really need it again?

Oh, right. We have to get BACK to Las Vegas.

Coming out of Breckenridge, we stopped at a gas station, and I poured some transmission fluid into the car. Truth be known, I resented even spending that much money on the car. I could feel the death of the car looming. I knew the end was near. It was time to pull the plug. But first, we needed to get back to Vegas. That’s all we needed. We needed to push this baby another 10 hours, and then she could give up. I wasn’t going to put another dime into this car. Not for the transmission, not for the air conditioning, not 25¢ to pump up the tire. Nothing. I wanted this van to coast right into our driveway and pass away, the way Johnny Depp’s boat sank just as he stepped onto the pier at the beginning of Pirates of the Caribbean.

I stood outside the van in that gas station parking lot. The air was still. The family, already sweating. But I knew we could make it.

Three hours later, I was feeling pretty confident. The transmission seemed to be holding up and we were making good time. But then, somewhere in the vast wasteland that is western Colorado/eastern Utah, my daughter Roxanna (3 at the time) started to complain about her tummy hurting. 

“My tummy hurts!” she said.

“It’s the heat, Sweetie,” reassured Katie. “Have a drink of water.”

“But it reaaallly hurts!” answered Roxanna.

“Just hang on,” said Katie.

“Baaaaaarrffffff,” went Roxanna.

I mean barf of Biblical proportions, ladies and gentleman. To make matters worse, she had eaten a bunch of pizza before we left. To make matters even more worse, she barfed into Abbie’s hair, who was sitting in front of her. To make matters even the most worse, it was 112 degrees, so now we’ve got Barf Potpourri going on in the car for everyone to enjoy. 

Katie climbed to the back of the van, holding out a towel for Roxanna to perpetually barf into for what seemed like longer than your average span of Vomit Time. There was nothing but freeway around. No towns, no rest stops, no gas stations, no off ramps…nothing. So I kept barreling down the highway until I could find something.

“It’s in my hair!” screamed Abbie.

“This is why my tummy was hurting!” Roxanna stated, in a kind of ‘I told you so’ fashion.

“WWWAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” said a 20-month old Tanner, who was sick to death of his car seat and was happy to join in the anarchy.

“JUST WATCH A VIDEO!” I gently whispered to my children who weren’t barfing.

“THIS IS THE WORST BIRTHDAY EVER!” shouted Abbie, who was enjoying her 10^th birthday on this very day.

Finally, I see a Shell gas station. Out in the middle of nowhere, with no neighboring town, there’s a Shell station. I don’t know where the employees are bussed in from, and frankly, I don’t care.

I pulled off the freeway, behind this gi-normous 18 Wheeler, but before the off ramp ended, the truck lost a tire…and I hit it. I mean, I hit it hard. We got some air between us and the ground. And as we pulled into the gas station, I could hear something underneath the van, dragging on the ground.

After I pulled into the gas station, I got out and look under the van. And there was this thing hanging from the van, and dragging on the ground. There were no fumes, no leaks or drips…nothing. So being the mechanic that I am, I knew exactly what do to. 

"Where is your duct tape?” I asked the attendant inside the little convenient store adjacent to the gas station.

“Over there,” she pointed, as she put out her cigar. 

"And your Wet Wipes?”

“We don’t have any.”

“You don’t HAVE ANY?” 

She looked up at me from her Hunting magazine, and I shuffled two feet back from her, a little caught off guard and nervous that she was going to stab me with the bathroom key on my way out. I grabbed my duct tape and a bunch of ice cream bars for my desolate family.

I taped up this pipe thing under the van, Katie cleaned up the barf and the people covered in it (I am so in love with Katie, the most selfless person in the world), and off we went. We still had hours to go, and there were moments of uncertainty with the transmission, or the heat, or the pipe becoming un-duct-taped. But by the grace of Dodge manufacturing, we somehow made it home.

The next morning I was prepared to take the van out into the dessert and shoot it, but Katie suggested that we could actually get some more mileage out of it. Not another road trip, but at least around town. So we got the air conditioning fixed (for around $100!) and actually squeezed some more miles out of it.

By last December, the van would only go 25 mph, and it would not shift out of second gear. We knew the ol’ girl was done. We bought a new mini-van (Toyota Sienna, 8-seater), and the Dodge sat in our garage for a while. Until last Saturday, when I sold it to an acquaintance from church with the know-how to put in a new transmission and sell it for a higher price than I could ever get for it.

So hopefully the ol’ Dodge can do some good for somebody else now. But she’ll always have our love…our love…our Endless Love…

A Public Service Announcement

As the holidays approach and many of you prepare to load up the family car and make the migration back to…well, wherever it is you don’t currently live, I would like to take this opportunity to present a Public Service Announcement, brought to you by the makers of Craig Children, and other fine products.

Throughout the course of my life, ladies and gentlemen, I have made more road trips than the Rolling Stones (but without the liquor and with only a fraction of the heroine). And inevitably, during every trip, I have reached that late-night breaking point where my eyes are just not going to stay open any longer. And I know I am not alone in this.

To combat this phenomenon, I have tried the following measures, to no avail:

1. Loud music. I have found this method ineffective, no matter how loud the music. Somehow, even the raucous melodies of Def Leppard become a soft lullaby. Mr. Sandman may start out pouring sugar on me, but soon enough, he is simply pouring sleepy dust in my eyes.

2. Food. Many are the late-night journeys where I have combined my fuel stops with a quick dash into the convenience store to grab an armful of sugary, life-saving goodness. Sodas, M&Ms, Hostess, what have you. I gobble it in record time and enjoy about 10 minutes of alertness. About enough time to get back on the highway. Then I’m not only fighting off sleepiness, but a sugar coma.

3. Face out the window. This is where you roll down the window and stick your face out into the frozen night air – while simultaneously waking up everyone in the car with an oppressive blast of arctic wind. This wakes you up all right, and then the window closes, you shutter once or twice, the heater picks back up, and 1.5 seconds later, you’re right back where you started.

It was during one of my many road trips during college that I discovered what worked for me, personally. I remember getting drowsy and thinking to myself, “What might keep me awake and alert?” And it dawned on me that being focused on something would help. And while I was too tired to focus on anything profound or life-altering, I knew if I could find something simple that required my attention…some small task…it would keep me alert. So I undressed.

In a slow and calculated manner, I removed article by article until I was completely naked. There I was driving 80 mph down the freeway completely in the buff. And then I got dressed again – slowly and calculated, item by item. Small, simple tasks.

Genius? Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes these things just come to me. But maybe it is. Maybe it’s inspiration. And I’ll tell you this – nude driving will keep you awake, if for no other reason, because you now have incorporated the fear of being pulled over by a highway patrol officer or worse yet, crashing and being found naked and unconscious – and cold! – for all the world to see.

I remember the first road trip Katie and I took after we were married. We were driving from Utah to Los Angeles, to interview for an internship with NBC. We got a bit of a late start, and somewhere between Cedar City and St. George it was 1 a.m., and I was getting awfully sleepy. Katie was in the passenger seat, well into a nap, so I had nobody to talk to. Well, no worries. I was well versed in Plan N.A.K.E.D at this point (Nude Alert Ken Effectively Driving), so I began the undressing process. I thought nothing of it until my newlywed wife woke up to find a fully nude husband driving 80 mph down I-15, humming Pour Some Sugar On Me. It occurred to me at this point that prior to our getting married, I had never had the Plan N.A.K.E.D. talk with Katie.

It was a bit of an awkward moment, and I was really starting to wish I hadn’t picked up that hitchhiker in Paragonah. (HA! Thank you I’ll be here all week!) Katie had an inquisitive look on her face that I had never seen before, nor since. But she just sat up and said, “Is it hot in here or is it just me?”

Nowadays, with five kids traveling with us, I’ll admit that my once flawless plan seems unsuitable, and perhaps a bit too Malcolm In The Middle. I am now urgently seeking a different method of staying awake. I haven’t come up with anything yet, so we will be staying in Las Vegas for the holidays this year, listening to A Very Merry Def Leppard Christmas right here in the comfort of our home.

A Very Special Thanksgiving Tradition

This Thanksgiving marks the 384th anniversary of the first Thanksgiving, held in 1621 by the surviving 50 colonists, who shared turkey and Libby’s canned cranberry sauce with Massasoit and a smattering of Wampanoag men. But have you heard the story of the lesser-recognized but equally celebrated anniversary of The Night Ken Craig Was Jailed and Freed From Jail? No? Well, grab a drumstick, loosen your belt, sit back, belch, and enjoy this Thanksgiving yarn seven years in the making.

It all began on a cold, windy night in Tonopah, Nevada. It’s not in the middle of nowhere, but you can see it from there. This is one of those forsaken towns that live on highway 95, stretching from Las Vegas to Reno. (Highway 95 Motto: If you think the land is ugly, you should see our brothel employees!)

Driving back to Las Vegas from a Thanksgiving weekend in Lake Tahoe, I was approaching Tonopah around midnight. I had driven this road before and was already quite familiar with the way this highway posted its speed limits. As you near any of the mini-mining towns along 95, it drops from 70 to 25 faster than the IQ points of an Arkansas native sucking helium out of a balloon. The speed limit in Tonopah is so low it actually requires you to turn your car off and push it through town. So when I was on the outskirts of Tonopah, and suddenly realized I would need to fill the gas tank in order to make it to the next town, I didn’t exactly accelerate after flipping a u-turn to head back to the Texaco.

Apparently I was having Katie push the car too fast, because a cop pulled me over, directly.

“You were going 60 miles per hour!”

“That’s impossible! I just barely turned the car around – I wouldn’t have even had enough time to pick up speed!”

The cop disappeared for about five minutes, then came back…

“Well…how fast do you think you were going?” Translation: I have no idea if you were speeding or not, but I’m bored, there are no doughnut shops in Tonopah, and I resent you for it.

I looked through the windshield and saw a 45 mph sign a few yards in front of us.

“40 mph.”

“I see.” He disappeared again. This time he sat in his car. And sat. And sat. And sat. And then a second patrol car pulled up. Now I was surrounded by both Tonopah patrol cars. Because I looked so dangerous, this officer had actually called for back up.

Sgt. Backup walked up to the window and asked to see Katie’s license. I asked him why he needed her license, since she wasn’t the one driving.

“Because your license is suspended – and if she can’t drive this car, we are going to impound it.”

“My license is not suspended. There’s an error somewhere.” The kind public official didn’t bother to make eye contact with me, he just snatched Katie’s license out of her hand.

Katie asked, “Are you sure it’s suspended, officer?” To which he wittily retorted, “Ma’am…I went to college!” Touché. I had my doubts about that, as well as if Tonopah Community College actually qualifies as any kind of center of higher learning.

“You guys heading into Vegas for a hot weekend?!”

“Uhm…we live there. We have a 15-month old, so our weekends aren’t that hot for the time being. And it’s Sunday night…the ‘weekend’ is over.”

“Watch it, smart guy.”

My mind was racing. I could not for the life of me figure out how they had such incorrect information as my license being suspended. One thing was for sure; I wasn’t going to be driving anywhere myself. I got out of the car to switch seats with Katie. This was evidently the wrong thing to do. The officers freaked out that I had stepped out of the car. I couldn’t see them well, so it would be unfair to say they had pulled their guns on me, but they did order me back into the car. Which is fine, since that is where I was going. I walked over to the passenger side and got back in the car. And I sat there trying to figure out how this could have happened.

Finally, a light bulb came on. Oh, not immediately, but these guys were giving me all the time in the world while they huddled and tried to remember what you do when somebody has a suspended license and doesn’t bribe you to just let them go. I’m thinking that neither of them had The Book on them, so they called Pervis, back at the station, and were having him read it to them over the CB. But I digress.

A light bulb had come on. I began to recall a speeding ticket I had received in Wendover last March or so. I remembered it so well because shortly after I had sent in the money for the ticket, I received notice in the mail that if the Wendover court didn’t receive my payment soon, my license would be suspended. And I remember how I promptly called the Wendover court to encourage them to stay on top of their paper work, because I had already sent in the money. “That’s right,” the clerk had said, “we have received it, and we’ve entered it into our computer. You can just throw that notice away.” And that’s exactly what I did. Because I was still under the misconception that Nevada law enforcement certainly cared about my well being. I mean, that is, after all, why they pull you over for J-walking or not signaling to turn – because they just couldn’t sleep that night thinking about how you just might have injured yourself if they hadn’t given you that $265 citation.

I was missing a step, but somewhere between the Wendover court telling me they had received my money and processed the cancellation of the license suspension – and the actual cancellation of the suspension – their was a big, fat, hairy failure to communicate. Suddenly, I was Cool Hand Ken.

Happy to have tracked down the cause, and equally furious that bureaucracy had stepped on my face, I was full of a certain unmentionable liquid, plus vinegar. It didn’t bode well for the officer who came up to my window.

“Mr. Craig (they called me Mister, no doubt because of the great deal of respect they held for me)… Mr. Craig, we’re going to have to take you in and it’s going to be $400 for bail.”

Something in my brain snapped. “Well…hmm…see, I don’t have $400. And I’m supporting a single-income family on an entry-level job – so I don’t happen to have that on me, nor is it in my budget right now. I don’t know what kind of show you’re running here – but I’m not going to leave my wife and baby out here in the cold while you book me and put me in jail because some chain-smoking alcoholic at the DMV couldn’t push buttons fast enough on her computer to clear my name from something that should have been taken care of over six months ago and is completely out of my hands.”

Well, now that I had won him over with my charm, he disappeared back to his car again. I don’t know, maybe I made him cry. Then he came back with the second officer and asked me to step out of the car. They bullied me over to the patrol car, shoved my face down on the hood, searched me for weapons, actually handcuffed me, and pushed me into the back of the patrol car.

I looked through the windshield and saw my sweet wife hanging out the window, mouth wide open. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I’m glad Abbie was too young to understand any of it. I don’t think she was singing, and I don’t think she was asking for a hug. She had her fist clenched and was bawling them out, demanding to talk to me so she could find out where to get $400 that we didn’t have. They told her that she seemed upset, and they’ve only seen situations like this escalate, so they weren’t going to let her talk to me. Maybe I could give her a call from jail. After Katie explained that we don’t own any car phones and don’t currently have a summer home in Tonopah where she could be reached, they told her to follow us to the station.

Meanwhile, Officer I-Have-No-Idea-If-You-Were-Speeding is driving me to the station, and decides to put on his Good Guy Cop Hat. “I’m only doing my job, you know.” If I could have reached his crotch, I would have kicked it. When I finally decided to speak up, all I said was, “When the court realizes they’ve made a mistake…will I get my money back?” He said I would.

We pulled into the station and I was marched into what I think is officially called The Booking Room. The handcuffs came off and some woman with a mustache took my mug shots and fingerprinted me. I think she may have tried to hold my hand. I didn’t want to take one of those unflattering mug shots, so I put on a goofy smile for mine. I wish I could get a copy of that.

The station didn’t take personal checks or credit cards, so Katie had to venture out into the night to find cash. I asked the officer to tell Katie there was a credit cards check in my planner she could use, if she could find a place to cash it.

I then emptied my pockets and was placed in a cell, where there were no bars, per se, but a big, blue steel door, with a tiny window in it. I couldn’t believe I was in jail. I tried to act like a real inmate. I carved my name in the bench with a piece of my watch wristband. I used the urinal. (Mental Note: I should never go to prison. I just don’t like going potty in front of other people.)

I’d like to say that I used this time to ponder deep truths and maybe even think about Joseph Smith and how he was wrongfully imprisoned for much longer than me, and with much more responsibility…but mostly, I was annoyed that this entire thing was happening. And I sat there annoyed for almost two hours.

Why so long? Well, because that’s what happens when your poor wife drives across town to the only casino in Tonopah, and by no coincidence, the only place that is a) open, and b) able to advance cash from credit cards. But then she gets there, and is told that they can’t cash a credit card check, only advance cash from an actual credit card. So Katie had to come back to the station and get my credit card, then go back to the casino to get the cash. Then, and this is a real treat, Katie came back to the station to pay the $400 and was told by the “cashier” that it was $435, not $400. Katie raised her voice one last time, and left to get another $35.

I sat in that cell, marking minutes on the wall, not having any idea what was going on. I was worried about Katie and Abbie, I was furious at the DMV and the Eastline Justice Court for this entire mix-up, and I was angry with these policemen for the way they had treated us. And I felt frustrated at being locked in this tiny cell where I couldn’t do anything but fidget.

I was released and walked out to find Katie near breakdown and Abbie as perky as a June bride. Katie drove us to the edge of the county, and I switched places with her to drive us the rest of the way home. We reached home around 5:30 a.m. and tried to nap. I got up for work, called the Eastline Justice Court in Wendover, Nevada around 8:00 a.m., and had my first conversation with Marla, the clerk.

“Do I have any outstanding citations?”

“No. We have record of only one citation, but it’s been paid for.”

“Then I’d like to know why I spent the night in jail for something that I personally took care of months ago. I don’t know what kind of show you’re running (this was my favorite line to drop through this ordeal, as, to me, it says that whatever you’re doing is nothing but a show to me, and not just a show, but it’s not even a good show), but I better get some answers, my dear Marla.”

Marla said that the best she could figure, the Nevada DMV is incredibly far behind in entering information sent to them by the courthouses. In other words, a notice was sent from the Eastline Justice Court last June, stating that I had paid my ticket and there should be no suspension on my license, but the DMV hadn’t cleared it. I was livid. I told Marla to fax me the document they had sent to the DMV – one to me at work, and one to the Las Vegas DMV on Flamingo.

I had to get to work, so I had Katie drop me off and run over to the DMV to fix this mess. The fax was there, but so were some DMV folks that told Katie she would need to pay $40 to get my license reinstated. Katie told them “No I won’t – because it doesn’t need to be reinstated – because it was never supposed to be suspended.” They talked to their superiors, who agreed to see it our way. But they could go no further without me there in person. Katie picked me up from work and we went back over to the DMV. I signed some paperwork and picked up some more paperwork.

In particular, I had the fax from the Eastline Justice Court that stated they had sent the proper paperwork to the DMV in a timely manner, so this was all a big mistake and everyone better prepare to kiss my toe. Only…it didn’t look like a letter. It was written in some kind of code, and some random asterisk was supposed to mean that the suspension was a “clerical error.” I ran with it.

I faxed the “letter” to the Tonopah courthouse, and followed up with a phone call. This was my first conversation with Jennifer. I explained that the fax was coming, that this whole thing needed to be reversed, my money sent back to me, the misdemeanor taken off my record, and my date with the lady who fingerprinted me canceled.

This was all on Monday.

Tuesday morning I get a call from Jennifer at the Tonopah courthouse. She said the semi-honorable Judge Maslach had declared that whether or not the suspension was an error, the license had been suspended and I would have to pay the bail money. I could not fathom on any level how this was anything but completely ridiculous.

I called Eastline Justice Court and said “I don’t want a coded letter, I want a handwritten letter to the Tonopah courthouse relaying the date they received my payment and the date it was sent to the DMV.” I then asked where it was they sent the notice, originally – to which DMV. She didn’t have the phone number, because that would have been too convenient for me – but said it was the state building in Carson City.

I called Carson City and asked for the DMV department, where I had my first conversation with Debra. Debra took my social security number and suddenly had access to my entire life. She began looking over it and then began to express her own wonderment at how any of this could have happened. Debra said she would write a letter to Tonopah wherein she would point out that full blame fell on the Nevada DMV and that none of this should have ever happened. She pointed out that the date in which my license should have gone into suspension was July 23, and my check had been received and processed on June 1. So there was never, at any time, a reason that my license should have been suspended. And that everyone there could just kiss my toe.

That was Tuesday.

I let Wednesday and Thursday pass by so the Tonopah courthouse would have a chance to look over the material sent to them. Friday morning Jennifer calls from the Tonopah courthouse and tells me that I have a “very unique case.” Not that they were wrong. Not that somebody owed me an apology. Just that I have a “unique case.”

So she announces to me, as if she is doing me some huge favor, “We’re going to send you the $300 back, but we are keeping the $135 for the speeding ticket.”

“No,” I said. “I never got a ticket for speeding. I was shown nothing, I signed nothing, there is no citation.”

“Well, let me talk to the judge.” And she covers up the phone, and starts talking to the guy, who can’t be sitting more than five feet away. She gets back on, “Okay, we’ll send you the full $435.”

Triumph. But not really. The thing that frightens me is this entire abuse of power. I was a pawn in an incident where I was completely right. What if I didn’t push things? What if I didn’t speak English well? How often has something like that happened, and the person in my position didn’t do anything but pay the money? I still drive through Tonopah once or twice a year, on my way to Tahoe. I don’t buy gas there; I don’t drive over 15 mph there; however, I do think about my night in jail, and I smile as I look around this little town that the world has forgotten, and think about how that officer has to live there.