Wednesday, July 29, 2009

34: A Bum's Life

It’s not that I mind waking up in jail with a hangover - no honestly, things could be worse - but when the charges are read and I‘m found guilty, I really want to really be guilty. Not innocent, otherwise it’s all so sadly unfair.

Work finished at 5.00pm. Winter was drawing to a close and the first hint of spring had sparkled through the window all afternoon and my friends suggested a drink across the street at the Louisville Inn, a hotel bar where the waitresses wore silk, split-to-the-thigh trousers and tops revealing a level of femininity that made up for the beer.

My first mistake was deciding to drive home to change first. The second, closely related, was in not showering at the same time. In 1982 and, being British, the idea of optionally taking a shower on a day that was not Sunday, was unthinkable.

If I hadn’t gone home, I wouldn’t have left my wallet on the table. If I’d had a shower, perhaps the cops, when they later pulled me over for what began as speeding, might not have seen the greasy hair and stubbled chin and decided that I should be removed from the road. But I digress…

I drove my silver Firebird - oh yes, a car that stood out - at high speed back downtown and joined the crew in the bar. All was as expected - the sexy waitresses were there, the guys were there and the beer flowed. Discovering the non-wallet situation, the guys subbed me. When happy hour finished, the waitresses let it be known they were off to Dukes - a local hotspot - in case we might like to join them. We might.

I’d only been in town a few weeks and didn’t know my way around, so I followed Graham - who had a V8 Transam but didn’t appreciate newbies who couldn’t keep up. He drove fast and disappeared into the night after a few miles and then it started snowing. The blue flashing lights appeared in my mirror almost at the same time that I realized I was hopelessly lost, so I pulled over and waited, hoping I could get directions and go on my way.

The trooper approached and demanded my license and insurance. Both were in my wallet, which was at home. I tried to explain about the girls and how important it was that I should get to Dukes. He was a man, I thought - he’d understand.

He asked how much I’d had to drink but I continued about the girls, unabated. Is it known as withholding, I wonder, when you avoid a question like that? Perhaps it was my accent. Perhaps it was my stubble. Perhaps it was the greasy hair standing up at every angle known to man. Or perhaps it was the smell of the beer.

He asked me back to his police car. Whilst I sat in the back as he wrote out tickets and spoke in a hillbilly voice over the radio, a wrecker truck came and towed away the Firebird. Then we drove to the precinct house, which is the quaint American term for police station. Thinking that humor would diffuse the situation, when we walked inside, I pointed out that he hadn’t even handcuffed me, so he changed that immediately. They really aren’t that comfortable.

He stayed whilst a kindly old man, who looked as though he’d me more at home teaching maths to bored students, set up the breathalyzer. I’d expected a blow-in-the-bag affair, but this was like a desk outfitted with tubes, with dials and buttons and a chemical tube that had to be primed. When it was all ready, I blew through a tube that was almost three feet long and needles sprang to life. My reading, he said, was ‘borderline’, which surprised me as I was the only one of the three of us that knew I’d consumed five rounds of beers at two-for-one. You do the math.

Once I’d been charged and allowed my single phone call - I called work and left a message saying I’d be late in the morning - I was locked in a cell. The trooper disappeared and I was left to get what sleep I could, with only a mattress thinner than cardboard between my hips and a steel bunk. Several times in the night, I awoke with my contacts glued to my eyeballs and developed the solution of pulling the hairs up my nose to make my eyes water. Breakfast in the morning was pancakes and coffee - for free. Not enough syrup though - this was no Denny’s.

I was duly charged with driving without a license (in the wallet), without insurance (in the wallet), no license plates (new car and dealership temporary plate had expired), DUI (drunk driving), speeding and reckless driving. It was explained that I should get a lawyer to ‘negotiate’ some of these, since I professed to having a license and insurance, that the lack of license plates was not my fault and that speeding and reckless driving were mutually exclusive and that the DUI was ‘borderline. There was one other item though, that couldn’t be negotiated away…

The desk clerk asked me how much money I had on my person. None. I had to sign a form stating that I had none. It was explained that, in Bullit County, all persons must carry at least three dollars in cash. No exceptions. I began to explain again about the wallet. No exceptions, the clerk repeated, interrupting me. It was not a laughing matter.

He was right. Seven weeks later, in court, I was fined and given 6 points on my license for speeding and all other offences were dismissed. Except one. Even the judge protested to the police, but his hands were tied.

So that is why, despite being in possession of an expensive sports car when arrested and subsequently having earned millions of dollars over the years, I still have an outstanding conviction on the state of Kentucky.

For VAGRANCY.

2 comments:

  1. Happy to hear from you and see that you are still all in one piece, well for the most part! Love reading your blog and to hearing about your travels.

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  2. It is good to see you blogging again. They always make me laugh. Be safe and bike until you reach Tampa.

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