I mulled over this story for a few days after it initially occurred. Considering its hilarity, it should've been a cakewalk to instantly put it onto paper. However, as with most of my crazier, “so-much-shit-went-down, son!" sagas, I usually pass on penning them at all. They always wind up more like a prattling off of a bullet point list than a well-put together piece. They’re too long, I get too excited and jumbled up in the details. This story though, goddamn it, needed to be written.
I spent the better part of a week trying to figure out the true essence of the night's events. Yeah, I did "drugs". Yeah, I got arrested. Yeah, I spent my first night in jail. But ...so what? What about that is an "Elena story" - where was my identity in all of that? I decided it boiled down to being my own version of a Chappelle's "When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong" skit. Except this was "When Trying To Get Over An Ex By Using Mind-Altering Substances Goes Awry". I had recently had my heart smashed to pieces, by a hipster living in Williamsburg, of all people. This pseudo-breakup was totally unexpected, it had come out of nowhere, and it had left me reeling and completely unsure of how to move forward.
This ex and I spent the next month or so trying to work things out, but then I discovered that he had already started seeing someone new. Some hipster kindred spirit who wasn't cute, even though she looked like him and HE was cute. But (and I say this extremely begrudgingly) she was very funny, at least according to my in-depth Facebook research (stalking.) I hated that she was funny; I'd rather she'd be hot and stupid. So, he tells me he can't commit. And then, bam- he's in a relationship with this girl less than two weeks after meeting her? Okay...awesome! I'm quite literally brimming with joy knowing that you found a partner who not only also gets boners over natural remedies and gardening, but jerks off with you while you both lay side-by-side listening to NPR.
I was tired of crying all the time. I was even more tired of being in that dark, terrible place: questioning my lack of hipster identity. So, I decided to give myself emotional and mental reprieve with, how you say, some "herbal remedy." I smoked all day and night for a week straight, and it was a beautiful thing. I realize, as I'm typing and reading back the words, that this was probably the complete wrong way to deal with emotional pain and a broken heart. But you know what? I didn't care. Sure, maybe using a drug like weed was only numbing the pain, not getting rid of it, and I'd have to deal with it eventually anyway. But whateva y'all. I had things to do. I couldn't keep showing to up places with puffy eyes and sniffling like a sad puppy. Weed was really, just... fantastic.
I say all this because it was the reason I was in my nightclub's smoking section the night of this story. Well, first, around 1:45 a.m., I was walking my little brother and a couple of his buddies who had stopped by earlier, back outside. I walked out with them, chatting with them briefly before they headed out. The three of them thanked me for a good night, and left.
I headed over to talk with the few security guys who stand at the entrance doors. I was feeling good. Super mellow and calm. I was still high as shit from a booty call smoking me up the night before; I felt like I hadn't even come down and it was 24 hours later. And goddamn if it wasn't glorious. Then one of my regulars, KD, came outside.
KD and I had been talking earlier in the night about some writing work he wanted me to do for his company. That conversation had turned to the topic of my ex-fueled emotional misery, and the resulting week of medicinal weed usage. He offered to smoke me up later, once the club died down a bit. That time seemed to have arrived at this moment, as he asked me if I felt like smoking now. Mind you, I was pretty much still stoned from my week-long bender. So I can't say I enthusiastically said YES!, or even mildly said yes. I just know I said, “Yes.”
We walked down the block to the smoking section. Located by an empty storefront under some scaffolding, it falls to the left of the unused back entrance of the club. It was just KD and I there, with a couple of random clubgoers scattered further down the block and across the street. It was quiet, most of the action of the night having happened earlier on. We started talking about the shittier aspects of my recent split, while he extracted a rather fat blunt from his pocket. And by halfway, I mean what every housewife says about the cabana boy's member: "It was the biggest thing I had ever seen!" About halfway through smoking it, he had passed it back to me. I was...really, really up there. So I put up a hand, and politely said, "Nah, I'm good." His blunt-holding hand didn't waver, and he looked at me. "Oh no," he said, "We're not finished. You wanted to smoke, so we're going to smoke." Well, damn. But what could I do? I don't know, I don't even think I replied, I was so goddman high. So I did what I had to do: mentally buckled down and prepared myself to be higher than I'd ever been in my life, “Fucking get your shit together, Elena. WE’RE SMOKING THIS SHIT TIL IT’S DONE.” So we continued, I think, I mean I'm pretty sure, just smoking that weed in plain view, and smell, of anyone who happened to pass by.
Which is exactly what happened when two black guys leaving the club walked past us a few minutes later. One of them shouted out, "Yo, is that weed?!" I looked up and miraculously managed to focus my eyes on him, and watched as this grinning, cuter version of Kid Cudi stopped in his tracks as soon as KD invited him to join us. This white-as-fuck black boy, "Nabisco", bounded over like a happy puppy and took the blunt from KD’s hand. His friend hung back, and left shortly after, but Nabisco was already into his second hit.
I was spacing the fuck out; you know, where you start to lose your hearing a little bit. But I heard KD, as if through a thick wall, start saying, "Yo, 5-0, 5-0." 5-0...I know what that means, I thought; I'm from Brooklyn. But wait...what? I was having trouble registering anything. I turned my head back from whatever direction it had been frozen in, and you'd think it had been frozen with how slowly I turned that half inch. I looked up past Nabisco's right shoulder, and saw a uniformed cop standing behind him. What the hell?! How did he get there? When did he get there? Officer had come out of the fucking wind. And, woo boy- he did not look happy. But with his far-sighted glasses and down-syndrome-esque facial features, I wasn't sure what to make of him. Or even if I should take him seriously. Or if this was really happening. All I know was I kept hearing KD continue to mutter, in my ear almost, "5-0 man, 5-0." My feet felt heavily rooted in the ground underneath me and I was too shocked, stoned, or both, to move. I was aware of my reality but at the same time, not. A rushing sound was filling my ears as the realization hit me- shit. This is it. I'm an after school special. This is really happening. It was as if all the air had gotten sucked out from where we were standing. Nabisco had still not seemed to register who/what had crept up behind him and was now breathing down his neck. In fact, Nabisco was still laughing and puffing away. It was like a bad horror movie, and I was about to watch my friend get killed. I stared as the cop asked him, "Hey, can I get a hit?" And Nabisco (who, again, is BLACK) extended his hand with the smoking gun to the cop. Brotha passed the blunt. To the cop. In uniform. I remember thinking, well, maybe he just knows we've been caught and there's no hiding it now. And for a wild moment, I thought it was all going to turn out to be one big joke. But as soon as the incriminating homegrown had exchanged hands, the cop said, "Thank you, now turn around please!" and Nabisco turned and went, “OH SHIT!"
KD nudged me, and said, "Go...go inside, now." My feet still felt heavy and leaden. I turned, verrrry slowly, (or maybe it was suspiciously fast- my sense of perception was long gone) and tried to start casually walking away. "No, you get back here!" shouted the arresting officer. There were two other cops with him, who up until now had both been standing, casually chillin’, arms crossed, against the unmarked car in front of the smoking section. They had clearly been there for awhile; the car was not even running. But seriously, what? Had this car seriously been there long enough to be PARKED AND TURNED OFF? How am I only just noticing it...and three cops...NOW? One of the two cops stepped on to the sidewalk next to me, on my right side. He blocked my escape route and said, "No, no. Come on miss, stay here," as he firmly put me in place. Sure. Because I was such a flight risk. I had just proved I was no more capable of fleeing than if my legs were broken. I stood in place, and the weirdest thing: I started shaking like crazy. Not out of fear; it was completely physical. But, I assume, because I was STONED OUT OF MY FUCKING MIND AND GETTING ARRESTED DURING MY WORK SHIFT. I could not believe this was really happening.
It was around 2:15 a.m. at this point. Generally, that's around the time when most people start to head home from the club. Of course. Just in time for the show. Man, we couldn't have planned this more perfectly. Very suddenly, it had gone from three cops standing next to three kids, to a legit scene. The arresting officer had since confiscated the half-smoked evidence, and was calling for back up. KD and Nabisco were being patted down, searched and questioned; KD had not stopped once at trying to tell the cops Nabisco and I had nothing to do with it. Throughout his unceasing attempts to take the fall, the AO kept brushing it off and instead told the other two cops to cuff the guys. "Her too," he said, "I saw her with it too." As I felt the cuffs slide and lock around my wrists, I finally found my voice. "Please," I begged, "I work here, please, please just let me go tell my boss because I'm on the clock right now. This is my shift. I have to tell him what's going on. I need to tell him, I can't just vanish and not have him know!" The prick AO refused. Well, thanks. This is just fucking great. So, I stood there, helpless, unsure of what to do, and starting to realize on top of it all I may be getting fired. The officer who was still standing on my right started asking me, "Why were you out here smoking with these guys? What were you thinking?" I said nothing. What was I going to say? Admit I had been doing exactly what they claim they saw? Own up to breaking the law? Explain to him my shitty romantic life, and how it had led me down the dark, albeit chilled out, weed path? Yeah. Exactly. So I just kept my mouth shut.
I heard, as if from a distance, the AO continuing to question KD and Nabisco, and KD kept insisting it was all him, and wanting the full blame. The AO continued to ignore him, and said we were all getting taken in. At the point, my GM came out. "Uhhh...what's going on Elena?" I think I whimpered in reply. Or croaked out, "Dan.." before my voice trailed off, unable to explain. Dan started talking to the two cops. I was hoping beyond hope that some sympathy might be taken on me, since I work here, and these are local cops who know the owners and my boss. I kept watching that man-trio for a glimmer of hope, but I couldn't hear or tell what was happening at all. I saw the two cops go over to the AO. They kept their backs to us and spoke in inaudible voices, but the AO made it obvious what was said when he replied, "No! No, I saw her with it too, she's coming to the precinct." Then backup came, in the form of a blaring, marked police car.
As the lights and sirens danced in the air, we stood there, the three most motley, un-intimidating crew ever assembled under arrest, and waited. Two male officers came out of the backup car and the five cops discussed, of all things, fucking seating arrangements. Really? You have to have a conversation about who is riding with who? KD, who still had not given up his vocalized attempts to take the blame, was walked over to the blaring vehicle, along with Nabisco, who kept pleading for freedom. "Oh, great," said the black backup cop, "Give US the ones that don't stop talking, thanks." "What," said the AO, "You want the girl?" He said, “girl” the way kindergarten boys who have a “Boys Only” club say it. Damn, I thought my slutty work outfit would at least make me somewhat desirable.
I was being walked over to the unmarked car, but before I could hear how the cop’s bickering concluded, I felt myself being placed into the backseat, with my cuffs digging into my back and wrists. The officer who had held me in place to prevent my escape / cuffed me was now waiting outside the other back car door, and glanced down at me through the open window. Weed had never made me feel bad or paranoid, but it also had never made me feel sexy. But for some reason, tonight, I don’t know man. I was feelin’ myself now. I knew I was looking cute or at least, half-naked, in my typical bottle girl work outfit. True, maybe I just looked like a clean and classy hooker who diets and exercises. But even the supposed sexiness couldn’t be trumped by the fact that I was still shaking like crazy. My muscles were all twitchy and I couldn’t control it. I was positive they could see me trembling like I someone who had just been rescued from hypothermia-temperature water. So I figured now they probably thought I was a junkie, in addition to being a pothead.
Despite all this, I was starting to find the whole thing hilarious. Oh no. But I couldn't help it. I blurted out, "So, is he just having a really bad day, or what?" "Nah," said the officer. He paused for a moment. "He's always like this." I replied, "Is that because he pretty much IS the fat loser cop from Supertroopers?" The officer cracked up, and I continued, "You know who I mean! You know I'm right! He is his clone! In personality, and appearance!" He kept laughing, and said, "Holy shit, that's too funny."
We both were still kind of laughing, and he leaned down and said, "So how old are you?" "28", I replied. "38?!" He practically shouted it. "Noooo, no, 28! God, I better not look 38!" "Yeah," he said, "You're way too pretty to be 38." A compliment, hmmm. Okay. Here we go. I can suck in my stomach, pose my legs enticingly, and play this game. "Well, you know," I said, "I have this thing that I plan on doing when I turn 30. I'm going to tell people I'm 40, so then they'll be like 'damn girl what's your secret? You look amazing!'" He laughed again. "Well I'm at an age that's too old, I just gotta tell people what the actual number is." "Really?" I said, feigning disbelief, "No way! How old could you really be?" "Old enough," he replied. Was he cute? I looked at him. His face was kinda hidden but he didn't look old to me. Ehhh, I didn't care. And fuck, I was so thirsty. And I kept smirking and almost laughing. And I was still shaking like a leaf. In short, I was a mental and physical disaster. Every time I'd attempt to get one bugging-out thing under control, something else would start up. So I gave up and looked out the window, thinking I was doing it in a very attractive manner. The cop was probably super into me, and thinking how this is like a scene out of a movie and I'm the hot convict who's also hilarious. Yeah, that's my brain on drugs. As unfounded as it may have been, my confidence in my appeal was unwavering. Sigh.
The cop cleared his throat, and spoke. "Dan says you're a good kid, never get into trouble huh?" I looked up at him and said, "Yeah. I just don't want to get fired. Please, please don't take this out on where I work. I don't care what happens to me. Just please tell Dan I am so, so sorry." He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Listen, this is probably going to get thrown out, so don't worry about it. You had nothing on you, you weren't doing anything when we pulled up. You'll probably have to go to court but...it'll just get thrown out." He explained the process, and I listened without interrupting. Basically, he was saying this was all bullshit. "So," I said, "Why the show? Why all this, for something that's going to get thrown out at the end of the road anyway?" I was being so logical, damn! "Wellll," said the cop, "It is still pot, that's still a serious thing New York. It's not as serious as it used to be, but it's not legal yet." He started talking about decriminalization, yada yada yada, but I couldn't get past the uselessness of this entire "bust" and getting hauled to lockup. Seemed silly to me, and a waste of everyone's time. But really, at that point I could care less about the law and my record. I was more concerned about whether or not I'd still have a job tomorrow. But, I was high baby, as soon as any stress creeped up in my brainwaves it vanished just as quickly. I was feeling pretty good, despite the unresolved dry mouth and muscle spasms. Oh well. At that moment, the arresting officer, "Farva", and the other cop got into the driver's and passenger seat, respectively, and we were off to the precinct.
We arrived at our destination in about two minutes, during which time I kept yelling at Farva that I was probably going to get fired thanks to this. He continued to have only asshole responses and things to say, and then he actually dropped a line that his movie character twin said. Me and Flirty Cop instantly cracked up, and tried to stifle our laughter since we were the only ones in on the joke. (I really wish I could remember what he said.) And then, before I could yell myself into more trouble, we arrived at the precinct. I was still in my towering platform heels, and when they opened the back door of the car, between my footwear and my shakiness I could barely stand. Finally one of them helped me out. Thanks, gentlemen. Your chivalry leaves a girl breathless. The other criminals, KD and Nabisco, were a few steps ahead, also still cuffed and being led through the entrance of the precinct.
The three of were guided into the processing room together. Man, not a single female cop anywhere. I was waiting the pat-down, but it never came. I wanted to make a “cop a feel” joke so badly. I was led into the large open processing room and every dude cop stopped and stared. I felt myself start to laugh, but I channeled it to shaking my head instead. Again, I was wearing pretty much nothing, but I look like I bathe so they were probably just trying to figure out what I could’ve done. It was the only explanation I had for each and every cop who passed the room double-taking, entering, and staying to watch. I was on stage, and it SUUUCKED. Farva called us up one at a time to get our basic info, especially mine, seeing as I had not had any ID on me at the time of the arrest. After a painfully long and uncomfortable period of standing and waiting, Farva walked the three of us through the doors on the other end of the large room and into a small room with our holding cells. But all I could think was: if I was at work my feet would be killing me at this point. Yet they are feeling fuh-reaking amazing right not! Even after all this standing. Maybe I should smoke before every shift because this. is. awesome.
So, how was jail? That was the question I got asked by everyone who heard the story. And they all asked it in a super casual way, with a hint of laughter. Because let's face it, I may be BK All Day, but...really? When you think of me it doesn't exactly evoke mental images of prison bars and mugshots (both of which I experienced that night.) KD and Nabisco were walking in front of me as the three of us took the march to what would become our new home for the next few hours. We were directed by Farva into a small room which had, at least in viewing distance from the doorway, one large jail cell. There were two guys there already, or so I was guessing. It was hard to get a good look at the exact number of lurching eyes peering out as The Cop Who Wasn't Farva Nor Flirty Cop shuffled me quickly past them. He led me to a smaller cell, further in the room. Once I was in, he removed my cuffs. Finally. They had been put on unnecessarily tightly and my wrists now had deep red marks on them. Spoiler alert: pins and needles of my fingers would be arriving imminently. Prison problems, am I right?
I looked out from behind my bars at my "surroundings." It was strange. It was jail, okay, but what with the lighting, bulletin boards, and desks along the opposite wall topped with a couple computers, it could've been a school classroom. Seriously. I'm almost positive 85% of public schools have rooms / offices matching the exact aesthetic of this one. Though perhaps minus the two prison cells. My cell was roughly half the width the boys', but at least the bench looked long enough that I could stretch my legs out later. It was narrow as fuck though; It's a good thing I'm petite otherwise it would've been like a hippo lying on a gymnastic beam. I put my hands in my pockets as I sat down, huddled. As I felt nothing but fabric, I realized my phone must have fallen out in the cop car. My new digs were so far into the room I couldn't see anything save what was in front of me. But I could hear the boys talking to Farva, who (also out of my sight line) was still in the room with us. "Excuse me," I said, “Hi, um, excuse me?" The cop who has taken me to cell came over. Aww, look at his dimples. Okay, "Dimples" came over. "What's up?" he said. "I think my phone fell out in the car." "No problem, we'll get it for you. And what about your stuff at the club? And how are you going to get home?" (They had gone into the club while I was cuffed outside and looked through my bag, in attempts to find my ID, since it hadn’t be on me at the time of arrest. My bike gear was there, so I explained to them that’s how I commute to work.) I hadn't been thinking of how I was getting home, least of all getting my stuff. Only things on my mind were where I was right now, and if I was going to get fired. "Oh no," I said. "Shit. Well, my bike is still locked up across the street from the club. I'm going to need my bag if I’m going to get home….” It was finally starting to hit me. I continued, “Shit. It had my clothes, shoes, keys, everything... Oh god, all my stuff I need to get back to Brooklyn!” I tried to take a deep breath. Dimples said, ”Well, don't worry. I mean, we can talk to Dan and see if we can get you your stuff, or maybe you can leave your bike locked up overnight and get it tomorrow. It's (he checked his watch) about 3:30 now, and the place might be closed when you get out." "Oh god," I said, "how late do you think I'll be here?" He replied, "Honestly? 6, minimum." "Shit, shit, shit. Yeah, they'll definitely be closed by then. They don't stay open past 4." I must have looked as upset and worried as I was feeling, because he continued, "Just let us know what you want to do." I blinked, and said, "Um, look, I mean if there's any way to get my stuff brought here...please?" "Okay, we'll see what we can do." "Thanks," I said, "And please, please tell him again that I am SO SORRY and I feel so bad about this whole thing!!" "Okay, we'll be back in a bit." said Dimples, smiled comfortingly at me, and left the room.
Farva also left, but came back in a little while later with my phone. He held it up, "This it?" so I could see. Yes!! "Ahhh yeah thank you, thank you so much!" He placed the phone the desk across from my cell. He went back over to the guy’s cell and continued talking to the boys when my phone actually started to ring. Hmmmm. "Hey, could you answer that for me?" I shouted. Pause. Farva shouted back an incredulous, “What?!" "Yeah would you mind getting that? Or could you just tell me who it is?? It might be my boss," I said. I watched as Farva walked over to my phone and looked at it. "It's ‘Brian'" "Oooh, that's my brother, could you pick up??" He gave me a look like I was completely insane. "Um, no...here, you can talk to him, I don't care," and handed me the still-ringing phone. I remember thinking the only reason Brian could be calling is because HE KNOWS!! But how could he know?? I answered, and the convo went sorta like this:
Me: Hello? Jake?
Brian: Yo. (super casual) What's going on? How was the rest of your night?
Me: Ummm. (Is he trying to fuck with me?) Well...I'm in jail. How about you?
Brian: Wait, (laughing a little) what?
Me: (Okay, soooo he didn't know) Um yeah, I got arrested tonight...
Brian: (he was very drunk, FYI) Holy shit!! Are you serious? No, are you joking right now??
Me: No I'm not joking!! I can text you a freaking picture if you want! I'm in a fucking jail cell!
Brian: Oh, my god. What happened?? Listen, are you okay??
Me: I think so. They're bringing me my stuff and it's a little cold here, but otherwise I'm fine. I just don't know what's going to happen with my job. This happened AT WORK.
Brian: Wait while you were working? Oh man, what happened exactly?? This is crazy!
I told him the story, and he went from calm, sweet brother checking in, into hood rat in about 10 seconds. Granted, he does get aggressive when he’s been drinking. And if I remember his exact words this night, they were something along the lines of, “I’m not goin’ to sleep till you out! You need money? I got money! I’ll come down there right now! I’m serious! I’ll be there! I’m here for you! Call me, let me know! I GOTCHU.” It. Was. Amazing. I made him calm down, convinced him it'd be way late when I got released so he shouldn't to wait up, but I'd keep him posted. He was still amped, so he said some more badass things, and, ever touched by his protectiveness, I thanked him again, and we hung up.
Meanwhile, Farva had started gathering basic info from my two co-criminals. I heard the rat-tat-tat of questions from my cell:
Farva: ”Name?"
Nabisco: ”Nabisco."
Farva: ”Weight?"
Nabisco:(long pause) "Uhhhh..."
Farva: ”Look I don't give a fuck, just give me a number"
Rest of The Cellmates: (Laughter)
I listened, and I was already mentally preparing my answers for when my turn came. Sort of like in Monty Python and The Holy Grail, when the knights of camelot are asked three questions by the bridge guard. And I was getting sooo amped; I felt my heart beating and all I could think was "I am going to OWN this line of questioning right now." I heard Farva move on to KD. My heart pumped even faster as he walked further into the room and stopped at my cell door. It was my turn, and man was I ready. Or so I thought. As I handed him back my phone, I nailed the name and weight questions, like a boss. Then Farva asked for my social. Oh no. Did my one week of smoking kill my brain cells like the PSA's claim they do?? Because I seriously could not remember it. "Um, crap. I can't...uhhh well I know the last four numbers are 7515!" Groans and shouts of "Are you serious right now?" "Come ON!" from the inmates next door. Farva propped himself against the bars with one hand, and sighed. "Well, I can't let you go without it. You're going to have to stay here longer, and I'll have to take you to central booking." I was panicking, not at the threat which I barely heard, but at the sheer shame of not being able to recall the first five fucking digits. At my age, and with my filling-out-of job applications experience. Oh, my god. THINK. "Ahhh wait! 150-89 are the first numbers! Yeah, that's it!" In my head I was like... right? That's right, right? Damn it! I'm still not sure! But all Farva said was, "Ah, congratulations. And you know, I wasn't really going to take you to central booking. That number would come up anyway when we put your name in. Thanks though!" Ugh. Well, gee buddy, you just made me feel more clunky and awkward than all three hellish years of junior high. But I was too busy still trying to think if I had remembered my social correctly to fully reflect on this guy who definitely hates girls. I think I was actually softly muttering number sequences to myself, like some Rainman nut. I was so distracted, I didn’t even notice that Farva had left the room. Because not 20 seconds later, I realized I had given him the right numbers, but the wrong order. I KNEW it didn't sound right. So I said to the adjoining-cell captives, "Oh no, is he gone? I mixed up the order of the numbers...shit." "Uhh, yeah, he's gone." I could actually FEEL them shaking their heads. I didn't need to see it to know it was happening: they officially thought I was retarded. Which I suppose a week of weed will do to ya. Don't do drugs, kids.
Then the five of us played the waiting game. It turns out there HAD been two other guys in the boys' cell, who, after we all "met" each other, were both 19 and had been arrested for, drum roll please: graffiti. The boys joked, "All we need right now is Lindsay Lohan to walk in here," to which I immediately replied, "I am NOT sharing my cell with that bitch. You guys can have her." We all laughed and continued talking. Mostly about how ridiculous all of our arrests were, and the stories behind them. It was funny, bonding with people when you could only hear them, not see them. Although finally, I got a glimpse when a new black cop came in to do their head shots. Shit, I mean mugshots. The first kid was oh my god...such a KID. He was freaking adorable, like an angelic blond Jesse Eisenberg. As the cop sat at the computer at the desk across from me, taking the pictures, my phone started ringing again. The cop paused from his typing and looked at my phone, which was on the desk next to him. "Brian from State Farm is calling." We all cracked up. "That was actually hilarious," I said. But he didn't let me answer it.
The rest of the night dragged. We chatted, we laughed, some of us drifted in and out of sleep (i.e., me. That means I’m guilty, right? Or is it not guilty?) There was our parade of mugshot-taking, the fingerprinting, and the waiting, waiting, waiting. Finally, at around 6:45, Farva came in and told us we'd be out shortly. The two graffiti artists spluttered their disbelief, since not only were they not being let out, they really were going to central booking. One of them asked, "Wait, so we have to go to central booking for graffiti, but they're free to go once their processed for smoking weed in public?" Farva replied, "Yes." And rambled on about some cop and law jargon. There was a pause. Kid Number One said, ”So you're telling me we'd have been better off getting caught smoking pot? That its better to smoke weed in public than tag up a building?" Farva replied, without skipping a beat, ”Absofuckinglutely.” I could almost see Kid Number One and Kid Number Two shaking their head. ”That,” Kid One said, “is fucked."
I, as well as KD and Nabisco, sympathized, but it was late, or rather, it was early, and it had been a long night. Dimples had actually come through- he had gone back to the club and gotten my stuff for me, so it was waiting right outside my cell to take, whenever we got out. When they opened our cell doors at 7:30 to release us, we said goodbye to our new, well, not friends, but companions in hell. We had all made comments throughout the night like, "Now we know what serving real time is like" (ummm, false), and bonded over things like the bullshit of The Law. It turned out to be a shared experience not most people get to have, let alone marginally enjoy, with each other. My fellow pot-smoking duo and I left the precinct together, got outside, felt the air, and laughed about the whole thing...for about 10 seconds. Then reality, and daylight, hit us hard in the face. It was Saturday, for real. I grabbed a cab back to my job, to change in a little corridor and get my bike to ride home.
My bike ride home was interesting. I had been through so many extreme highs and lows, so many crazy events, the last month and a half. I can't say I felt euphoric, and maybe this "high" of sorts was just a combination of the residual weed, and having not eaten a thing for 16 hours. But I'll tell you, getting arrested, followed by a night in jail, changes a person. Yeah, I could make a Shawshank reference here. But I didn’t hang myself, so it’d be a weak citation. But… it's true. At least it was, for me. This night had gained me new perspective on what's really important. Did I need to stay hung up on a guy, an ex boyfriend, who didn’t want to be with me? Absolutely not. I’m not saying weed is the way, but to throw oneself into new experiences, to allow oneself to have stories to tell that don’t revolve around dudes and sex, to be alone with your thoughts and realize what’s really important in life - that’s what’s up. Though, to be fair, through my “new experiences” I could now claim street cred; I did my time, and stayed cool. (Those aren’t my words, for the record; those were the exact words of the toughest bouncers when I got into work the next night.) Besides, this was bucket list material: I could now say I spent a night in jail. For almost a year, I had been secretly and not fully-admittedly feeling that I missed having lots of new, crazy stories to tell, and that my life had gotten too normal. This night had, in a way, given me everything I wanted and needed. Again, I’m not advocating getting locked up, or indulging in illegal substances. But I will say this: if you do go to jail, do it high on weed. You'll be calm as a motherfucker, and by the time you're released you'll be in a philosophical, sagacious state of mind that'll put all even the greatest of thinkers to shame. Okay, not really. But, close.
EPILOGUE
As great as this night was in terms of “have I got a story for YOU!” what happened afterwards was almost better. For one thing, when I got to work the next night, all the bouncers and security guys gave me pounds and nods of approval. They all remarked that they were impressed I hadn’t dropped names, I kept my mouth shut, I did my night in jail, and I survived it.
The next amazing part was, I still GOT PAID for my shift that night. My whole shift pay, including the tips I had made. I looked at the money when one of the managers handed it to me at work the next night, incredulous, and I believe I even said, “Really?!” I was expecting to get fired. Not only did I get to keep my job, I didn’t get yelled at, I got paid, and for an entire nights work, despite having, you know, being arrested with two hours remaining to my shift.
But the absolute best part happened in the weeks that followed. So, yes, Farva was an asshole, and is an asshole. But the two nice cops that were part of this little adventure rolled up to the club a couple weekends later, while on duty, and coincidentally, while I was working. I waved from the front entrance doorway, saying loudly, “HEY GUYS!”, making it clear that “o-m-g, we are so totally frenemies now.” But they weren't just there to say hi to me, you know, their new buddy, nor to the rest of the staff whom these cops clearly felt they had also bonded with on my arrest night. No, you see, I had written this piece by then, about the whole ordeal. As it turns out, of my beset friends, Rubi, knew one of the cops who worked at their precinct, THE SAME precinct where I had been processed and held. Rubi read the story, passed it to this cop buddy of his, and cop buddy passed it around to the ENTIRE PRECINCT. It even started to circulate to other precincts, to at least those who knew Farva, and could appreciate the tale. It became fairly famous, and in turn, so did I. In fact, Flirty Cop showed up a month later, on his off-night, and showed me what he had been working on: photoshopped Supertroopers promotional ads and movie stills, with Farva’s face skillfully grafted onto his movie’s counterparts face. I laughed very hard, because damn, it was fucking awesome. Flirty Cop told me, “Farva HATES you, like, he’s out for you. He promises to catch you one day on the street and make you suffer. But…to everyone else…you’re a goddamn hero.”
Does life get much better than that? Probably not. At least not until I find the right moment to tell my parents this story.
