Monday, March 14, 2005

Miranda

Got arrested tonight. Charges were dropped, but if you ask me this is still going to ruin my chances of running for office.

I keep playing it over in my head trying to figure out what else I could have done, but really, it wasn’t my fault. I’m innocent, dammit.

All right, I ain’t gonna lie. I’m a bit aggressive on the road. When I want in a lane I take my spot. I don’t flip on a blinker and wait for the car in the other lane to mail me an engraved invitation as to when he’s ready to let me in. Still, I think ole Bubba got out of hand.

We were driving west, coming back from my old man’s place, when I went to change highways. I had to make a right turn, drive one block, then make a left onto the other highway. Easy enough. But in changing lanes to turn right, I pissed off some redneck in a red F350 when I got in front of him. In that little one block space between the two state highways he sped past me, threw an open can of coke at my truck, then swerved in front of me to stop in the middle of the street, blocking both lanes.

Bubba got out of his truck and no sooner had I unclipped my seatbelt when Jasmine started in on me. I’ll admit, more than the arrest, I regret yelling at her. I told her to shut up. Damn I feel bad about that. I can defend it, but I can’t undo it. She was trying to keep me from getting out of the truck and I understand that. But I couldn’t sit there and let the son of a bitch come up to my door and start drilling me through my window. Nor could I risk him walking around to her side of the truck. Oh, shit, if he’d gone to her side of the truck I would have killed him. As it was, he threw the coke right at her window. At least if he was unarmed I had a chance. I could clearly see the gun still hanging on the rack in his back window.

We had some words, mostly the four-lettered kind. I was ready for him to take the first swing. He was damn sure pissed enough to do it. He had on a beat up Stetson with a handlebar mustache I couldn’t believe I was seeing. And he was a big son of a bitch, too. Motherfucker was an oak. While my mouth was spewing stupid shit that could do nothing but earn an ass whipping, my mind was running the digits through my head, 250, maybe 275. He wouldn’t feel it in the gut. Gonna have to go for the face. Goddamn he’s tall. What, 6 and a half, maybe?

That’s when Andy Griffith showed up. Apparently Jazz had pressed the emergency button on the OnStar and three cops rushed to the scene. Hot damn, they had a live one! For the third time in my life I was Mirandized, put in bracelets and placed into the back of a patrol car. I didn’t even fucking do anything. “Leon” was placed into the back of another car. Guess that name explains his inner rage.

The third cop was talking to Jasmine for a long time. I kept waiting for him to give Officer Lickety Split who was in the car with me the okay to let me out, but he just kept right on talking. “What the hell is he doing?”

“Looks to me like he’s flirtin’ with your wife.”

Jesus Christ.

Twenty bats of the eye later I was pulled from the backseat and told to avoid the city of Redneck for awhile.

And before you people start in on the shit about how she rescued me from going to jail, keep in mind she’s the one who called the cops in the first place. I had it under control.