McAlester, OK – “Hellava Place to Come to get Arrested” – The Ice House – June 2, 2000

“What’s this we ‘ave ‘ere?” Said a cop with a southern drawl oozing masochistic delight. Kenny and I stood at the passenger side of Moby in air the texture of a horror film — misty and dead quiet. The overweight officer stepped out of his patrol car in slow motion, taking 100-pound steps toward us. I could tell he wanted to enjoy every second of this. The dim light of the dirt parking lot made the scene black and white.

Moments before, I’d been backstage at The Ice House changing out of a red sparkle stage outfit into overalls and a messy bun. I was rushing to pick up a hurricane of belongings; makeup, shoes, guitar cases, the discarded outfits I’d tried on before the boys OKed the red sparkly one and a clear plastic cup containing one last sip of Chardonnay. McAlister was the last show of the tour and we’d played a good set against the backdrop of an absolutely gigantic American Flag. Mindlessly, I gathered my things, thinking of little more than getting the heck back home as soon as possible.

The night was warm like the part of a smoker’s breath that never gets fully exhaled, just recycled and tumbled and heated up again and again in the lungs until it turns into exhaustion.
Delucchi spotted a cop driving past the backstage window and yelled out “Cop….You guys be careful out there….we don’t know what the laws are out here.” It didn’t help his nerves any to have just picked up a pound of weed from The Ice House’s owner.

Hearing Delucchi’s warning, it still didn’t register I had a glass of wine in my hand and I headed toward Moby with my stuff dragging all over the ground behind me. Kenny, a full case of Anchorsteam beer in one hand accompanied me, scooping a trail of my fallen lipsticks and socks as we went. He stashed the beer in the cooler and went back for a pair of undies I’d dropped. I threw my things onto the passenger seat and placed my sip-o-wine on the stairwell when from behind us we heard:

“What’s this we ‘ave ‘ere?”
“What’s this we ‘ave ‘ere?”
“What’s this we ‘ave ‘ere?”

Kenny and I froze. Delucchi and Kyle, rushed back into the club to find the owner. The officer strode toward us, his cheeks the size of hamburger buns and his skin the texture of red, callused deli meat. He picked my cup off the stairwell.

“Looks like we got ourselves an open container here boys.” He shouted over his shoulder in what sounded like slow-motion vomiting. He gripped us with his steely eyes like vice clamps on tea cups. At that point, three other cops stepped out of the patrol car. But clearly, this officer was just getting started. He called for backup on his CB.

“I’m sorry officer,” I said, “I wasn’t thinking. I—”
“Didn’t you have a drink in your hand too boy?” he pointed a beef jerky like finger at Kenny and shone his flashlight down the dress of the van, illuminating her front cabin with straggling half drunk water bottles, some dirty towels, and our kraft mac & cheese box.

“Nnnnnno,” sputtered Kenny feeling the full weight of his blackness against the southern officer’s bleach-white glare.

“License and registration.” He said with a middle finger in his tone. I flicked through my wallet and produced my license. He looked at it and said:
“Y’er from Colorado?” I nodded.

“McAlester, Hellava place to come to get arrested.”
Not another word was said. The mist came down like gnats, flying around our faces, in and out of the cop’s headlights and flashlights. I was nervous but Kenny was terrified and had every right to be. What had I gotten us into? He had his eyes closed, his black head resting against the white van.

I imagined us both behind bars at the local county jail which, in my mind, looked a lot like the Andy Griffith Show set but with the roles of Andy Taylor and Barnie Fife played by these monsters.

I watched Barney’s hand move toward his waistband, the one with the handcuffs and just as I thought all hope was lost, the owner of The Ice House appeared. Chris strutted toward us like a superhero, all strong and confident and silhouetted by the cop cars that had just pulled up as backup. The officer gripped my license and bent it back and forth in the palm of his hand, nervous, like a villain when the superhero arrives on the scene and says something like: “Unhand them you fiend.” Well, Chris didn’t say “Fiend,” or “Unhand them,” but he got his point across and somehow (using the Force, I think) got the cops to let us drive away unscathed.

For me to say it was a close call is one thing. For Kenny to say it, is another. For me to say I’m relieved I didn’t land Kenny in jail in Oklahoma is an understatement. Thank you, Chris. You are our O.K. superhero and we won’t forget this.

Ever.