Being Booked

So, now that I've learned to cope with that whole jail incident, I was thinking you might like to hear about it. Assuming that, like me, you've never been in trouble and your entire experience is based on remembering Jack Lord say, "Book 'em, Danno."


Because it's nothing like that. So if you were expecting some guy to surf and play wild music and to take a trip to the islands, you're really going to be disappointed.


I thought you had to get arrested to be booked, but apparently I was mistaken. Unless this was being arrested and now we get to do it by the honor system and some guy just assumes you'll bring yourself in if he sends you a nice note.


Anyway, some guy brought me a note saying the District Attorney (on the recommendation of the County Sheriff) sure would admire to charge me with a crime and did I think I could drop in at the jail sometime before November thirtieth for some picture taking and so forth, and would I bring my identification with a picture on it, on account of it sure would disappoint them if they went to all that trouble and then found out I'd sent my sister or something. You know, to keep it interesting and prolong the mystery.


So I called that nice fellow at the jail and asked him could I come right then and what was he hoping for in the way of identification.


I got the feeling he was a little taken aback at my call, but he allowed as how I could come that afternoon as he was expecting to be running back and forth to the courthouse that day so all his subjects could do something at court, and it was going to be busy.


I'm always early and I got there at 2:30 even though he said three o'clock, on account of I didn't like to be late, but they had clearly not been as busy as they had expected because the place was quieter than the grave and I couldn't find anyone to help me for some time.


Eventually some nice little girl appeared behind a class wall with a speaker in it and we had a nice visit while I tried to convince her that I was there at the request of the Sheriff, and not just because I had to get my fingerprints done to be bonded for some highly official security clearance job.


Give me peace. I was tempted to say the FBI sent me, on account of Viroqua is such a big city and there are so very many high security clearance jobs available to 50 year old Grandmas with anxiety disorders, but I was in enough trouble, and Jacob was with me, so I just smiled instead.


She directed me down the hall to a nice chair by the Pepsi machine to wait to be assisted. It was boring but some lady was showing a whole herd of kids where their grandma worked and some guy was mopping the floor, so that killed some time. Not enough, but still, There was nothing to read.


After an hour or so Jacob went back and found that nice little girl they keep imprisoned behind that glass and it turned out that someone had indeed forgotten I was there, so she told them again. I think we did that three times or so. I took a pain pill. It didn't help.


Along about suppertime they sent out this real nice blond lady, who it turned out is a deputy. She was a lot prettier than that fellow who yelled at me, and she had a very pleasant way about her, too. The pain meds were starting to kick in about then so I could walk without lurching on my bad hip, but I was a little happier than you would reasonably expect a person to be who was there for the reason I was.


Despite the fact that I had been careful to bring a lot of ID, because you know how thorough we obsessive/compulsive types are, they made me leave my purse with Jacob and not one person ever looked at my Driver's License, my Social Security card, my three library cards, my online ordination minister credential cards (I'll tell you that story another day, no I do not believe I am really clergy and yes, I did have a good reason for doing that. I made a tidy sum of money selling my amusing article on how I earned a doctorate with my three page doctoral thesis, "Am I My Brother's Keeper." It was enough to pay the phone bill, go Pilly) or my letter from Bishop Fred (who awarded my doctorate) stating what a fine upstanding woman I am, even though he never met me.


And I had to empty my pockets, which turned out to be holding my Rosary beads, and which was as big a surprise to me as it was to anyone. I had my hair done up like I always do, so the nice lady had to poke around in there to make sure I wasn't concealing anything like a file.


Although, frankly, what good a file would do you in the booking room is more than I can tell you. They also patted me down in a very courteous way, probably to ascertain that I was not wired to explode or planning to shoot anybody. Although exactly where they thought I might conceal a gun and how they thought I planned to get access to it is an interesting thought.


Seriously, I have thought of all the places a person might reasonably conceal a weapon--I wouldn't put anything sharp in any of those places, but presumably some people wouldn't be afraid to--and I'm blessed if I can figure out how you'd ever get at the thing without stripping right down to your knickers.


And if I began spontaneously to strip down to my knickers I feel fairly certain someone would have both noticed and been alarmed and about the time I found my way to this weapon the men would have been there to take me to the asylum, so what good would it do to conceal a weapon in the first place? But I digress.


First you answer some nice getting to know you questions. You know, what's your middle name and your social security number and are you married, but also your shoe size, which I find a little odd, but who am I to judge? Maybe the government worries about it's shoes, I don't know. I have my own shoes and I did not particularly admire the kind of shoes they had to wear, so I can promise you their shoes are certainly safe from me.


But I don't mind reassuring them if that's the way the anxiety takes them. I used to worry that the hammer would float into the living room of it's own volition and beat me to death, and I'm still able to function pretty well, so they needn't be sensitive if their fear involves shoes.


I completely understand.


Then they weigh you and measure your height. I weighed about what I expected, but it turns out I am two inches shorter than the Cardiologist thinks I am, so I might have to go see that osteoporosis fellow again and tell him I have official government proof that I have shrunk and doesn't he think maybe he should upgrade my spine from just osteopenia.


I mean, if one must have the government in one's business, then they can bloody well write a letter to the osteoporosis fellow backing me up and therefore doing something useful instead of obsessing over their shoes.


Then they ask you why you're there. I personally feel that if anyone knows why I dropped in to be weighed, measured, fingerprinted and photographed one could reasonable expect it to be the guy asking the questions. And I do think I should have the right to say anything I want to that question.


You know, "damned if I know," or "I came to have tea" or "Piewhacket is in the bedroom" (another story, I'll tell you later. I'm probably not welcome in Venezuela anymore). But I figured adding being a smart ass was probably not going to improve my day so I just went with, "Some guy sent me a note and I left it home." Which seemed to work as well as anything.


Then another nice lady--who, remarkably, also turned out to be a deputy and a very nice person--did my fingerprints, which if you didn't have to be accused of a crime to get done, I would highly recommend to everyone because they do it with water and a computer and it is really cool.


Mine kept wanting to screw up the system, but then, what would you expect from a..you know, what I am...right? Eventually we got enough pictures to satisfy anyone, and after that they unlocked the door and let me go home.


I really liked those ladies, and I was going to send them flowers and a thank you note and tell them how nice it was to be treated so kindly in such an awkward situation, but then, like as not, that fellow that yells would feel bad and left out, and I just can't bring myself to give him flowers.