Yes, you read that correctly. In the state of Georgia I am a fugitive.

A lot of people who meet me ask about why I’m a dumbass fugitive. Why didn’t I show up to court? Why did I get arrested? All sorts of reasons and each time I tell them: I’m the posterboy for criminal behavior and well, trouble just seems to know where I am. Even when I was a little knucklehead kid, I was constantly finding myself in precarious positions. Nowadays I embrace that type of stupidity because it makes for good blog fodder. No one wants to read about me petting a kitten or giving a homeless guy a quarter. They want to read about me doing stupid shit.

When I was in Georgia last year with the perky tit ex girlfriend, I got arrested. I wrote about why in my three part Georgia saga aptly titled, “Georgia Sucks“. The minute I was on the opposite side of those jailhouse bars I knew I wasn’t going to hang around. I had my sights set on moving to Virgina anyways. Once I got bailed out I knew in my heart of hearts that I wasn’t going to ever be in Georgia again. My court date was a couple days before Christmas and my final, fleeting Christmas gift to Thomaston, GA was a big no-show fuck you. Sure, I could have flown down to Thomaston and took care of my business. They probably would have slapped me with some fines and probation, but fuck that. That is what most people would have done. As you probably know by now I’m not most people. I’m Nick Sterling, bitch. And I’m a fugitive.

Even my girlfriend at the time knew I was up to something nefarious. She bonded me out and walked me to the street corner where the jail was. In a bush underneath the sign that said “Thomaston County Jail” was a plastic bag. She opened it up for me and it was a Steel Reserve 24oz can of malt beverage greatness, nice and cold. What a swell girlfriend I had. I drink it on the way back to our place and she asks me, “So what are you going to do, Nick?“.

I told her, “I’m going to do what I do every time my back is against the wall: throw up my middle finger and make the situation inevitably worse. Hey, it’s what I’m good at, right?“. She chuckled. Having known me for a couple years she was use to this type of irresponsible behavior from me. I guess word got out that I was skipping bail and moving somewhere far away, because the fuzz kept calling Becca and threatening her. It didn’t help that my roommate, and new found great friend, Patrick, was also wanted by the local police for something unrelated. So when he got his truck out of impound and we began loading it up with our belongings, the locals notified a bounty hunter. That sounds far-fetched, right? Not in small town Georgia. An hour after we hit the road like a couple of lawless bandits, Becca’s cell phone blows up with threats from the bounty hunter.

“Tell Nick that yew and yar friend Patrick are fewwwgitives. Ya’ll need to come back ta Thomaston an turn yerself in, ya’ll hear? Cuz if I have ta come and find yew, it won’t be purdy”.

The bounty hunter had apparently notified local authorities in the neighboring towns that a blue pick-up truck driven by three unlicensed fugitives would be coming through. Now I know how Harrison Ford felt in the movie, The Fugitive. Driving the three hours through north Georgia at 11:30pm, all of our worldly belongings getting soaked in the back of the truck, our dog and cats shitting themselves with fear the whole way, was the longest three hours of my young life.

Becca wanted to stop and see her dad on the Georgia border before we made it to South Carolina. To make matters more nerve racking, her dad is a former cop. Patrick and I could only think about being home free once we crossed the border into South Carolina, but here we are taking a detour at midnight so my girlfriend can see her cop dad. I might be a wanted fugitive with poor decision making ability, but a bad boyfriend I’m not.

I pretended to be the doting, loving, responsible boyfriend (that I surely was not) in front of her father. I’m sure if he knew that his only daughter was traveling with a wanted fugitive he probably would have shot me on the front porch and fed me to the coyotes. Instead, he was happy we showed up a little after midnight just to say hi.

The next 30 minutes to the South Carolina border was the most gut-wrenching, nail biting 1800 seconds of my life. Whether or not the bounty hunter was telling the truth about notifying authorities in neighboring counties about our passing through was true or false, at the time, Patrick and I were hellbent on the notion of getting to the Carolinas because we would be out of Georgia, and presumably impervious to prosecution. We might have been idiots that did illegal things, but we weren’t going to take the chance of getting popped in Georgia for anything, even a speeding ticket.

30 minutes later we crossed into South Carolina with boisterous cheers and high fives all around. Did we continue on our trip to Virgina and play it safe? Hell no, we stopped at the fireworks store at the first exit and took a piss in the street. Because hey, we’re fugitives, and what better way to maintain that image?