My First Overnighter: A Tale of Drunk Stupidity

I awaken on the cold, wet concrete floor of a jail cell. My head is pounding. My body is completely dehydrated, and I’m shivering. The cell’s bright lights are too much for me to handle, and I squint like a gook. “What the fuck?” I mutter to myself as I try to comprehend my current whereabouts. I take a quick sniff at myself; I reek of booze and failure. I stand up and walk around my cell and notice that the whole floor is covered with water. Nothing clicks in my head. I hear the noise of the cell unlocking, and a jailer comes in. She tells me to put my hands in my pockets, and I follow her orders.

“You had quite a night,” she deadpans.

“What did I do?” I inquire.

“You made quite a mess of things. I would almost feel sorry for you, except you flooded your jail cell.”

My mind begins to connect the dots. As I am being lead to fingerprinting, images from the night fill my head.

I was placed in the cell and followed the orders the jailers gave me. As they shut the door, I stood there attempting to analyze the situation. Hatred intensely filled my very core. I was in jail, and I was going to make it known that I did not approve of this.

Plan A: Verbal protest. I’ll use my finely honed diplomatic skills to get my freedom back. “This is America! Call my aunt, you motherfuckers! What crime did I commit? I want my human rights!” My booming voice echoed through the hallways. My tantrum was being ignored, and I acknowledged that it would not yield any results.

Plan B: Escape. Like a retarded monkey in a zoo, I began to look around the jail for something to use to escape. There was nothing. Fuck it. I ran to the walls and tried to climb them. Surprisingly, it was unsuccessful. I then sprinted at the door in an attempt to kick it down. I’m lucky I didn’t break my leg. I gave up this valiant but misguided effort. I then noticed the toilet in the cell. Inspiration beckoned.

Plan C: Political protest. My mindset shifted. I was not a criminal; in fact, I was a political prisoner taken in by the fascist Gestapo state. Civil disobedience was the answer to my woes. I walked over to the high-pressure toilet, grabbed a roll of toilet paper, and shoved it down the drain. I flushed the first time, and the toilet filled up to the rim. I smiled deviously. I flushed once again, and the toilet began to overflow. I was giddy and began laughing like an evil genius whose diabolical plan was going perfectly. I flushed as fast as I could. The water began to accumulate on the floor. I then saw a lot of it was going down the drain in the middle of the cell. No problem; I took off my shirt and clogged that drain also. Water continued to flow out of the toilet, underneath the cell door, and into the jail’s hallway. I felt powerful as I was sticking it to the Man and letting him know he couldn’t detain Raul Felix without there being repercussions. I continued flushing for about 15 minutes.

The toilet stopped flushing. The fascists shut off the water to my cell. Fucking high-knee bastards. They squashed my flooding ambitions, but the destruction had been done. I looked outside my cell and saw the jailers walking around in the water. Two women from the female section began to mop up my mess. I yelled obscenities at them that I don’t recall. They ignored me.

Up in the corner of the ceiling was a camera protected by shatterproof glass. I decided I wanted to break it. I picked up my drenched shirt and began throwing it at the camera. Direct hits have no effect in destroying the glass. On my third throw, my shirt wrapped itself around the camera and stayed there. I stood there, stunned and with a fractured morale. My protest against the Man was over and I decided to go to sleep.

The jailer finishes taking my fingerprints and then lines me up for my mug shot. Even though I am able to remember what I did the previous night in my cell, I have no idea how I ended up there. I get my wallet and sandals back, sign some release forms, and am made aware of my court date. My charges: Drunk and Disorderly Conduct.

I enjoy the sweet taste of liberation as I leave the Huntington Beach Police Station. I then realize that I am a long ways from my cousin’s place. I begin to walk. I have no shirt or cell phone as I walk myself up Main Street toward Beach Boulevard. I giggle to myself at the insanity of it all. An old Greek man who’s out on his morning walk begins to walk next to me and notices how disheveled I appear. “Rough night?” he asks in a friendly manner.

“Yes, sir, I have no idea how I ended up in jail. Trying to figure it out.” He laughs out loud and begins to tell me stories of his drunken youthful shenanigans and some of the women he fucked in his glory days. I’m entertained by him and enjoy his company. We then have to part ways as he made a turn to his home. We shook hands and he wished me the best of luck.

I finish my three-mile trek of shame to my cousin’s house. I knock on the door and he opens up. “What the hell happened to you?” he asks.

“I got arrested and spent the night in jail,” I say with a shit-eating grin.

“Goddamn it. I knew it was either that or you fucked some chick when you didn’t come home last night.”

For the next few days, I couldn’t figure out what I did to end up in jail. Nothing came to mind, and it was a total conundrum for my Neanderthal mind. That was until I picked up my police report which rattled my mind enough to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

I had pre-partied at my cousin’s apartment while hanging with him and his wife. I was nine beers deep and had the urge to go out. There was a bar called Tumble Weeds at the strip mall next to his apartments. I walked over there on a solo mission for pussy and good times. I used my alcohol-amplified social skills to quickly make new friends to drink with. Some tattooed chick was eyeing me, and I thought she was very pretty. We flirted heavily and then began to hook up. I alternated between kissing her, drinking heavily, and socializing with her friends. They all liked me. Last call was announced, and I left with the tattooed chick’s number written on a piece of paper. Though victorious with her, I still wanted to get more shit-housed. As I walked back to my cousin’s apartment, I noticed that there was an apartment on the third story with its door open and the distinctive sound of people having a good time. I walked up the stairs and decided to invite myself to the party.

“Hey, guys, I’m Raul, and I’m one of your neighbors. I was wondering if I can party with you guys?” I lied. They warmly invited me to join them and offered me a shot of whiskey. After this point, my mind goes blank. I am unable to remember what occurred in that apartment that caused me to have an argument with the people who lived there. Taking an educated guess based on personal history would suggest that my overly cocky, smart-ass Raul Felix shit-bomb personality took firm hold. With this, all semblances of human decency and social grace disappeared from my being, and I transformed into an insufferable baboon. I’m sure I got into a fight.

My next clear memory: I was running around the apartment complex’s parking lot, knocking on windows, running on the hoods of cars, and yelling obscenities. Security was called and attempted to calm me down. I promptly told the rent-a-cop, “Go fuck yourself.” I continued on my drunken rampage unchallenged. My drunken uprising was about to be crushed. I saw the red-and-blue lights behind me. The cops had been called. I contemplated running but looked down and realized I was wearing sandals. In quite possibly the most rational decision a drunk person could make, I put my hands up.

The police officer bombarded me with questions my drunk mind was barely able to make sense of. I fell over. The police officer picked me up. “How much have you had to drink?” he asked.

“I refuse to disclose that,” I responded in a professional manner. I fell over again.

The police officer decided I was too drunk and placed me under arrest. He put my hands behind my back, stomped on my foot, and handcuffed me. I screamed out in pain as his boot crushed my ill protected foot. I was then placed in the back of the police car. On my way to jail, I wondered what crime I committed in order to be taken in by the secret police.

POST SCRIPT: At some point during the whole fiasco, I lost the tattooed chick’s number, something that truly pissed me off because I really liked her. I also hired a lawyer and had my case dismissed, but it did cost me a pretty penny. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

image –Shutter Shock


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