Since my center of gravity shifted to Brooklyn, this is the first time I’m glad for the forced change of scenery.
I can’t help but think my old colleagues would’ve been more snickering than supportive about my breakup with Gerard. Everything at Évoque was so competitive. All people thought about was who had the best job, clothes, boyfriend, house, vacations. No one would’ve had my back the way Indira did today. The bitches would’ve probably been happy my perfect lawyer boyfriend had ditched me. At Inceptor, I feel part of a family.
***
When the first editorial photo shoot of Saskia goes live, it’s an instant hit. In its first week, it gathers so many page views that I’m sure I’ll be able to pay rent this month. That five-percent commission didn’t turn out to be so bad after all. Anyway, one success—however big—doesn’t mean I can rest on my laurels.
“Do we have the budget to rent a car?” I ask Indira.
“Honey”—she detaches her gaze from her screen to fix me with a look—“after your Saskia Landon stunt, you can ask for a Ferrari.”
“Thanks, but a compact for the day is plenty.”
“That will do, too. Where are you going?”
“Cherry Hill, New Jersey.”
“What for?”
“I want to convince a big makeup house to sponsor a regular feature. I convinced Adam’s wife—the photographer for Saskia’s shoot—to video blog for us. She’s a YouTube tutorials star, and she’s agreed to work with me. Now we’re only missing some cool products for her to vlog about.”
“When do you need the car?”
“Tomorrow. Please make the pickup time as early as possible and in Manhattan, near my house. The drive to New Jersey will take at least two hours.”
“All right.” Indira taps her keyboard. “You have a Hyundai Elantra booked for tomorrow morning at seven-thirty. Return time is the same the next day.” She prints a page and gives it to me.
The rental office address is just a block from my house. “What time do they close in the evening?”
She checks the screen. “Six.”
“Hopefully I’ll be able to return it the same day. It would cost more to park the car overnight than to rent it.”
“The joys of living in Manhattan,” Indira replies.
***
As expected, the drive out of New York is a nightmare. But having left early, I manage to get to my before-lunch appointment in time. Brenda, my contact from my old job, welcomes me into her office with a tight smile.
Still, coming off from my Saskia Landon success, I’m confident. I finally have the validation my fashion pages needed. Now I need to secure the same big-brand recognition for the beauty section.
The meeting doesn’t last long. Skeptical as Brenda might have been, I came with my marketing guns loaded. Having Tracy Bell as the beauty vlogger and mentioning Saskia is enough to lock in a weekly supply of products for Tracy to test, review, and give away. Brenda doesn’t agree on any extra paid advertisement, but that was only a long shot I had to try. All in all, I get to go home satisfied.
When I stop to fill the tank two hours later, my body is a muscle-cramping mess. I’m still in New Jersey, just outside Manhattan, and I can’t wait to give this metal box back. I use every movement getting out of the car to stretch a needy muscle, anticipating the yoga workout I’ve been planning in my head for the entire return drive.
It takes me a minute to locate the button to release the gasoline cover. Why would they hide it almost under the driver seat? As I round the car, I catch the eye of a guy refueling his bike at the next pump. He’s clearly giving me a sexist woman-at-the-wheel stare. Chin up, I ignore him and move along with my business.
As I’m struggling to lock the hose, something cold and moist touches my naked calf. I jerk back and yell in surprise. Unfortunately, I yank the hose away from the tank as well, spilling gasoline all over the station and my legs. I release the handle and try to assess the damage. My skirt is soaked and I’ve spilled gasoline on the side of the car and… on the dog at my feet.
“Hello. Who are you?”
The small animal yelps pityingly and sniffs my calf again. I put the hose back into the tank and kneel down. The dog, more of a puppy actually, tries to jump in my lap. “Oh, look at you. Are you alone?”
I get another cry for an answer. My heart breaks. The pup looks like a golden retriever with more of a dirty brown fur and a longer snout. He must be a mutt. Apparently an abandoned mutt.
“You smell awful.” He must have even before my gasoline shower seeing how dirty he is. I pat his head all the same and he waggles his tail happily in response. “Oh, I see what you’re trying to do. Forget it; I can’t have a pet.” As if in protest, the dog sits on my feet. Is he trying to prevent me from leaving? Maybe the puppy isn’t as abandoned as he looks. What if it the gasoline alone got him dirty? He might be lost. But he has no collar or tag.
Let’s finish with the gas, and then I’ll see.
When the tank is full, I go inside the convenience store to pay. Someone there may know whose dog he is. But as soon as I step a foot inside, the clerk says, “Hey, miss, you can’t bring your dog in here.”
Startled by the remark, I lower my gaze. The pup has followed me inside.
“This is not my dog. Actually, I wanted to ask you if you knew who he belonged to.”
“Are you sure it ain’t yours?” The man looks suspiciously at my feet where the puppy has stopped next to me, sitting down as if trained to do so.
“Yes. I was filling the tank, and he came out of nowhere.”
“Well, if it ain’t yours, I’ll have to call pest control.”
“Pest control? He’s no pest he’s just an abandoned puppy.”
“Sorry, but I can’t have no stray dogs in my station.”
“I’m sure there’s a better way to solve the problem.”
“If you’re so worried about the fur ball, why don’t you take it?”
“I can’t keep a dog.”
This statement earns me a desperate, pleading howl from the little mutt.
“What?” I lower my gaze to him again. “You speak English?”
I get a subdued bark as a reply.
“Listen, miss, if you ain’t taking the dog, I’m calling pest control or animal control or whatever you like to call it.”
“All right, all right,” I say impulsively. “Tell me how much it is for the gas, and I’ll deal with the puppy.”
“Thirty-nine dollars.”
I give him my card. “Wait. Do you sell garbage bags?”
“Third aisle behind you.”
I grab an eighty pack of perfumed ones, pay, and exit. Mr. Mutt walks at my heel again.
Back to the car, I kneel down next to the puppy.
“Just to be clear, this is a temporary arrangement,” I tell him. I swear the dog smiles at me. “There’s no way I can keep you in my tiny Manhattan apartment. Understood?”
I get two enthusiastic barks back.
I open the trunk, remove the security shade cover, and line the inside and the rear of the backseats with garbage bags.
“All right.” I pat the bumper twice. “Up.”
Mr. Mutt gives me another excited bark and jumps in.
“Please be good while I figure out where to take you.”
He starts whining again.
Since my skirt is still soaked in gasoline, I line the driver seat with another garbage bag and search for a dog shelter on my phone. There’s one not too far from my apartment. I copy the address in the map app and pull out of the gas station.
Less than a mile from the shelter, blue and red lights appear in the rearview mirror. The police must be trying to pull someone over. I keep driving, being extra careful to avoid any infraction, but the flashing lights stay with me. I check the left lane for suspicious-looking cars, but it’s empty.
Those flashing lights are making me irrationally nervous,
so I turn right even if the navigator is telling me to go straight. But I’m out of luck, the police car turns right after me, and not just that, they flash their headlights twice and turn on the siren.
Crap, they were following me. I pull over and watch the side view mirror as a police officer ominously approaches.
Six
Never Break the Law/Get Arrested
“Good evening, officer,” I say, using my most polite, law-abiding-citizen tone.
The cop looks serious in his dark uniform, bulletproof vest, and heavy boots.
“Evening, ma’am. Where are you coming from?”
“Cherry Hill, New Jersey. I was there for a business meeting.”
“And where are you headed?”
“To Animal Heaven. I found a stray dog.”
Mr. Mutt barks on cue.
The officer leans in closer to the window and his nostrils flare.
“What’s this smell?” he asks.
“Oh, I had an accident at the gas station. Spilled gas all over myself.”
“Isn’t Animal Haven in the opposite direction?”
That’s when the map app rats me out. “Please make a U-turn and proceed to the route.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Why did you turn this way?”
“Er… mmm…” To lose your tail doesn’t seem like a great answer. “I got confused.”
“Is this vehicle yours, ma’am?”
“No, no. It’s rented.”
“I’ll need to see your license and the rental agreement.”
“Sure.”
I take my driver’s license out of my wallet and search in my bag for the rental contract. It’s not there.
“Is there a problem?” the cop asks.
“I can’t find the contract.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m sure I had it in here somewhere.”
“Ma’am, please step out of the car.”
“What? No. I have it. It’s here somewhere, I swear.”
I drop the bag on the passenger seat and make a quick dash for the glove compartment. Maybe I put it in there without realizing.
That’s when everything goes south. The officer jumps back and grabs the handle of the gun strapped to his belt.
“Stop!” he yells.
Hand still on the compartment handle, I freeze.
“Place both hands on the wheel,” the policeman instructs me. “Slowly, and where I can see them.”
What the hell? What does he think, that I have a gun hidden in my glove compartment? Oh! That must be exactly what he’s thinking.
I comply and place both hands on the wheel. “You people are unbelievable. I was just searching for the rental agreement, and I don’t have a gun. For your information, I’m against firearms.”
“Ma’am, please step out of the car. And from now on, only slow movements.”
“This is ridiculous. What are you going to do? Arrest me? I’ve done nothing wrong!”
The officer not-so-patiently sighs. “Ma’am, your car plate is registered to a blue Toyota Corolla, whereas you’re driving a gray Hyundai Elantra. The plate recognition camera picked up the discrepancy as we drove behind you. And you’re transporting an unrestrained animal apparently soaked in gasoline. Once again, please step out of the car.”
“I’ve told you the damn car is rented. It’s not my fault if the rental company put the wrong plate on. And I’ve told you I just found the dog at a gas station and that I was bringing him to a shelter.”
“But then we flash you and instead of pulling over you turn in the opposite direction. Don’t make me ask again, please step out of the car.”
The brute is only missing an “or else” at the end of the sentence. “Or what? What are you going to do?”
“Ma’am, step out of the car or you’ll force me to call reinforcements.” The officer taps the walkie-talkie strapped to his vest, close to his shoulder. “As of right now, you’re resisting arrest.”
“You’re seriously arresting me? For what?” I open the door adding, “You’re a big, uniformed bully.” I get out of the car. “You can’t do this. I’m an honest, tax-paying American citizen.”
“Then you’ve nothing to fear.”
“This is still a free country. You can’t arrest me for no reason, it’s an abuse of power.”
“No, it’s not. Please turn around, ma’am.”
“Why?”
“Turn around.”
I do as he says.
“Now place your hands on the back of your head.”
“Are you handcuffing me? Is it really necessary?”
“Yes, ma’am. And I suggest you fully cooperate.”
“Are you going to tell me I have the right to remain silent next?”
“You most definitely have that right, ma’am.”
***
After a short journey spent handcuffed in the backseat of a police car with Mr. Mutt by my side, the cops bring me to a police station. Another officer asks me questions to fill out a personal information sheet and confiscates my watch and bag. A third policeman makes me sign a property log for my personal effects. No one takes my fingerprints or a mug shot, leaving me to wonder if I’ve really been arrested or if I’m only being held in custody.
Will I have a criminal record after today? For what? Renting a car? For saving a dog’s life?
No one answers my questions. A female officer escorts me down a depressing cellblock and shows me into a cell. Mr. Mutt follows me around and nobody seems to mind so we’re locked up together. Luckily, we’re alone. No crazy cellmates.
I sit on a small cot bed—the only piece of furniture in this dump. Mr. Mutt lies next to me resting his head on my thighs. Without my watch, it’s hard to tell how much time is passing. How long will they keep us here? Will I get to make the famous phone call? Who should I call? I really don’t wish for anyone to see me behind bars, especially not when I’m so dirty and smelly. I can’t call my parents, they’d get a heart attack. Nikki. I’ll call Nikki and ask her to find me a lawyer. It’s my civil right to see a lawyer! The police can’t keep me here indefinitely.
The rental company is so screwed. I’m so going to sue them. This mess is their fault! They mix up license plates and I end up in jail. Jail, more a tiny concrete hellhole with bars and no air. I’m getting cabin fever. I get up and pace around. Not that it helps. I can only take three steps wall-to-wall. How do people spend years caged like this? I’ve only been here a few hours and I’m already panicking. I need to know how long they’ll keep me here.
Against my better judgment, I grab the bars and place my face as close between two as I can without actually touching skin to metal. I peek down the hall to see if I can yell for someone to come explain my position.
That’s when Richard appears on the hall threshold holding a folder.
“Well, well, well,” the boss says, walking toward me.
It takes me a minute to believe he’s not a hallucination. Of all the people I didn’t want to see me at rock bottom, my impossibly sexy boss definitely tops the list.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“They finally tracked down the rental agreement, which was in the company’s name.” Richard stops in front of my cell. “So NYPD called the office to verify your story. Honestly, when the police called to say one of my employees had been arrested, I never imagined it’d be the office’s Miss Goody Two-shoes.”
Is that how Richard sees me? Like a prissy princess? To be fair, I spent years trying to cultivate exactly that image. Still, his words hurt.
“I’m a victim of the system,” I complain.
“Let’s see.” Richard opens the folder. “Unruly conduct, resisting arrest, disorderly person’s offense under animal cruelty laws,” he reads the charges against me. “And driving with the wrong license plate!”
“The car is rented. And I was rescuing the dog from a guy who
wanted to send him to pest control.” Mr. Mutt barks his support. “Also, I haven’t resisted arrest, as unjust and unnecessary as it was.”
“It says in here you called the police officer trying to take you in ‘a big, uniformed bully’ and that you accused him of abuse of power.”
“Can you please wipe that stupid”—lips-magnet—“grin from your face?”
“I’m sorry, but this is just too fun. Of all the dumb things you had on that list of yours, I never thought you’d tackle the getting-arrested one.”
“You know about the list?” I ask in horror, releasing the bars and taking a step back.
Richard nods, still grinning.
I slap my forehead. “The night we met. So I didn’t just talk about a list in general, I showed you the actual thing?”
“That you did.”
“But you didn’t tell anyone else about it, did you?”
“No, I promise. But me knowing is the least of your problems.” He taps the folder. “I believe the city of New York now has it on record.”
“Not funny.”
“Not joking. It was in your bag.” Richard searches the file with his eyes. “Item twenty-one, a crumpled sheet of paper.”
I scowl at him. The sheer humiliation doesn’t matter now. I’ll worry about never being able to look the boss in the eye ever again later. First, let’s get out of prison.
“Has everything been cleared with the plate?” I ask again.
“Yes, the rental company admitted it was their mistake.”
“So they know I’m innocent! Why am I still in here?”
Richard can’t help his lips from curling up as he speaks. “There’s still the matter of the other misdemeanors.”
“So what?” I collapse on the cot bed. “Are they keeping me here overnight?”
“The officer who took you in kindly agreed to let you off with a warning if… you apologize.”
I shoot off the bed and grab the bars again. “Apologize? Apologize? They mistreat me. Arrest me for no good reason without reading me my rights. Then they keep me locked in here for hours without letting me speak to a lawyer or make a phone call… and I should apologize?”
“The officer had probable cause; a Miranda warning wasn’t necessary. And since you haven’t really been charged with anything yet, you didn’t need a lawyer.”
I Have Never (A Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy) Page 5