Michael Drezin
Arrested at the ASPCA
When I was seven or eight, I joined the Little League. Joined for the uniform. If only the game were called a swing and a miss, I would have been considered a star, but as it happened, I was known as a complainer.
"Balls too small. Came in too fast. Got a toothpick for a bat."
Coach Sullivan, a.k.a. R. G. for real grouch, at least as far as I was concerned, had his speech ready. Given that he was like 100 years old, I doubt I was the first to hear it. It was short and to the point.
“That’s life. Rationalize it any way you want.”
That was then.
Now, at age 35, the lesson remains hard to apply. After ten years, my girl left me. No warning, just the announcement. “Nice knowing you.” She was only available to herself and had said so at the beginning. It took a while for it to sink in. She said she needed to heal from childhood trauma, and I knew she did, and I wanted her to; some of my feelings were selfless, some, relieved to be free from her erratic behavior. She understood that without my saying so.
For three years after the breakup, I avoided people as if that would cure my loneliness. It was time for me to move on. But people felt too risky.
The ASPCA closest to home got hundreds of one-star reviews, none better, and when I arrived that Saturday afternoon, I was the only visitor, intending to adopt a kitten or two. I was going down a well-traveled road. Nothing to worry about. What could possibly go wrong?
Then the cops arrived with drawn guns. I assumed they were cadets, not authorized to carry the real thing. They shoved me against a wall and patted me down. Seconds later, I felt a handcuff on my left wrist, then my right arm was yanked back, and a cuff was placed on that one, too.
The arresting officer, with the satisfaction of an FBI agent who had captured America’s most wanted, informed me of my charges. I was accused of violating “Animal Cruelty Law, section 101, subsection b. a class E felony with a sentence of 1 to 4 years, probation possible with the right judge. It's the crime of “entering into an ASPCA or other adoption facility without the intent to adopt.”
In short, I was accused of playing with animal affections.
Seated alone in the back of the police cruiser, I was read my rights. However unlikely I imagined my conviction would be, there are innocent people in jail. I did not want to be one of them. I did not want to lose my teaching job, or my apartment, or my car, even though it runs like an elderly man who spent his life smoking. Even if I got probation my photo would be transmitted to ASPCAs everywhere with the caption, "Not Wanted," and I would be barred from adopting. Of course, I could buy a pet, but that would feel like buying a person.
As we rode to the station, I overheard the cops talking. I gathered Blake, the snake, with a personality to match, started a rumor. Must’ve figured he wasn't getting adopted; no reason for anyone else to. He was watching me as I watched the kittens, hoping to adopt the right ones without knowing how to judge.
Cops stopped talking when they realized I was listening. Though the staff should have known better than to trust Blake, someone at the ASPCA wasn’t taking any chances.
I was transported to the Carter Municipal Jail, where my street clothes were exchanged for an orange jumpsuit. My belongings were shoved into a tan, eight-by-eleven envelope sealed with yellow "do not cross" tape. I removed my glasses for my mugshot photo and placed them on the fingerprint desk. At the time, I was willing to trade looking good for seeing good; besides, I thought I could see well enough without them. Turns out, I was wrong.
My name is Christopher Patrick Monroe. My friends call me Chris. In jail, they called me prisoner 62815.
I represented myself at the arraignment. All I had to do was say "guilty" or "not guilty." That was it. One word or two. My choice. No need to improvise. The basics had worked for thousands of defendants before: why not me? I am a college graduate and high school history teacher, credentials enough to wing it at my first criminal proceeding.
After spending the night in jail, cops brought me to the courtroom; a bailiff directed me to stand behind a table where my lawyer would be if I’d had one. Given the nature of the proceedings, animals were allowed to observe, as were children on a school trip, some hoping to be lawyers, some hoping to be perps.
Class was in session in the rear of the courtroom. The rabbits taught multiplication. The monkeys, arguing politics, taught division. Although no serious breach of good conduct was expected, the lions were separated from the lambs. Two snakes were playing Hearts. Both cheated. Due to crowded conditions, some spectators were left standing in the standing room.
"All rise," said the bailiff when the judge arrived. "This Honorable court is now in session." I thought, cool, an Honorable court.
"How do you plead, Mr. Monroe?"
I cleared my throat. I was ready for my courtroom debut, or so I thought. I had prepared a short speech in which I declared my innocence and love for animals.
"This is all a misunderstanding," was all I got to say.
I was interrupted by the bleating of a black sheep mocking me.
Where did she get the nerve?
While waiting for quiet, I looked for the Big Apple Circus ringmaster, who ushered the jungle cats to their seats. Wearing a red velvet jacket, oversized black- frame glasses, and a top hat, he should have been hard to miss. I saw a tiger wearing a top hat. It was probably a different hat.
The judge banged her gavel to silence the courtroom, but the sheep kept mocking me until the bailiff threatened to seat her near the wolf.
"How do you plead?" asked the judge.
"Speak up."
Given the way things turned out, that was her mistake.
Are you going to plead today?"
The subtext was clear. Get on with it. I got the message.
I said, "Sure thing, Your Portliness."
It could be I was nervous. Could be I left my glasses in the mug shot room, or maybe just maybe I should have had a lawyer do my talking for me.
Soon as I spoke, there was silence, like there would be if the reverend said "F" you” instead of "amen" during a church service.
I realized my mistake; problem was I didn't know how to correct it. I tried again. Same problem. What am I supposed to call a judge whose name I didn't know?
"Not guilty, Your Lordship?"
Your Leadership?
Championship?
Apprenticeship?
Chairmanship?
Worship?
Dictatorship?
Your Spaceship?
Your Courtship?
Your Highness?
Put yourself in my place. I'm in a room filled with animals. I am not the crowd favorite. I don't have my glasses. I'm nervous. I'm not a lawyer. I say the first thing that came to mind. Still, the judge threw the book at me. It missed and struck an older man standing in the standing room. Now he’s lying in the standing room. I didn‘t know lying was allowed in court. Now, I suppose I do.
"You were foolish to represent yourself," said the judge, but by then, that cat was out of the bag.
She didn't take into account my clean record or consider that my students needed me. And most important, she didn't realize I was arrested for no good reason.
Judge Elephant, or whatever her name was, held me in contempt. Ain't that some shit. I went to jail because she felt insulted. If everyone could do that, no one outside of jail would be left to insult.
My cell was a dog crate at the ASPCA. The staff kept it locked.
There was no way out of my sentence, at least none I could think of.
~
Six Months Later
I woke up early that Saturday morning, showered, shaved, and by 8 a.m., was headed back to the ASPCA. I was apprehensive about going, afraid would be closer to the truth, but that’s where I needed to be if I was going to adopt a pet.
Three months into my sentence, management at the Big Apple Circus hired a carnival snake charmer to get me out of the mess Blake the snake got me in. It wasn't my idea; it was more like the staff was trying to do me a solid or get rid of me. Saw no reason to ask which.
After dinner and drinks, the charmer got Blake to admit (in a recorded conversation) that he lied, didn’t call it a lie; he said he was "stating facts of an unverifiable nature," which was enough for the DA to drop the charges. The judge ordered me released. All was forgiven.
"Hope you learned your lesson."
"I have, Your Loveliness."
I was nervous about going back, but I wasn't moving in; I was going to adopt a kitten or two, a well-traveled road. Nothing to worry about. I read somewhere history repeats itself, where I teach its students repeat the class.
At the door with a "welcome" sign that wasn't meant especially for me or me at all.
I am now pushing against the door that has a small sign that says "pull." I reverse course. It's opening; I'm walking through it. I'm the only visitor there.
Moments later, cops arrived with drawn guns.
I assumed it was the same cops as before. My "NOT WANTED" picture remained posted, but a call to Judge Loveliness quickly resolved the problem. After passing the puppies and entering the home of the cats, I saw two black-and-white kittens sleeping. I tapped gently on their cage. They stood and looked at me as intently as if I were a passing parade.
They were girl kittens. They were so tiny, so very tiny; dollhouse kittens were what they were. Heads tilted, they stood perfectly still; their teepee-shaped ears were on alert. High alert. I knew I was going to adopt them. Just concentrating on their faces, they looked like old men with whiskers.
When blessed with children, one does not quibble about looks.
I drive Mia and Annie home, each in her own carry case, each case belted in. I take Interstate 95, driving the speed limit, while cars go around me. They are so quiet. I'm tempted to turn around and see if they're okay, but for obvious reasons, I don't.
At home, after I opened their carrier cases, they ran and hid under my dresser. I understood their concern; when in a new home with someone new, it's best to hide. They came out when dinner was served.
When they were through, Annie asked me to tell them a story. I lay on the floor. They climbed aboard.
I began with Cinderella, but Mia interrupted.
“Something real,” she said.
I told them the story of America's first woman president.
"Is that real, Daddy?" asked Mia, and I said it was "future real." They could tell I was putting them on, but let it go.
When the stories were over, I got up and turned out the lights.
"Night girls. Sleep tight."
"Night, Daddy."
I went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of locally brewed beer, twisted off the cap, sat on the couch, feet on the coffee table, feeling, oh wow, in just one day (not counting my first try), my family grew from one to three.
Being a parent will be the greatest challenge of my life. I'll buy one of those How to Be a Parent books, learn the ins and outs. I might practice on the kids hanging out on the street.
Might say, "Shouldn't you be home studying?"
It will be interesting to see how that goes.
Then I turned on my computer and went to the local ASPCA website. When I was done, it had reason to be pleased.
My comment is above the comment, "No waiting.”
I left a five-star review.
Michael is a lawyer who, in reaction to writing about the whereas and wherefores for his clients, began writing stories at night. “Arrested at the ASPCA” is one of them.
