It was a hell of an experience. It wasn't all that painful, as I was drunk when it happened, but it was an eight-hour ordeal I don't think I'll soon forget. The two predominant items that stand out my mind are how rough she was on me (I was laughing through the whole thing) and how nice she was not to latch the handcuffs too tightly around my wrists. The same thing happened to two others at the party, so at least I wasn't alone through the ordeal.
Our night began with about ten of us sitting in a friend's room, swilling Schaeffer and gulps of Jim Beam. Our sole intention was drunken mayhem, though we had no specific plan other than that. It was Friday, January the 13th of my freshman year in college, many years ago. Outside, a foot of snow blanketed the ground and more was dropping rapidly, as were our inhibitions. An hour into our boozefest, I began to grow numb and was gearing myself up for some fun.
I was the youngest of the boozehounds there and was not about to let a factor such as my age hinder my keeping pace with the rest of those drinking. Not to be out-drunk by my upperclassmen, I kept pace. Fortunately, most of my freshman year was nothing more than two semesters' worth of liver damage and drunken stunts, so I was able to drink with the best of 'em.
Shortly after midnight, our group of ten had been reduced to only the hardcore drinkers: myself and four others. The others had either puked and/or passed out. The music got louder and louder the drunker we got (why is it always that way?), then suddenly stopped. One guy, Matt, a senior, announces the following:
"Hey! Let's go out and trash the campus like we did last year before the homecoming football game!"
"Oh, yeah, man! Yes!" Pete agreed.
Being a neophyte freshman at the time, as well as being wildly drunk, I agreed that it was a great idea. My one question: What the hell were they talking about?
"Nevermind," Matt said, "this is gonna be fun."
Evidently, the idea of trashing the campus was just that: drunken hoodlums running across the campus, emptying any trash can in sight and upsetting park benches and statues at will. As much of a waste of time as I thought it might be, I decided I'd participate. I agreed partially out of drunken stupidity and partially out of seeing whether those drunken fools would actually go through with their plan. Five of us donned our jackets, finished our drinks, and headed out the front door of the building.
Had we any thought processes left, we would have checked the main areas of the campus to determine whether any activity was happening, to determine our odds of getting caught. But since we had been drinking for hours, all shreds of logic took a proverbial backseat to the thought of having some fun. Right across the street from where the melee originated was the first victim: a full trash can. I don't recall who was the first to begin the rampage, but no sooner had we seen the can than it was inverted and shaken, leaving a pile of assorted rubbage on the snow. One down, several to go!
For the better part of half an hour, our group of trash-terrorists raided the campus and anything that was not obviously bolted down was checked for upsetability and upended if possible. Though I would have liked to have overturned my share of trash receptacles, I was designated the "rookie" of the run and was not entitled to participate, rather observe only, so I could gain an understanding of how matters were conducted, for the next occasion. This didn't phase me at the time because halfway through our reign of unholy trash-terror, two thoughts echoed in my mind: This is really stupid! I hope we don't get caught!
Our gang of hoodlums rounded a corner and came to a stop around the front of the Bursar's Office. Catching my breath, I immediately sensed something was not right. Like the feeling many divers have expressed moments before a shark attack, our surroundings seemed too quiet all of a sudden.
There we stood in a small circle, looking at one another and wondering what would come next. We became very uneasy about the situation, simultaneously.
"Guys," I began, "What do ya say we call it a night and head back?" It was then that I noticed the two silouhettes standing fifty yards away in the shadows of two buildings. Like a couple of statues, they seemed waiting for our next move. I casually motioned towards the figures to express the urgency of my statement.
"Good idea," Pete said, adding, "Fuck it. Let's get the fuck outta here."
We did an about-face an began briskly walking back towards the area from which we came when a voice shot from between the two buildings: "STOP!" I knew what that meant!
"GO!" I yelled, and we began racing from the two figures in the shadows. Who they were, I didn't know and didn't care, but they seemed intent upon stopping us and I no longer wanted anything to do with the whole mess.
I was new to the campus at the time and had no idea where I was, so I followed the runner in front of me, Pete, hoping he would get me somewhere I recognized so I could get home...bad choice on my behalf. His navigational skills were about as fine-tuned as mine, because he was following Matt.
We later found out that in our group of five, two of us had simply found the nearest tree or cluster of shrubs and hid until things cooled off. Not the other three of us. We were running as fast as we could in a beeline towards the building where the whole fiasco originated. First was Matt, then Pete, then me, sprinting through the snow as hard as our lungs and legs would allow.
Out of seemingly nowhere, a female police officer jumped out of the shadows and grabbed Matt. He was a huge guy who was able to shove her down as quickly as she'd pounced. As Pete ran past, swung her blackjack, but he lept into the air and cleared her swing with ease. I was next to run the gauntlet.
Evidently, copette knew I'd evade her nightstick, so she intended to reach up and grab me by the waste and tackle me. Yet another bad choice that evening, on her behalf. As she jumped up to snare me, I jumped to avoid her and accidentelly kicked her square in the face at full speed, while wearing combat boots. She collapsed in the snow from the impact.
Copette's face was an obstacle that made me fall in the snow, but I sprang to my feet and continued spriting and thinking how great of a story the whole series of events would make. We were home free, I recall thinking, Just keep running as though the Devil's behind you...because he was! Things got better, well, depending whom you ask.
Our train of runners was getting closer and closer to safety when two huge, burly officers jumped out from behind a building, their blackjacks drawn in "batters-up" positions.
"Y'all better stop!" one goon screamed.
"I think we better stop!" I groaned. We stopped.
Our trio was escorted into an unlocked building (Adams Hall, if I remember correctly)
and lined up against a wall to assume "the position." Guess who frisked
me? Copette was pretty rough, especially when she slid her hands up the insides of
my legs and stopped only when she was satisfied she'd given my testicles a thorough
smashing several times. It hurt like hell, but the frisk-ees (my pals and I) were
looking at each other, laughing, so my pain wasn't all in vain. This will, I again
surmised, make a great story. Though I wanted to yell at Copette for being so rough
on my 'nads, I realized once the handcuffs clicked around my wrists that I was entirely
at her mercy. My smartest move of that evening would be for me to be as polite as
I could.
We were "cuffed-n-stuffed" into two police cars and taken to the local Detention Center, aka jail. My chauffeur and I arrived first. The charges against me were: destruction of private property, criminal trespassing, public intoxication, resisting arrest, and assault on an officer. Basically, I was up Shit's Creek.
Inside, I played "twenty questions" with the booking officer; stuff like:
on any medication (beer), any identifying marks (skull and crossbones tattoo on upper
right arm, numerous scars, etc.), any gang affiliation (what the fuck are you talkin'
about?), ever tried to commit suicide (huh?), et cetera, et cetera. Matt and Pete
soon arrived and waited behind me for their interviews. I looked back at them with
a nervous smile. Matt later told me that he interpreted my glance as one that seemed
to say, 'I'm scared shitless.' Pete read the smile as if it said, 'I need another
beer.' Both were right.
Next came the fingerprinting and photographing. My fingertips were inked and rolled across a card with my stastics written across the top. The officer on duty said I was a "natural" at giving prints, why I had no idea. I rolled my fingers across the spaces with ease, and when he handed me a paper towel with some glass cleaner sprayed onto it, I replied something to the effect of, "What the hell do care about a mess? I'm in fuckin' jail." I smeared the ink on my pants.
Next, my photo was taken, for which I wore a shit-eating grin that most of y'all would envy, especially it being a mug shot and all. No doubt the cops would later see the picture and say, "What a drunken bastard." I was sure of it.
Then came the strip-search. After removing my boots and belt, and being informed that they would not be returned until I was released, I was told to strip down to my boxers. Evidently, the cops thought I would use my belt or bootlaces as weapons, which is why they were confiscated. I stood, shivering from the cold and fear, in front of the booking officer and two *female* cops.
"Drop your shorts to your kness," he instructed. I knew this was a violation of something, my having to strip in front of two female cops, but did I care? Not in the least.
"Whatever yanks yer crank," I said and pulled my boxers to my ankles and began a little dance, with xxxjoel junior wagging from side to side. The female officers laughed and walked away.
"Alright, put your clothes back on," he said and muttered, "Damn drunks."
He led me into our cell for the night and closed the door behind me. Matt and Pete
were escorted in about ten minutes later.
We made the most of the situation and stayed up all night telling jokes and wondering when/if we'd be able to call someone for help.
Eight hours after being thrown in the drunk tank, we were allowed a few phone calls after eating a crappy breakfast consisting of a sweet roll, a banana, and some weak coffee. I knew it was the most expensive breakfast I'd ever buy, so I ate all of it. Fortunately, the two people in our trash-the-campus group who weren't arrested hid in the bushes for a couple of hours, waited for the police to leave, and eventually made it back to the building safely and alerted some others. Several small groups drove around town, bought beer for us to drink upon our return and wrote personal checks for cash at grocery stores so we'd each be released.
I discovered that we weren't forgotten when I called an old girlfriend from a couple of semesters previous, in a last-ditch effort to get some bail money. My bail was set at $200 and I wanted out. I dialed her work number and mentally prepared a speech. She answered but didn't seem too shocked that I was calling.
"Do you know where I am?" I asked.
"Yeah, you're in jail. I got a call early this morning. I'll bail you out, but you'll have to wait until I get off work," she said.
"When the fuck are you gonna get outta work?" I nervously demanded.
"In about an hour. I'll be there in a little while to get you, don't you worry. Oh, and Joel?"
"Yeah."
"Don't go anywhere." She hung up the phone, laughing. I was not amused.
A few hours after our conversation, I was a free man again. Matt and Pete were sprung
an hour earlier and wanted to get me out as well, but the group at home ran out of
money before they could get me. Everyone knew DeAnne was en route to get me, so they
went back to the room where the previous night's activities had begun and resumed
the party. Sitting up all night in the drunk tank made for a mean thirst that only
more beer would satisfy. We weren't the brightest individuals around at the time,
but we were among the thirstiest.
DeAnne and I got back to the building and went upstairs to the beerfest continuation. I was presented with a beer for each hand and given several pats on the back for having survived the ordeal. Then the question and answer period began: Was I scared? Hell no! Did I give the cops hell for arresting me? Yeah, I fought like 'em like an animal! Did I lose my ass-cherry? No, there were only drunk college kids in the tank, no chickenhawks.
Okay, my answers weren't entirely true, except for the part about not being raped. There were, in fact, only some drunken college kids in the tank that night, so the fighting was kept to a minimum. The biggest disturbance of the night was when I kept screaming, "This is bullshit!" at the top of my lungs until Pete informed me that there would probably be some beer waiting for us at home once we were out. That settled me down immediately.
As luck would have it, the assault charge against me was dropped. Why, I had no idea,
but I wasn't about to get nosy and give anyone a chance to reconsider. Perhaps it
had something to do with the two female cops who watched me get strip-searched, or
maybe because the highest ranking officer at the scene of the arrest felt sorry for
my pummeled testicles and figured Copette got her revenge on me that night. Whatever
the case, I was relieved to hear that my bail had gone from $2,200 to a meager $200,
the same as Matt's and Pete's. I would have sat in jail until my court date, had
the assault charge not been dropped.
Going to court was no big deal. The three of us drove to the county courthouse for our arraignment (or whatever the hell it's called) and decided to plead guilty to the charges, so we wouldn't have to mess with getting lawyers, etc. When our names were each called, we individually rose and spoke. Our answers were the same: Guilty.
Our fines and court costs came to a total of $197 each. Since we had showed up for our court date and pled guilty, our $200 bail was returned and we each received a check from the state for the difference-- three dollars apiece. We stopped at a grocery store on the way home from court and bought a case of shitty beer with our combined refunds. We drank a toast to the efficiency of the local law enforcement.
It was an experience, and for my "first time," I'd say it went fairly well,
all things taken into consideration.
JOEL