From the chapter “The Contract, Drunk in the Cop Shop, Off to Aruba.”
The last stop of the tour was the best part. Our tour guide took us into an open area bar where they gave us all we could drink rum. Rum punch, rum and coke, rum with this, rum with that. Bad news. We all got blurry eyed shit faced. I don’t even know how long we were there pounding down rum like blood thirsty pirates, but then something clicked in my twisted head.
“Our letters!” I jumped up from the bar stool.
“What?” my dad asked in a daze.
“Oh, shit.” Veronica said slamming the rest of her drink.
“We gotta go.” I said. “Who’s driving?”
“Not me.” they both said at the same time.
“OK, give me the keys I’m experienced at drunk island driving.” I started to hold out my hand.
“You have them, dude.” my dad slurred.
I fumbled in my shorts pockets and heard a jingle. “I sure do. Let’s get out of here before we can’t walk.”
After parking crocked between two cop cars, we stumbled out of our vehicle still holding our last rum punch drinks we took for the road. It didn’t dawn on me until my dad said something as we walked to the police station entrance. “Christ, dude, we’re going into the cop station, bombed out of our gourds, to get you guys a letter of good conduct.”
“Try to act natural,” I said tripping over a rock and spilling a little of my rum.
“I’m not even opening my mouth,” Veronica said.
The same giant female cop was still behind her card table. I stumbled up the stairs with my rum sloshing around in my cup. I stood in front of her desk with twisted blood shot eyes. I imagined the rum stench was filling the stairwell.
“Pasley,” I said, setting my drink down on her work station.
She looked at me. At that moment she gave me a chill up my spine. She was a terrifying beast, cold brown eyes looking at me with hateful disgust. I burped. She drew back scrunching up her nose trying to block the alcohol fumes. Oh no, I’ve gone too far this time. Only a fool would stagger into a police station holding a rum punch, drunk, asking for a letter of good conduct.
The officer raised her beefy arm and pointed past me. Her blue uniform was drenched around her armpit with sweat. “Go sit down,” she said in a raw voice, “And take your cup of rum with you.”
As I walked like a crab down the stairs to where Veronica and my dad were sitting, I heard the beast yell up the other flight of stairs, “Are the papers ready for Pasley and the girl yet?”
Ten minutes later we had our letters of good conduct and the next morning we were off to Aruba with a rum hangover.
Note: The photo above is not the police station we stumbled into. I don’t know where in the hell this photo was taken or even if it’s real. But I love it!