“I pee’d.” Not like that, Sickos. 

Ding!

C: “It happened.”

Me: “Fuck. How bad?”

C: “I’ll send the report and call you later.”

Me: “Motherfucking Sonofabitch! Goddammit, C! Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck.” (Verbatim)

The document that followed would have been some of the funniest shit I had ever read had it not involved my person. My person is an idiot. 

C: “What’s that guy’s name again?”

Me: “Really Fucking Expensive.”

This Bitch. Holy. Shit. 

Three years prior, to the day, I had walked out of the same courthouse feeling like a shit bag, but relieved that it hadn’t been worse. Not only had I been arrested less than 3 blocks from home, failed two field sobriety tests, refused to blow and resisted arrest, but I did it all while barefoot. My refusal to drive a manual transmission while wearing heels would later prove to be an important detail in the creation of my jail name. I was going through a few things in my personal life, mainly bottles of Tito’s at an alarming rate. 

Admittedly I was a shit show, but I have never, as far as I can remember, come close to C. She’s like a fucking tornado of bad decisions. I have personally watched her control the direction of a motor vehicle using only one knee because she needed both hands to smoke weed, with matches. Matches. Genius. And that look. That fucking look. She gets this look on her face like, “Yeah, I know. What are you gonna do about it? That’s right. Nothing. Shut up and go fuck yourself.” It’s the same look she gives while falling down or jumping out of windows or her latest craze, table flipping. She’s a goddamned mess and if I didn’t see so much of me in her I’d have throat punched her ass years ago. 

So here I am, reading about what will likely go down as the most ridiculous inmate this beautiful little city has ever encountered. It really is a lovely place to be released from jail. There’s just something about the morning sun’s blindingly beautiful rays reflecting off the calm water as your skull implodes. Perspective. 

“I pee’d.”

That’s one way to exit a police vehicle. 

“…but not all the way. I still need to go.”

Officer: “There isn’t a restroom on this floor. You can finish when we’re finished.”

C: “I want a lawyer! You have to let me pee!” 

Officer: “I do not.”

C: “Lawyer! Lawyer! Lawyer!” 

Due to attorney client privilege, there is no official record of their conversation. However, I can say with absolute certainty that her decision to use another government-issued chair as her personal  toilet was not at his suggestion. 

“I pee’d again.”

At this point I’m questioning how she made it out alive. There’s no fucking way I could deal with that shit. Nope. Take my badge and gun but before I go, I’m going to need a few minutes alone with that little “C”.

You’d think she’d be finished. Yeah, no. She made her way to booking where, with the coordination of an infant, she launched a $400 Frye boot across the room and landed on her ass. After flushing a month’s worth of feminine hygiene products down the toilet in an attempt to ‘flood the building’, she settled in for a night of banging on the door and kicking the wall before finally passing out on the world’s hardest bench.

I like to think I am a fairly well adjusted adult. I am by no means perfect, but I do a pretty good job of keeping my emotions in check and behaving appropriately in public. Having said that, I’m not entirely confident that I wouldn’t have been jailed myself had I opted to attend my final disposition hearing. If I had glanced over and spotted her disheveled, tear-stained face on that video monitor after everything she’d watched me go through, I just don’t know what I would’ve done. 

It is worth mentioning, C is no stranger to this process. Not only did she get the play by play in my case, but she was there. Yes, physically there. My passenger. C watched as I fell down and refused to blow and even warned the officer to be gentle with my Louis Vuitton bag. She saw it all, including the $12,000 I “donated” by way of fees and fines and classes and interlock maintenance. She knew better. Yet there she was, wearing toilet pants, bruised, embarrassed, and about to learn the hard way, just like me, “No Shoes” Martin.

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