I''m Not Going to Ask You Again
Not that you ever asked to begin with.
So, you see... I got this ticket last fall in Arkansas. Arkansas! And I'm thinkin' to myself at the time, "Why bother?" I mean, what can Arkansas do to me in Missouri? But then I got to thinking, "Gee, I ought to pay it anyway." And then I got to thinking, "Hey, these pants have pockets in both the front and the back!" In other words, I forgot about it. And whenever I remembered it, I would think, "Yeah, I'll pay that when I get my next check." So I never did.
Well, long story longer, Arkansas apparently has some sort of legal agreement with Missouri. So my license was revoked in Missouri. You would think... You would think! that if they evoked your license someone would bother to tell you before they pulled you over in Marionville one fine night on your way home from work.
Hey, I've seen enough cop shows. When the cop comes back up to the car and says (in that unmistakable serious cop tone), "Would you please step out of your vehicle," then you know something's wrong. Especially when he has his hand on his gun.
So this cop tells me that he's going to have to handcuff me, which I'm opposed to. And so the cop says, "I'm not going to ask you again." I was tempted to tell him that he had never asked me to begin with, but I was guessing that Officer Friendly probably wouldn't appreciate the finer nuances of the English language. So next thing I know I'm in the back of his police car on my way to Mount Vernon, which happens to be the county seat of Lawrence County.
An interesting fact about downtown Mount Vernon: There is a clock tower on the square with four clocks, each facing a different direction, each that works, but none that has the correct time. One, though, clearly showed that it was 4:20. Irony is wonderful.
So I'm taken to the booking room at the police station. Never mind that the other cops yelled at us, trying to scare my particular cop as he walked through the door. Never mind that the topic of conversation was which particular brand of handgun was superior over another. And never mind that there was some guy in the room wearing orange coveralls, drinking coffee, and reading (with his feet propped up on a desk) Jeff Foxworthy's "Redneck Dictionary."
Let's talk about the call the cop got at the booking desk. It was someone calling that there was an officer down in the jail. Serious stuff. And all of the cops there responded appropriately. They were all yelling "Alright!" and whipping out their batons, each trying to be the first to get to the jail and beat the living hell out of someone. They all came back just a few minutes later, disappointed that it had been a prank call from someone else in the jail. I don't know which was more upsetting: The fact that someone is pranking them about something as serious as an officer down, the fact that all of them were so disappointed that they didn't get to kick some ass, or the fact that I really didn't care.
So there I am, handcuffed to this bench. The booking cop finally tells me I can have a phone call. In fact, I could've had it all along. There were two phones right behind me. Of course, the one immediately behind me didn't work, so I had to lean all the way over and, pretty much stretching as far as I could, make a very awkward phone call. Of course, calling your wife and telling her you're in jail is always going to be a bit awkward. I suppose when it's no longer awkward you really need to reevaluate your life. But I digress.
There I am, still handcuffed to the bench. So I say to the only jailer left in there, "Don't you suppose that this is a bit over-kill?" To which he answers, "What?" And I reply, "Being chained to a bench. It's not like I'm going anywhere." And he answers, "No. And that insures that you don't." According to their rules, all "prisoners" must be handcuffed while they are being booked. About a minute later the cop finished booking me, after which he unchained me. Finishing his paper work apparently suddenly made me a whole lot less dangerous.
So they were finally done booking me for driving with a revoked license. They then gave me back my license, opened the door, and let me go.
I went next door to the front door of the jail, where I awaited for my wife. It was while I was there, staring at the wall, that I finally noticed a sign that I had been staring at all along. It said: "In case of emergency, dial 911." Now, usually that would be pretty good information to have, but would I really need to call 911 if I'm already at the police station? I would think at that point simply yelling "Help!" would suffice. But then again, we are talking Lawrence County.
So at any rate, my wife came and rescued me, I paid my ticket in Arkansas (plus a hefty fine for not paying it to begin with), I'm once again driving legally again in Missouri, and now I'm awaiting my court date in Marionville. It's for, of course, driving with a suspended license.
So, you see... I got this ticket last fall in Arkansas. Arkansas! And I'm thinkin' to myself at the time, "Why bother?" I mean, what can Arkansas do to me in Missouri? But then I got to thinking, "Gee, I ought to pay it anyway." And then I got to thinking, "Hey, these pants have pockets in both the front and the back!" In other words, I forgot about it. And whenever I remembered it, I would think, "Yeah, I'll pay that when I get my next check." So I never did.
Well, long story longer, Arkansas apparently has some sort of legal agreement with Missouri. So my license was revoked in Missouri. You would think... You would think! that if they evoked your license someone would bother to tell you before they pulled you over in Marionville one fine night on your way home from work.
Hey, I've seen enough cop shows. When the cop comes back up to the car and says (in that unmistakable serious cop tone), "Would you please step out of your vehicle," then you know something's wrong. Especially when he has his hand on his gun.
So this cop tells me that he's going to have to handcuff me, which I'm opposed to. And so the cop says, "I'm not going to ask you again." I was tempted to tell him that he had never asked me to begin with, but I was guessing that Officer Friendly probably wouldn't appreciate the finer nuances of the English language. So next thing I know I'm in the back of his police car on my way to Mount Vernon, which happens to be the county seat of Lawrence County.
An interesting fact about downtown Mount Vernon: There is a clock tower on the square with four clocks, each facing a different direction, each that works, but none that has the correct time. One, though, clearly showed that it was 4:20. Irony is wonderful.
So I'm taken to the booking room at the police station. Never mind that the other cops yelled at us, trying to scare my particular cop as he walked through the door. Never mind that the topic of conversation was which particular brand of handgun was superior over another. And never mind that there was some guy in the room wearing orange coveralls, drinking coffee, and reading (with his feet propped up on a desk) Jeff Foxworthy's "Redneck Dictionary."
Let's talk about the call the cop got at the booking desk. It was someone calling that there was an officer down in the jail. Serious stuff. And all of the cops there responded appropriately. They were all yelling "Alright!" and whipping out their batons, each trying to be the first to get to the jail and beat the living hell out of someone. They all came back just a few minutes later, disappointed that it had been a prank call from someone else in the jail. I don't know which was more upsetting: The fact that someone is pranking them about something as serious as an officer down, the fact that all of them were so disappointed that they didn't get to kick some ass, or the fact that I really didn't care.
So there I am, handcuffed to this bench. The booking cop finally tells me I can have a phone call. In fact, I could've had it all along. There were two phones right behind me. Of course, the one immediately behind me didn't work, so I had to lean all the way over and, pretty much stretching as far as I could, make a very awkward phone call. Of course, calling your wife and telling her you're in jail is always going to be a bit awkward. I suppose when it's no longer awkward you really need to reevaluate your life. But I digress.
There I am, still handcuffed to the bench. So I say to the only jailer left in there, "Don't you suppose that this is a bit over-kill?" To which he answers, "What?" And I reply, "Being chained to a bench. It's not like I'm going anywhere." And he answers, "No. And that insures that you don't." According to their rules, all "prisoners" must be handcuffed while they are being booked. About a minute later the cop finished booking me, after which he unchained me. Finishing his paper work apparently suddenly made me a whole lot less dangerous.
So they were finally done booking me for driving with a revoked license. They then gave me back my license, opened the door, and let me go.
I went next door to the front door of the jail, where I awaited for my wife. It was while I was there, staring at the wall, that I finally noticed a sign that I had been staring at all along. It said: "In case of emergency, dial 911." Now, usually that would be pretty good information to have, but would I really need to call 911 if I'm already at the police station? I would think at that point simply yelling "Help!" would suffice. But then again, we are talking Lawrence County.
So at any rate, my wife came and rescued me, I paid my ticket in Arkansas (plus a hefty fine for not paying it to begin with), I'm once again driving legally again in Missouri, and now I'm awaiting my court date in Marionville. It's for, of course, driving with a suspended license.
posted by The Holy Grail Press at 1:26 PM
1 Comments:
he he he
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