Katz·en·jam·mer

noun

\ˈkatsənˌjamə(r)\

plural –s

1:  the nausea, headache, and debility that often follow dissipation or drunkenness

2:  distress, depression, or confusion resembling that caused by a hangover

***

“I’m going to write a story about YOU!!!!!  About this whole THING.  You guys are fucking imbeciles, cccrazy fucking imbeciles…imbeciles. I didn’t dooo anything… anything..anythin…!!  Shit Fucks.  All of you.  Shit Fuuuucks!

I flailed about as the sheriff attempted to hold me steady on a matt, process me and document my fingerprints.  Shitfaced, I noticed his hands shaking.

“Anthying.  This iiisss, jjssss fucking bullshit.”

“Ma’am.”  Ink, lasers, x-ray or lights, I blacked out for the following series of

events.  Reliving the half hour of booking and mug shot photo shoot was as necessary as a needle shooting into my gums before a cavity fill.  I assumed the half-hour time frame.

“Do you want to be separated?”  Barefoot, I flailed less.

“Separated, from who?  Yers!  Yes.  Fucking separate me…what is sep…?  You guys better… money, my stuff…If anything … missing…”

The badge handed me a blanket, directed me to a cell across from the other drunk tankers and nodded to more mannequins in uniforms.

“When will I…?”

Three deputy dipsticks severed me from other female DUI’ers and meth arrests, with mild success.  I screamed and threw the one item on the floor to keep warm, the thorny piece of fabric.

At 5 a.m. I passed out on pee stains and weeks-old, embedded grey patties of Bubblicious into the even greyer ground.

The year I turned thirty wasn’t jumpstarted by my finest hour.  Before I talked back to cops and demanded an attorney for a public intoxication arrest, I crawled pubs with Vanity Fair and Lady Reporter.  Old Vienna for happy hour.  ‘White trash La Jolla’ seemed a fitting nickname for Pismo, all half mile of it.  We weren’t unique.  Artists painted and tourists visited the same cliffs on every other coastal piece of land in the world.

First course: the Shack.  Vodka, miniature bottles of champagne and zero calories.  Super 8mm fast flashes of Owner and Liver’s faces. Mysteriously and stupidly we chose 12:30 a.m. to relocate.  I would give anything to hear the conversation.  Did I make sense?  Was I cute and charming when dragging everyone to another bar?  The three of us ran, fell, smoked, whistled and skipped into the backseat one of the four taxis in town toward Moondoggies.  One or two more lefts and rights and I could knock on Jack’s door.  No matter how tile counting I was, I carried this knowledge with me like I carried my driver’s license, packed safely in a zipped, isolated pocket in my purse.  The danger sat in sleep mode, quiet and still, like a golf course sprinkler.  Water could start spraying in all directions at any moment.  All of the sprinklers I knew began a chickchickchik at 3 or 4 a.m.

Vanity Fair had the right idea and went home as LR and I climbed over each other and exited the cab.  We befriended, karaoke bashed and hurdled into the walls, booths and barstools where bits of cognizance polka dotted the blackness. 

What I sort of knew:

1.     Met an older couple, became best friends, possibly date rape drugged.

2.     Spied Jack, Liver, and three unnamed cohorts.  A side dish of girls did not include me.

3.     Ice cold scowls at SFF and girls. 

4.     Walked in the direction of Jack before he separated himself.  He was sweet. He’s surprised I’m hanging with.  I didn’t know who he was referring too.  At this point I’m completely alone in Moondoggies.

5.     I apologized for calling.  “You didn’t call me.”  

6.     Minutes later fought with him and his friends.

7.     Screamed at Jack: “You’re SFF, that’s right! Short Fat Fuck!!!”

8.     All of Jack cohorts’ and girls’ jaws drop.

9.     Jack’s jaw does not drop.

10. Kicked out of Moondoggies.

11. Raised hell in bar parking lot, Jack followed me outside.  There’s a split second burned into my mind of him: concern and sorrow on his face.

12. Cops arrive. 

13. Arrested.

14. Unwillingly flung inside of the cop car and landed on a black backseat.

What I didn’t know:

1.     Mirandized?

2.     Where the F was Lady Reporter? 

3.     Kicked out of Moondoggies for what specific reason?

4.     Particulars of mine and Jack’s second conversation/verbal assault?

5.     Why did he follow me outside?

6.     Did he call the cops?

7.     Who called the cops?

8.     Does B9 know?

9.     Where do I send apology notes to cops?

The next day, 8 a.m.

Before I woke up in the county jail, where they took all of the weekend misbehaved, I screamed and pleaded for a sergeant and a phonebook. 

“We’ve been more than accommodating to you miss.”  My brain recalled no phone numbers.  I couldn’t even remember last names of my closest friends.

His number taped to the receiver, a bail bondsman I drunken dialed didn’t answer.  Calling from the metal phone in my cell at 3 a.m. reminded me of a recurring dream.  Dream dialing.  I often dreamt about a need to dial 911.  About to be killed, raped or robbed I fail to match up my fingers with the buttons on the phone.  611, 211 or 411 are victories but 911 eludes me.  The rapists, murderers or disgruntled family members relinquished into shadowy backdrops, but over and over I try, hang up and start over before finally waking up. 

In a small offset area, I read the foreign concept of a bus schedule, about to throw up, rubbing my eyes and hair.  I thought of B9.

“How’r you doing?”  Olive skin inched closer on the grimy cement bench, grinning and aggravating me.  Cement stood out as the main décor element in jail.  Olive Skin Aggravator was about my age.  The makeup in and around my eyes and bad breath stopped bothering me three hours earlier.  My cheeks still shimmered.

“Just peachy.”  I sighed, gagging at the thought of the two hour wait before the 9 a.m. bus arrived.