AKA: KISS MY BASS!
I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know how to fish. I grew up on the ocean with a fisherman dad who taught me how to bait, hook, catch, scale, gut, clean, and cook a variety of fish before I was even tall enough to see over the side of the boat. Trips to the pier were a weekend ritual, and a night on the barge catching mackerel was as routine as Sunday night dinner. We never kept what we didn’t eat (or, in the case of the mackerel, what the cats ate), and if I was the one to catch it and wanted to keep it, it was my job to clean it.
Dad didn’t believe in doing things for us that we could do ourselves. He was happy to teach us how to do them, but expected us to follow through with what we were taught. It was also important to him that my brother and I learned how to do things the right way (or what he believed to be the right way) before we attempted to actually do them.
For instance, when we were young teens, my parents bought a pool table with a Tiffany light for above and a wall mounted holder for the cues to go in the sunken den. To say we were stoked was an understatement, and we couldn’t wait to have our friends over to play pool like we were in some shabby, word-of-mouth dive bar. Granted, you couldn’t drink, you couldn’t smoke, and the floors weren’t covered in yesterday’s sick and sticky, cheap lite beer, but it was still the coolest thing ever. Only, our dad insisted we learn to play the game properly before allowing us to even chalk our sticks.
He informed us he’d bought both a book written by and a VHS tape featuring the many tips and tricks of the great Rudolph “Minnesota Fats” Wanderone. We groaned at the idea of having to sit through some dude droning on about how to check if the table is level and the 1-point penalty rule if you scratch during straight pool because what was this? SCHOOL? Lay off, man…we’re just here to blast some balls and down some pop (or, as in California, we called any and every type of soda, no matter the brand or flavor, Coke)! And we were positive we knew how!
But not according to our dad (or Mr. Fats, apparently).
And so, we sat. And we watched. And we read. And then finally got to play a round each with our dad, who had a fancy, two-piece pool cue (replete with its own leather case) that he had to screw together (and which he took his sweet time doing). He calculated his shots, did his best to incorporate some of the tricks he’d learned from Fats, and studied the table like it was his job. And he still lost. To both of us. Separately. He’s long since passed, but I still don’t think he’s forgiven us.
Looking back, I’m glad we learned the game the way it was meant to be played because, though I’m adequate at a lot of things but not great at many, I am a killer pool player, and it always takes people by surprise. Who’s gonna believe a short, left-handed ginger with Hobbit feet and tiny hands is gonna call the corner pocket at the opposite end of the table for the winning shot?
Dad also didn’t let us drive a car after getting our licenses until we knew how to check the oil, replenish the coolant and windshield washer fluids, check the transmission, and change a tire. None of which I ever thought would matter, until it absolutely mattered! My first car was a baby blue Dodge Colt (that had previously been my brother’s first car), and I loved every single piece of her. I remember ditching school after a devastating break-up and driving through the hills of Fullerton and Anaheim, blaring “Love Takes Time” by Mariah Carey on repeat (having to consistently press the rewind function on my car stereo so the cassette tape would restart). This was back in the day when you could walk into Music Plus or The Warehouse and buy a single. It was a cassette tape with only one song on each side (the B side was usually some song from the same album that wasn’t released commercially, and typically sucked), but it saved you from having to buy the entire album and only cost $1.99.
On this particular day, however, it was New Year’s Eve and my brother and our friends and I had plans to spend it at Disneyland, where we had annual passes (which, at the time, were SO CHEAP! Admission for a single day at Disneyland now costs more than an annual pass did when we had them! I don’t know who the people are or what they do for a living who can afford to take their family there these days because ja-heeeez!) Our plans weren’t until later at night, so I had the day to scooch and scoot about, which I did. I had no particular place to go, I just wanted to be in my car and drive (which is so funny to me now, because at present, I loathe to drive). I do love my car, but I’d much rather someone else drive me while I’m in it rather than deal with the bozos who’ve seemingly taken over every road in every town in every state everywhere.
There were several rules my parents had for us while we were operating a 2-ton death machine at 16 years of age (as they should), one of which was to never drive barefoot. It was dangerous, reckless, illegal, and so simple not to do.
Okay! Sure! No prob mom and pop! Except…I hated shoes and only wore them when absolutely necessary. This still holds true to this day (though I have the same rule for my own children, and have never driven barefoot again since this day). Needless to say, I was driving barefoot. I didn’t even have a pair of backup shoes in the car, which was very unlike me. First-aid kit? Check. Blanket? Check. Water, jack, spare tire? Check, check, and check! Shoes? No dice.
As I was driving down a hill near a kitschy strip mall, I heard a pop and then my car kind of…drooped on the right side. I pulled into the strip mall parking lot to see what happened, and sure enough, I had a flat tire. There was an obvious puncture with a screw jutting out, and I knew I was in trouble. Not only was I slated to drive my friends and I later that night, but I was barefoot, and that was a big ol’ no-no. This was before cell phones, so I panicked because though I had Triple A, my scrambled brain knew I couldn’t call them because they would alert my parents (whom the service was under) and it would somehow get back to them that I wasn’t wearing shoes, and then I’d be grounded, and then NYE would be ruined! Long story short, there was a Payless Shoes in this strip mall, where I wrote a check I knew would bounce because I hadn’t deposited my Cinnabon paycheck yet (what was I thinking??) for a pair of hideous, knock-off huarache sandals that were two sizes too big. Like I said…I panicked! But I also managed to change my tire, thanks to the teachings of my dad. My parents were none the wiser, and we had a great time at Disneyland. Crisis averted. Phew!
After leaving California for the great state of Michigan (and I mean that. It’s beautiful here), we settled in and resumed our same (or similar) extracurricular activities as before. I have been volunteering since I was wee, whether teaching at-promise youth how to memorize lines, apply stage make-up, command attention from an audience, and develop a love for the performing arts, to teaching ESL, reading, and science, as well as packing and delivering food to those in need. Service and care to the community was a very big deal to my parents, and I’m proud to say it is to me and my family as well. My parents’ acknowledgement of their own privilege paired with their attention, devotion, and respect for those who weren’t as fortunate remains my very favorite thing about them. They never did anything for glory or because they felt sorry for anyone. They did it because it truly mattered to them; giving meant as much to them as receiving, and they instilled those same values in my brother and me.
My mother was fluent in Spanish (while the rest of us hablo un poquito) and I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t in love with Mexican culture. We vacationed in Mexico when I was a kid, and as an adult, I understand my mom’s love for it so much more than I did as a child. My most vivid memories from our first trip there are the picture of my brother and me looking as bored as could be standing in front of the original Aztec calendar at the National Museum of Anthropology (I WILL find the picture! Fingers crossed…any day now), the lady in the skin tight leather pants on our city tour who consistently let everyone know she was only there while her boyfriend worked and she just wanted to go “disco dancing,” several townsfolk offering my parents money to buy my hair, The Flintstones playing on our hotel TV in Spanish (WilmaWilma!), Grabs candy (which only my brother will understand), and my mother leaving our birth certificates and passports on the breakfast table of the hotel, only to realize her mistake as we attempted our way through customs. My parents were somehow able to negotiate our safe travel home, though I remember the customs agents ‘joking’ that they could leave me behind, and no questions would be asked about their citizenship, ha ha, wink wink, nudge nudge, funny jokes!
Big yikes. At least for me! My brother was probably all for it, because then he could have my room.
This trip to Mexico City and Guadalajara took place when I was eight years old, and it was my first time flying. We flew Mexicana Airlines, and I was a nervous wreck. My poor dad nearly lost his thumb from me squeezing it so hard during takeoff (Hey! I already told you I was an extremely anxious child!) In my defense though, my dumb older brother didn’t help matters at ALL. Apparently, during the early 80s on Mexicana Airlines (when you could still choose between the smoking and still-smoking-because-that-shit-travels-in-confined-spaces seating sections), they used real, actual glass drinkware instead of the wrapped plastic mini cups most airlines provide (for a fee!) today.
Upon takeoff, which I kid you not, was super-fast and STRAIGHT UP…like…the plane was vertical, the glasses that had been accidentally left on the counter came crashing down, shattering so loudly, it was as if they’d been riddled with ammo from a Tommy gun. The sound was deafening and did little to assuage my fears when my brother, from the aisle over, looked at me and said, “That was the engine! It fell out! WE’RE GOING DOWN!”
*He also told me The Incredible Hulk lived near my grammy’s house in L.A. and that when the power lines started to buzz at night around her house, it meant he was coming for me and I wouldn’t like him when he was angry. And that JAWS lived at the top of the high-rise bank near her house (there was a big, fin-like apparatus, which I now assume was related to the heating/cooling unit, at the top of the building). And that the word gullible wasn’t in the dictionary. And I believed him.
Back to Michigan. Though my dad wasn’t as fluent as my mom, he could speak enough Spanish to be understood, and they both volunteered at the local potato farm to teach ESL. They went even further by introducing the children of the workers (some of whom worked the fields themselves) to our respective families, inviting them (and their families) to join us during holidays, birthdays, or other special events. My daughters were great friends with the kids, and I loved having them over at my place to play. As I’ve said over and again, my dad was a an avid fisherman, and going from the ocean to The Great Lakes changed nothing. He was ecstatic to teach these kids how to fish, and always delighted in me joining him. I loved going and showing the boys and girls what a cool skill it was to have, but also how peaceful and relaxing it was to spend the day taking in nature, feeling the earth beneath their feet, and basking in the sunlit rivers and lakes we were (and are) so fortunate to be surrounded by.
One sunny Saturday, my dad and I took the kids to one of our favorite spots, just a few miles from our house and the potato farm. It was the perfect day to sink a lure, with the water cool but not too cold and the perfect breeze to keep us feeling comfy and fresh for hours. Now, even as a kid in California, it was custom to have a license to fish, which my dad always respected, and made sure to renew and re-license us both whenever necessary. It was a bit more lax in Cali (or, at least I think it was, because I don’t ever remember being asked to show my license), but the Michigan Department of Natural Resources takes it very seriously, and let me just say (from experience), they don’t mess around!
Because I hadn’t renewed my license, I knew I wasn’t allowed to fish this time.
And I didn’t!
But I still enjoyed going and spending time with the kids, while also teaching them some things I’d learned from my dad on how to successfully bait the hook and cast the reel for the optimal catch.
I would just like to add that I provided this insight through words, not actions. I never once put the line in the water. The only thing I was guilty of was holding a pole while one of the kids grabbed a worm for bait.
It couldn’t have been more than 30 seconds before the DNR officers showed up and asked to see our ID’s and our fishing licenses. The kids were all under 17, so they didn’t need a license to fish according to Michigan law. But I was in my twenties. I told the two officers I hadn’t renewed my license, but that I was not fishing; I was simply a placeholder for the pole while the actual fisher plucked some bait, and my dad corroborated.
But they didn’t care.
You would have thought I had just gotten back from a serial fish killing spree on a stolen, fish-gut-covered jet ski draped in an outfit made entirely of lake sturgeon fish scales with the way they scolded me. It’s no secret my Irish-Catholic heritage ensures guilt and shame as a constant companion, but this was excessive even for me! I hadn’t even been fishing! I’m not a rule breaker! I follow all the laws because the guilt if I didn’t would crush me! And I’d never make it in prison!
All that said, they weren’t having it and wrote me a ticket for fishing without a license. I will admit I didn’t take it nearly as seriously as I should have, but that was mostly due to how serious they were while writing it and serving it to me. I respect the laws surrounding fishing, and am not making light of them. But since that day, the joy of fishing for me has never been the same. Those poor kids were so scared, and to this day, I’m pissed about how rude those two officers were for no good reason.
I haven’t fished in ages. I can’t stand the idea of hooking (and subsequently killing) a worm or sardine, or scarring a fish for sport, because for the most part, I’m not going to eat what I catch based on the types of fish in our local lakes, and catch and release just seems cruel. I know, I know…teach a man to fish and whatnot. I still LOVE all types of seafood, and I’d never begrudge anyone else engaging in the act! Fishing itself just isn’t for me so much anymore. What can I say? I’ve gone soft in my old(ish) age.
Between the time I was issued the ticket, and the time it was due to pay it (which I had forgotten about), I had moved from the country to the city. I was dating a lovely new fella (who ended up becoming my husband) and was goofy in love without a care in the world. However, prior to dating my now-husband, I’d been casually involved with a not-so-lovely fella who didn’t take it well when I called things off. Sparing you all the dirty deets, I had to get a restraining order due to a stalking issue, lost my job with a prestigious art association, and had to change my locks and bar my windows because he just kept showing up.
He also had a close relative who worked in the police department in the tiny town I used to live (and where I got the ticket). It was so long ago, but man, is that memory still vivid.
Not paying the ticket when I first got it is one hundred percent on me. I failed to take it seriously, and completely understand the consequences of my actions should result in higher fines and fees. In general, when you fail to pay a ticket, you receive a warning or two by mail that not doing so could result in a warrant for your arrest. Had I received such notice, it would have scared me straight and you wouldn’t have had to tell me twice. When I say I forgot, I mean I literally forgot about it. Until that awful Friday when the police showed up, outside of their jurisdiction, for the “10 warrants” I had out for my arrest.
Ummm….10 warrants? IN WHAT WORLD? At least that’s what they told my dad, who had arrived moments earlier to take my daughters to school as I got ready for work. I was still in my jammies when they burst through my door, yelling at me for being a dirty criminal and cuffing me in my foyer (thankfully, my dad had scooted the girls down the hall to their playroom, so they didn’t have to bear witness to whatever the Hell was going on). I asked if I could change and the two male officers laughed in my face, but eventually allowed me to at least put on a sweater and a pair of jeans. I also FOOLISHLY put on my very favorite pair of Italian leather, side-zipped, heeled boots (that I had saved so long for as a teen, and had since I was 17. The leather was so worn and perfect and the boot was so comfortable, even for my goofy feet. I loved, loved, LOVED them).
The cuffs were so tight, I could feel my wrists begin to welt as they dragged me out of my home, shoved me in the back of the squad car, and told me to shut up and quit crying.
I had no idea what was going on.
They wouldn’t give me any details. Or my dad. Or my mom, who called the station after my dad called her (whom they told I had 14 warrants), or my now-husband (whom they told I had 12). What they did tell my mom was that it was unlikely I’d get to see the judge before the end of the day, and would likely be in jail over the weekend. They wouldn’t give her any information about my bail, or what I was even being held for.
Listen…it wasn’t often that my mom was on my side, but when she was, it was BRILLIANT. My mother was not.the.one. to be told no or that she would have to be patient and wait. She demanded answers, threatened to have all of their jobs if they didn’t acquiesce, and began making calls to every higher up there was.
While mom was making things happen, I was being booked into a jail cell after having been shackled at the ankles and transported in a caged van with male prisoners (who flicked their tongues between two spread fingers at me, inhaled deeply through their noses pretending to take in my scent, and who said things I could and would never repeat) to the local jailhouse (still having no idea why I was in this predicament). Before being placed in a communal cell, complete with a steel toilet in the middle of the concrete slabs to sit on and cold concrete floor, I was partially strip searched (the female officer who conducted said search exposed my breasts, laughed, then said she didn’t need to continue further, she just wanted to see if “they were real”), and denied access to the phone (until I made a scene about knowing I was allowed at least one phone call). I’d never been in any type of legal trouble before, so the only thing I had to go on was what I saw on TV!
This all happened before 9am.
My mom was finally able to get some answers (after pulling teeth and threatening a lawsuit), wherein she was told I was actually being held on only ONE warrant for…fishing without a license. My bond? $25,000. I told you the DNR wasn’t messing around!
They were still adamant about me having to see a judge before she could post the 10% of my bond, but she wasn’t having it. She had since learned about the relative who worked in the county my ticket was issued, and that I had followed all applicable laws in changing my address prior to moving to a different city. She was sure to tell them about the restraining order, and how they were privy to violating it. Turns out, the notices of non-payment were being “hand delivered” to my old address (to prevent them from being forwarded to my new one) as some sort of ‘payback’ for having taken legal action against my stalker.
This, friends, was a set up.
As the day went on, and I still had zero information on why I was being held, the communal cell I was in began to fill up. Some of the women were in for violent offenses, most were in for simply being sex workers (one of whom took me under her wing early in the morning, and pointed to every officer she’d had as a client, letting me know she’d be out by the end of the day and her being there was just a formality). Most of the women were nice; one was very much not. She approached all 5’2” of me as I sat in the corner of the concrete slab, legs barely reaching the floor, and asked me what I was in for. I didn’t have an answer, because I didn’t know.
As I sat, paralyzed with fear, she looked me dead in the eyes, unbuttoned her pants, pulled them down, and proceeded to urinate all over my leather boots, maintaining eye contact the entire time. The boots I’d scrimped and saved for, the boots I’d slung (the very first) Cinnabon cinnamon rolls over for more months than I’d care to admit, the hideous department store clothes I’d upsold as quality garments, and the phones I’d answered more times than I could count to pay for. I didn’t move, or make any attempt to remove my shoes because my instincts told me it would be a bad idea of I did.
By late afternoon, my mom had arrived to post the $2,500 bail, but they wouldn’t let her. They told her I hadn’t been “properly processed” yet, and that she’d have to wait. Only, she had a class to teach and couldn’t hang around. She was afraid I actually would be held over the weekend, until fate stepped in.
As my extremely frustrated mother was leaving the courthouse/detention center, my brother was walking in to pay a parking ticket. Now, this station was 45 minutes away from where my brother lived at the time (he still lived in the same town I used to live, but worked in the current city I resided). My mom stopped him, told him, “your sister is in jail. Here is the money to get her out. Call me later and I’ll fill you in.”
Confused AF, my brother took the cash and attempted to bail me out. Only this time, it worked. He was able to post my bond, but they told him it would be a while before it was processed, and I probably wouldn’t be released for another hour or two. Except he also had a class to teach, and couldn’t wait around. He stayed as long as he could before he had to leave. And then, in a gorgeous twist….
My boyfriend-now-husband walked in as my brother was walking out. I mean…if I hadn’t already believed in my saints and angels, this was the time! Apparently, he’d called the courthouse in the town my ticket was issued, as well as in the city I lived, then finally got in his car and drove to the location I was actually being detained (which was NOT in the city I received the ticket OR where I lived, but the next town over, where I should never have been held) to try and get some answers.
*Mind you, we had only been dating for about a year. Not only did this man trust I wasn’t some hardened criminal with the 12 warrants they told him I had, he searched high and low to find me to get me out of The Clink! Twenty-seven years later, and here we are! Heart eyes and butterflies.
And there was my brother. Bail receipt in hand. He told my husband to wait as long as he could, which ended up being only 20 minutes more. When they released me, I was still in the dark about it all, walking across a huge paved and fenced yard trying desperately to process the day’s events, only to see my husband standing outside the entrance of the building. Seeing him, I broke down. I fell to my knees crying, and felt like my body weighed a million and one pounds as I tried to lift myself up. I ran to him, tears streaming, and collapsed into his arms once I reached him. It was the best hug I’d ever received.
I was still sobbing as we got into his car (which was a super sweet vintage Ford Mustang convertible…my dream car at the time, and likely one of the reasons I was so attracted to him…), and as he began to pull out of the parking lot, I rolled the window down, unzipped my boots, forcefully removed them from my feet, and threw them out the window.
My husband is not one to pry. He will always listen, but he lets you come to him, while understanding there may be things you just don’t want to talk about. At this time, I think he was also a bit nervous, knowing I had just been through something so harrowing, and there was likely a very good reason I’d thrown my treasured boots out the window into the parking lot of the jailhouse where I’d just served time (for fucking fishing without a fucking license…which I didn’t even do!)
So instead of asking why the boot throw, he turned to me and asked, “You wanna get a milkshake?”
And I did. A strawberry one.
EPILOGUE
As it turns out, it was a set up and the two men who arrested me had no actual right to do so, but were “doing a favor” for a “friend” in helping “bring me to justice.” Yeah, RIGHT, jerks!
Nothing about being arrested and serving time in the joint for fishing without a license is cool! What am I supposed to say? “Yeah…I caught some bluegill. Maybe even some bass. I may even do it again! What are YOU gonna do about it?”
No. Just…no.
When I finally appeared before a judge in the actual town where the ticket was issued, he was livid. But not with me! With everyone else involved. My mom was given back double the bond she paid for my release, and the DNR officers (who showed up to court 2 years after the fact, when my court date was set) were reprimanded for a) having issued the ticket in the first place, and 2) dropping the ball on whether or not I was properly notified regarding a past due balance. He also told them if he saw me in his court again, for any reason, it wouldn’t be pretty.
My record was expunged.
I was also part of a class action lawsuit against the police department who arrested me in the first place. Apparently, they didn’t do things by the book, and many a detainee suffered at the hands of their mismanagement.
And now…every couple years…I receive a check for around $0.74.
