Editor's Note: This article is not by Tiffany Jackson, but is a submission from a member of the Tennessee Greek community who wished to share his story while remaining anonymous. While the Odyssey rarely includes anonymous sources, editors thought the story shares an important lesson that would ultimately damage the author's reputation (because, you know, the internet and the job search.) We hope you agree.When you turn 21, you feel invincible. It’s Destin’s job to prove you wrong.During spring break of my freshman year, I made the ultimately boring decision to return home and take it easy. I slept until noon; I ate all my parents’ food; and I even made a little money on the side. Needless to say, it was the right call but not the call I was comfortable making twice. This year, I decided to go with something a little different.
The general rule of thumb is that freshmen go to Panama City and sophomores travel down to Destin. Empowered by my new and legal age, I made the eight-hour pilgrimage to the city of sunshine and had a good time until my final night.
After deciding against an early ride home, the decision was made to spend the evening at Baytowne, an area of Destin dedicated to bars brimming with a general college atmosphere.
Wandering into the bar adjacent from my group, I met a familiar face and made the bold decision to buy her a drink. In the smoke and the haze and the noise of the crowd, I lost sight of who belonged and who didn’t, and as the cup touched her lips, I glimpsed the shine of a badge from the corner of my eye.
Sporting a tight fitting camouflage shirt and a thin mustache, the undercover officer escorted us with business like efficiency to the outside of the bar, where we were promptly cuffed, searched, questioned, and sent in cop cars on our merry way.
Thrown in a holding cell for what seemed like hours, I was left to think on my sins but could only manage to notice the cold of the room and the icy concrete that served as my temporary bed. Surrounded by dirty, white walls with only a small toilet and surveillance camera to keep me company, I shivered with what I hoped was cold but knew was nervousness, waiting the moment of my release, which I hoped would come soon.
From there I was driven over bumpy roads to the station, making small talk with an officer from Wyoming who was kind enough to play Ozzy Osbourne on his radio. At the station, officers collected my information, took my mugshot and processed 250 of my hard earned dollars into the town of Destin's coffers. On the ride home, I slept little.
I’d like to say that I was mistreated, that my detaining officers were in the wrong and that I was the helpless victim to a cruel and oppressive system, but at the end of the day I was the one who broke the law and was made to pay for it to the full extent of the law.
The lesson here is an obvious one but one that can’t be taught by word of mouth. It's understood only through experience. You’re never invincible; you’re never unstoppable; and so long as there are cops in a bar on Friday night in Destin, don’t expect that a night could never go terribly wrong.
Image courtesy of Elvert Barnes - flickr.com/photos/perspective/
The general rule of thumb is that freshmen go to Panama City and sophomores travel down to Destin. Empowered by my new and legal age, I made the eight-hour pilgrimage to the city of sunshine and had a good time until my final night.
After deciding against an early ride home, the decision was made to spend the evening at Baytowne, an area of Destin dedicated to bars brimming with a general college atmosphere.
Wandering into the bar adjacent from my group, I met a familiar face and made the bold decision to buy her a drink. In the smoke and the haze and the noise of the crowd, I lost sight of who belonged and who didn’t, and as the cup touched her lips, I glimpsed the shine of a badge from the corner of my eye.
Sporting a tight fitting camouflage shirt and a thin mustache, the undercover officer escorted us with business like efficiency to the outside of the bar, where we were promptly cuffed, searched, questioned, and sent in cop cars on our merry way.
Thrown in a holding cell for what seemed like hours, I was left to think on my sins but could only manage to notice the cold of the room and the icy concrete that served as my temporary bed. Surrounded by dirty, white walls with only a small toilet and surveillance camera to keep me company, I shivered with what I hoped was cold but knew was nervousness, waiting the moment of my release, which I hoped would come soon.
From there I was driven over bumpy roads to the station, making small talk with an officer from Wyoming who was kind enough to play Ozzy Osbourne on his radio. At the station, officers collected my information, took my mugshot and processed 250 of my hard earned dollars into the town of Destin's coffers. On the ride home, I slept little.
I’d like to say that I was mistreated, that my detaining officers were in the wrong and that I was the helpless victim to a cruel and oppressive system, but at the end of the day I was the one who broke the law and was made to pay for it to the full extent of the law.
The lesson here is an obvious one but one that can’t be taught by word of mouth. It's understood only through experience. You’re never invincible; you’re never unstoppable; and so long as there are cops in a bar on Friday night in Destin, don’t expect that a night could never go terribly wrong.
Image courtesy of Elvert Barnes - flickr.com/photos/perspective/
