| news | | | recent | | | archives | | | dispatches | | | goods | | | contributing | | | about |
by Paul | 23 Mar 2007, 0:00
We exited the bar. Night had set. The sky was an iridescent black blue. Drunk. I hand Max the keys. Forgot about the amount we drank. Flopped into the passenger seat of my car. Spaced out. We arrive at the local RaceTrack. Halfway from the bar to my house.
We pull up on the right side the parking lot. Immediately I notice a police SUV next to a police car. I think "We're fucked." Max attempts to get the keys out of the ignition. Some ineffable force holds them. I lean over and pull the keys out. He leaves the keys. He saunters into the gas station without me. While exiting, I notice the cops are talking to him. I hear a tap, tap, tap. I look up and see a police officer with a grim smile. He asks me too politely to step outside of the car. Max is blowing. Only thing that pops in my mind is "Shit. Going to jail."
My mind is racing. Thinking through a haze of lurid shit: "Be cordial. Comply. You're not driving. They will call someone to pick you up."
The obligatory question: "Have you been drinking tonight, sir?"
"Yes, officer. I had a few." Mistake. Shoulda feigned sleep in the car.
He leads me around to the driver's side of the car. Max is leaning against my car in cuffs. I see two more cops hovering around my car. Shining flashlights through the dirty windows. The officer sequestering me is in his mid thirties; thinning brown hair in a crew cut. He has a soft voice. He looks like he could crush watermelon with his hands. He takes my ID. He runs it. I suppose looking for warrants or previous arrests. He comes back, hands me my ID. Smiles.
They administer a breathalyzer on me. "Blow until you hear the click." I had been smoking cigarettes all night long. A chimney of noxious smoke. My lung power waning. I blow until I am out of breath. I feel lightheaded. Perhaps it's just the moment—the situation, the fear, the curiosity. Maybe. It's coming down on me like one big mental cluster fuck. The gadget reads .27. Well above the legal limit. He asks me to turn around. I don't question. I turn around. He tightens the cuffs around my wrists. They pinch like bastard children. They feel cold.
They split Max and I up from one another. The cop leads me to the other side of my car. He asks "Where's the weed?" I am dumbfounded. I cannot believe this shit. Out of all the people I know, and the people I know who smoke pot—I actually don't. I feel infuriated. I quell my anger. I respond "Sir, I don't have any weed." He says "Don't lie. You and I both know you have some." I was waiting for a mysterious baggy to drop from the heavens. But it doesn't happen. I utter "I give you permission to search my car. There is no weed. You can give me a urine test if you like." He is silent. Stares at me.
Brings me back around to the other side of the car. He says he is going to frisk me. I warn him I am ticklish. Which I am not. I suppose if this shit is happening I should at least give them a little bit of half-assed trouble. He pats me down. When he reaches me thighs, I laugh. Jostle around a bit. But he does find a knife in my right pocket. A Leatherman liner lock. Aluminum handle with a short clip-point half-serrated blade.
Questioning, "What's this?"
"Just a knife," I respond.
I can see them handing the knife back to another.
"I know it's in the legal limit to carry," I mutter.
He says he is going to put it my glove compartment.
"Thank you," I reply.
"Anything else we need to know about in your car?"
"Just the Leatherman in the glove box."
They announce that we are being arrested for public intoxication. They send us into the back of the cop car. It's uncomfortable. Sitting with your hands cuffed behind you. I can almost hit my head on the back window. I almost want to. Max is sitting next to me. We agree not to speak about anything. Just to keep quiet until we can talk later. They let us stew in the car for a while. We sit in silence. I say "We didn't get our Miranda rights read." No answer. We wait to see where the wheel will send us.
The car door opens and closes, the engine starts. We begin our trip to the police station. He drives slow. I think I want to vomit in his car. Not because I am sick—only to bother him. I decide it's not the time for this. Insolence would only worsen the scenario. It's hot in the car. I sit behind the cop. I make a mental note to remember his badge number. He does not speak to us.
We arrive shortly to the station. It's a red brick courthouse. We are escorted through a series of locked doors. We are buzzed in through two sets. Immediately to the right there is an open office set up. To the left, the drunk tank. On the side of the drunk tank is a metal bench. 15 feet in from the tank are a series of cells. The officer asks if we are feeling nauseous. I admit I am. He opens the cell to the detox tank. He uncuffs me. It's true: handcuffs can hurt. I lean over the toilet for a moment. I feel lost. I wonder if my car will be towed. How this situation will affect careers later. My head is a sea of red algae dancing in blue toxic coral. Time to eat the fish I caught.
I meander over to the bench. I see Max sitting there. They lead him off to get his prints and picture taken. An officer requests I step forward to the open office. I comply. He asks a series of questions: Are you taking medication? Does you family have a series of mental or physical illness? Are you suicidal? They move me to the next section. The finger print station. An older heavy-set officer takes my hand and individually pushes each finger into ink, then presses them off on white rough paper. He asks me my height, age, weight, eye color. Then tells me to step back behind the line. I had not noticed, but there was a faint red line positioned parallel to the camera on a floor. They hand me a box with flush mounted Styrofoam. It reads my name.
The policeman behind the desk pulls out a pair of pliers. He says "You can take them out or I can." I start to twist at the ball on the front of my lip ring. The surface is too slick to grasp. "Can I have one of those rubber gloves?" He hands one to me with no questions. The ball comes off with ease. There is a little box next to the fingerprint station I drop the ball into. I pull the ring out of my lip. It feels odd. I had the ring in for three years with only minimal time out of my lip. I twist the ball to the septum ring. It grudgingly moves. I let it fall into the plastic box. I move the ring slowly out of my nose, I let it fall into the box. I feel a rush of cold air move through the hole. I finally twist the last metal ball; the one to my vertical industrial. I pull the long barbell through the two holes. I wonder if it will get infections. I twist the ball back on the barbell. I drop it in the box; I hear a soft clink of metal. My face feels cold. Areas now exposed to elements that had long been blocked. I can feel my lip start to initiate the growth of new flesh over the hole.
The older officer says "Follow me." He leads me past the detox tank. I see Max sitting there. Staring at the wall. The door is closed. He leads me to a small room. He asks me to undress down to my boxers. I shyly undress in front of him. I pull off my shirt and my pants. "Your socks too." I lift one foot up and pull off the sock. I lift my second foot up and wobbling pull of my sock. He hands me an orange jumper V-neck shirt. And flimsy orange pants. I put them on, hoping I don't fall and embarrass myself. He hands me Styrofoam orange slippers. I can't believe this. Styrofoam slippers? I put the first on with ease. I rip the second pair up to my big toe while putting it on. Damn it. He leads me back down the horrid bright hallway. The door of the cell opens. I step in. Clank.
I am in a tiny square room. On top left a metal toilet with no seat. Toilet paper in a cove in the wall. A water fountain. On the right a large cement L-shaped floor. There is a slight step to the L-shaped area. A large plexiglass or bulletproof plastic window above the cement couch. A cop is writing our stats on the window. Our arrival time, our names, charge and BAC. Max is sitting on the ledge staring at me. Both of us drunk.
I say "Well, at least you didn't get a DUI." I sit next to him.
"I can't fucking believe this."
I mutter "Shit, I hope they don't tow my car."
"What if they call my parents?"
"Well, I am just happy you didn't get a DUI. I suppose they couldn't because they actually didn't see you driving."
"Yea."
"What do you think a PI is considered?"
"I think it is a misdemeanor. There probably is a fine too."
"Damn."
"I don't suppose I could punch through this wall," he says.
"No. It's bulletproof, I think. You would break your hand."
"I think I should try it."
"Don't be stupid."
"What do we do if they dump someone in here who's violent?"
"Jump him, I guess."
"I can't believe how disgusting this room is," he says. Toilet paper was caked on the wall. Someone had wetted wads of toilet paper and thrown them against the vent. "You think at least they would clean off the wall."
"Do you think my car will be towed?"
"I don't know. Probably."
"Hey. Don't we get a phone call?"
"I think so. But they never asked."
No one was around either. The office was vacant.
Bad Vibes. Discontent. Anger. We were noplussed. The cell was bright. Like you were outside in the middle of the day. They kept it cold. There were no pillows or blankets for us. Only a cold cement floor for a bed. We were still looming in that lurid haze, the kind where you're not gone but close to delirium. The stagnation didn't help. We were bored. Ineffably bored. We talked aimlessly, and sung songs randomly. Tiny Toons songs would randomly echo in the hall of the prison. Max started: "We're waiting for the clock to strike three." I joined in: "Come on stupid clock, we'll be free."
"I remember that song, I was in elementary school when I last saw it," I said.
I told him to stand up. I asked "Do you remember this?" I told him to put his hands out. And to vertically clap his left hand with my left hand, then vertically clap his right hand with my right hand. I next showed him to horizontally clap his left and right hands with mine. Next to clap both of our hands against each other at the same time. I told him "When I was young my older sister and her friends would make me play this game. What you do is clap your hands to the rhythm of the song."
I started "Miss Suzy had a steamboat, the steamboat had bell. Miss Suzy went heaven, the steamboat went to hell—o operator, please dial number nine..." Max and I were clapping our hands in troubled drunken rhythm. "And if you disconnect me, I'll kick you in the be—hind the 'frigerator, there sat a piece of glass. Miss Suzy sat upon it, and broke her little as—k me no more questions, I'll tell you no more lies..." Max and I successfully negotiating drunken limbs. We continued the play the game until Max knew the song. We played it for an hour increasingly singing louder. We probably woke up the inmates. We didn't care. We were drunk.
The boredom set in. No more time for games. Time to sleep. Wake up. Leave the cold hotel. I tried to sleep. I laid down on one portion of the raised L-shaped platform. No luck. It was far too cold to sleep. Far too bright to sleep. I pulled my arms in through the sleeves and held them against my chest for warmth. I still could not sleep. I had to crap. I was afraid to use the toilet. I didn't know who had been on there or how clean they kept them. The water from the water fountain next to the toilet didn't even make it off the faucet.
The night drawled on. Barely slept. The chill for comfort. I wouldn't argue with the charges. I could live with a PI if Max doesn't get a DUI.
Sleep eventually came. I awoke in the morning shivering from cold, with the feelings of a hangover setting in. The bright lights obscured my vision. Nausea. Dehydration. My back and neck ached from sleeping on the fucking concrete floor. My head felt like a cluster fuck. The cell door slid open. A police officer tossed packaged Little Debbie sweet rolls at us. I did not recognize him from the night before. The shift change must have happened. I attempted to eat. I knew I should. Max didn't even attempt to eat. He laid stationary on his part of the L. An officer asked us to sit on the benches. We walked out of the cell. It felt good to move more than ten feet.
An old man came with a cart of cleaning supplies. He deftly moved through the cell, cleaning without speaking. He stopped abruptly. He walked out of the cell saying "Bread, bread." The officer took it from him. Max raised his hands and took the sweet roll from the officer.
During the wait a new officer told us he would administer the breathalyzer. We both blew. No success. In order for us to leave we would have to blow a 0.0 BAC. Shit. I thought in the morning they would just let us go.
Another officer came up and said "Wanna see something neat?" We said sure. He explained how to perform the visual test. The gist was to use a flashlight and watch the movement. Apparently alcohol affects eye movement. It causes the eye to spaz slightly when the eye moves to one of the corners. He performed the test on me. Just as he said my eye twitched slightly. Before that I blew a 0.08 BAC.
They asked us to go back in the cell. We waited with little to say. They checked back every hour or so. We had no conception of time. We couldn't see a clock. Finally we both blew a 0.0 BAC. They were going to release us.
I was lucky enough to be let out first. They let me change in the tiny room. My clothes reeked of tobacco and sweat. I went to the desk. They gave me my possessions. My keys. Behdis—I forgot about those. My wallet. My rings. A policewoman asked me about the behdis. I replied I bought them from the Indian who owned Cigarettes For Less. The other officer present commented that they where specialty. Similar to cloves. They handed me my ticket for public intoxication. A date was on the back by when I needed to register for a court date. I walked outside. I stood outside the door and waited for Max. I read the ticket. It said Class C Misdemeanor. He exited the door after five minutes. He called his friend Mark who agreed to pick us up.
The trek home. We walked to a gas station. I bought bottled water and cigarettes. Max did the same. We walked a quarter of a mile smoking cigarettes and drinking water. Mark found us walking down a back road towards the RaceTrack. He drove us to the gas station. It was only a few minutes away. I was nervous. I hoped my car was still there. The ticket said there would be a 500 dollar fine. I didn't want to have to pay a tow fine and an impound fine. We arrived at the gas station. I was relieved to see my car was still sitting in the lot. We did fortunately park far from the door. I thanked Mark for the ride. I hopped in my car and drove the weary trip home.
I walked in the house. Immediately, I hopped in the shower. I smelled horrible, and felt worse. I laid down happy to be back in my own bed. Outta that tiny hell hole.
I passed the fuck out.
Court day. My nerves were a rubber band ball, ready to unravel and fly everywhere. I arrived early. I dressed nice. I wore a button up shirt and slacks. It was another hot Texas day. The hearing was at 9 a.m. I got there at 8:20. I chain smoked in my car till 8:45. I walked up the building. It looked different than last I saw it. Perhaps it was because, again, I was waiting for the fucking wheel. I walked to the front of the city hall.
I walked past a mother and son. The son was dressed like a white thug. There was a police officer at the front. He was sitting behind a metal detector. He had a Nintendo DS on a table next to him. I walked through the detector without any beeps. I walked into a room. It was large. There were 6 rows of parallel wooden benches separated down the middle. The judge's bench was set far back against the wall. To the right was a D.A. To the left the assistant. My throat was dry. I smoked too many cigarettes in the parking lot. I wish I could have had some water. The ticket read "no drinks".
We waited until a little after nine. We rose for the judge as she entered. I hoped I would go first and be outta there. The first four cases were MIPs. Most of the kids received Deferred Adjudication. However, they had to take alcohol awareness classes and do community service. Speeding tickets here and there. 1 hour 30 minutes later. It was my turn. They called my name. I walked to the bench. I was not sure if I should address the judge as "Ma'am" or "Your Honor". She asked "How do you plead?" I asked "What are my options, Your Honor?" She said that I would want to go with Deferred Adjudication. That would keep it off my record provided I would not get a ticket for 90 days. I asked politely for that. She also reduced my fine for time spent in jail. I thanked her and left. I promptly went to the office in city hall and made payment.
I went outside. Sparked a behdi. Breathed deeply in relief.
Feel like commenting?
your name
link?
Who is the current US president?