Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea

  Tears were streaming down his face. It was a sad moment; even though he had attacked me like an ice-cream ninja, I couldn’t help but feel awful for him.

  “I’m sorry I kicked you in your privates,” I told him, awkwardly maintaining my position on top of him. (A position, mind you, that I became much more comfortable with later on in life.) “But you are a mess. What is wrong with you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  I finally felt like maybe the sugar was passing through his body, and I could tell he was tired from crying. I knew that whenever I threw a temper tantrum, I always felt pretty beat afterward as well. I got up from sitting on his penis.

  “I’m going to bed,” he said, and walked upstairs to his bedroom.

  I sat on the sofa, staring at the empty container of yogurt, wondering how long I was going to have this headache. James Sr. and Susan walked in moments after I had finished cleaning up.

  “How were they?” Susan asked as she walked into the living room.

  “Fine, they were fine,” I said, standing in front of the broken window.

  “There were no problems?”

  “Nope,” I told her.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, they were perfect.”

  I thought about the benefits of telling her the truth about what had happened, but knew that with all the details, I could have spent another four hours in that house, and, truth be told, I wanted to go home and wash my hair.

  James Sr. grabbed my jacket and we both headed outside to the car. He was very sweet and told me how nice it was to have dinner without any kids. He seemed like a submissive type of guy who was being tortured on a daily basis by his family. His life was not his own, and I knew he would be the perfect prototype for my first husband. As we headed down the dirt road leading to my parents’ house, he said, “I really can’t tell you how grateful I am for you babysitting,” he said. “We never really get a chance to go out.”

  “No problem,” I told him. “My pleasure.”

  “By the way,” I added. “James Junior threw an orange through the living room window and it’s broken, and then he took an empty tub of ice cream and crowned me with it until I had to wrestle him to the floor.” I left out the kicking-him-in-the-nuts part, because I didn’t want any of the blame in this scenario.

  James Sr. didn’t respond to what I said immediately, and when he did, he said, “I had a feeling things got hairy when I saw the back of your hair matted to your head. I suppose you would never want to babysit for us again, huh?” It was clear to me that James Sr. needed to leave his wife, but was one of those men who would never have the guts. Instead, he would rather suffer 90 percent of the time in anticipation of the small capsules of grown-up time he could have with her. And even though that had been one of the worst nights of my life, I wasn’t going to be the one responsible for denying him his only morsel of happiness.

  “I have a sister named Sloane who is older than me and has much more experience with emotional illness. I think you’ll like her. And I think she’ll really get a kick out of James Junior. The only problem is that she charges $15 an hour.”

  “That’ll be fine,” James Sr. told me.

  “And she carries Mace,” I added.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Prison Break

  It was exactly one week after my twenty-first birthday when I got my first DUI. I haven’t gotten another one since, but I’m not ruling anything out.

  My friend Lydia and I were on our way home from a night of heavy drinking and were midway through the second chorus of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” when she punched me in the shoulder and slurred, “I think you’re getting pulled over.”

  “Huh?” I asked as I hurriedly readjusted my rearview mirror, which I had been using in place of a compact. I lowered the volume on the radio and turned my head around for confirmation of what looked eerily similar to glaring red lights. Lydia was right. I was getting pulled over. “Fuck.”

  I’ve always had a fear of police officers, especially when their sirens are blaring and they’re behind me. “Don’t say anything,” I ordered as I quickly slammed on the brakes and drove over the curb and into a stop sign.

  Lydia slurs when she’s sober, never mind after seven vodkas with cranberry juice. She also has a tendency to offend people who can help us. Earlier that evening we had gone to a seventies revival bar in Westwood where the bouncer wouldn’t let us in unless we were on the list. “I’ll handle this,” she said, right before she laid into him. “What, do you think you’re special because you’re a bouncer? Puh-lease. You’re not an authority figure. You know you’re just fat and stupid, right? Now, can we come in or what?”

  “Pretend you’re sleeping,” I barked at her as I saw two police officers get out of the patrol car.

  “You weren’t doing anything. Tell them you want proof!”

  “I’m serious, Lydia, shut up. Do not say a word, and close your eyes! Go to sleep.”

  A burly officer in his late thirties approached my side of the car while his partner tapped a flashlight on Lydia’s window, motioning for her to roll it down as he shined the flashlight in her face.

  Lydia had to open the door because the window didn’t roll down. For my twenty-first birthday a week earlier, my father had shipped me a 1985 two-door Yugo with one working window. The year was 1996 and, as luck would have it, the window that worked was on the driver side, in the backseat. Forgetting my window didn’t roll down, I had tried on several occasions to throw a cigarette out of it, only to repeatedly slam my left hand into the glass. I had started physical therapy a few weeks prior in order to get some of the strength back in my hand, but was having trouble making a full recovery because, as the therapist said, my injury was “highly unusual.”

  “Hi, sir,” I said to the policeman as I opened my door. “Sorry, my windows don’t roll down.” I was trying to keep one eye on my cop and one eye on Lydia, knowing that any chance I had of getting out of this situation was going to depend entirely on my performance.

  “License and registration” was his hello to me.

  “Sure,” I slurred as I stood up, leaning one hand on my door. As I rifled through my purse for my license, I said to him as articulately as I could, “Can you ask me why I pulled you over?”

  The officer smirked at his partner, who was asking Lydia to remain seated in the car, and then looked back at me. “I’m going to need you to step away from your vehicle, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am?” I asked, trying to figure out how old I actually was since I had been lying about my age for some time in order to get into bars. I couldn’t remember if I was legally or illegally drunk.

  “Where are you coming from, Miss…Handler?”

  “Baja Fresh!” Lydia yelled from inside the car.

  My officer stared at me while I tried to think of anything that rhymed with Baja Fresh that would also be open at two o’clock in the morning.

  “Her cat died,” I told my cop. “She’s really tired.”

  “Uh-huh, it says on your license…”

  “Oh, shit,” I said, and grabbed the license I had given him to make sure it was mine and not the fake one that said I was my twenty-six-year-old Mormon sister, Sloane. It was my license. I handed it back to him. “Sorry.”

  “It says here that you live up the street,” he continued as he pointed in the direction behind us. I realized then that I had driven past my own apartment.

  “Tell him you want to make your phone call!” Lydia screamed.

  “You haven’t even asked me if I’ve been drinking.” I paused. Then I leaned in with my index finger pointed at him. “Because I haven’t been…if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Really?” he asked.

  “Nope, don’t like the taste,” I said matter-of-factly. “I had two drinks, that’s all…. Okay, three drinks.”

  “Tell him about your cold,” Lydia crowed once more from the car, which was now twenty feet away from
where we were standing.

  “She has a cold,” I said, and then started again. “I mean, we both have colds. We’ve both taken a significant amount of Robitussin, so if there’s anything on my breath, that’s what you’re smelling. I caught my cold from a homeless person at one of the shelters downtown where I was volunteering.”

  “Please stay in the car, ma’am,” I heard the other officer say to Lydia as she once again tried to get out.

  “Go to sleep!” I yelled back at her.

  “Okay, Miss Handler, I’m going to need you to stand with your legs apart, your hands out, and your eyes closed.” This sounded exactly as I had imagined my first DUI to sound: very authoritative and just like in the movies. I got into position and knew there was no chance I’d be arrested. I had practiced this procedure many times with Lydia late at night in our apartment.

  “Let me guess what’s next.” I giggled. “Touch my nose with my index finger, I suppose.”

  “That’s exactly right,” he said. “Have you done this before?”

  “Yeah,” I told him. “Plenty of times.”

  Had they not come up with any new sobriety test moves in recent years? I actually felt bad for him for a minute. It was a shame that the police weren’t smarter. I did what was asked of me and then he told me to walk in a straight line with one foot in front of the other.

  “My heels are too high,” I told him. “I wouldn’t be able to do that sober.”

  “Well, you can either take them off or take a Breathalyzer.”

  “You’re turning into a real nightmare,” I said as I leaned one hand on his large shoulder and took my heels off. “Okay, you know what? I had one drink. One very small drink.”

  This is when Lydia decided to slide over to the driver’s side of the car and climb out. “Ma’am, I told you to stay in the car, and if you don’t listen, I’m going to have to handcuff you and read you your rights,” her officer said.

  “Lydia, stop it!” I yelled. “Sit down!”

  “Faggot!” was her next attempt at mollifying the situation.

  “All right, miss,” said her officer as he whipped out his handcuffs. “You’ve been warned, and now I’m placing you under arrest and taking you to jail.” Upon hearing that, I immediately fell over and hit the pavement with one heel on and one heel off.

  I looked up at my officer, knowing this was not going the way I had planned. “She always gets like this when she has a cold, plus with her dog dying and everything, please don’t arrest—”

  He interrupted me as he helped me to my feet. “I thought it was her cat.”

  “It’s a hybrid,” I mumbled as I looked down at my freshly pedicured toes, wondering why they couldn’t all just be the same length.

  “Miss, you can either take a Breathalyzer here, or we can test your urine down at the station. Which would you prefer?”

  “That depends,” I said. “Is there any way to detect marijuana through a Breathalyzer?”

  Lydia was now sobbing heavily while also screaming obscenities at her cop as she was being escorted into their squad car.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll take you downtown for a urine test.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t even have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Fine,” he said, and went to retrieve the invention I now feel immense hatred for—the Breathalyzer is second only to the answering machine, which has led to three separate breakups.

  It turned out that I was, in fact, intoxicated. I blew a 2.4, which far exceeds the legal limit of 0.8.

  Once handcuffed in the squad car next to Lydia, my blood really began to boil. “So this is how it’s gonna go down, huh? You can’t just turn around, drive the fifty yards back to my house, and drop us off? NO! Of course not, because I fought the law and the law won!”

  After a pause I murmured “racist” under my breath, loud enough for both of them to hear.

  The cop in the passenger seat turned around with a confused look on his face. “We’re all white.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “Well…still” was Lydia’s comeback.

  “I’m Jewish,” I told them. No response. “Did you hear me?” I said. “This is racial profiling, and I won’t be a party to it. Let me out!”

  “Anti-Samoans!” Lydia yelled.

  “You girls will be released when you sober up. You’ll be charged with a DUI, Miss Handler, and your friend will be charged with being drunk and disorderly. Would you like us to add obstruction of justice to those charges, or would you two like to be quiet until we get down to the station?”

  “There better be air-conditioning there,” I mumbled.

  “We’re going to prison!” Lydia bawled. She was still sobbing heavily.

  “Don’t worry. Just calm down. My father’s an attorney.”

  “No, he’s not,” Lydia replied.

  “Shut up,” I growled. “What’s going to happen to my car?” I asked the officers.

  “It will be impounded,” the officer said.

  “More great news,” I huffed. “Is this going to be an overnight thing?”

  “We’ll release you girls when you sober up,” replied the cop who was driving.

  “Well, then, can we at least stop by my apartment so I can get my contact solution?” I asked him.

  Once again both officers ignored me, and Lydia was now moaning like she had been mauled by a grizzly bear. As ridiculous and belligerent as Lydia was, I still felt bad for her. I have a very hard time maintaining my composure when I see anyone cry. It only takes a few seconds for me to start crying too, which has ruled out any chance of me becoming a rape crisis counselor.

  “Okay, girls, let’s get you booked,” my cop said as we pulled up to the police station. He got out of the car and opened my door. Finally, some chivalry.

  We went through the motions of the fingerprints, photo shoot, and paperwork. Then we were thrown into a holding cell with one other woman who looked like Courtney Love’s twin sister.

  “What about our phone call?” I asked the female officer who brought us two blankets.

  “Would you like to make one?” she asked.

  I looked at Lydia, who was already sleeping in the fetal position on her blanket.

  “Yes…no, just forget it!” I yelled, realizing no one we knew would be sober enough to pick us up.

  I looked at Courtney Love’s doppelgänger biting her nails. She had no shoes on and her feet were filthy. She was wearing a white pleather miniskirt and sitting with her legs wide open.

  I smiled at her.

  “Fuck off” was her response.

  “Roger that,” I said, and turned to lie down.

  I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember an officer coming into our cell a couple of hours later when it was light out.

  “Okay, Lydia Davis. You can go now. You’re being released. Chelsea—who’s Chelsea?” I sat up and raised my hand. “Okay, yes, you’re going to be transported downtown to Sybil Brand.”

  “Huh? What’s that?”

  “That’s the Los Angeles County women’s prison,” Courtney Love chimed in.

  “What? Why?”

  The female officer looked down at some paperwork in her hand. “We ran your name in our computer and there seems to be an outstanding warrant for your arrest, for fraud. Something about using your sister’s identification. Someone reported you to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and you have been on the government’s watch list for a year and a half.”

  “The government’s watch list? Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic? I was using it to get into bars!” I exclaimed, now in tears. “She gave it to me,” I lied, trying to pin the blame on my sister.

  “Well, it says here that she was the one who filed the complaint,” the officer informed me.

  “What?”

  I couldn’t believe what a nightmare my sister was. My own sister. How could she be so stupid? What was her problem, anyway? It’s not like I was using her license to re
nt apartments or apply for credit cards. All I wanted to do was get a little buzz going.

  “There’s a bus that comes down here after picking up the inmates in Malibu, and it will take you to Sybil Brand, where they will put you into the system and you’ll stay there until someone posts your bail.”

  “Bail?” I asked. This was turning into a bad episode of Law & Order. “How much is my bail?”

  “Ten percent of $100,000, which is $10,000,” she told me.

  “That’s not bad,” Courtney Love chimed in. “Mine’s $15,000.”

  “Don’t worry, Chels, I’ll figure it out,” Lydia said.

  Now I was crying, and Lydia hugged me. “I’m not leaving you. I’ll go to prison with you.”

  “You can’t stay with me,” I sniffled.

  “Okay,” she said, and walked out.

  The policewoman shut the gate to our cell, and Lydia peered through two of the bars. “We’ll figure it out, Chels. Do you want me to call your dad?”

  “No!” I did kind of want her to call my father because I wanted him to hit my sister, but I definitely didn’t want him to know I had gotten a DUI. My aunt and uncle were lushes and lived in Bel-Air with their nine children. They’d be far more understanding.

  “Call my aunt,” I said to Lydia, as my mind shifted back and forth from how I was going to brush my teeth to whether or not I would have access to the Internet in prison. There was much planning to be done if I truly was going to prison: My first priority was to start thinking about what kind of gang I would join.

  I hoped my uncle wasn’t still mad at me for choosing to have sex with a family friend instead of him when my cousins and I were playing the “Who Would You Rather Have Sex With?” game. The premise of the game is you have to choose between two people who you would rather have sex with—sober—or your entire family is killed. Usually, the choice is between two real winners like David Hasselhoff and Gary Coleman. A couple of weeks prior, when my fourteen-year-old cousin Madison asked me if I would rather have sex with her dad (my uncle) or their family friend Rusty, I of course chose Rusty, because he was not a relative. My uncle didn’t take kindly to this when Madison told him. He took it as a personal insult that I would rather have sex with someone I barely knew. “We are related!” I told him.