Move-in Day

As Move-in Day 2003 wore on, fatigue set in among those at 727. Those of legal drinking age took a nap before heading downtown to bar hop later that night. Underage partiers also took a siesta to prepare for parties around town.

That evening back at 727, beers again began to flow freely after its residents rose from a light slumber. On the second floor of the rental home, there was a door that led to the exterior rooftop. It wasn’t a patio. It was literally the top of a roof above an extension of the home. The roof was flat and there were no railings to protect visitors from a fall. We enjoyed consuming a beverage or two in a lawn chair atop the roof on sunny afternoons. We frequented the roof after a night of heavy drinking as well. How none of us ever fell off the hazard is beyond belief.

It was during this period between day and night drinking when my girlfriend gave me a ring on a recently purchased state-of-the-art flip phone. I was lounging on the roof with some friends. She informed me she was at a kegger a few blocks away. “Alright. Hang tight. I’ll be over,” I said.
I jumped down from the second floor to our yard, grabbed a Coors Light and walked down the alley toward the party to meet her.

It was too late before I saw the danger coming. As I crossed the street, two biker cops rolled by, spotted me and yelled, “Put down the beer! Lay down on the ground!”

My fight or flight instinct took over. I was off. The Road Runner vs. Wile E. Coyote.

By the time I made it to the alley across the street, my flip-flops had flown off. I was running barefoot through a dangerous mix of dried piss, sand, dirt, cigarette butts and broken glass.

I darted to my left and jumped a fence. I ran through a backyard and jumped another fence. My adrenaline kicked in full force and epinephrine began pulsating through my veins. I stealthily crossed yet another street and dashed through one final yard. I pivoted hard to my right and took a quick gander down the sidewalk. I spotted two dimly lit houses on the block. There was a porch on one of them. Perfect. A spot to hide. I sprinted toward its entrance and quickly pulled the door handle. It wasn’t locked.

I slammed it shut behind me and hit the floor prone on my belly. I took a few deep breaths -- waiting a few moments before pulling out my phone. I called my girlfriend and told her that after a brief chase, I cleverly evaded jail. She laughed. I did, too. I told her I was going to hide out in the porch floor for a while longer, and I’d eventually head to the party. (Barefoot, I guess.)

Time inched by. I finally worked up the courage to get off the ground and peek out the porch window. The street looked clear upon first glance. It was eerily quiet for the Southside. Darkness covered the block. No drunken college kids. No police. The coast was clear.

I took one more look as I slowly opened the screen door. I crept out one foot at a time. The second I placed both feet on the top step of the screen porch, the biker cops rolled down the street.

Shit. Did they see me? I jumped back in the porch and dove to the floor. “Dear God, if you get me out of this, I will build several churches in your name,” I quietly prayed.

Thirty seconds later, the police barged through the door. Flashlights blinded my vision. “You thought you were sneaky? We got you, motherfucker!” they chortled.

While they were cuffing me, my phone rang. They decided it was their civic duty to answer. “Hello? Who is this? Oh, yeah? Well, he can’t talk right now. That’s right, he’s going to jail.” Click.

The booking station looked like an emergency room waiting area after a plague outbreak. Scores of teens and young adults were laying around, pathetically slumped on chairs and the floor. There were drunk kids. Sick kids. Kids throwing tirades.

After a couple of hours, they took my mug and prints and promptly tossed me in a tiny one-person jail cell with three other kids they had jammed in like a can of tuna. The door slammed shut. About 12 hours later, they had processed my paperwork. I was a free man.

They charged me with littering for tossing the beer bottle I was holding when I ran, obstructing the legal process for taking off and minor consumption of alcohol. They tried to charge me with trespassing, but no one answered at the home attached to the porch I’d been hiding in when the police knocked. On my way out of jail, I saw one of my roommates in an orange jumpsuit walking towards the courtroom to see a judge. He’d gotten in a drunken car accident the Friday before Labor Day. Apparently, it was time for him to face the music.

I slowly staggered back to 727 from the police station in the cool morning air. I called my girlfriend in a daze. She didn’t answer. Apparently, my arrest wasn’t a deterrent to celebrating move-in day with her peers.
Eventually my court date arrived. Luckily, my mentor and favorite journalism teacher also had his JD and operated a private law practice. He did me a solid and got the prosecutor to drop the littering and obstructing legal process charges.

In court, the judge said I got “one sweetheart of a deal.” That was that. A few legal fees. An alcohol education class. I moved on.