Becky and I have had a lot of adventures in our day. In fact, the one and only time I did the walk of shame in college was because Becky and I had fallen asleep passed out in our friend’s bed fully clothed, even wearing our coats and boots. Another time, we were taken captive as clues in a scavenger hunt and are no strangers to returning home at 7AM. Unfortunately, none of these endeavors adequately prepared us for the time we were nearly tossed in the hoosegow. That’s right my friends, we almost went to jail.
The night started out like any other. Pop Princess was throwing a Christmas Party, so we donned our most festive attire, in this case a nutcracker costume and some reindeer antlers, and headed for South Boston. We downed some festive beverages, played some reindeer games and spread the Christmas Cheer by singing loud for all to hear. In short, we were loving life. When we had finally had enough, we hopped a cab back to Becky’s apartment.
The cab ride was fairly uneventful. I mean, the cab driver took us the long way, but we were still surfing the wave of Christmas cheer induced by Pop Princess’s party so didn’t bother to say anything. We arrive at our destination and pile out of the cab, or at least I do, Becky is still in the back seat putting the cab ride on her credit card.
The City of Boston recently installed credit card machines in the back of all of their cabs. In theory, this seems awesome since I almost never carry cash and certainly don’t have the foresight to save my last 20 for the cab ride home. However, in practice, it sucks. The rat bastard cab drivers in this city HATE to let you use your card and often will insist on driving you to an ATM rather than accept your credit card payment. OMG, does it get me heated.
Unfortunately, our cab driver on this evening was one such rat bastard and tried to tell us that his credit card machine was broken, despite the fact that it had already accepted and completed Becky’s payment. To her credit Becky, tried to explain this to the man, but he kept insisting we pay cash. Uh, no way, sir.
So we start walking towards her apartment and this guy is chasing us down the street, in his cab, honking and yelling out the window. Unfortunately, there is a paddy wagon about a block ahead of us with two officers apparently itching to fill it. Since we are on foot the cab driver gets there first and spins a tale of how we are trying to evade our fare.
Unfortunately, we do not look like upstanding citizens. We are still wearing our aforementioned outfits, happen to be carrying a Christmas themed funnel and I have a serious case of the hiccups. This is not great for our credibility; nor is Becky’s behavior, which is quickly escalating from righteous anger to drunk and disorderly. Unfortunately, my behavior is no good either. Notoriously horrible in times of crisis, I am stunned into silence and am just standing on the sidewalk watching all of this play out. That is until the officers ask for our licenses. At this point, some part of my brain clicks on and I realize we are about to be zip tied together and tossed in the back of the paddy wagon with, what I presume, are a bunch of booting 19 year olds already getting complimentary travel and overnight accommodations at central booking.
Now, there are not enough words in the English language to convey how little I desire to call my mother from a jail cell, but suffice it to say this is not on my bucket list. So I start begging and pleading with everything I’ve got to please for the love of the sweet lord baby Jesus let me just pay the cab driver with whatever cash I have left in my wallet and go home. The nicer officer, who I guess is Good Cop in all this, kindly informs me that we are 2 seconds away from getting locked up. Well, no duh, buddy, but I know you don’t really want to do all that paper work. Luckily, I am smart enough not to fire off that retort and put on my sorriest, most innocent face and try to convince this man that I am far too big a pansy to even last one night in jail. Luckily, by some Christmas miracle, this works and he convinces his partner, Bad Cop, that he should release Becky from his clutches, put away the cuffs and let us go home, drink water and pass out.
The next morning over giant glasses of water and breakfast sandwiches, Becky and I recounted our brush with the law, “I guess this really makes us partners in crime, now.”
Indeed, Becky, I think it does.