Disclaimer: my intention is not to downplay but, instead, to highlight from a different perspective the terrible consequences of driving under the influence. I hope the following message sounds less preachy than usual and hits home a little better: driving drunk is a really bad idea.
The first time I can remember hearing that sentence, the speaker’s words were emphasized by a wrecked-almost-beyond-recognition 1994 Toyota Corolla standing four feet to her right. My classmates and I were standing on the front patio of our middle school staring in disbelief at this woman and a distorted vehicle which presumably belonged to a victim of a drunk driving accident. I remember looking and thinking “Oh, boy. Drunk driving is awful. Never ever doing that.”
Fast forward some years later and I’m handcuffed in the backseat of a cop car. I watched as a tow truck took away my car and, right along with it, my will to live.
I went from that backseat, to a station for booking, and then my final destination: Dade County jail. I sat on a bench by the entrance (still handcuffed) and shuffled my feet in discomfort–the heels I wore that night were killing me. Oh, and I was flanked by two women brought in for solicitation and possession of crack cocaine.
“These are your two new best friends, Debbie. Say hi,” said the policeman. I looked to my left and a toothless smile looked back at me. I suddenly became religious and prayed that the rapture was coming, or at the very least, a natural disaster. A killer tsunami seemed, at the time, much more pleasant than being the filling of a crack sandwich on a jail bench.
I walked inside and proceeded to take a mugshot Lindsay Lohan would be proud of; switch from heels to weird styrofoam flip flops; have all of my jewelry removed and several of my orifices probed. To my delight, this was only the beginning.
The male prisoners on the other side made me feel right at home by being the most nightmarish welcome wagon you could ever imagine. I was flirted with, mistaken for someone’s cheating wife (and yelled at accordingly), whistled and even spat at.
The female officer escorting me unlocked and opened the enormous steel door that stood between a 6 x 8 jail cell and me. Little did I know, a whole lot of bureaucracy and routine paperwork would keep me inside that torture chamber for the next 14 hours of my life. That may not sound like long, but every hour inside a jail cell feels like an eternity plus 100 years.
I’ve repressed most memories from that night and day but the highlight reel includes a madam (title for a woman who owns a brothel) trying to convince me to work for her, a crystal meth dealer twirling my hair and naming me Puppy, two moldy-looking bologna sandwiches (both of which I bartered for some silence), and a lot of tears and regret.
Via: criminalattorneystpetersburg.com
I hear people talking about being their group’s DDD (drunk designated driver) and it just makes me want to grip their shoulders, slap them and yell “DON’T. DO. IT, STUPID.” That mindless decision not only selfishly puts innocent people in serious danger, but makes you vulnerable to a situation where you’ll have your driving privileges stripped, owe thousands of dollars in lawyer’s fees and court costs, and feel a lifetime of remorse.
A taxi is much cheaper and much less traumatizing than almost being recruited to a prostitution ring.
Photo courtesy of: shoptalk.dmagazine
