Hard to believe I first came to the Mustang over a year ago, which means I had to spend Tuesday renewing my Sheriff’s card.
Some of the questions on the form:
Have you ever been convicted of a crime with a deadly weapon?
Have you ever been convicted of theft?
Have you ever been convicted of drug possession?
Are you now or have you ever been defunct in paying back child support?
Have you ever been arrested for any reason?
Well, I got a DUI in college. That doesn’t count, though, does it? I was a different person then.
Brothel workers in this county — including prostitutes, drivers, housekeepers, bartenders, cooks, office workers — who have ever been arrested must now get an FBI report.
As the driver took me into Reno to the FBI place, I was so embarrassed, explaining that I got arrested on Halloween dressed as a mermaid, with my boyfriend who was dressed as a pirate, I had two whiskey sours in two hours, and I promise I felt fine to drive, and we were parked waiting for our friends at midnight, when a police car pulled up, told me to get out, and said because the keys were in the ignition it showed an intent to drive, and I blew just over the limit, and they took me to jail…
The driver said it was okay, he did something stupid in his twenties too so he had to go to the FBI too.
We work at the discretion of the Sheriff’s office. If the Sheriff digs through our histories and finds an unreported arrest, he may pull our cards. They may allow us criminals to explain our bad memories and beg for our jobs back in front of a panel sometime in the future. Or not. So it’s best to reveal everything.
I said mean things about the Sheriff. The driver said the Sheriff was just doing his job and he’s in a tough situation and we’re all doing the best we can. The driver looks like he could pound a nail into a board with his fist; yet, he won’t say anything bad about anyone. As we drove, I tried for another ten minutes to get him to say something unkind and failed.
The Mustang car is a sleek, black, beautiful, movie star car, a starlet should be stepping out of it; instead, when we reached the FBI place in a strip mall, I got out wearing shorts, flip-flops and my hair in a pony-tail. Accompanied by a large, bad-ass looking man who is a Koala Bear in disguise.
We waited an hour. I got fingerprinted, and forty-five minutes later they emailed me the results. And sent a paper copy to my house. Love, your friendly FBI Support Staff.
Mom, please don’t pick up my mail next week.