"Put your hands behind your back", barked the sheriff.
In that instant as his handcuffs closed with a terminal and sickening ratcheting click, a huge part of my life went immediately through my mind.
I thought "holy shit, this cannot be happening to me!" It had been 27 years since my last arrest for drunken driving in Los Angeles.
A particularly sweltering August 27, 2010 night in Sarasota, Florida, the sheriff's auto’s air conditioning had been shut off during the questioning process and nervous perspiration was profusely coming out of my every pore.
No padding on the plastic seat and my shoulder aching from a long-ago tennis injury, I sat there wrestling with the handcuffs and contemplating my life, while the sheriff uncaringly happy-talked with his partner outside of the other's squad car.
Before my arrest, it had been an unusually peaceful day in the roller-coaster relationship ride that Katie Cooper and I shared.
We had aggressively chi-walked 8 miles, swam in the Gulf of Mexico and savored a nice lunch together; trusting it to be a precursor to a similar type serenely loving evening.
Not the case obviously, because I had to call 911 due to Katie's incessant and spiteful raging.
Returning home before me from our back-to-back late afternoon massage therapies at Rubba-Dub-Dub, Katie became furious upon learning that I had scheduled 90 minute sessions there for us again with a different massage therapist; that was highly recommended by our world-class and mutual neuromuscular specialist, while he was away in Paris on vacation.
Due to my having previously agreed with Katie for both of us to switch to another masseuse on St. Armand’s Circle ~ a popular tourist destination, while our regular specialist at Rubba-Dub-Dub was away, I mistakenly believed that since she had not yet spoken with this other new potential therapist and had not scheduled our massages, that it would not be a problem to continue them at our current The Landings location in mid Sarasota.
Such was not the case..........