(no subject)
Hey gang, this story is mildly entertaining, I promise.
Hey dudes. A funny thing happened to me the other day at Laura Bailey's birthday party. Adam, Chris and I stepped out for a bit to buy some cigarettes, and on my way back, -wouldn't you know it!- those pesky West University police pulled me over. For my Evergreen friends not familiar with H-Town culture, West University is one of Houston’s ritzier neighborhoods, complete with its own force of bored fucking police officers who prey on innocent drunk teenagers like me, since, you know, there aren’t any other crimes there. Apparently I made a turn without signaling first. Aw nuts right? Well long story short, I’d had a few drinks, and after a bit of fun conversation and sobriety testing with those jovial West U law enforcement officers, I was cuffed and thrown into the back of the squad car. When I realized that I was going to spend the night in jail, I tried to make the best of a bad situation. As I was lead into the back, I took one last look at my pals and said, “Bye guys! At least we’ll have a fun story to tell tomorrow, right?” Apparently the cops asked if I was that flippant even when I was sober, to which my buddies responded with a resounding, “Fuck yeah, Reese is an asshole!” I’m so proud of those boys, but it was kind of a bummer that I had to go to jail all by myself. Oh well, what can you do?
So my police pal hops in the car, turns the key, and I am instantly assaulted by the sounds of Houston’s modern rock alternative, 94.5 The Buzz. You guys do not understand the gravity of this scenario until you have been sitting cuffed in the back of a police car at 2:00 AM, hurtling through the night towards an uncertain future, wishing you had just walked to the store to buy fucking smokes (but Houston’s not really made for walking, is it?) listening to “The Distance” by fucking Cake. Cake, you guys. Cake. Fuck! So we arrive at the Bellaire police station, of all places! Again for the Greeners, Bellaire is another of Houston’s richest, whitest, bestest neighborhoods. (I later found out that the reason I was taken there instead of the West U. station was due to the fact that West U. is not equipped to deal with drunkards like myself. There is no room where they can videotape you while you fail a sobriety test, and no breathalyzer present.)
So I’m thrown into a single cell, made to wait a bit while they fill out paperwork. I inform the officer that I need to use the restroom, and he hits me with some axiom about patience. Motherfucker. A voice in the cell next to me calls out, “Hey man, just piss in the cell! That’s what I did!” I smile because this is the kind of fun stuff I was hoping to encounter during my brief romp through the penal system. But so like this Officer Speight is dead set on me rupturing my fucking kidneys or something. I’m dancing in the “I have to pee” fashion harder than I ever have before. Eventually he gets up for a bit and a female officer walks by. I ask her nicely and she consents to let me go potty.
As I’m standing there at the urinal, her holding the door open making sure I don’t try anything funny, she says, “Reese I think I’ve encountered you before. You have a very distinct name.” And of all of a sudden, it hits me, and I actually say “Wow!” This woman pulled me over years ago. I was probably a junior in high school, driving late one night with Adam. I think we were on our way to Raphael and Gabe’s house. Oh man those were the days! I was drunk so he was manning the wheel, but we didn’t have our headlights on. I must have been young, because I remember thinking, “Fuck! I’m out after curfew, drunk, letting my friend (who has only a mere learner’s permit, in addition to the bag of crystal meth in his pocket) drive my fucking car.” I remember thinking, fuck, I shouldn’t even have this lighter, because I’ve heard that if you’re under 18 they can classify that as smoking paraphernalia. That night fared much better than this night. We got warnings. So yeah, it all comes back to me, I try to regale this woman, but she doesn’t recall specifics. She tells me to pee faster.
After that I get to make use of the Bellaire police station’s wonderful facilities. They take me into this sterile white room with a chair and a video camera. I am made to repeat the same embarrassing sobriety testing acts that I just failed like 20 minutes ago. I fair slightly better this time. Just a smidge. I am thinking to myself, “What the fuck. I can’t stand on one foot for 30 seconds when I’m fucking sober. Fuck you guys!” (I later learned that these tests are not incredibly accurate, and are generally not given too much weight in court. That neat one where they make you follow the tip of a pen with your eyes, even under ideal testing conditions, is only 77% accurate.) So I stumble around a bit and feel pretty silly, and then it’s on to the breathalyzer! I blow a .08, which is the legal limit in Texas, contingent of course, on the fact that said blower be 21 or older. I guess I can take some solace in knowing that I was really not driving very drunk, and I probably would have gotten off if I was two years older. Pretty sweet overall.
All the while, throughout this whole ordeal, I am noticing that it is very likely Officer Speight’s first day on the force. Every step of the way he has been asking the other officers about protocol. This fact becomes blindingly apparent when we move onto the fingerprinting section of our escapade, and it takes him nearly 5 minutes to get an acceptable computer print of my left pinky. After the Motorola fingerprinting console deems my print “poor” for about the 15th time, he says “Fuck it” and moves on. A few more agonizing minutes of paperwork, we finally move on to the West University police station.
First thing’s first- as soon as we arrive I finally get to take my fucking mug shot. I smile about as big as I can. They then tell me that I am being processed in the computer system, and that it will take a few hours. Until then, I can do nothing about my bail. (I later found out that this was very wrong, and my bond could have been worked on the whole time, which would have led to a few less hours in the pokey. The only good pig is a dead pig. Fuck!) I decide not to wake my parents up until they can do something about my situation (hahaha yeah I’m fucking stupid) and resign myself to a brief nap in a West U holding cell. They give me a scratchy blanket and show me the way. At least the cell has a toilet.
In the morning I’m awoken and shuffled out to the car once again! This time we’re on our way to the luxurious Harris County Jail in beautiful downtown Houston, TX! I make a quick phone call home to the parents, but they already know because the bail bonding place has called them. Mother is like FREAKING OUT that her baby is being transferred to the county jail, probably imagining me being raped by like 4 rugged black guys at once. I’ve got pale skin, tight pants, shaggy hair, and a baby blue t-shirt with a cartoon snake on it. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t get a little scared at this point.
We mosey on over to the jailhouse and it’s about what I expected it to be. Young minorities going nowhere, slowly. Guards are a little gruffer, but fuck man, I’ve watched a shitload of Law & Order. I know what to expect. It really turns out to be more boring than dangerous. It’s a Sunday morning, so the whole lot is mostly Saturday night’s alcohol related arrests. Sure they’re tough, and I’m definitely the cutest one in the whole room, but these guys are on the telephone with their baby mommas trying to make bail. Everyone’s laid back, bummed out, hung over, and no one’s been in here long enough to be desperate for a quick fuck. I probably get some leers, but I don’t notice.
Conversation starts with two prompts, and two prompts only:
A) So what’re you in for?
or
B) Do they have the phone numbers for bail bonding places posted in here?
It is an interesting experience to say the least. I hear funny stories, sad stories, and very crass jokes. The disparity between different fellas’ attitudes is hilarious. Older men are devastated, calling wives and desperately trying to make amends. Young Latinos are in it with their pals, cracking jokes, wondering when they’ll get out, and when they’ll be back in again. I even see a few kids younger than me. Younger, but definitely not cuter.
Some of us are called out to have more paperwork done, and to have our bonds assessed, and one dude who steps up to the counter has a $1 million bail set. He barely speaks English, and is not really cognizant of how impossible this sum is. I wonder about what he’s done. They lead our small group into another holding cell, smaller than the one we were in before, but for some reason filled with exponentially more bodies. I can barely see the concrete floor under the carpet of flesh. I shudder, knowing that this is probably going to be the worst part. I never thought that I would experience the overcrowding of the American prison system firsthand. But just as I begin contemplating where to sit, I am snatched from the jaws of doom by a friendly young officer. “Lopez! Hey, Lopez!” I turn around, wondering how many other Lopez(s) there are in the room. He points at me. “Yeah, you! Third Eye Blind! Come here.” My guardian angel. His mid-90s modern rock reference warms my heart.
We walk through the hall, since my bond has finally been processed, and he makes a bit of idle chatter. “So yer one a them modern-hippie-rock-n-roller types, huh?” I shrug and stifle the urge to say that I fucking hate hippies. “It’s not a good look for you. You look like a faggot.” I tell him that, yeah, I get that a lot. My heart smiles. This man has made my day. His comments keep me warm throughout the rest of my bitter prison journey. Out of everything and everyone that I have experienced in the last 12 hours, this guy is probably my favorite.
That was probably the climax of my story. And if you think it’s disappointing, fuck you, I was in jail. After that officer’s insightful critique regarding my choice of alternative subcultures, I spent another couple of hours waiting in the “outbound prisoner” lockup, and was finally released into our smoggy downtown. Guys, it was fucking beautiful.
So that’s it. Repercussions will probably be some combination of probation, having my driver’s license suspended, and a few hundred dollars in fines. That’s an “and/or” thing, so we’ll just have to see. My first court date is on Friday, and I have to say, I’m pretty stoked! So boys and girls, I would hazard that there’s a moral here somewhere. Whoever figures it out gets the delicious bologna sandwich and peanut butter crackers that Harris County so generously provided me for lunch.