Snitched on in Santa Clara
Alex Dwyer
Issue date: 2/26/07 Section: Opinion
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AÂ 50-something-year-old irritated member of the upstanding Santa Clara Police Department yelled, "You two, get over here! A little underage drinking tonight, huh?" His gleaming gold badge and matching nametag read-B. Allen. I replied coolly, "No, I'm 21." Then I showed him my ID, which confirms that I hit the golden age on Jan. 23rd. With dismay his attention shifted, and he asked to see my friend's ID. My accomplice, Michael "Joey" Harb, fumbled through his wallet to make sure he picked the correct ID-as he may have had a couple. Officer B. Allen's eyes grew as big as his ego. "Lemme see that," he said, as he snatched the wallet out of my Joey's hands and started fiendishly rummaging through it.
With hands still firmly planted on the cop car, I politely asked, "Are you allowed to do that, sir?" The officer stopped what he was doing and looked at me in disgust for a moment before he responded, "What did you just say to me?" I repeated, "Are you allowed to look through his wallet, sir?" His outrage reached an Everest height and the reaction was priceless: "turn around!" B. Allen yelped in a war cry. Cold steel cuffs were thrown over my wrists and clicked into painful place at his satisfaction.
This set off a series of events that were laughable. He radioed in to his cronies, who showed up promptly, riled up like their role model. They began deliberating about how to quell the severe threat we were posing to the community. Three cops, three police vehicles and two innocent kids crammed an intersection-surrounded by wild party-goers terrorizing the neighborhood using lawns for toilets between gulping from bottles, but we remained the crooks.
After a few minutes of nonsense, B. Allen started again, "I'm going to issue you guys $25 open container citations." He went on, "So, Mr. Dyer-is that right? Alex Dyer?" That isn't my name. "It's DWYER," I told him in an effort to spell my name correctly. "D-W-Y-E-R." Suddenly, he removed his spectacles, folded up his clipboard, stopped, stared fiercely and said, "see this is what happens when you drink, you get drunk and you get stupid!" The fatherly figure then bird-called to his vultures in waiting, "Take these boys in, they wanna go to jail." Joey got cuffed up, and we were on our way to the big house.
Once in the joint, they went protocol on our asses. They took our money, chapsticks, cellies, shoes and even my socks. My toes curled as I sat in my first cell-Joey was my neighbor to the left block. After about half an hour, a new badged buffoon appeared at my cell door to inform me that I was being charged with under-aged drinking. Again, I said, "I'm 21." Baffled and fumbling through his words, he told me he would be right back and whisked away.
Not long after, he returned gripping a little device tightly. "My mistake, you are being charged with being drunk in public," he boasted with confidence, "Let's see how drunk you are." He put the breathalyzer up, gave me the rundown and I blew my soberness proudly into the tube. Surprised and speechless, he merely turned the device so I could see my bright red .051 blood alcohol content, well below the .08 legal limit. "Well, we are allowed to hold you in here even if you are above .01," he told me-which seemed like he was trying to convince himself of that more than me. Again he left, tail between his legs.
Another half hour passed before the fuzz came again and herded Joey and me into a bigger cell. It was empty aside from the toilet in the corner and the drain in the middle of the floor. It was all ours. We stayed in this cell reminiscing about the ridiculousness of the events that led us behind bars until morning, when they let us out. Apparently those hours were necessary for us to "sober up."
One last time, the police stooge came and once outside the cell he gave me back my kicks, possessions and my citation. "What is this citation for?" I asked. He told me he wasn't at liberty to tell me since he wasn't the great B. Allen who put us on ice.
I stepped outside and once again tasted sweet freedom. I also pulled out the yellow citation and almost knocked myself out with the slap I threw to my forehead. It read: "minor in possession of alcohol"-$150. Those idiots. My birthday was even written correctly at the top right above the date of the incident.
The next day, I attempted to argue my case at the police station, but they sent me to city hall, which was closed until Tuesday. I was baffled. The only thing they could even possibility cite me for was an "open container" and they hadn't mentioned that after the original accusation by the dry snitch-B. Allen. I wasn't drunk, I wasn't underage, but I spent the night in the slammer.
This would never happen in L.A. or even Westchester. The police have much better things to do. B. Allen and friends were merely trying to fill the voids in their jailhouses and souls with their ridiculous actions. Yet, I reiterate the importance of the oldest rule in the book-never walk around in public with red plastic cups.
This is the opinion of Alex Dwyer, a junior communication studies and English double major from Brian Head, Utah. Please send comments to adwyer@theloyolan.com.