We Are Not Amused...

So, about that whole jail thing...

Growing up, I was one of those "good girls" who never did anything wrong.  I was always polite, on time and kind to others... the perfect preacher's kid.  As a result, I led a rather sheltered life. I'd never had a BFF, so when my brand new, first ever "best friend" invited me to spend the night with her and go to a party with her brother and some of his college friends, I was thrilled!  I was only a junior in high school, so I thought it was especially cool to be asked to hang out with college kids.

We even had "protection"... the protection of her mom and sister listening to the police radio (that they just happened to have.)  If they heard a dispatch go out for the location of the party, her mom was going to call us so we could get out before the police came. (Because she was such a responsible parent and everything.)  So, we went off to the party where I immediately felt totally out of place and uncomfortable and sat sipping a coke because I was too afraid of going crazy if I drank the demon rum.  

But even the best laid plans go awry.  My friend's mom heard the dispatch and tried to call us, but this was before the days of cell phones and the line was busy!  So, before you knew it, 15 minutes after our arrival and before we had imbibed any alcohol, we noticed flashing red lights outside.  Yikes! About the same time, her mom finally got through to us on the phone, but it was too late.

We did the only respectable thing possible... we hid in the closet.  Surely the police would not notice our legs in the shoes neatly lined up under the hanging clothes.  Guess they'd done this sort of thing before because they weren't fooled.  They also weren't impressed that we hadn't actually been drinking.  The long arm of the law snatched us up anyway.

We were all escorted into the paddywagon that waited outside:  

(Paddywagon circa 1909... compliments of wikipedia)

Hi ho, Hi ho, it's off to jail we go...

Now, when you're a naive, shy sixteen-year-old, going to jail is just a tad bit upsetting.  We 

were in luck, though.  Because my friend and I were under 18, we weren't fingerprinted and got put in the "juvenile cell." This meant we had one wall that was painted pink and got to have a toilet seat.  Oh joy, oh rapture.  That made me feel a lot better.  There wasn't enough toilet paper on the roll to stem my copious tears.  And it didn't help any when a rather inebriated elderly woman in the cell next to us kept running her metal cup over the bars and shouting, "Matron, Matron, I'm having a miscarriage!"  Fun times!

Worse, because my friend's mom already knew we were in jail, her dad arrived first to retrieve her and her brother.  I was left in the juvenile cell to rot all by myself!  But nothing there could compare to what I was imagining would happen to me once my parents got their hands on me.

By the time they came to get me to tell me my dad was there to pick me up, I was a total basket case.  And then I walked out to meet him....  dum, da dum, dum!

He had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face I'd ever seen.  WTF?!?  

I dodged that bullet, but I knew the real danger lay at home... with my mom. And let's just say, I'm lucky to be here today.  Like Queen Victoria, she was not amused.

To be continued...