“1234” by Feist was bumping at the 72nd Street Urban Outfitters while the cops handcuffed me and took me to jail. It was 2007; I was 15 years old.
My plan had failed. I was going to buy four pairs of socks to secure a receipt and perform an imaginary “business call” as I passed through the metal detectors while exiting the store (in case the beeper went off). I’d wave off the security guard with my phone held up to my ear and tell him, “Please, sir, excuse me—I’m on Business.” I bought the socks, held the receipt, and made the fake call. But when the security guard yelled out and started to pull me back into the store, I wasn’t brave enough to make a run for it.
I was taken downstairs. Several employees came down to watch. One took out his flip phone and snapped a few pics, or at least I was paranoid enough from a decent amount of morning cocaine to think so. Six cops soon arrived. A few began talking to the manager, but one of them just sat there, looking at me. I wasn’t sure what kind of look he was giving me. I remembered that “there’s no such thing as a free lunch.” The staring cop came over, his stare widening. He asked me if I had anything else on me that the law wouldn’t like. He said I could hand it to him and he’d throw it out. I gave him a fake ID from Delaware and the little baggy of morning cocaine as I wondered if he had kids. He left the office and threw my contraband away. I wondered if the cop should become my boyfriend. I wondered what would happen if I asked him out. That wouldn’t be a free lunch. That would be mutual gain. I asked the cop if he and his comrades could take me out a back exit. “I know I’m a criminal, here,” I remember saying. The words came to me surprisingly easily. I needed the back exit because girls from my high school were shopping upstairs. The cop nodded, but after briefly leaving the room again, he reported that there was no back exit. In future-boyfriend fashion, the cop decided he and his buddies would surround me and walk me out that way.
That’s when “1,2,3,4” came on over the sound system. Even under arrest I remember thinking that it was catchy. The cops handcuffed and encircled me. We marched out to the beat of the song. I folded my body to get into the back of the cop car, just as I had seen them do in The Departed.
The precinct was eight blocks away from my family’s apartment at the time. When the cop car pulled up, I tried to open the door myself. I thought it would be a good look, to be a willing prisoner. The cops didn’t think so. They made sure I stayed put. I was enrolled at a $50,000-a-year private school at the time, but I wasn’t yet totally aware of my immense privilege. I knew the nice cop was a weird thing to happen to someone, but the whole thing was pretty weird. My father had just filed for bankruptcy. I was feeling dramatic about it. I was feeling sorry for myself. It’s dangerous to feel sorry for yourself, and pointless, so I coped by making messes that were all my fault all on my own.
