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Daily Story—Category: Jail

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A Real Beer Bust in New York City--Or-- How I Was Rudy Giulianied Out of Sleep One Fine October Morning (Part Two)

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(When we left off in part one, I had just been rudely awakened by two cops who had informed me they were taking me to jail because of a open alcohol container ticket I had failed to show up in court for.)

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I felt like someone had taken my brain out, put it in a blender on puree and then poured it back in. I was left no other option than to surrender. I was fucked. My mind went blank and I was just standing there in a stupor.

“Let’s go, get dressed or we’ll take you like this,” the other fat boy shouted. He had been pretty silent up till now, but seemed to be growing weary quickly.

I looked at both of them expecting them to walk out and give me some privacy, but they didn’t budge.

“Uh, do you guys want to wait out there while I get dressed?” I asked the tubby twosome while gesturing towards the hallway.

“Nope, we can’t let you out of our sight. Now hurry up,” The one with the warrant barked.

Talk about your Deliverance moments. My apartment was a typical one room Manhattan hovel. I had nowhere to go for privacy. I took off the shorts and dressed in front of these two poster boys for lard praying the words, “Now squeal like a pig” didn’t break the silence.

After I quickly dressed I was ready for my trip to jail. That’s when they threw out the next surprise.

“Turn around we’ve got to put the cuffs on you now,” the silent one ordered.

“Handcuffs? Are you kidding?” I asked incredulously.

“It’s policy, you have to have these on outside and in the car until you get to court.”

So I dutifully turned around, they put the cuffs on me and led me outside. Luckily it was early so I didn’t see anyone I knew. I could just see trying to explain that I was being led out of my apartment in handcuffs, because I drank a beer.

We drove in silence to the precinct jail which was about five blocks from where I lived.

“We’re not going to process you, but you’re going to have to take off your shoelaces and belt before you go into the holding cell,” the warrant officer told me.

I didn’t ask why, I assumed it was a suicide regulation, but by now my hangover was really starting to rumble and I just wanted to get to the cell where hopefully I could lay down. I surrendered my belt and laces and was led to the holding cell.

He opened up the eight foot steel door and told me to go in and he’d come back and get me when it was time to go to court.

“You’re lucky, since it’s morning it’s empty,” he said as he pushed me in and the door slammed with a steely thud. I heard him lock it and then surveyed the cell for a cot. There was none. In fact there wasn’t even a bench. The cell consisted of a stained grey cement floor with four equally gray cement walls. And he was wrong, I wasn’t alone. Cockroaches were running up and down the walls. I wondered what they were doing in there, as far as I knew cockroaches don’t drink beer.

So I sat on the cold, dirty cement floor and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Minutes ticked by slower than slugs jogging through molasses. As I became more and more sober, I realized that I really needed a drink. My head felt like I had been out on a date with Mike Tyson.

Finally after what seemed like eternity to the nth degree the door opened up and the warrant cop was standing there with his fatter half.

“Time for court, let’s go,” he said handing me my shoelaces and belt.

I put them on, they handcuffed me and we got back in the car.

“Where’s the court at?” I asked.

“Downtown at Centre Street,” the quieter one of the two answered.

That was the extent of the talking for the trip downtown. Fat and fatter didn’t appear to be much of conversationalists and they appeared to be really enjoying the classic rock station that was playing. I didn’t think my hangover could get any worse. That was before “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas came booming over the stereo.

Finally we made it to the courthouse. They helped me out of the car and led me into the crowded courthouse still handcuffed.

The front lobby was crowded but the people parted like the Red Sea did for Moses as the cops led me through. I stunk like old beer, hadn’t shaved for days and looked somewhat like Charlie Manson’s crazed brother after a three day bender. Nobody wanted to get too close to me.

I was led to a holding room where they locked the door and took the cuffs off.

“It’ll be about fifteen minutes. You got bumped up the docket since we have to baby sit you until the judge gives you your fine,” They told me.

The fine!

“Shit!” I thought, I only had about forty bucks on me. Surely I was going to be socked with a steep penalty, what with all the hoopla that had gone on.

“I’ve only got about forty bucks on me, what if I can’t pay the whole fine today? Can I pay part later?” I asked while the movie Bad Boys reeled through my mind.

“I don’t think it’s going to be that much, but the judge would probably let you go to an ATM or something, I wouldn’t sweat it,” the warrant bearing one told me.

“Don’t sweat it?” I thought to myself. I had just spent three hours in jail for drinking a can of beer and this guy tells me not to sweat it? That’s probably what the nazi’s told the prisoners in the concentration camps right before they led them to the shower stalls.

My thoughts of doom were broken by a knock on the door. We were told to go to the courtroom.

We entered and someone somewhere called out my name and case number and told me to approach to bench. I walked up and a guy who looked like the red haired dweeb from thirtysomething introduced himself as the public defender.

“How do you wish to plead Martin?” he asked.

“Guilty, let’s get this thing over with,” I told him. I always hated the show thirtysomething and resented the fact that the one time I get a public defender he has to look like that red haired goofus. Some days you just can’t catch a break.

“You spent the morning in jail, right Martin?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I shot back. I almost told him that he could call me Marty, but I wisely held back. I didn’t want to get too chummy with this guy. Maybe he’d want me to star in the TV movie update that you just know they’re going to make about that godawful show. I may have been hungover and tired, but luckily I still had my wits about me.

The judge was old, bald and looked as hungover as I was. I sensed he just wanted to get this whole thing over with.

“Your honor,” the thirtysomething lawyer spoke as he turned towards the uninterested judge, “My client wishes to plead guilty. In light of the fact that he spent the morning in jail I ask that the court reduce his fine to thirty dollars.”

Now I can’t remember what the judge said, I just heard the gavel hit...well, hit whatever the gavel hits. I just stood there stunned. Very stunned, to quote the Rutles.

“Thirty bucks?” I asked thirtysomething.

“Yeah, you can pay the clerk right down the hall,” He said pointing out the door.

“Thirty bucks?” I again repeated. I felt like I had been raped and then fist fucked. I went through probably the shittiest and weirdest morning of my life and all for a stinking thirty bucks?

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I said to thirtysomething.

With this the next case number was called and thirtysomething gently pushed me away and told me to make room for the next case. I left making a mental note to boycott the Lifetime network for the rest of my life.

As I was walking down the hall I passed fat and fatter and they waved as they walked by and they were laughing.

And I know why. This city humiliated me. It was like I was Jesus and after carrying the cross for miles they don’t even bother to nail you up on the fucking thing. At least give me some humongous penalty to make this whole charade seem worthwhile. Thirty bucks. Shit. That wouldn’t even cover the city’s expenses. It was like being kidnapped and tortured and then having the criminals pay someone to take you back. It didn’t make any sense and sense was the one thing I craved and needed this horrible, stinking, rotten October morning. I had been ratfucked and there was nothing I could do about it.

I went and paid my fine and took the subway home and wearily made my way inside. I double locked the door, turned off the lights and popped the top off of a can of Budweiser from the refrigerator. The beer helped to numb my aching mind, but I knew then and there that at least while Adolf...I mean Rudolf Guiliani is in charge, there’s no help for this once great city. Cheers.

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Postscript

It’s been over a decade since I wrote this, but I got paid a couple hundred bucks from Gadfly to write this for their magazine, I used this story in my 99 Beers Off The Wall book and now for the second time I’ve posted it here on TMWS. And they say crime doesn’t pay!

Suddenly...it’s Thursday!

It’s Thursday which means we are very close to the weekend and I for one am ready, Freddy!

Part II of yesterday’s schedule is today’s Daily Story, we’ve also get the Daily Photo and a Fake Ad at the end of the day. Your standard Thursday show that you’ve grown to know and love. Sigh.

Very cool Home Page artwork from “Boris” today. Maybe we’ll get sued by Apple! Great job Daddio! And “Boris” is available for freelance work for your website, CD or book cover, custom logos, retouching and anything you can imagine. Just send me an email from the Home Page form and I’ll send it to him directly.

Okay, the Daily Photo is up soon and then all the other bullshit. Happy Thursday, Motherfuckers!

Closing Credits

Produced, directed and written by Marty Wombacher

Theme song and announcer: Slim Volume

Resident artist: “Boris”

Contributing Writers (Comments section, listed in order of comment):
Professor Dungpie, Fountainhead of Enlightenment!
grompf
a crab on Blondie's snatch
ShitPissFuckCuntCocksuckerBitchBalls.
Zioum Zioum the Chainsaw
Whit
Aaron
Biff
Gene1

Thanks for tuning in and contributing everyone, we’ll see you tomorrow at THE MARTY WOMBACHER SHOW!

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Daily Story—Category: Jail

This is a story I wrote for Gadfly magazine years ago, I also incorporated it in my 99 Beers book and I posted it here last July. So I ‘ve gotten a lot of mileage out of this story. It’s the third time I spent time in jail and probably the kookiest.
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A Real Beer Bust in New York City--Or-- How I Was Rudy Giulianied Out of Sleep One Fine October Morning (Part One)

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Waking up to the words, “Open up, it’s the police!” at seven in the morning is the definitive example of a rude awakening. I know because about a year ago two plain clothes cops were screaming the above statement and pounding on the door of my apartment. And to make matters worse they had a warrant allowing them to do this.

And I’m willing to confess that just like Gary Gilmore and Randy Newman, I too was indeed guilty.

“Guilty of what?” you wonder.

Well, this is the tough part, coming clean in public. But it’s time I admit my wrong-doing and maybe then society will forgive me for my heinous actions.

I’m fighting back Jimmy Swaggart-like tears as I prepare to type in this next gut-wrenching, confessional sentence. Okay, here goes...I willfully committed the following crime in broad daylight: I drank a beer in a brown paper bag on the sidewalk in New York City.

Yes, the city of New York, in all its infinite wisdom, paid for two cops to almost bust down my door, handcuff me, take me to jail and then drive me to a court of law, all over one can of beer. There’s a million stories in the Naked City and now there’s one more. Here it is.

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It was a muggy August evening about 6:00 at night and I was walking home from midtown to the Upper West Side of Manhattan where I lived at the time. I was thirsty and stopped in at a deli and bought a sixteen ounce can of Budweiser. The Indian gentlemen behind the counter placed it in a small brown paper bag. I coughed up a buck and a quarter and was on my way.

Here in New York you can buy single cans of beer on almost every corner at a bodega or deli. The reason they put it in an individual brown bag is because they assume you’re going to drink it on the street. Now while it is against the law to drink an open can of beer, it’s a law assumed by most to be enforced as vigorously as the “no spitting” law. Hence you’ll see people on almost every block wandering around with a brown paper bag containing a can of beer.

In New York where you’re assaulted by people begging for money, trying to sell you drugs, screaming gibberish, waving flyers in your face and vomiting and pissing in stoops on the corner, an open can of Budweiser seems to be the least of anyone’s worries, especially the cops. But thanks to Mayor Rudy Giuliani this is no longer the case.

When the whip-haired Giuliani was elected a few years ago he vowed to clean up the city and bring the crime rates down. And he’s succeeded. Crime rates have fallen. Most of the murders on the streets are now committed by the cops. Times Square has shuttered up all the famous porno theaters and seedy strip clubs and replaced them with family sports cafes, Starbucks and a giganzo Walt Disney store/mall thingy. Of course I haven’t seen any of this, once the porno theaters and strip clubs shut down there was no reason for me to visit Times Square anymore.

One of Mayor Giuliani’s tactics in overpowering crime in the Big Apple was to employ what is known as a “sweep” of an area and arrest anyone who is doing anything against the law. And Johnny, I mean anything. A friend of mine was busted in a sweep of Alphabet City for smoking a joint on the street and he spent a night in jail. The fact that he was arrested in front of an apartment building that houses several crack dealers was truly an ironic moment that went over the Gestapo-like policemen’s heads as they handcuffed him and ignored the steady stream of people wandering in and out of the building gleefully making purchases of rock cocaine.

Well, on that fateful August night it was my turn. I had walked about a block on Columbus Avenue and had maybe two sips of the illegal brew when a police siren went off howling behind me. Unfazed I continued to walk, sirens go off in the city as frequently as Donald Trump changes girlfriends, so you tend to ignore them.

But a few steps later the police car sidled up to me and a sporty, pumped-up young police officer jumped out and told me to stop.

“Stop what?” I asked this furrowed brow defender of the law.

“What’s in the bag?” He asked in a Joe Friday monotone, that was a stark contrast to his boyish face and blonde crew cut.

“A can of beer.” I answered.

Ba-da-bing, Ba-da-boom! Junior Johnny Law had his man. Without so much as a hot light overhead he had whipped a confession out of me.

“Do you know that it’s against the law to drink open alcohol on the streets?” He quizzed me with ever narrowing eyes.

“Yeah, but this is just a beer,” I countered. Somewhere Perry Mason was blushing.

“A can of beer is an alcoholic beverage sir.” He said in clipped, curt tones while folding his arms and shaking his head at my pathetic defense ploy.

“Oh, right.” I sheepishly replied.

You see I drink beer so often that I don’t think of it as an alcoholic beverage, but more as a staple of life. Like cigarettes. But the young officer had made his point and I was willing to let him have his day.

“Well I’ll just throw it out and be on my way,” I offered and started to walk in the direction of a garbage can.

“Hold it right there sir!” He commanded. “I’ll take the beer, have you got any I.D.?”

With much sadness I surrendered the beer. I almost detected a faint smile as he poured the beer out in front of me and then threw the can out into the street.

“Hmm, the poor fellow must have been out sick on the day that they taught the young cadets that littering is against the law,” I thought to myself as he took out a book of tickets and started writing on the pad.

“Sir we’re doing a sweep of the Upper West Side tonight,” he explained in the Sgt. Friday monotone. “Now while you may think it’s perfectly innocent to be walking along with a can of beer, this kind of behavior leads people to think they can sit on a stoop and smoke pot. Next thing you know they’re selling crack in broad daylight.”

I didn’t want to spoil his lecture by telling him that over in the park at 72nd and Broadway they were probably not only selling crack, but mescaline, heroin and all sorts of illegal, mind altering substances.

“I could’ve taken you to jail tonight, but I decided to write you a summons instead,” he continued. “You’ll have to show up at court on this date and you’ll probably be issued a fine.” He ripped the ticket off the pad and handed it to me in one fell swoop. Then with panther-like moves he jumped back into the car where his partner had kept the car running, wasting taxpayer-funded gasoline.

“Stay out of trouble,” he warned jabbing a finger in the air and the car sped off, probably in hot pursuit of jaywalkers over on Amsterdam and 73rd.

Well I did what any right thinking New Yorker would do. I pitched the ticket in the garbage and bought a six of sixteen ounce Budweisers from another deli and drank them in the safety of my apartment.

By all accounts that should be the end of this story, but it’s not. Let’s fast forward to the first week of October.

It was a Tuesday night and I had been sitting in the P&G Tavern on the corner of Columbus and 72nd drinking, yes that’s right, beer. Even though I like to drink a lot, I know when to say when. So at 4:30 in the morning after ingesting enough Budweiser to make a Clydesdale puke, I decided it was time to say “When.” I stumbled home and passed out on the bed.

The knock on the door came roughly two hours later.

“BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!” Went the door.
    Now the earliest most of my friends rise is at the crack of noon, so I knew this was either someone at the wrong door or an unwanted visitor.

“Get the fuck out of here, I’m sleeping!” I graciously informed the uninvited knocker.

And that’s when those five horrific words penetrated my eardrums.

“Open up, it’s the police!”

I sprung up off the bed like a piece of bread popping out of a toaster whose timer had gone horribly awry.

“What?” I asked throwing on a pair of shorts and groggily stumbling towards the eyehole on the apartment door.

“Open up, this is the police and we have a warrant to pick up Martin Wombacher,” the voice from behind the door informed me.

Well now my brain was spinning in a hyperactive hurly-burly mode. This was just too much information to process with a head full of beer and a body functioning on two hours of sleep. I peered through the keyhole and saw two potbellied men whose ages were somewhere between mid thirties to early forties. They each adorned the tops of their heads with baseball caps and were wearing tee shirts straining under the girth of their guts.

“How do I know you two are really cops?” I countered while staring at the dullardly duo from the eyehole.

With this they each produced silver badges on chains from underneath their tee shirts. Even in my fuzzy condition I couldn’t help but notice that they produced the badges and held them out at exactly the same time without blinking with the precision of two synchronized swimmers. These guys were cops alright.

And I should point out that at this time I had long forgotten about the beer ticket. I have trouble remembering things that happened a few hours ago, much less two months ago. So I figured something was amiss.

“Look I think you guys have made a mistake, I haven’t done anything,” I explained wiping crud off my bloodshot, maplined eyes.

“This is Martin Wombacher I’m speaking to right now?” One of them questioned.

“Yeah, but I haven’t done anything.” I whined.

“Open up or we’re going to break the door down.” One of them threatened.

“Holy shitballs,” I thought.

I felt like Otis in an Andy of Mayberry episode gone terribly wrong. I took a deep breath which nearly caused me to faint and opened the door.

 Fat and Fatter burst in. The one on the left was holding the warrant.

“Get dressed we’ve got to take you to the holding cell at the precinct jail until the court opens up.”

Was this all some sort of bad acid flashback? Was I dreaming? This had to be a mistake.

“Jail? Jail? Jail?” I was repeating it like a mantra. It was like my brain was a record that the needle kept sticking on. My  mouth tasted like a dirty bath mat that had been soaked in rancid beer.

One of the fat boys took a step towards me.

“Have you been drinking?” He asked as his pudgy, silly putty-like face was twisting into a scowl.

If ever there was an appropriate time to emphatically utter the words, “Uh, like, Duh!” it was right then. But I decided to be more diplomatic.

“Well, I was a few hours ago, but then I fell asleep and didn’t expect all this,” I said with a dramatic sweep of the arm. As upset and tired as I was I thought this was nice touch to punctuate my feelings. The fat boys remained unimpressed.

“You like to drink, don’t you,” The other one asked. He was slightly taller and I realized he was chewing gum. I resisted the urge to ask if he brought enough for everybody in the room.

“Yeah, so what? What’s going on here?” I asked in ever-growing belligerent tones. By now I was awake and starting to get pissed. I was also still drunk. I was sure this was the problem of some computer glitch and couldn’t wait to throw these two low rent, overweight Barney Fife’s out of my apartment like yesterday’s rotting garbage.

The one with the warrant shook the paper in my direction and spoke with one of those “gotcha” smiles.

“Do you remember receiving a ticket for an open beer on Columbus Avenue last August?” He asked, flashing his badly stained choppers at me.

Slowly, through the mist of beer floating in my brain, it came back to me.

“Oh yeah,” I replied as I was becoming stupid with shock. “But you don’t mean you’re hauling me off to jail over an unpaid ticket?”

“Bingo!” The one holding the warrant sang out. “Mayor Giuliani has instituted a new policy where we pick up people with outstanding tickets and take them to court, Now get dressed, you’ve got to sit in the holding cell until the court opens at 10:00.”

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Stay tuned for Part II tomorrow!

Motherfucker What a Week!

So far I’ve been working twelve hour plus days and that’s the reason the show is starting so late. Today and tomorrow’s story is a repeat of the third time I was tossed in jail, which is good, because I haven’t had time to write anything new. I barely have time to write this, because I have shit to do before work.

As always, “Boris’s” Home Page art rules! I love the design on this one, Daddio! Very cool. And remember, “Boris” is not only the resident artist at TMWS, he’s available for all your artistic freelance needs, be it a custom logo, website art, books or CD covers or just about anything. Just send me an email from the Home Page form and I’ll forward it to him.

Okay, Photo fo the Day is next, the part one of the repeat, so check back, stay tuned...whatever! I gotta run, I got shit to do and people to see...Motherfucker!

Closing Credits

Produced, directed and written by Marty Wombacher

Theme song and announcer: Slim Volume

Resident artist: “Boris”

Contributing Writers (Comments section, listed in order of comment):
Professor Dungpie, Fountainhead of Enlightenment!
Zioum Zioum the Chainsaw
BigBob
Biff
your cousin, Mary

Thanks for tuning in and contributing everyone, we’ll see you tomorrow at THE MARTY WOMBACHER SHOW!

And Now A Word From Our (Fake) Sponsor

Daily Story—Category: Jail

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You’ve Got Jail! (Number Two In A Series of Four, Collect Them All!)

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I first got arrested in 1976 and it was quite a stretch of time till the next time I got thrown into the clink. Fourteen years, to be exact. My second stint in stir was in October of 1990. I was 32 years old and working nights at a printing company called Fleming Potter in Peoria, Illinois. I was also publishing and editing my own magazine, People of Peoria. I went out to celebrate the second issue being completed and the celebration turned into a cell. A jail cell, to be more specific.

My Second Time in Jail

In 1989 I had the wacky idea to do my own magazine and by 1990, by some miracle this was happening. The magazine was called People of Peoria and it was a mix of People, National Lampoon, Mad magazine and my own warped imagination. The first issue took about six months to put together, but when it came out it was a big hit in Peoria and it sold very well. The only problem I realized after I did the first one was that people then expect a second one. And I had about six weeks to put it together as opposed to six months. I had assembled a rag-tag crew of a staff for the magazine that ran the gamut from a punk rocker, to a high school kid to a journalism professor and everything in between. All in all there were over twenty people working on it and I found that half of my time was spent meeting people to get their stories and/or photos and then putting the whole thing together own my Apple computer with a couple guys who were doing the page layout. It seemed like I was always running somewhere and there was not enough hours in the day. But everyday was an adrelaline rush and soon I was hooked.

I’ve always read bands talk about making and writing their second album and how you get years to write the first one, but then you’re expected to do the same thing in a couple months with your sophomore release. So that’s how this issue was to me, really nerve-wracking, but by September I had it ready to go to the printer’s and two weeks later the issue was printed. I wrote the cover story which was on a homeless man named Willie York who was famous in Peoria for existing on roadkill, cheap wine and marijuana. Here’s the cover:

The issue turned out great, considering the lack of time we had to put it together and that I was still learning the ins and outs of putting a magazine together. One thing I quickly learned to love, was the thrill of seeing it printed, it was a real high and I usually met a few people for a celebratory lunch the day I got them from the printers. I had gotten advance copies from the printer on a Friday and I made plans with Mike Foster, who wrote two features in this issue and Jeff Putnam who was the photo editor. How did Jeff become the photo editor? Simple, he had a camera, that’s they way things worked around the magazine.

Mike had written a great story on a unique and charming German bar and restaurant in the neighboring town of Washington, Illinois. The restaurant’s name was The Rat’skeller and it was owned by a 39-year-old German native named Wolfgang Thomalla.

I had known Wolfgang for a while before he opened up his bar. He was a rough and ready guy and to say he liked to drink was a bold understatement. This guy was a world-class boozer and he hung out at the same bars I did. I had seen him 13 sheets to the wind and continue to drink beer and shots like he had just come from a fortnight in the desert having subsisted on a diet of only sand and dust. His pet name for me when he was drunk was, “Cowboy Faggot.” I don’t know how he came up with this title for yours truly, but since it was Wolfgang I always laughed it off, because he only called me that when he was blind, stinking drunk, which was most of the time. So for him to be opening up a bar, was kind of like putting Amy Winehouse in charge of a crack factory. But for a while, Wolfgang kept his nose fairly clean and the place was a success in the beginning.

Wofgang at the Rat'skeller bar. (Photo by Jeff Putnam.)
Like I said, Mike did a great job on the story and Jeff took some great photos of Wolfgang, so it was decided to meet there for our celebratory lunch. I remember saying to Mike on the phone, “Wolfgang’s going to love the story, maybe we’ll get some free beer out of the deal.” Right now would be an opportune time to throw this well-worn phrase into the mix: “Be careful what you wish for!”

The feature article written by Mike Foster.
Mike, Jeff and I all arrived at the Rat’skeller at noon and I showed the article to Wolfgang. Wolfgang loved it and promptly placed one German beer apece in front of all of us and said the magic words, “On the house!” Now true journalists never accept anything free for their work, that’s why I’ve never considered myself a true journalist. I’ll take anything free you put in front of me and if it’s loaded with alcohol, well then, so much the better!

So we toasted the magazine, we toasted the Rat’skeller, we toasted Wolfgang, we toasted each other and somewhere in between all the toasting, we had lunch. I don’t recall what we had, but I know it was something German and it was probably toasted. After lunch, Jeff wisely left. I’d like to say that Mike and I rounded out this trio of wise men, but foolishly, we stayed. There was free booze flowing after all and by now we were toasting Germany and parts of Europe that I had never heard of, or were just plain made up. And then it happened. In a moment of pure joy, Wolfgang uncorked a bottle of Jagermeister. Now today, everybody knows that Jagermeister is a liquid, alcoholic mindbomb that can throw you into a drunken frenzy in just a few friendly shots. But back in the innocent days of 1990, I had never heard of it until I had lunched at The Rat’skeller.

Wolfgang started pouring shots for us and that is when this scene in this movie goes dark. Black I should say. I remember drinking many shots of Jagermeister and then the next thing I remember is trying very unsuccessfully to stand on one leg on the side of Prospect Road in Peoria Heights in front of a cop. Peoria Heights is miles from Washington, Illinois and to this day I have no idea how I drove there. It’s a complete blackout. I’m just eternally grateful I didn’t plow over or into anyone. How I maneuvred that far being blind drunk is a miracle. But now a crowd had gathered as a short cop put me through the motions of a field sobriety test. Needless to say I flunked with flying colors and was soon sitting handcuffed in a small room in the Peoria Heights sheriff’s office.

The cop who arrested me was a real piece of work. Like I said, he was short, probably about 5 foot five, was skinny and had short black hair. He had equal parts Napoleon and Barney Fife syndrome going on. He handcuffed me so tightly that my wrists were bleeding and when I asked if he could remove them or untighten them because they were cutting into my wrists he walked up to me and screamed, “That’s what we give drunks around here to wear asshole! You don’t talk unless I tell you to!”

It was probably a good thing that I was handcuffed at this point, because I drunk and pissed off enough that I would’ve probably taken a swing at him and been in even more trouble.

He scowled at me and then said, “Okay, get up, you’re taking your breathalyzer now.”

Now I knew that you had every right to turn down the breathalyzer. A guy that I knew who was an attorney had once told me that if you get pulled over and pass the field sobriety test, refuse the breathalyzer because then you could argue in court that if you passed the field test, why did they even bring you in. Now even though I got an F minus on the field sobriety test—when I tried to touch my finger to my nose with my eyes closed, I think I touched my left ear—I wasn’t going to take the breathalyzer test just to spite this asshole cop.

“I’m not taking it,” I spat out defiantly.

“What?” short-stuff asked incredulously.

“I’m not taking it, I don’t have to,” I shot back.

With this he scrunched down until we were eyeball to eyeball and said, “You’re taking that test you drunken asshole. You do what I tell you to do.”

“I don’t have to and that’s the law. I know it,” I said not backing down an inch.

He glared at me like a bull that’s been waved the red flag at by a matador, grabbed me, pulled me up and said, “Alright smartass, we’ll take your weight first and then see what you have to say.”

He led me handcuffed through an office of cops and civilians typing and sitting around, into a room with cement walls, a desk some chairs and a scale. He walked me near the scale, got directly behind me and then kicked me as hard as could in the back. I went flying head first into the wall and landed on the floor with a huge bump already growing on my forehead.

“You going to take the breathalyzer now, asshole?” He asked glaring down at me on the ground.

“Fuck you,” I said and then he proceeded to start kicking me in the stomach.

I remember yelling, “stop it,” when another cop stopped at the door.

“What’s going on,” he asked with a grin on his face.

“This drunken piece of shit can’t seem to stay on his feet,” the short cop said while laughing.

“Well, you better take him to jail, we got that game tonight,” he said and then turned and walked away.

“Alright, asshole, up on your feet,” shorty said while yanking me up by my left arm.

He stopped at a desk, picked up a folder with some papers and then drove me to the Peoria County Jail.

Neither of us spoke the entire time. I remember at the time thinking it felt like when you had a fight with your girlfriend and neither wanted to be the first to talk. I almost felt like laughing, but I knew better.

We arrived at the jail and went in through a back entrance. We made our way into a room that had a long desk with a woman at the end of it. She was attractive, blonde and appeared to be in her late twenties. We approached the desk and he handed her the envelope. As she looked in the envelope he finally took the handcuffs off and I put my hands up near up near my face and my wrists were covered in blood and bleeding. The woman looked up and then looked shocked at my wrists.

“Oh my God,” She said while running into another room.

“You keep your fucking mouth shut,” Shorty said while glaring at me.

Blondie returned with a wet towel and handed it to me.

“Did you know his wrists were bleeding,” She asked Shorty as I ran the towel over the cuts and cleaned them up.

“Must’ve happened on the way down,” Shorty sneered back while glaring at me.

“What happened to your head,” She asked looking at the lump on my forehead.

“He fell down,” Shorty interjected while smiling.

“Yeah, I fell into his boot,” I sarcastically shot back.

“I told you to shut your fucking mouth,” Shorty screamed at me.

“Look, officer,” Blondie sharply interrupted, “I’ve got the paperwork, I think we can take it from here.”

“Fine, I have to be going anyway,” Shorty said, while spinning around and marching away, almost goose-stepping like a little Hitler.

“Is your head okay, do you want see a doctor?” She asked.

“I’m okay,” I answered touching the knot on my head.

“You think you can make bail?” She asked while filling out some paperwork.

“I know I can,” I lied, hoping to get on some sort of fast track out of there. I think she felt sorry for me, knowing I got beat up by that short piece of shit.

“Okay,” we’ll process you and I’ll have you put in a holding tank and you can make calls from there.”

“There’s a phone in the cell?” I asked.

“Yeah, in the holding cell,” she answered.

“Jail sure has changed,” I said half smiling.

“So you’ve been here before?” she asked while typing something on a piece of paper.

“Yeah, a long time ago,” I said while remembering my first night in jail.

Blondie took me to a room and I was fingerprinted, had my mug shot taken and then a cop escorted me to a cell, but it wasn’t in the regular part of the jail and there was just one guy sleeping on one of the wooden racks that lined the walls. The cop opened the door escorted me in and told me I could make my calls from the phone on the wall.

“If it’s not local, you have to call collect,” he said and then slammed the jail door shut. I remembered that sickening clang from the first time I got thrown in jail. It’s a sound you never forget.

This woke up my cellmate and he rolled over squinted at me, grunted and then fell back asleep. He looked a little older than me, had long red hair and looked as bad as I felt. I had sobered up somewhat and called my friend Moon. Moon’s brother-in-law was a sergeant on the police force and is a real nice guy. So I immediately called Moon. It took me awhile to convince him I wasn’t kidding and when I finally made it clear I was in jail he said he’d immediately call his brother-in-law. Then I called my brother Jim and luckily he was home. I told him I was in jail and that bail would probably be one hundred bucks. He said he was on his way. Within five minutes a cop came to the cell door and yelled out, “Wombacher? Martin Wombacher?”

“Right here,” I spat out while waving at him.

The cop unlocked the cell door and told me to come with him. He was young, tall with sandy brown hair and had an air of nonchalance about him. I had a good feeling that my luck was turning.

I followed him into an office and he had a bag with my money and things they had taken from pockets when I was being processed.

“Am I getting out of here?” I asked amazed.

“Yeah,” the cop shot back, “it’s your lucky day. You got a ride home?”

“Yeah, my brother’s coming here,” I told him. “What’s my bail going to be?”

He smiled and said, “No bail, Sgt. Needham said you wouldn’t flee the country before your trial. Just sit here until we call for you,” he said as he walked away.

Postscript

My brother picked me up and drove me to my apartment. The next day I called Mike and he told me he was in the doghouse at home, because he had to be at some school meeting that evening and he had come home bombed. After I told him I had been in the jailhouse, I think he felt a little better. My car had been impounded and I spent the next couple days getting my car and talking to an attorney that specialized in D.U.I.’s. His name was Donald Halm and he was a short pudgy guy with grey hair and a ruddy pink face. He told me my D.U.I. I had gotten years ago was long off the books, so this would be treated like a first offense. I’d probably lose my license for a month and get a fine and probation. But since I worked nights, he said he could probably get the judge to let me drive for a half an hour before and after work. After we were done, as an aside he asked why I had gotten so drunk. I told him about the magazine and that Wolfgang was practically pouring booze down our throats for free.

“He was giving you free drinks and he’s the owner?” The attorney asked with his face lighting up.

“Yeah, the guy can be pretty fucking nuts,” I told the attorney.

“Would your friend testify to this?” The attorney asked excitedly.

“Yeah, but why would he?” I asked confused.

“I think I can get you out of this whole mess,” Halm said smiling widely.

“How?” I asked, a little shocked.

“Look if a bartender serves you too much, he can be in trouble, but it’s tough to prove sometimes. But if this clown was giving it to you for free and he’s the owner, we can get this thrown out, I guarantee you!” He told me triumphantly.

“So what would happen to Wolfgang?” I asked.

“Well, he’ll lose his liquor license,” Halm said matter-of-factly.

I thought for a minute and said, “Shit I can’t do that, he’d go out of business then.”

Halm let out a sigh and said, “Well, I understand, if you change your mind let me know.

Wolfgang never knew how close he came to getting shut down and I never went back to The Rat’skeller. The last I heard from him was about six months after my D.U.I. I was home working on an article for the magazine and the phone rang, I picked it up, said hello and just heard somebody mumbling.

“Hello?” I repeated.

And then I heard in a German accent, “Hello you cowboy faggot!”

I laughed and said, “Wolfgang, what’s up?”

“Hello cowboy faggot,” he repeated like some drunken German parrot.

Then someone grabbed the phone and said, “Can I help you?”

I recogonized the voice. It was Jim Bonnett who managed The Rat’skeller and was also a writer. He had worked on the magazine.

“Hey Jim, it’s Marty, from the magazine,” I told him. “Wolfgang called me, but he just keeps shouting, ‘cowboy faggot,’ at me. What is he bombed out of his gourd?”

“Yeah, he was reading that old issue with his article in it and he must’ve seen your phone number in the masthead,” Jim explained. In the background I heard Wolfgang yelling. “Listen I gotta run and take care of Wolfgang” Jim told me.

“Okay, tell the cowboy faggot I said goodbye,” I laughingly told Jim.

“Will do Marty, talk to you soon,” Jim laughed and hung up the phone.

Eventually The Rat’skeller closed due to a mixture of the economic climate and Wolfgang’s insatiable thirst for booze. I’ve never had another sip of Jagermeister and if I even so much as catch a whiff of it, I feel like I’m going to throw up. I don’t know whatbecame of Wolfgang, but I imagine he’s in a bar somewhere screaming out the words, “Cowboy Faggot!”

I don’t know what happened to that short little piece of shit cop that arrested me, either. My lawyer advised me to stay out of Peoria Heights if I could because those cops had a reputation for being nuts. I can only hope that that sawed off asshole got caught doing something illegal and is now in jail and being repeatedly gang-raped in cell block number nine.