“I can do this,” He said to himself “just shake it off.” He picked up his keys and stumbled towards his coat. It seemed like one of the armholes had been sewn shut by playful elves, but he got both arms in the coat soon enough. You can see where this is going.
47 minutes later, he was sitting on a bench in a jail cell. Even though it was late fall, the AC was turned on at what felt like full blast. He didn’t know this but it was to keep other drunks, the really hard drunks, from dying in the cell from alcohol withdrawal. He was fucked, and he knew it. He had friends who had gotten DUI’s in the past, and he knew more or less what would happen. His license would be suspended for a while, he’d have to take the bus to the bus to work, or get someone to give him rides. There would be a blotch on his record, which meant checking the little box next to “have you ever been convicted of a crime?” in job applications. There might be community service involved, or even a bit of time. And legal fees. Fucking legal fees. For a moment, he felt the weight of it all on him, and he sagged under the pressure.
Luckily, there was no one in with him at the moment. Not much criminal activity on a small town on a Tuesday night, he supposed. He looked around at the cold walls, the bars around the cell, the stainless steel shine of the shitter. Almost as if it was made to suck the hope out of anyone who spent time there, cops or criminals. The drunk had turned to a buzz long ago, and was now trudging its way towards sober. It made everything more real than it had any right to be.
“Peterson” shouted a guard, walking towards him. “You made bail, you are free to fuck off somewhere else.” The guard was amused by his own wit, but he seemed to be the only one. Peterson stepped out, and saw his wife staring at him through the glass on the other side. The guard laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re fucked now buddy” he said, and laughed loudly to himself. Another zinger.