A few years back I received a speeding ticket. Some nonsense about going 63 in a 35 mph zone or some such craziness. Also my driverís license had been expired for about two years, so ticket number two. As if that was not enough, I could not prove I was insured (I was), so now we are up to ticket number three. I received all three tickets at the exact same time, how cool is that? I rock, I know. A court date followed, which I did not show up for. Canít remember why exactly. Probably a shoe sale or something. Not important, I donít feel like I should have to be subjected to the same rules as the rest of society. I never gave it another thought, until last Friday night that is.
I may have mentioned I drive a Dodge Neon, the suckiest sucking car that has ever sucked. Recently the air conditioner has stopped working which is swell since the temperature has topped out at a pleasant 102 degrees. Actually the air conditioner does work, but it causes the car to either 1) die 2) overheat or 3) sometimes both simultaneously. Donít worry, all these details tie into a riveting story leading up to an exciting conclusion.
So Iím in rush hour sweating, moving at between approximately 5 and 10 mph, with no air conditioning, alternating between first and second gear, testing the limits of my already worn through brake pads, when traffic just completely stops. I have no idea why, as I canít see in front of the 12 assorted SUVís surrounding me. Iím singing along loudly (and horribly) to Rick Springfieldís classic ďJessieís GirlĒ (insert joke here) because itís the All Request 80ís Drive at 5, when I decide to remove my bra. Why would I do that? Because itís HOT and I donít feel that my breasts need to be constrained and supported at this time, so I go about the removal process, you know, pull arm out of right strap, repeat with left, slide hook to front, unhook, pull bra out right sleeve. Okay, that concludes the instructional portion of my entry for the day.
So as the removal is taking place, uh oh, traffic is moving once again, slowest in my lane because whatever lane I am in is by definition the slowest lane, while the other lane is picking up steam (steam=around 20 mph). Apparently, a guy in a Honda notices my removal progression with great interest. I should point out that 1) there was nothing to see and 2) even if there was, Iím a 32A, itís so not worth causing a wreck over, even though the miracle of the WonderBr@ may make it appear otherwise. He was so intent on watching me, he did not notice traffic had abruptly stopped again, causing him to rear-end the rather large Jeep Cherokee in front of him, and push my little car into the concrete median. The Ford behind me hit the Honda and completed the pinning in of my car, which was pretty much unharmed, but now immobile.
The police showed up rather quickly, and questions are inevitably asked. Honda Dude blames me. Oh dear lord. Heís pointing and gesturing at my chest and now people, lots of people are starting to look at my breasts. This is like a freakiní nightmare. I try my best ďnothing to see here peopleĒ speech in vain. The cops, both male and probably younger than me (and who isnít these days?), agree that theyíre mighty fine, perky in fact. Aw shucks. Now as much as I love having law enforcement officials discuss the fine quality of my breasts alongside the interstate, I, uh, no, wait, I donít enjoy that, it is not fun at all, I donít recommend it.
Eventually tow trucks are deployed, tickets are written, driverís licenses are checked, and guess what? My name comes up for an outstanding warrant. Didnít see that one coming at all, did you?
Sorry Maíam, weíre taking you downtown. Dum, da dum dum.
Visions of OJ Simpson kept on popping up in my head. My car was liberated by now, I think maybe I'll just drive off real quick and we can have a real high speed chase. Right the hell on! I imagine the headlines.
CRAZY BRALESS SECRETARY ELUDES POLICE ON HIGH SPEED TRI STATE CAR CHASE
Except oh yeah, I drive that craptastic Neon and have a bladder full of diet coke, so the chase would be pretty pathetic.
Iím arrested, me, arrested. Iíve never been arrested before. Okay, well once when I was 16 and my friends and I stole a bunch of For Sale signs, but Iím 28 now, Iím like totally way more mature, and this was just so not cute.
So, first the officer asked me if I had any concealed weapons on me and he searches me, and he's apologizing for the inconvenience. And he was the one who liked my perky breasts. How could he do this to me? Sniff. And hey buddy, watch it with those hands, dammit! Dammit to hell.
So, after the search he then informs me that he has to search my Neon. I thought about it for moment, eyed his gun, and opted for cooperation. Who knows, maybe later I'd get the cavity search I'd always drea... er, never mind. So the other cop is joking with me while the first cop searches all my stuff. And he's apologizing the entire time. So he asks me if I would like my bra back. Gee, is it a crime to get arrested without a bra? I opt not to accept it, donít want to cause another accident putting it back on. They opted not to search the trunk even when I offered to open it up. Which was good, because I still have a couple kilos of coke in there, along with all those machine gun parts Iím taking across the border.
I didnít get handcuffed, guess they didnít think I looked terribly dangerous, but I did get to ride in a comfortable, air conditioned government vehicle so it could have been much worse. I felt like such a badass sitting in the back of the cop car, just like on Cops, like maybe I should have started using a string of profanity and banging my head against the window. I suppressed those urges though. So I call Billy because I have to post bond, five fucking hundred dollars, thank you very much. After he stops laughing, he agrees to come bust me out of the big house. Iím fingerprinted and photographed (braless no less). Now if somebody robs a 7-11 who looks like me, I am so totally screwed. All in all, I was only in the slammer about 2 hours, and I had the whole cell to myself so sadly I have no stories to tell about a cell mate named Big Bertha trying to make me her bitch.
My life has become a never ending series of spatulas, coffee pots, groundhogs, crazy roommates, slip and slides, arrests, Buffy reruns, alcohol and staples.
I have a court date next month, havenít decided if Iíll show up or not yet. I may need new shoes.
2002-07-12 at 10:19 a.m.