A gun drawn on you will bring you out of a blackout.
People comply with a gun. In movies we don’t think about the mechanics of it; in real life, the automaticity is total. It bypasses consciousness, as if the body recognizes guns at an instinctual level. I wasn’t weighing options or calculating risk. I was responding to electrical impulses originating in the amygdala.
“Freeze. Put your hands up.”
I realized my hands were up before I decided to put them there. One moment I was drunkenly trying to find a way through the bushes or trees, I wasn’t quite sure; the next, everything was organized around the singular fact that there was a gun drawn on me.
I was not particularly afraid. But I understood with precision that if I miscalculated this interaction, I could actually die.
“Higher.”
My hands went higher. Of course cactus wasn’t going to cut it. The word did not need to be spoken forcefully to have force.
“Turn around slowly.”
I did not want to get shot. That was the only principle. I pivoted carefully and asked, “Like this?”
It was an honest question. The timid sound of my voice must have de-escalated something; whatever the worst case he had prepared himself for did not happen. I heard him exhale.
“Yes. Like that.”
The efficiency with which he apprehended me was stunning. He cuffed both hands in what seemed to be a single motion. I glided across the yard and he dropped me off in the backseat without friction. At the station I was removed with the same elegance.
But then, no one else in my entire life has ever been as kind and hospitable to me as the Warden of the jail on that night. He was warm, charismatic, and personable. He chatted me up with the enthusiasm of an uncle and child. He asked me about my hometown, education, and job. He praised everything he could find. For not driving my rental car. For maintaining friendships. For having gone to college.
It struck me how good he was at customer service in a role that didn’t require it.
“This mugshot is actually badass.”
He wasn’t being ironic, I saw it. My hair was a wild mane. My tattoo stood out. It was, objectively, a strong mugshot.
When they had finished processing me, I drunkenly began a speech to thank the officers for their assistance.
There at some point I drifted away in my cell.