Last night I was on a date. After we left the theater, we made it about 2 blocks before a squad car pulled us over. I wasn't violating any traffic laws. I have a valid license and proof of insurance. However, during a previous traffic stop, while driving a previous vehicle, I was unable to find my insurance card. All I needed to do was bring said proof to the courthouse and the charge would be dropped. But there was no fine, and the incident was easily dismissed... if only I had remembered to visit the courthouse. Instead the missing insurance card became a misdemeanor, and I got a warrant.
The officer takes my license back to his car to double check the info, and my date starts snickering and digging through her purse.
"What?" I snap.
She produces a camera and says, "I am so taking a picture of this for your blog!"
By this time 2 more squad cars have shown up, because a guy without proof of insurance on a former vehicle is a true menace to society. I am cuffed and patted down near the trunk of my car. Inside, I can see my date laughing maniacally, taking additional pictures with her cell phone. She eventually drives off in my car.
I am hauled off to jail in downtown Minneapolis. They pat me down again and strip me of everything that would resemble dignity. But I am cooperative. After all, this isn't my first time in the establishment and I knew the drill.
Meanwhile, there is this wretched moaning and screaming noise coming from cells down the hall. I check some nearby signage to make sure I had been taking to jail, and not an asylum like last time. Turns out that after booking, one of the inmates decided to go retarded. And I do mean acting physically and mentally retarded. He wouldn't form words, was thrashing about in his cell, faking seizures, smashing his skull on the cinder blocks, etc. The officers there said he was normal, civil, and cordial during his arrest and booking, and that these theatrics were just for attention. This works to my advantage, because that guy is a whole circus, and dealing with me is cake. Every few minutes a cop walks by and tells his buddies, "Go check out the guy in Cell 8. You'll get a real kick out of him!"
The bookkeeping staff are all women in their 20s and 30s. All of them think I'm adorable. Some of them are practically flirting with me from behind wire glass. One of them explains my bail to me, and asks how I'd like to pay it. When I tell her that I had enough cash on me to take care of it on the spot, she literally looks me up and down and smiles at me. If I was anywhere but in a correctional facility, I'm sure she'd be giving me her digits.
She makes sure that the cutest picture of me is used on the heavy-duty laminated bracelet that they rivet around your wrist.
A 20-something girl escorts me to the release wing where I am put in a cell with 3 other douchebags. Then, she sits at a desk just outside the door, and can be seen through a small window. One of the douchebags is a real homeboy with pants 3-sizes too big and missing a belt. He has to hold them up as he walks over to the window next to the door. None of us pay any attention to him until he mutters, "Yeeeah, bitch. TAKE my shit!" We look up to see him with his pants around his ankles, staring at the female officer, and masturbating wildly. The squicking noises drive the rest of us towards the far end of the cell near the non-flushing toilet without a seat. None of the officers are paying attention to this, so we have to endure the whole thing... right through the last moan. Homeboy pulls up his pants, has a seat and starts giggling at the fact that he left his load all over the glass. I am called out of the cell a few minutes later. The officer that was escorting me winced at the aroma when he opened the door.
My cash was confiscated, but the difference from my bail is returned to me as a check and I am released to the cold Minneapolis night. It is only 9:30, so naturally I call up my date and ask her if she'd like to join me at the pub downtown. She takes kindly to the idea and meets me there soon thereafter, where I spoil her with drinks and a karaoke tune that matches her name. I also explain that she should expect more of this Tom foolery if she decides to stick with me. Fortunately, she has as good a sense of humor about these things, and finds it as hilarious as I do.
I leave for a week-long software conference in Washington D.C. tomorrow morning. I can only imagine the kind of trouble I'll find there.
