That One Time I Got Arrested

Getting Creative

No. No. No. No. No.

There won't be a Starbucks in prison.

I am going to have to spend weeks, months, maybe even years deprived of that chocolaty goodness. And that's when I know I need to fight back. To stop this prejudice before it's too late. Before I'm stuck behind those caffienless, frappeless walls.

As if sensing my sudden change in mindset, the cop hurries to slam the door shut. A little click securing me inside. But I cannot, will not, stand for this injustice any longer. So, in the words of my brother, wherever he is, when your hands are tied, use your head instead.

Which is exactly what I do.

The first hit barely hurts.

The second maybe a little more

By the fourth, I'm really starting to feel it.

By the seventh, there's a crack in the glass.

By the eighth, there's two.

By the tenth, my heads starting to swell. A particularly painful spot on my forehead hitting the glass.

The car begins to spin, and I come to the conclusion that a broken window won't do much good if I pass out before I can jump. I have to look for a different approach.

By the time I can see straight, we're pulling into drive, the police officer seemingly oblivious to my little fit. A single mesh sheet separates us. As if that can protect him.

I catch his eye in the rear-view mirror and smile. He's a stout man. And I was right about the age guess, he's got large, round shoulders, and laugh lines under his eyes. Probably has a wife and kids. Would be a shame if they were... orphaned. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat at my attention. His focus flicking from me to the road anxiously. Like he's scared and trying not to show it. Fool. Predators can smell fear. And this man was dripping in it.

I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.

"Look, I know the drill kid. You're going to tell me it wasn't your fault, that someone made you do it, but trust me, I couldn't care less. Wine to your lawyer all you want but fighting me isn't going to help you get out any time soon." He blurted, the words themselves would seem brave and no-nonsense, but I could see it in his face, his voice, the way he swallowed around the word 'kid'. He was scared.

"Wrong." He is going to help me get out. Get out of this car. Just not like he thinks.

I pull my feet up towards my chest, eyes landing on my captors in the rear-view mirror. Something in my gaze must tell him what's about to happen, because his mouth opens again, as if in protest, before my boot-clad feet slam straight down on the back of his headrest. The force cripples the seat, slamming his face down into the steering wheel, consequently knocking him out, and making the car spin dramatically out of control. Oh well. I should've seen that coming.