The Holding Cell

There are few things worse in life than waking up in a holding cell with no recollection of how you got there. That’s how this morning started. I found this particularly confounding considering that the last thing I remember was doing something heroic.

My favorite bar The Powder Keg has theme parties a couple of times each year. I’m notorious at these events for my great costumes. At jungle night, I came dressed from head to toe in zebra stripes (and managed to hook up with a hot lion that night). For the Superbowl party, I decided to be a pretentious Superbowl commercial director, complete with a silky shirt, poofy pants, knee-high boots, and one of those scopes directors look through, shouting to everyone, “money is no object!” Last night was 70s night, and I was Elton John in a purple sequined jacket, blue silk pants, and treble-clef sunglasses. After eight rounds of a drink the bar was calling “liquid Quaaludes” it was time to walk home.

My walk home has me crossing Powell, which is a major street. Near the intersection, I saw a dog huddled in a heap. Apparently it had been hit by a car. It was a terrible sight; that dog is probably someone’s pet. I’d read somewhere that you can give dogs CPR, so that’s what I did. That’s the last thing I remember.

The officer watching over the holding cell noticed that I woke up and approached me. I frantically asked him what I was doing here.

“We got a report that a transvestite was making out with a dead deer by the side of Powell last night,” the officer said. “Amazingly, that report turned out to be true. You’re being held on public intoxication charges.”