the Long Branch 5-0 vs me
petty crimes and the officers who take them way too seriously
You might be asking yourself exactly how drunk does one need to be to get arrested for disorderly conduct during Memorial weekend on the Jersey shore. Turns out not very- because Long Branch, NJ doesn’t fuck.
Admittedly it’s a small wonder I, unlike like many of my beloved early 2000s starlets, didn’t come face to face with the law a hell of a lot sooner and for far more egregious behavior. Lock me up for leaving damn near an ounce of cocaine at The Continental bar on St.Marks, sure. Throw the book at me for shattering the glass wall of the old Lucky 13’s, I’d have deserved it. Spitting at that Coney Island police officer after I called him a “pig” was totally uncalled for (was it tho?) Had I been handcuffed for any of these offenses, they’d have my full cooperation. “How do I plead? Guilty as charged, your Honor.” Truly a gift from the delinquent gods I had made it this long without pulling a Lohan but maybe I wasn’t Dionysus’ favorite daughter after all and my luck was about to run out.
Do you want to know what they tried to get your girl for? A fucking WWI. Yeah, whatever trumped up charge that is. Walking while intoxicated. I’m getting ahead of myself, let’s begin from blurry start.
Picture it - the Tiki Bar at Ocean Place in quaint little Long Branch on the glorious unofficial first day of summer. Cascada’s Every Time We Touch surging through the speakers. 22 inch biceps and slim hips with tan lines in the shape of Playboy bunnies were on full display, the sun having melted away months of east coast seasonal depression and introversion. It smelled liked coconuts and day-drinking outside and damn, it felt good to be an American.
I made the pilgrimage from Brooklyn to the promised land of bikinis and booze with my ex, younger sister and a handful of our friends in tow. The said ex-boyfriend, a bore and all around ruiner of vibes, protested initially but goddamnit there was a frozen margarita out there with my name on it and I wouldn’t budge. Armed with my cut-off denim shorts, Doc Marten’s, and a vintage Bon Jovi t-shirt (when in Rome), I was ready to rage.
A few hours later I had grown weary from lugging (and spilling) drink after drink from the Tiki Bar to the ocean and everywhere in between, my eyeliner hanging on for dear life. I tried to cut a deal with the bartender.
“Pleaaaaaaase Tommy just pour me a pitcher. I can’t keep carrying all these glasses from the bar to the beach. It’s too fucking hot.”
“Listen sweetness, I ain’t got a pitcher for you. You find me one and I’ll gladly fill’er up.”
Tommy the bartender probably made that offer hoping it would shut me up, thinking “no way in hell is this girl going to find anything like a pitcher just randomly along the beach.” Know what else you can find along the beach that can hold a lot of liquid and conveniently comes with a handle, Tommy? A fucking sand pail. $10 and some batted lashes later I had successfully talked some toddlers dad into renting me his kids beach toys.
“Mind if I ask what’cha need it for?”
“See that bar? That guy in the muscle tank said if I found something big enough to fill, he’d load it up with frozen margaritas for me. I’m going to rinse these pails out and for your kindness I’ll pour you a drink when I get back!”
Before you could say “Don Julio 1942”, I made it back with my two beach pails full of frozen margaritas, half a dozen plastic cups (obviously we wouldn’t drink them straight from the buckets, duh) and a victorious grin. If you’re thinking this much alcohol on a hot day with minimal food is a recipe for disaster, first of all shut up you’re killing the mood. Secondly, you’re right.
A few hours of harmless debauchery later, the sun was beginning to set. I returned the beach pails to their rightful Elmo-loving owner, packed up the beach towels, threw Bon Jovi back on and started the walk to the car. No, of course I wasn’t going to get behind the wheel. What am I, irresponsible?
loud thud
“Fuuuuuck.”
The strap of my beach chair had now decided to break. Of course, because when else would it?
I sloppily fumbled around, trying to collect the tanning oil and Ray Bans from the floor, when I looked up to see a baby-faced off duty mall cop, khakis and blue polo and all, coming towards me.
“Thank you officer, really I’m fine I don’t need any help. I got it.”
“Ma’am, have you been drinking?”
“Have I what? Been drinking? It’s Memorial weekend, the whole country has been drinking.”
“Cute. Look lady, I saw you almost walk into that pole. You’ve dropped all of your belongings. And you’re cursing loudly. Can I see some ID?”
“Fucks sake, really? My ID is with my sister, she’s up ahead. She’s the one driving. I almost walked into a pole because I couldn’t walk the line even if I was sober. My shit is all over the floor because the fucking strap on this thing clearly just broke. And cursing - that’s a crime? What is that, a Level 2 misdemeanor in this town?”
“No, but we take public intoxication very seriously around here. You’re going to have to come with me. Where are you from, ma’am.”
“New York. You going to arrest me for that too?”
“Walk this way, Brooklyn.”
That alone should have been just cause to commit a small act of violence. But, begrudgingly I followed this underage Paul Blart knockoff to his car while he assessed if I was fit enough to be released back into society. One breathalyzer here, a rolled eye there, sure as shit we deduced I was drunk but it didn’t take a badge to figure that out. Officer Numbnuts over here finally deciding the paperwork wouldn’t be worth the hassle or was just over my bad attitude, agreed to let me go as long as I was under someone’s care. That ex boyfriend came along and sighed as he assured the officer I wouldn’t cause any further problems to which I gave both him and deputy Douchebag two middle fingers.
Oh and if you’re wondering about that ounce of cocaine I forgot in the bathroom stall of the Continental - right where I left it. Like I said, Dionysus’ favorite daughter.
Oh Sudana. I actually think walking while intoxicated is something to be applauded. I've actually passed out in many locations while drinking. You don't really get arrested unless you're violent here. I actually think the security guards took pity and rounded up my friends to get me out of the gutter. My late teens/ early 20s were something else, clearly.
However! I once thought I'd caught the attention of a hot barman in a candle lit Tiki bar that served pina coladas in pineapples. I had caught something. My hair. My hair was on fire.
That pleasure of being inebriated under the sun, they want to prohibit that too? Darn, the world is truly coming to an end.
This was a truly fun read. It transported me to my mid twenties, climbing the wall of the public pool at night with my friends and when the police came in with flashlights we all hid in the changing rooms except a friend (heavily tattooed and naked) who started drying himself and cooly said- what now, can't a guy enjoy a dip in the middle of this torrid night? you must be hot in those uniforms.