for HJSH
If she was being honest, she had two accomplices: Chrissy, her friend, and Keith, her son. But, as her head was slowly guided into the back of the waiting patrol car, she vowed to herself that their names would not be mentioned. There was no reason why she would have to divulge the names of her “accomplices,” partners in crime. Years of watching cop shows and reading detective fiction had prompted her thinking. She was hardly about to be interrogated in a windowless room in the basement of the main police station for “public mischief” — the excuse the cop had given when she was arrested outside the arena talking to a few other women.
The t-shirt had started as a joke between friends. She and Chrissy had been discussing possible outfits to wear to the Sting concert, whether it would be too hot for skinny jeans in a packed arena in the middle of July, if they’d get filthy wearing shorts instead. Chrissy started on about her collection of concert t-shirts, and from there it was a slippery slope to an evening spent in police custody with several dozen rowdy and drunken fans who more adequately met the charge. She no doubt would figure in the various retellings of the night. She hoped it would be more Forrest Gump than sad middle-aged lady in a cheesy t-shirt, but she ultimately had no control over what hazy memories would appear for her cellmates.
As she sat in the corner waiting for Keith to come bail her out, she suppressed a smile. Her own memories of the night would not be at all hazy. She and Chrissy had an epic night, to use Keith’s trendy expression, and her arrest and detention was simply one more thing to add to it. This thought comforted her a little bit, prevented her from agonizing about the effect her arrest would cause at work. It allowed her to focus on the ridiculousness of her situation, freeing her from thoughts of what other people might think of her. Keith would shortly arrive and, sheepish, she would have to explain herself, again.
In due time, she was led to the lobby, bailed out, in possession of various forms telling her of court dates and the like. The door was opened for her and instead of the expected big hug from her son, Keith kept arms-length away from her. He held her arms, softly, as he asked earnestly if she was okay, if she had been mistreated. He stood very still, even after she had laughed off his concerns over her safety while in police custody. Finally, they made their way out of the police headquarters, and drove home in silence. Keith was on the phone to his dad as soon as he got in the door, and she called Chrissy as soon as she could to tell of her “ordeal.” There was a considerable amount of laughter as she recounted the other women hauled in with her, her thoughts when in the cell, and Keith’s expression when she was released.
Keith was awake earlier than usual, scrounging for coffee before she even had a chance to fully wake. “Grab your glasses, mom,” he yelled to her. Sitting at the kitchen table, he turned his laptop to face her, and she instinctively adjusted the screen to her height. She saw the familiar screen of Youtube with the ‘play’ triangle in the centre of the screen. “Brace yourself,” said Keith, laughing, as she watched the grainy footage from the night before. “I hid the camera in my pocket when I went to get you,” Keith explained, “and then I taped you retelling the story to Chrissy,” he added. She couldn’t help but be impressed with her son’s technical skills. This Youtube generation could get anything on the Web in no time, she thought to herself. She realized after about forty-five seconds that her face was in focus but the rest of her was blurred. As the clip progressed to ninety seconds —the limit of people’s attention on Youtube, according to Keith — her homemade t-shirt gradually became visible as the camera focused squarely on her 45 year-old thankfully well-supported breasts: I wanted Tantric Sex with Sting (and all I got was this lousy t-shirt).
