giving up
The other day I was arrested for trying to break into the Dali Museum. It was three in the morning. I was hammered. I climbed a palm tree to the roof. I looked for a way in: an open hatch, an a/c vent. But there was nothing. I snorted the last of my coke and let the little paper fly into the breeze.
I climbed down the palm tree. I started to walk to my car. Then there were flashlights. I started to walk. Then I ran. Then I jumped over the sea wall and into the water. I cut myself on barnacles. I started to swim. The flashlights came after me. I ditched my shoes. I ditched my shirt. I was swimming in black water. I took my glasses off and put them in my pocket. My cell phone was ruined. I was drunk and coked up and swimming in Tampa Bay at three in the morning. I thought I might get eaten by a shark or drown. Then I ran into sail boats. I was in a marina. The flashlight was there waiting for me. I swam under a boat. I swam down into directionless darkness. The hull of the boat went deeper and deeper. I thought I might drown. Then the hull of the boat started to go up again, wherever up was. I finally made it up and sucked air. The flashlight was waiting for me. It told me to get out and give myself up. I held onto boardwalk and sucked air and thought about what to do. Then I got pepper sprayed. Now I was drunk, coked up, half-drowned and pepper sprayed. Giving up didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
I gave up. I got hand cuffed. I didn’t put up a fight. They put me in the back of the police car.
8:26:57 PM 
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