I can’t remember if I opened the door or the cops did but either way, the door was open and there we were struggling to get our clothes on. I was able to pull myself together to the point that I had my pants and my shirt on, although my shoes were on the floor of the truck, along with the bondage belt I habitually wore at the time (punk points +1).
As for Isadora, she wasn’t as quick on the draw: she was still in her panties, trying to pull her jeans on with one hand while she tried to shut the door on the male officer standing at the passenger side. It seemed to me that his eyes were zeroing in straight on her nether regions; she must have felt the same way, which is why she was frantically trying to shut the door. The perverted policeman didn’t like that very much, and he certainly didn’t like it when Isadora gave him a piece of her mind.
“Don’t look at me you pervert! I’m fifteen.”
But he kept looking, despite the fact that she was fifteen (nearly sixteen). But therein lied the predicament, Dionysus: even though I was seventeen when I met Isadora, I had turned eighteen a couple months after that. Which made me, in the eyes of the law, an adult, while she was still a minor. But anybody who knew me would have laughed at me and adulthood being placed in the same category. I was still a very naive, very immature teenager (same as Isadora). What we were doing in that truck (which is nobody’s business but ours, pal) would have likely been written off as harmless teenage experimentation (which it was) if I were a Gemini instead of an Aries. But because I had already celebrated my eighteenth birthday, it was suddenly a very serious, very criminal act.
And the funny thing about labeling something a crime is that there must be, by necessity, a criminal and a victim in the scenario. Take a wild guess which role I was to play in this grand farce, Dionysus.
There were two cops initially, although by the end of the ordeal there would be many more. They sat Isadora on the curb and took me to the side, sweaty and shoeless, to begin the streetlamp interrogation.
Remember that my conception of cops hitherto was that of the baton-twirling, whistle-blowing buffoon, which I had lifted straight out of the silent films. These cops weren’t like that at all, although they did fit rather nicely into a couple other old movie police archetypes: good cop/bad cop.
Cad Bop: So where did you pick this one up, huh? The park?
Cood Gop: Just tell us where you picked her up, son.
The Accused: I picked her up at her mother’s house. That’s where I always pick her up.
Cad Bop: So you admit that this isn’t the first time you’ve taken advantage of the girl! How many others have you done this to?
Cood Bop: Son, how long have you known this girl? Is she your girlfriend?
The Accused: How many other girls have I picked up from their mother’s homes? Just Isadora. She’s my girlfriend. We’ve been together for a really long time.*
Cad Bop: I don’t believe you! You got this girl drunk so you could take advantage of her! Admit it!
Cood Gop: Have either of you had anything to drink tonight?
The Accused: No, sir. We’re too young to drink.
I was more or less honest. All except the last bit: I had indeed been drinking, although I knew that this would have greatly complicated an already delicate situation. But Isadora hadn’t had a drop, and I figured they were far more concerned with her in this instance; after all, she was the victim, right?
A quick aside: Society throws a bunch of post-pubescent teenagers with raging hormones together for eight hours a day in walled camps and encourages them to socialize and interact through school functions like dances and homecoming games that promote intimacy through activities like slow dancing and then acts surprised/incensed when teenagers react to their biological functions, which are all out of fucking whack because of said situations that said society puts said teenagers in.
Seriously, what the fuck?
Isadora and I were both in high school at the same time, for Christ’s sake. We were a little over two years apart in age; had we been caught a day before I was eighteen, it would have been a youthful indiscretion, but the second I was of age, all of a sudden it’s premeditated predation.
Seriously, what the fuck?
Now that that’s out of the way, I’ll proceed. So Cad Bop wasn’t very satisfied with my answers. He seemed to think that I drove around to local parks and school parking lots passing out candy and liquor and roofies and all sorts of unmentionable things to underage girls on a regular basis. There was absolutely no way that I was just a dumb teenaged boy doing dumb teenaged things with my dumb teenaged girlfriend.
Cad Bop kept pressing the issue of alcohol, which made me nervous to no end, as I had three hundred fifty dollars worth of hooch in the shell of my truck. I played it cool though, Dionysus. I think the mild buzz I had might have helped a bit.
He breathalyzed Isadora like four or five times because he refused to believe that a girl like that would be with a guy like me if she was sober. Each time the results registered negative for alcohol, he got more and more pissed off; after all, he already had me and the situation pegged from the start, and any deviation from his version of reality was clearly wrong. He didn’t breathalyze me even once; apparently his version didn’t allow for me to be the drunk one.
So the situation was looking a little better in light of the fact that Isadora wasn’t drunk. I was thinking that I would be let off with a warning, that we’d be given a lecture on teen pregnancy and STDs or something and sent on our merry way, which most likely would have been toward another darkened street a town or two over.
But this was not to be, Dionysus.
Cad Bop was shining a flashlight through the back window of my truck into the bed. When he spoke, I could hear the mixture of self-satisfaction and disdain in his voice that I have found to be rather typical of police officers in my rather extensive experience with them:
“What do we have here? As you said, you’re too young to drink, so where in the world did you get all of this?”
Oh, how my heart sunk, Dionysus. What misfortune! What bad timing! What a cruel twist of fate! Because it wasn’t my fault for being stupid enough to have installed a speakeasy in my automobile, and it certainly wasn’t my fault for not even attempting to hide it or cover it with anything and leave it in plain sight. Certainly not.
“You’re not going to believe this, but that’s not mine.”
And he didn’t believe it, even though it really wasn’t mine.
By this time, Cood Gop had made his way over to Cad Bop. He peered into the truck bed, looked at Cad Bop (who had the most disgustingly smug look on his face), and then looked at me. I don’t know what my face looked like to him, but it was likely somewhere between total fear and horrified surprise. He looked at me square in the face, Dionysus, and his stare seemed to say, “You fucked up, son. I might have been able to help you out some on this one, but now you’re in too deep.”
Cad Bop told me to stay put and both officers walked off a little distance to discuss amongst themselves. I threw out every prayer I had ever learned, Dionysus. I implored the universe with all my might to just get me out of this one. Despite the alcohol in me, I felt suddenly and terribly sober.
I’m not sure whether the cops realized or not, but I could hear their entire conversation. Essentially, they were of two differing opinions: Cood Gop wanted to confiscate the booze, write me a ticket, and let us off with a very firm warning. Cad Bop, on the other hand, wanted to haul me off to jail in order to protect Isadora and the countless other girls I would undoubtedly prey on and teach me a very harsh lesson in the process.
Unfortunately for me, Cood Gop wasn’t convincing enough in his arguments. They began walking towards me with two very differing demeanors: Cad Bop was clearly chomping at the bit to get me in handcuffs, while Cood Gop was much more reluctant. In fact, he almost seemed sorry.
As Cad Bop began reading me my rights and I felt the cold metal embrace of handcuffs for that first time, I looked over at Isadora, who was weeping and hysterical.
“Where are you taking him?! He didn’t do anything wrong!”
I couldn’t agree more, Isadora–then and now. Although I had a pretty good idea where I was to be going.
But I’ll save that for the third act, Dionysus.
</3 Sir Rateval Hurtlinge
P.S. I've heard stories of an officer who was reprimanded for attending high school parties while off duty. I don't know whether this is true or not, but if it is, I'd wager it was Cad Bop.
P.P.S. After I was hauled away, the police called Isadora's mother. They wouldn't tell her what had happened, just that she needed to get to the scene as soon as possible. She thought that we had gotten into an accident or something. When she arrived and learned that I had been arrested, she reacted in much the same way as her daughter, minus the tears.
P.P.S. There is one final circumstance that needs to be noted. After I was taken away, the cops took the liberty of searching the rest of my truck. The only piece of "evidence" they would discover was a Polaroid photograph of me kissing Isadora. I had a habit then, as now, of writing captions on the white spots of Polaroids. In this case, I had written "Help! Rape!" The cops didn't get my sense of humor, and as far as I know, that photograph is still in an evidence locker somewhere. Which is a shame, as it is the only picture in existence of Isadora and I together.