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scenario.
    James Sr. didn’t respond to what I said immediately, and when he did, he said, “I had a feeling things got hairy when I saw the back of your hair matted to your head. I suppose you would never want to babysit for us again, huh?” It was clear to me that James Sr. needed to leave his wife, but was one of those men who would never have the guts. Instead, he would rather suffer 90 percent of the time in anticipation of the small capsules of grown-up time he could have with her. And even though that had been one of the worst nights of my life, I wasn’t going to be the one responsible for denying him his only morsel of happiness.
    “I have a sister named Sloane who is older than me and has much more experience with emotional illness. I think you’ll like her. And I think she’ll really get a kick out of James Junior. The only problem is that she charges $15 an hour.”
    “That’ll be fine,” James Sr. told me.
    “And she carries Mace,” I added.

CHAPTER THREE
    Prison Break
    I t was exactly one week after my twenty-first birthday when I got my first DUI. I haven’t gotten another one since, but I’m not ruling anything out.
    My friend Lydia and I were on our way home from a night of heavy drinking and were midway through the second chorus of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” when she punched me in the shoulder and slurred, “I think you’re getting pulled over.”
    “Huh?” I asked as I hurriedly readjusted my rearview mirror, which I had been using in place of a compact. I lowered the volume on the radio and turned my head around for confirmation of what looked eerily similar to glaring red lights. Lydia was right. I was getting pulled over. “Fuck.”
    I’ve always had a fear of police officers, especially when their sirens are blaring and they’re behind me. “Don’t say anything,” I ordered as I quickly slammed on the brakes and drove over the curb and into a stop sign.
    Lydia slurs when she’s sober, never mind after seven vodkas with cranberry juice. She also has a tendency to offend people who can help us. Earlier that evening we had gone to a seventies revival bar in Westwood where the bouncer wouldn’t let us in unless we were on the list. “I’ll handle this,” she said, right before she laid into him. “What, do you think you’re special because you’re a bouncer? Puh-lease. You’re not an authority figure. You know you’re just fat and stupid, right? Now, can we come in or what?”
    “Pretend you’re sleeping,” I barked at her as I saw two police officers get out of the patrol car.
    “You weren’t doing anything. Tell them you want proof!”
    “I’m serious, Lydia, shut up. Do not say a word, and close your eyes! Go to sleep.”
    A burly officer in his late thirties approached my side of the car while his partner tapped a flashlight on Lydia’s window, motioning for her to roll it down as he shined the flashlight in her face.
    Lydia had to open the door because the window didn’t roll down. For my twenty-first birthday a week earlier, my father had shipped me a 1985 two-door Yugo with one working window. The year was 1996 and, as luck would have it, the window that worked was on the driver side, in the backseat. Forgetting my window didn’t roll down, I had tried on several occasions to throw a cigarette out of it, only to repeatedly slam my left hand into the glass. I had started physical therapy a few weeks prior in order to get some of the strength back in my hand, but was having trouble making a full recovery because, as the therapist said, my injury was “highly unusual.”
    “Hi, sir,” I said to the policeman as I opened my door. “Sorry, my windows don’t roll down.” I was trying to keep one eye on my cop and one eye on Lydia, knowing that any chance I had of getting out of this situation was going to depend entirely on my performance.
    “License and registration” was his hello to me.
    “Sure,” I slurred as I stood up,