Springing into Summer: Three Tips for a Weekend in the Slammer

March 20, 2018


I met one of the most serious loves of my life (people-wise) during the last two weeks of college… at the Kentucky Derby… while I was in a toxic three-year college love type of trance.  I preface with these details as background to the story as to why this jail stint involves a a guy from Alabama and a girl from Southern Indiana who actually have established residence in Chicago, Illinois found themselves with temp residence in Indianapolis aka Marion County Jail one night.  How the night got to this point is a story in and of itself as Alabama (we’ll call him for sake of anonymity and, of course, ease) so I’ll do my best to stay on track and save the details for all things ironic for another piece. 


As someone playing the ‘just out of college’ card pretty hard for 3 months while living in Chicago as an unemployed stay-at-home girlfriend to no responsibilities (not even a plan), it finally started to occur to me as summer was winding down and pool days were limited, that I should probably do something with my $160K college degree or do this whole housewife thing right.  Inclusive of that is meeting the families (obvi) which required me to bring the A game to meet Alabama’s mother that August.  As a full-time alcoholic, I hadn’t yet gotten to the point where I needed a drink from the moment I woke up; but I typically needed SOMETHING just to keep my spirits alive.


While the trip went through with no major hiccups (that’s a complete lie; but for another time); Alabama and I were preparing to head back north when somehow the conversation of his sister’s anxiety and full bottle of Klonopin came into play.  She was gracious enough to offer some up during our departure; and not one to turn down illegal anything, I graciously accepted.  In the back of my mind, I couldn’t wait to see how this would all play out with this two-hour flight/cocktail hour.


As the alcoholic boyfriend/girlfriend team landed in Lousiville, Kentucky (cheap airport hub we used as a financial crutch for travel), we were a couple Klonopin and 6 cocktails deep and still had another feat ahead of us which was driving my car from Louisville back to Chicago.  The good news is that my old college stomping grounds in Indianapolis would allow us to grab a bite (and cocktail) to break-up the drive.   It also made complete sense at the time to give a call to my former boss who owned the restaurant I worked summers of college at to meet ‘for a drink.’


Somewhere between abusing benzodiazepines and drinking more than more frat boys; the flirtation between myself and said old boss came on stronger than ever and Alabama was having no part of it. Next thing I recall is (I’m sure gracefully and not because I got kicked out of the bar) being in the back of cab trying to determine where the hell this boyfriend was, seeing as he’d taken it upon himself to leave the bar, infuriated, intoxicated and unaware of his surroundings.  


Although he only made it about a mile and a half up a main road, I finally found him, pulled over on the side of the road by a tree that jumped in his way.  My windshield was more or less shattered; and while I’m a temperamental person to begin with, alcohol tended to put 60 pounds of invisible muscle on me and fury that could match North Korea. Our ‘little spat’ re: his poor driving had prompted two police cars (called in from concerned neighbors) to arrive, an open-handed slap at said bad-driver boyfriend and us both being cuffed and taken ‘downtown.’  Our timeline was fucked. Thanks a lot, Bama. 


While I’d originally thought the said arrest would just require an 8-hour sobering up period, it turns out that the police were all anti-me at the time and pulled the assault card. For an open-handed slap. Of ALL of the shit I could’ve been arrested for in that city, I suppose this was by far the lesser of the many evils. Nonetheless; I had a $30,000 bond and not a lot of options. 


I want to be certain to clarify a couple of jail ‘rumors’ and also provide a 'tip of the day,' should anyone find themselves in a similar situation as we approach the shitshow season in which we in Chicago refer to as ‘summer.’ 

1) When in jail, you don’t just get one phone call. I managed to break this rule of thumb to call my parents collect (who were traveling in Canada at the time), my aunt, both of my brothers and my drug dealer (I'd be out of commission for little.) I’m not great at math; but I can confirm that that was more than one phone call.

(2) You only need to pay 10% of the established bail.  No need to lose hope if you are slapped with (no pun intended) a bail that exceeds that of your first job out of college’s annual salary. 

(3) NEVER EVER tell the jail psychiatrist that you are suicidal.  If you take an anti-depressant on the reg (which most people do these days); el doctor will NOT take sympathy upon the fact that you're not currently enjoy your life to its fullest.  Turns out, the depression/suicidal play is more of a nail in the coffin than a strategy to be released.  After this Hail Mary, I ended up having to remove my bra and thong (anything hang-worthy) and proceed to a white padded cell.  I'd say this was one of poorer game plans I had executed.  YOU’RE WELCOME.


Want to hear more?  Email me at theboss@drunkenlysober.com.


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