The Valentine's Day blog does not begin on Valentine's Day but on the Sunday morning before.
5:30 am: Text message recieved.
Sender: Ex-Girlfriend who will henceforth be known as Goddamn Crazy Bitch.
Message: "I am pregnant. I think about 31/2 mos. It's Yours. We need to talk.
"Holy Shit. Holy Shit. Holy F&%*$ Shit." I continue to repeat this new mantra between vomitting sessions as I pace the house. I suddenly can't think straight, I walk into the laundry room where Kelli and I keep the beer and grab what's left of a twelve pack and begin drinking. I sit on the couch and light up a cigarette; I don't smoke in the house. I call GCB. She answers the phone.
"Hey." She answers.
"So what exactly is going on?"
She proceeds to give me details about the pregnancy and apologizes repeatedly for not telling me sooner. I then begin to ask questions. She thinks she's 3 1/2 months, it's a girl (she wants to name her Lucy Mae, ugh) and she found out she was pregnant yesterday morning. Okay. She then keeps me on the phone for a couple of hours talking about everything but the pregnancy. She tells me that she hasn't told her parents yet and that she doesn't want anyone to know. We hang up and I pass out on the couch.
That day my parents just so happen to be coming in town; I tell them the situation along with anyone else I trust including the girl I'm currently dating (She took it surprisingly well). I tell them all everything she told me and they begin to find holes in her story.
Fast forward to Tuesday: The day before.
I have, along with the help of others, found several glaring gaps in GCB's story. The details of which are unimportant. I tell her to meet me at a restaurant for lunch the next day and that I'd like her to take an EPT test at my house. She agrees. I go to work ( I work second shift) and at 1:30 in the morning I get this text message from a number I don't know.
"JESUS ALWAYS COMES THROUGH. Forward this message to nine of your friends and you'll get good news tomorrow. THIS IS FOR REAL."
I forwarded that shit to twelve people just to be safe.
Fast forward to Wednesday: Valentine's Day.
I am woken up by the sound of my text message alarm. It's 11:30 am.
Sender: GCB
Message: I went to the ER last night. I lost the baby. Don't hate me.
I fucking knew it. There was no baby. She was just crazy as hell. I proceed to do front flips on my bed and send out the following mass text to everyone I told.
Message: "She's not pregnant just fucking crazy!"
I decide then that this is the happiest day of my life yet. I go back to sleep. I get back up at three and get ready for work. I go pick up Shanks at his house and we head to the shop. I'm talking to him about the GCB issue when I look in my rearview mirror and see one of Midwest City's finest behind me. My tag is out; car tags are my kryptonite. I turn to Shanks and inform him that we're about to get pulled over. We do. I pull into the parking lot of the Shell station we were heading to; expecting to get a ticket and a talking to by Johnny Law and then continue about my day. We go through the normal motions, license and insurance, bla bla bla. Asshole. Then comes the curve ball.
"Mr. Lewis can you step out of the vehicle please.?"
SHIT.
So I step out of the car.
"Mr. Lewis we're placing you under arrest for driving with a suspended license."
What the hell? I didn't even know my license was suspended. As it turns out my driver's license was suspended in may of '05 after I paid a ticket late. The assholes never told me. They put the cuffs on me and proceed to pat me down. As they're checking my pockets the assisting officer asks if I have anything in my pockets that may stick or cut him. I tell him no. He then goes directly for my left back pocket where I had forgotten I had my exacto knife for work. Then he gets pissy.
"Well, what's this then?"
What an Asshole.
Now I'm in the back of the squad car watching Shanks grab an armful of stuff out of my car inluding; my Ipod, his Zune and our Ping Pong paddles. (We play Ping Pong on lunch at work, I'm pretty good I could beat you.) And off to the station I go. I get processed in by a very attractive lady-jailer and the whole time she's processing me I keep thinking. "Dang, I'll bet she catches a lot of shit. I should be really nice to her, then I'll bet she'll help me out somehow." I was and she didn't. Strangely enough as I was in the process of making my phone call Gabe called the station. We joked about not ever going out of the house on holidays again and I told him to get me the hell out of there. So now it's time for the orange jumpsuit and the longest walk down a hallway ever.
So I grab a 'mattress' and a blanket and proceed to the holding cell. As I'm walking down the hall I try to prepare myself. In my last job I worked with several guys who are frequent visitors to jails and penitentiaries so I can speak 'inmate' conversationaly; not fluently but enough to get by. I approach the cells and realize there's about ten guys in this cell. Then someone says "Here come a new fish."
Aww, Damn.
I quickly look around the room and there's nothing I can pick up and hit an asshole with; so there goes that plan. So now I'm down to my wits and luck. Fuck, I'm gonna get traded for a pack of smokes. I go into the cell and throw my crap on the nearest bunk. Then one of the guys motions to me and says he knows me. For some reason anywhere I go this happens; I don't know why but it does. Someone always thinks they know me from somewhere. I look at him and this guy can't be for real. He's about my height and build, with the skin color of Michael Jackson, half of his head is shaved with the other half is in a small afro and a half shaven goatee offsetting his half-fro so that the hair from his half-fro and his goatee are on opposite sides of his head. I'm not even making this up. Half-fro then starts asking me if I hang around 38th and Walker. I don't even know where the hell that is, but I tell him sometimes. I then proceed to pull the fortune teller trick by giving vague answers and letting him answer his own questions for me. I now have made my first jail-friend.
An hour or so passes and they tell me that its almost time for dinner and that we're having fried chicken. Then the betting starts. The only other white dude in there, who I'll call He-Man due to his striking resemblance to the sword weilding cartoon character, decides to bet his chicken against another guy's, who I'll call OU since he was rocking the crimson and cream jersey, that OU can't pick up a deck of cards in a certain way. After an hour at his card picking up task OU completed He-Man's challenge and won the now cold chicken. Jail chicken is not half bad by the way. I had now been in jail for two and a half hours. Half-Fro kept trying to trick the pay phone into making free calls to no avail, OU had sat down and was unable to get back up after doing nearly a thousand squats to win a piece of chicken, He-Man was taking a nap and I decided to read a book, jail books suck. About thirty minutes into my old-west novel of intrigue and suspense my name was called and I was bailed out and free to go. So I picked up my 'matress' said goodbye to Half-fro, He-Man and OU and walked out free again.
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