By Andrea Rouda
I GOT a new car three days ago. It’s bright red, a color several people have jokingly called “Arrest Me Red,” because it is bound to catch the eye of a cop hiding in the trees along the highway hoping to snag a speeder. But I don’t speed and I have never been arrested, unless you count the time when I was crossing Dupont Circle in Washington, D.C., and was swept up in an anti-war protest and got carted off to RFK Stadium with a few dozen other hippies, even though I was on my way to work. But I digress.
Last night, my husband, who drives a black car, was arrested. And it was pitch dark at the time, proving that the color of your car has very little to do with anything. Mitch failed to stop at a STOP sign in our sleepy little neighborhood, mostly because we live in a rural area and he was hungry and hurrying home to a roast chicken, and there was nobody else on the road. What there was, however, was a police officer parked unobtrusively, lights off, just waiting for a scofflaw, and he pulled him over lickety-split.
Turned out Mitch had an outstanding warrant for his arrest! A few months back he was stopped when a cop spotted his expired registration sticker, and instead of a ticket he got a court date for early November because the expiration was five months old. Sadly, he forgot to note it on his calendar and thus missed his day in court, which went on his record, which the cop found last night when he stopped him for going through the STOP sign.
So Mitch was immediately arrested by this cop, handcuffs and all, and stuffed in the back of the police car and carted off to jail.
Once at the Big House he used his one phone call to ask me to bring the bail money, yes bail money, which I did not have on hand, so I drove to the nearest ATM in my bright red car and got $160 and took it to the police station where Mitch was handcuffed to a bench. Meanwhile my chicken in the oven was getting overcooked, which really annoyed me, but more about that later.
We were told we had to wait for the Bail Guy, whatever that means, who lived half an hour away and was taking his time, likely eating his dinner when the call came. And who could blame him, after all it was dinnertime.
I was not permitted any conjugal visits and instead was stuck in a dim waiting room outfitted with several candy machines, the kind where you put in a quarter and turn the handle and a few measly pieces come out. I had two quarters and so after much deliberation chose Reese’s Pieces and Jelly Bellies.
Finally they released Mitch and we drove home in my very red car to my somewhat overdone chicken, which actually was quite tasty although a tad dry. Mitch has a new court date for sometime in February for his original infraction. Nobody mentioned his going through the STOP sign.
—Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.