and I would back some nerdy seventh grader up against a wall in a deserted corner of the school and ask him, "What's your name?" And when he told us, we'd shout, "You lie!" and slap his face.
Maybe now God, or Someone similar, was extracting karmic revenge on me. "My name's Jacob Burns, pal," I said. "What's yours?"
Still no punch. No slap on my face either. By now I could see the whole room, if a little hazily, and I noticed a video camera above Young Crewcut's head. As he wrote down my name, address, and date and place of birth (Why do so many forms ask what state you were born in? What difference does it make if you were born in Rhode Island or Delaware?), it dawned on me that this was the world-famous booking area where the night manager of Roosters Pub got roughed up by a Saratoga police sergeant. I say "world-famous" because a videotape of the event made it onto a couple of national shows like Nightline and 60 Minutes .
That video camera on the wall explained why I wasn't getting punched. At least, not here anyway. I could only hope the rest of the police station was videotaped, too.
"Take off your belt," Young Crewcut ordered me.
"Oh, come on—"
"Take it off."
Since I was cuffed to the wall, I only had one hand free. I used it to remove the belt from my robe. Then I looked down at myself.
I was wearing ancient blue and yellow striped pajamas that some barely remembered girlfriend had bought me half a lifetime ago. The middle button on my fly was missing, so with my beltless robe hanging open I had to adjust my pajama bottoms just right, or my johnson would come flopping out into full view.
If I'd known I was going to jail, I would have worn spiffier PJs.
Even worse, I was wearing slippers that my wife got me for a joke when I turned forty last year. They were purple fluffy jobs with the words "World's Greatest Lover" printed on them in bright orange.
Cole and Young Crewcut were eyeing my slippers, too. "You can keep your footwear if you want," Young Crewcut said, deadpan.
Cole busted out laughing for what felt like a full minute. The acne-scarred redhead, who'd been silently malevolent this whole time, laughed, too. Then he stepped in front of the videocamera and, hidden from the lens, spit at my face.
Maybe the fun would have lasted longer, but a door opened and the lieutenant in charge of the investigation stepped into the room. My heart sank. Lieutenant Foxwell was the same lantern-jawed lieutenant that the Ninja Turtles and I had fought with earlier that night.
He thrust that impressive jaw forward and gave me a hard stare. Then he unsnapped my cuffs, said, "This way," and pushed me through the door.
I was fingerprinted, not just once but three times—for the city, the state, and the FBI. Well, heck, I'd always wanted to be famous. Then Foxwell wiped the blood off my nose with a wet paper towel and took my mug shot with a Polaroid Mini-Portrait camera. I was prisoner number 274013. I vowed that if I ever got out of this mess, I'd play the lottery with those numbers.
I wanted to smile for my mug shot, just to be different. But Foxwell ordered me not to. I asked him why, without expecting an answer, but he gave me one. "Mug shots should look the way people usually look, and people don't usually smile. Especially douchebags who've been busted for killing cops."
I raised my eyebrows reproachfully. " 'Douchebags?' Isn't that rather a sexist term?"
This time Foxwell didn't bother to favor my remarks with a reply. He grabbed my arm and pushed me into the chief of police's office.
The chief was sitting behind his desk waiting for me. "Please sit down, sir," he said pleasantly.
They were the first pleasant words I'd heard since this whole ordeal began. I sat down. My chair was comfortable, and the old-fashioned, leather-covered desk gave off an earthy smell. Pictures of the chief and his family adorned the walls and bookcases. Like me, he had two sons, and several of the pictures showed them playing
Maybe now God, or Someone similar, was extracting karmic revenge on me. "My name's Jacob Burns, pal," I said. "What's yours?"
Still no punch. No slap on my face either. By now I could see the whole room, if a little hazily, and I noticed a video camera above Young Crewcut's head. As he wrote down my name, address, and date and place of birth (Why do so many forms ask what state you were born in? What difference does it make if you were born in Rhode Island or Delaware?), it dawned on me that this was the world-famous booking area where the night manager of Roosters Pub got roughed up by a Saratoga police sergeant. I say "world-famous" because a videotape of the event made it onto a couple of national shows like Nightline and 60 Minutes .
That video camera on the wall explained why I wasn't getting punched. At least, not here anyway. I could only hope the rest of the police station was videotaped, too.
"Take off your belt," Young Crewcut ordered me.
"Oh, come on—"
"Take it off."
Since I was cuffed to the wall, I only had one hand free. I used it to remove the belt from my robe. Then I looked down at myself.
I was wearing ancient blue and yellow striped pajamas that some barely remembered girlfriend had bought me half a lifetime ago. The middle button on my fly was missing, so with my beltless robe hanging open I had to adjust my pajama bottoms just right, or my johnson would come flopping out into full view.
If I'd known I was going to jail, I would have worn spiffier PJs.
Even worse, I was wearing slippers that my wife got me for a joke when I turned forty last year. They were purple fluffy jobs with the words "World's Greatest Lover" printed on them in bright orange.
Cole and Young Crewcut were eyeing my slippers, too. "You can keep your footwear if you want," Young Crewcut said, deadpan.
Cole busted out laughing for what felt like a full minute. The acne-scarred redhead, who'd been silently malevolent this whole time, laughed, too. Then he stepped in front of the videocamera and, hidden from the lens, spit at my face.
Maybe the fun would have lasted longer, but a door opened and the lieutenant in charge of the investigation stepped into the room. My heart sank. Lieutenant Foxwell was the same lantern-jawed lieutenant that the Ninja Turtles and I had fought with earlier that night.
He thrust that impressive jaw forward and gave me a hard stare. Then he unsnapped my cuffs, said, "This way," and pushed me through the door.
I was fingerprinted, not just once but three times—for the city, the state, and the FBI. Well, heck, I'd always wanted to be famous. Then Foxwell wiped the blood off my nose with a wet paper towel and took my mug shot with a Polaroid Mini-Portrait camera. I was prisoner number 274013. I vowed that if I ever got out of this mess, I'd play the lottery with those numbers.
I wanted to smile for my mug shot, just to be different. But Foxwell ordered me not to. I asked him why, without expecting an answer, but he gave me one. "Mug shots should look the way people usually look, and people don't usually smile. Especially douchebags who've been busted for killing cops."
I raised my eyebrows reproachfully. " 'Douchebags?' Isn't that rather a sexist term?"
This time Foxwell didn't bother to favor my remarks with a reply. He grabbed my arm and pushed me into the chief of police's office.
The chief was sitting behind his desk waiting for me. "Please sit down, sir," he said pleasantly.
They were the first pleasant words I'd heard since this whole ordeal began. I sat down. My chair was comfortable, and the old-fashioned, leather-covered desk gave off an earthy smell. Pictures of the chief and his family adorned the walls and bookcases. Like me, he had two sons, and several of the pictures showed them playing
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