Assholes Finish First

by Tucker Max;Maddox

  Instead of me telling you second-hand what happened to my friends when I wasn’t there, the story of the 32nd Precinct will be told by TheGinger, up until it reunites with my story.

  Part 5A: The 32nd Precinct (as told by TheGinger)

  After Tucker and Nils were taken to their “private cars,” the Hispanic captain and his partner told us to get back into the RV. The crowd was dispersing, and the cops’ mood had improved quite a bit once they realized that they were not going to have to deal with a full-scale riot.

  They used the RV as an improvised paddy wagon, taking us back to the precinct to figure out what to do with us. Once there, they marched us into the precinct and every cop in the joint was staring at us like we walked on all fours and had horns in the middle of our foreheads. The desk sergeant just glared at us as they took us into the squad room and told us to sit in some hard plastic chairs back in the corner.

  “ID from all of you,” a cop said. We handed him our IDs and he went through the whole “Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania… WHAT THE FUCK?” routine again. We stuck to the vague and unbelievable story and the cops didn’t ask any more questions about it.

  I vividly remember that even though we had booze everywhere, the cops thought we were in Harlem buying drugs and the captain told the sergeant to toss the RV. At one point he said flat out, “Tell me where the drugs are and this will be much easier.” We didn’t have any drugs at all, but they didn’t believe us. They tossed it, and then tossed it again, and found nothing. I remember them being very surprised by this.

  At this point, I noticed that more and more cops were coming into the squad room. And they were calling other cops, and we of course overheard them:

  Cop1 “Steve, you ain’t gonna believe this shit. We got seven WHITE BOYS down here. Yeah, in the Three-two. No, I’m not fuckin’ with you… and they’re in an RV… fuck you too, asshole… and check this out, they’ve got a full bar. With a fuckin’ keg in the shower. You gotta get your ass down here and see this shit.”

  The cops were coming in and starting conversations with us:

  Cop2 “So, whose RV is it?”

  TheGinger “It’s rented. I rented it in Chicago.”

  Cop2 “Really? How much was it?”

  TheGinger “$600 for four days.”

  Cop2 “Really? That’s pretty cheap. I’d like to do that. Rent an RV and take the family on vacation.”

  TheGinger “Well, the RV is cheap, but the gas is a killer.”

  About this time, an older cop walked in, found ten cops talking to us and milling around, and shouted, “You motherfuckers, get out of here and get back to work.” Then he motioned to us. “All right, all of you fuckers on your feet.”

  I thought we were fucked. I thought they were fucking with us and this was the part where they arrested us and then took one of us back to the bathroom for the ol’ nightstick enema.

  “We need to get a picture,” said the cop.

  “For… evidence?” I asked.

  “No,” he said with a smile. “We want this for our bulletin board. Nobody’s going to believe this shit.”

  At this point, another cop walked in with a beat-up Polaroid camera and said, “I found this in the property room!”

  So we all posed for the camera, gave it the thumbs-up and let them take a picture. When they were done, Soylent asked, “Hey, will you take another for us?”

  “Sure,” said the cop. He took another picture and handed it to Soylent. Here it is:

  The older cop inquired, “Where are you assholes staying?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “Well, you motherfuckers take that RV, get the fuck out of New York, go back to Jersey, and don’t come back. Keep your asses on the other side of the river.”

  After having the NYPD literally throw us out of New York, we all piled into the RV, and Credit took the wheel and headed down 135th Street before someone realized that Sippy hadn’t pulled in the steps of the RV. It was one of his jobs, and despite our ordeal, nobody was willing to let him slide.

  He jumped into action, flinging open the door of the RV while we were moving, smacking into several of the cop cars parked along 135th Street, along with several civilian cars, before he composed himself and got the door shut. Car alarms were blaring as we all shouted at Credit, “Go, just go!”

  About 30 minutes later, we arrived at the Black Bear on Washington Street in Hoboken, where the open bar and meet-and-greet for Tucker was being held. We told the crowd that the guest of honor had, indeed, been arrested in Harlem. For DUI. In an RV.

  Part 5B: The 21st Precinct

  FatCop was the one who took me to the other precinct. What so many people don’t understand is that cops have a HUGE amount of discretion in terms of what cases they pursue and the ones they don’t. If you didn’t do anything that bad, and if the cop thinks you are a decent person and you treat him with respect, he’s going to give you every benefit of the doubt, if for no other reason than he doesn’t want to be bothered with all the paperwork.

  After we dropped Nils off at the 32nd, it was just me and FatCop in the car, and I started talking to him, looking for common ground. I found out he loves fishing and hunting, and couldn’t wait to retire and move upstate to some land he owned. Awesome. I grew up in Kentucky, I can talk hunting and fishing with anyone. I never tried to sell him on my innocence, I didn’t even bring up the case at all, I was trying to sell him on me as a person. If I could do that, he’d argue my case for me.

  At the new precinct, FatCop sat me in the holding area with the other DUI suspects and checked me in. I was sitting next to this DRUNK-ass black guy. He had to be like 60 years old, reeked of gin, and wore a dirty green zoot suit, with sunglasses on, inside, at night. The cops knew him by name; apparently this is his average Saturday night. He glanced at me, then did a double take, like a cartoon:

  Drunk “HEY SARGE! DER A WHITE GUY BACK HERE IN CUFFS!! YOU DUN FUCKED UP!! HAHAHHAHAHAHA!”

  DeskCop “Shut the fuck up, Jonesy.”

  Drunk “You arrested?”

  Tucker “Yep.”

  Drunk “For what?”

  Tucker “DUI.”

  Drunk “DUI? Whatchu doin’ drivin’ ’round Harlem?”

  Tucker “I got lost.”

  Drunk “Ain’t dat da truth! Hahahahhahaha!”

  FatCop came and sat down next to me.

  FatCop “In New York, only state police can administer Breathalyzers, and the two closest are stuck at the scene of some accident. They won’t be here for a while, so we just have to wait.”

  Tucker “OK, no problem. So, what’s the biggest deer you ever bagged?”

  FatCop “Oh man, one time up in the Adirondacks…”

  For two hours, we talked hunting, fishing, trapping, guns, everything. I just asked him questions about the things he seemed to want to talk about, reinforced his opinions on those issues, avoided any conflict, and always acted interested in what said, without being overly obsequious about it. It was the perfect friendship seduction.

  When the state police showed up two hours later, FatCop went into the hall to talk to them. There were four DUI suspects in the room, two of which got there after I did. But strangely, they tested those two first. Then they tested the old gin-drunk black guy, leaving me for last.

  FatCop “Wow. He blew a .31. That’s the highest one they’ve had in a few years.”

  A .31? Remembering the night I took a Breathalyzer a few years ago, I felt shamed. I only got to a .23 before I blacked out.

  In the Breathalyzer room, the state police informed me that everything would be filmed and then they administered all the standard DUI tests—touching my finger to my nose, walking a straight line, etc. I aced them all.

  Tucker “You think I can get a copy of the video? You know, for my fans.”

  StateCop “No.”

  Then came the moment of truth: I blew a 0.07! YES! I BEAT THE DUI!!

  Considering it was about 10pm, and I’d stopped drinking about the tim
e we started the chase, around 6pm, and had time to work myself into a serious sweat before the cops came… I was real, real lucky the state police had been delayed. Blowing at 8pm, I would have certainly blown over a .08, the limit in New York. I’d be horsefucked. But even though 0.07 is below the limit, I wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  FatCop “Well, we can still charge you, given the circumstances. You say you weren’t the one driving?”

  Tucker “No man, it was that other guy, the one who ran off, Rockwolf.”

  FatCop “OK. Let’s head back to the 32nd, see what the captain says.”

  We got back to the 32nd Precinct, FatCop brought me to the front desk, and sitting there was a sergeant who was the perfect stereotype of a New York City cop: late forties, red hair, grizzled voice, big meaty jowls, and huge forearms.

  FatCop “He blew a 0.07.”

  DeskCop “That’s the RV driver?”

  FatCop “Yep.”

  DeskCop “Well, here’s the fucking party! Son, let me tell you something: I’ve been on the force for 23 years, 21 of them in Harlem, and I ain’t never seen any shit like this before. Seven drunk white guys in an RV, with a full bar and a keg in the shower? In Harlem? I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. That’s the craziest shit I ever even heard of.”

  I’m going to put that on my tombstone. As they took me back to the holding cell, I was beaming like a kid who just hit a game-winning home run in Little League. Legitimately one of the proudest moments of my life.

  There were two small holding cells. One with two black guys passed out, and one with Nils sitting on the bench, looking pissed. As soon as I got in there, Nils looked at me with the most pitiful, hangdog expression ever.

  Nils “They said I threw a bottle at a car. Is that true?”

  He was completely sincere. I thought to myself, damn, he is REALLY playing his part up. The cops can’t even hear us in here. Oh, well, I’ll go along.

  Tucker “No, of course not.”

  Nils “Then WHO threw the bottle?”

  Tucker “Rockwolf. He did it, remember?”

  Nils “No! I don’t remember anything, I was passed out, and they don’t believe me. They think I threw a bottle at some car.”

  He grabbed the bars and started shaking them.

  Nils “HEY! I TOLD YOU I DIDN’T THROW ANY FUCKING BOTTLES!”

  He kept this up for at least ten minutes, hitting the bars, yelling and carrying on like a crazy person. He was really going overboard trying to sell his story. I sat there and agreed with him, trying to get him to calm down. Eventually a cop came back there, some plainclothes I hadn’t seen before. He went over the story with Nils:

  Cop “OK, so this Rockwolf guy, who ran off as soon as you stopped, he was the one driving AND the one throwing things out the window?”

  Nils “YES! You fucking finally get it, congratulations.”

  Cop “And what were you doing?”

  Nils “I was fucking passed out. Like I was when you assholes found me!”

  Tucker “Nils, chill out dude, he’s just trying to help us.”

  Nils “Fuck this fucking BULLSHIT! I didn’t fucking do anything, I am sick of this!”

  Cop “So Rockwolf was doing everything—driving drunk and throwing bottles out of his window—and you guys just chilled out and let him?”

  Tucker “Yeah man… he’s a bad dude. We should never have hung out with him.”

  Cop “Yeah, he sounds like it. What does he look like?”

  Tucker “About my height, my build, brown hair, brown eyes… pretty normal looking. Except he’s a tool.”

  Nils “THIS IS BULLSHIT! I DIDN’T THROW ANY FUCKING BOTTLES!”

  Cop “OK, maybe he was driving. But, you’re a big dude. You ain’t normal. Why did that lady point YOU out as being the one that threw it? You don’t look like the guy he just described.”

  Nils “I don’t know… how the fuck am I supposed to answer for some crazy black woman? We all look alike to them, I guess.”

  Cop “Uh-huh. OK. Just calm down, we’ll get this sorted out soon.”

  Maybe twenty minutes later, some other cop came in with a huge fat black guy who fucking stank. Badly. They put him in our cell, and he immediately lay down on the floor and passed out. This went over with Nils about as well as a fart in church.

  Nils “What the fuck? This guy fucking smells like shit! Get him the fuck out of here!”

  Tucker “Dude, just chill. This is not the right way to deal with cops.”

  Nils “Fuck these assholes! I DIDN’T THROW THE FUCKING BOTTLE AND NOW THEY WANT ME TO SIT IN FAT ALBERT’S STINK?? FUCK THAT!!”

  I could keep writing everything Nils yelled IN ALL CAPS, but you get the point. He was a drunk, belligerent fucking asshole. For an hour. The only thing that eventually shut him up was when the plainclothes came back in, pretended to believe Nils’s story this time, and bought him a 7UP and a bag of Fritos from the vending machine. Nils was like a happy kindergartner after that, thinking he’d won the hearts-and-minds battle. Idiot.

  I’d gotten to the 32nd sometime after 10pm, and at midnight, FatCop came and took me out to the front area. The captain was out there with the Irish Desk Sergeant, and the Haitian Cop.

  Captain “So you weren’t driving?”

  Good cops are like good poker players—they are good at reading people. I wasn’t about to try to bullshit this cop, but I had OBVIOUSLY been driving the RV. The way to deceive someone like that is to remember the old adage: It’s not a lie if you believe it. When he looked into my eyes, for that second, I really believed in my soul that I hadn’t driven that RV.

  Tucker “No sir, I was not.”

  Captain “OK… go sit over there.”

  I was across the room but I could hear them talking:

  Captain “What do you think?”

  HaitianCop “I think he was drinking and driving.”

  FatCop “He passed the field tests and only blew a 0.07. He could be lying, but I talked to him for a while, he seems like an OK guy.”

  DeskCop “We tossed the RV good, like I told you, there was nothing there but alcohol. I don’t think they’re criminals, just really fucking stupid.”

  The captain thought it over, told the Haitian Cop something, and then walked off. Ten minutes later, FatCop came over with a piece of paper and walked me to the front door.

  FatCop “OK man, we’re not charging you. Take care.”

  Tucker “What about Nils? The other guy with me?”

  FatCop “Oh, no no no. He’s going to the Tombs.”

  I thanked him profusely, shook his hand, and walked out of the 32nd Precinct a free man. It was 12:04am. I tried to hail a cab to take me to my friends, so I could start drinking again—you know, to celebrate this astounding victory.

  Do you have ANY IDEA how hard it is to find a cab at midnight in Harlem? You’d have an easier time finding pussy in a monastery. After ten minutes I started walking south. A mile later I’m at the corner of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King… there are SO MANY jokes I could make here, but The Autobiography of Malcolm X is one of the most profoundly moving and influential books I’ve ever read. So I’ll skip the jokes and tell you exactly what happened. I had to literally get in the light under a streetlamp and stand in the middle of the street, waving cash in my hand, to get a taxi to stop.

  I eventually got Credit on the phone, and he said that everyone left TuckerFest in New Jersey hours ago, and he brought the only cool people from the event to a bar in Greenwich Village. Twenty minutes later I walked in to a massive round of applause. Even though only 10 people there knew me, half the bar erupted, because my friends had told everyone the RV story. TheGinger, Credit, and Sippy filled me in on the details from what happened in the 32nd Precinct, I told everyone my DUI story and what happened with Nils, and of course everyone saw me for the hero I was, a modern Jesus risen from the dead to drink again. The guys bought me endless rounds of shots, the girls fawned over me, I drank and partied un
til 2am, and then went home with a cute girl who worked for Playboy.

  Let’s sum up the day, just for perspective:

  Beginning at 10am, I poured a constant stream of alcohol down my throat, got behind the wheel of an RV, drag-raced an ambulance, destroyed an apartment building, crashed into dozens of vehicles, hurled bottles and cans at random cars, got in a multi-vehicle chase, terrorized the most dangerous part of New York City for hours, started a riot, got arrested, sobered up enough to beat every charge within five hours, went back out, got drunk again, and finished the night by fucking a Playboy girl at 3am. And at 3:30. I finally passed out after fucking her one more time, at around 4am.

  Just one day in my life, and only one possible conclusion from it:

  I AM THE GREATEST MAN ALIVE!

  Part 6: The Dorks Strike Back

  You have no idea how much I wish the story ended there.

  As I rode a cab back to the Teaneck Marriott Sunday morning, Sippy called and told me where everyone was hanging out, and I walked into that hotel room still riding the highest of highs… only to immediately come crashing down.

  The previous night at the NYC bar, Credit and PlayboyGirl told me about the TuckerFest party in Hoboken, and how awful it was, how it was packed with nerds and losers, and how it was good I didn’t make it there. I don’t know if I didn’t listen or didn’t believe them. Maybe I was just too enamored with what I had pulled off that day to care, but right there in front of me in that hotel room was seriously the sorriest collection of dorks I’ve ever met in my life—and they were my fans. I was in shock.

  I have tried to push the memory of those people out of my mind, but some things you can’t unsee. Like the kid with a lazy eye wearing a Members Only jacket with mustard stains on it. Or the girl who was probably only 23 but already dressed like a crazy cat lady. And I’ll never forget the college kid who had flown there from Columbus, Ohio. He was a virgin. The fucking kid was going to COLLEGE at OHIO STATE and he had NOT BEEN ABLE TO FIND ANYONE TO HAVE SEX WITH HIM!

  I couldn’t handle it, and went down to the RV. I figured if the intolerable nerds were in the hotel room, then the cool people must be in the RV, right?