They probably thought I was the biggest smartass or biggest dumbass ever, but I never got a ticket! Once I did, but I ended up going back up to the police station and physically returning it. That was a cool feeling, but I didn’t have the honor of giving it back to the same dude who gave me the ticket for going 53 mph in a 35mph at 1am, but oh, well…
My dad was actually only in the jail again his last 2ish years, starting when I started working for and getting benefits from Continental Airlines, and my parents had my flight benefits. He wanted to take all 5ish months of vacation he had built up, allll that year. They told him if he did that, he’d get demoted to the jail (somehow not knowing that being wrong or acting like anyone or anything has, or will ever have, any impact on him… That he’d sooner be a jailer. From what I understand, it’s the basically the worst job in law enforcement. He said “Cool, after I get back from Europe, I’ll see you in the jail at 7am or pm? What’re we doin’ here?” and that was that.
My “in” worked all thru high school, even a little after. But let’s face it, the older you get, the more pathetic it is… “My dad’s retired from Montgomery County Sheriff’s Office, and he’ll kill me if I get a ticket…? I mean, I know I’m a grown-ass woman, on paper, but…” I have tons of stories from that line. People either think he hung the moon, or that he is the biggest jackass on the planet. There’s no in-between, yet they’re both correct. Funny how that works.
As they do all this (what has become) “marijuana DWI field sobriety test”, he demonstrates the “heel to toe, straight line, ‘pivot’, and back”. He started doing it, and I figured it was time for a funny lil anecdote. I kinda giggled and said, “I remember when I was little, one night my dad was working patrol, and he came home the next morning all KINDSA pissed. We finally got it out of him that he pulled over someone completely hammered, and when he was giving the demo that you just gave me, he couldn’t do it… Isn’t that ‘funny’…?”
His response was, “Do you understand your instructions?”
Great. “Yes sir, but I’m no balancer,” I warned. I think I got about 7 out of the first 10 steps (before the pivot), before I had to catch myself (but just barely), and giggle… cuz the shit was funny. As I’d soon find out, he wouldn’t be satisfied until I’ve completely made a fucking mockery of all of humanity with my clumsiness. I always hated the balance beam the most, and that’s all this was. I thought I did awful, just because that’s what I’d always expected, I guess. After looking at the video, sure, I “stumbled” it a couple of times, but did way better than I thought I’d ever do on one of those things. My lawyer actually threw up his hands in a “What the hell?!” motion when I was done, seeing nothing wrong with it. “I was waitin’ fer you to break out into the foxtrot, girl!”
For the next one, he says “I want you to lift up either of your feet, doesn’t matter which one, 6 inches off the ground, with the sole of your foot parallel to the ground. While in that position, you will say ‘one one-thousand, two one-thousand,’ and so on, out loud, until I tell you to quit.”
“Heh, okaaayyy…” knowing damn well how this was going to turn out.
“Do you understand your instructions, ma’am?”
“Ma’am, do you understand the directions for the task I just presented you?”
“So you understand the instructions I just gave you?”<p class="has-white-color has-black-background-color has-text-color has-background" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">"Why do you keep asking me that?!" Seriously annoyed. Still no idea why he thought I had trouble comprehending the plain English that was coming out of his face.”Why do you keep asking me that?!” Seriously annoyed. Still no idea why he thought I had trouble comprehending the plain English that was coming out of his face.
“Ok, I’ll tell you when to start….” while looking at his watch. ”Go.”
“One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand….” I got to twelve one-thousand before I fumbled. “Heh… Sorry…” I said, still standing on both feet, figuring the “test” was over when I messed up. He’s still looking at his watch, raises his eyebrows (like he really means it), and says, “Keep going.” I later found out from my sobriety-test-giving friend (mentioned earlier) that they wanted me to get to 30, one way or another. I think he gave up on me on 20ish tho. I didn’t think anything of it, because my dad really couldn’t do that when he was a cop, so how could they honestly expect me to be the graceful gymnast, who I hadn’t been for 26 years? PLUS, I have NEVER understood WHY they make you put your hands at your side, instead of out, like a gymnast, because that’s how we/they BALANCE… You’re expecting me to do better than a professional gymnast at 10pm on a Thursday night?! THEY WERE MEANT FOR IT TO BE UP TO THE ASSHOLE’S DISCRETION!!! Even if you’re sober.
After this, he leads me back to the hood of his car, turns me around (facing the cop car, and thank god, the camera), puts cuffs back on me, and (naturally) I said “What’s going on now?!”
“You’re under arrest.”
“For what?!” I really didn’t think this was gonna happen. I was scared, but… SERIOUSLY?!
“Driving While Intoxicated on Marijuana.”
The look on my face was priceless. I actually couldn’t wait to see it when I saw the video. It was one of the main reasons I wanted to see it, actually. I knew I needed to shut the fuck up, but at the same time my mind was screaming, “ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS, YOU FUCKING PRICK?!?! THIS IS SOME BULLSHIT, AND YOU FUCKING KNOW IT!!!”
He puts me in the front seat of the car, which I thought was odd. I decided not to talk shit as soon as he told me why he was placing me under arrest. I knew my best shot at anything was to shut the fuck up, so that’s exactly what I did.
He basically asked me if I’d be willing to give blood, or if I wanted my license taken away from me for six months… I’m a single, only child, with a roommate who already has one child, who isn’t old enough to drive. Also, I drive for a living. Only he didn’t just ask me straight up like that. I knew those were my options, but honestly, by now, that joint and a half I swallowed was starting to kick in (with absolute perfect timing, I might add). So he read all this legal mumbo-jumbo (monotone, he was an awful reader… like me, I’m not gonna lie), and I said, “So which one is the one I choose for my license to not get taken away?”
“Consent to take your blood tonight, ma’am.”
“Then where do I sign giving you permission to extract my Lisa-juice?”
Trying not to smirk, “Right here, ma’am.”
Then we wait… and wait. Apparently their printer isn’t working, as I’m watching my car being hooked up to a tow truck. “So what’s the deal?” I asked my co-pilot.
“Ahh, our printer isn’t working for some reason.”
“So how much longer til we get this show on the road?” He actually audibly chuckled at that one, even tho I was not trying to be funny at all… I was so ready for this shit to just be over, and me be in a horizontal position. At this point, that happened to mean – Best case scenario, steel bench. Worst case scenario, concrete floor. Neither with so much as a sheet, and forget pillows even exist. I didn’t care. I wanted horizontal time, pronto.
“So do you honestly think I’m any kind of impaired?” I asked… no clue what the hell I was expecting as an answer.
“You failed those tests pretty bad,” he responded.
Again, my move was to shut the fuck up.
Trying to make small talk, and also genuinely needing to know, I ask him, “So what’s the deal with calling collect from jail with cell phones now? How’s that all work?”
“Oh, I’m not sure,” he lied.
“Really? Hey, you in the back – any idea how the collect call thing works with cell phones? Kinda freakin’ out, cuz I don’t know anyone’s number by heart, anymore.”
“I’ll write a few phone numbers down for you before I turn it off,” Original Asshole says.
We finally get to Conroe Regional Hospital. Basically a hospital that’s been around Conroe since the beginning of time. Forever it was THE hospital in Conroe. I’d been admitted there once, I used to go there when I was little for my migraines, and any other emergency room experience, I met Dylan there when the cops beat the shit out of him with mag lights, and literally fractured his face (granted, he admitted to “steadily talking shit about their mothers,” while they were doing it, but still, completely uncalled for and hella excessive), had plenty of friends die there, and work there. Needless to say, I was familiar. I was also glad I don’t recognize faces for shit, because there wasn’t any way I didn’t know someone there. I was born in, and graduated from this town, sans my semester-long stint at San Marcos Baptist Military Academy (aka boarding school) my sophomore year. They un-cuff me, draw Lisa-juice, re-cuff me.