My introduction to the judicial system
This spring break, something magical happened. Thanks to the gentle embrace of South Padre law enforcement, SMU’s favorite son, me, lost his handcuff virginity.
The obese woman checking IDs at Louie’s that night was probably coming off a bad day. It’s one thing to deny a suspected minor access into your establishment; it’s a completely different story if you go above and beyond the call of duty and turn the alleged minor into a TABC official.
So, before I know it, I’m restrained like a Kmart pedophile, face pressed up against a van. My once proud alias, Jesus Ruiz, is now property of the Lone Star state. The arresting officer laughs at me, but, expresses admiration for my unflappably, positive attitude, as my last words to my friends, before I’m escorted into a squad car, are, “Hey boys, get some cuties for me!”
The officer drives to the station, while I think to myself and, in a weird way, savor the irony of my arrest. Out of our group of three, only one is of age. My friend, James, uses a fake Turkish passport, and he gets into Louie’s without incident. Meanwhile, I use a legitimate, passable, Texas ID, and I get cuffed. Life’s funny, I guess.
In a matter of minutes, I’m in a South Padre police station getting searched and primed for a night of jail. The heavily mustached, buzz-cutted policemen take my pink hat and look at me quizzically, wondering what my sexual orientation might be. Tomorrow morning, I might be wondering the same. After all, pink-hat-wearing SMU students aren’t exactly known for winning popularity contests in jail.
An officer takes my picture and ushers me into a capacity filled, awful smelling holding cell. A luxurious landmark of southern hospitality, my cell features such amenities as a handsome, steel toilet for the shared use of the room’s 30 dangerously intoxicated Mexican inmates and several breathtaking puddles of vomit paintings, which express, without a doubt, the vibrant lyricism of Jackson Pollock’s influence.
So, I walk around the cell, sidestepping comatose bodies, looking for a clean spot, free of puke or other liberated bodily fluids. Listening to some of the other detainees, I begin to worry. Several inmates charged with public intoxication have been incarcerated for three days and allowed only one phone call. I can’t believe I’m here in the first place. How could I last three days?
Then suddenly, somebody shouts, “Tell Eddy, that punk b****, I’m gonna beat his motherf****** ass when he steps inside this cell. A grand ain’t nuthin. I’m a drug dealer! I got cheese! Shut up b****! I’ll beat your ass too”! The shirtless, steroid-crazed Mexican continues to yell his terrifying threats at the guards, while I sit there with my lime green Puma shirt covered over my nose to insulate me from the pungent odor of throw up. Man, I really hope this Eddy guy goes to a different cell. But, on the other hand, a fight would be really cool to watch. Maybe I belong in jail. The brouhaha subsides and a new inmate joins the party. This one is quite the entertainer. With his high, arching eyebrows, his loud, raspy voice and his endless string of jokes, this inmate combines the ruthless but entertaining and inventive obnoxiousness of Stiffler with the harsh life experience of a child, raised by vagrant, methamphetamine-addicted parents.
The man begins to tell us about his adventures: “Ya dude, they jus’ brought me out of solitary. They sed I was all f****ed up trying to start stuff.” The prisoner’s voice is bombastic and sharp, a potent combination. The man begins to pace around and says, “Man, I need to take a dookie!”
Everyone in the cell, well, the conscious ones not suffering from alcohol poisoning at least, cringe and curse this twist of fate. So the obnoxious guy proceeds to advertise his bowel movement in front of his 30 cell mates. While squatting, the man eyes the now calm, shirtless, steroid freak and notices that he is cold. Still unfinished on the toilet, the former solitary detainee begins to take of his shirt and says, “Hey fool, you need a shirt?” Roid rage politely declines. Thankfully, Mr. Charity is unable to execute a successful bowel movement and he retires from his exhausting efforts.
Now off the toilet, the man begins to detail how he landed in jail: “So, like I took a Xanax and I woke up here the next morning.” Then, as the prisoner mediates on the circumstances surrounding his arrest, he levies a critical indictment on the medical profession, as he says, ” You know what? The doctor prescribed me that Xanax. . . . Isn’t that like a prescription to jail”?
Impressed by the soundness of his thesis, I wondered how many other Einsteins remain undiscovered, lost in the abyss of South Padre justice. This man has a vision. Sadly, I’m unable to gleam any more pearls of wisdom, as my friends post my bail and liberate me from jail. The officers’ intention was for me to remain caged until the next afternoon. It was the Polishness of my buddy James’ friend, Bojan Szumanski, that allowed for a much prompter release. As expected, the justice obsessed, 60-size-pant-wearing police officers of South Padre were too occupied with fighting crime to listen to my friends’ pleas to accept the bail payment and free me.
No, the pigs wanted to see the pony boy suffer. By some miracle, one of the officers that came to the front desk was a native Pole. Bojan played the Polish card like a pro. Using his quirky, European charm, Bojan pulled a Lech Walesa and toppled the tyranny of the SPPD.
As the police returned my belongings, I got one last look at the cell and saw the shirtless guy standing by the door with his arms hanging out, envying my freedom. I took off my shirt and threw it into his hands. I was just happy to be gone.
Tim Lloyd is a sophomore English major. He may be reached at [email protected].
