I Can't Go to Jail

Why I Can’t Go to Jail

Every year, my two fishing buddies and I go to a lake on the border of North Carolina and Georgia. I live in Georgia and my two friends live in North Carolina. I purchased a North Carolina fishing license for the annual event. John, Larry and I go out on a boat and troll around for strippers. It is usually winter and cold as heck. We all dress accordingly. Occasionally it rains.

To be honest, if it wasn’t for the fun and camaraderie, I wouldn’t choose to go, but then again, I’m a fishing tragic. I’d sell my soul (pun intended) to go fish—so off I go every year to face the elements.

A little background: we are all retired horse vets. We are old and I am the only woman on the boat. Despite the elements, we have a great time. We swap stories about our past lives and generally entertain the fishing guide. Okay, let’s be honest. Can three seventy plus geezers really be that entertaining? Maybe … Well, we think we’re funny.

As we ended a rather unproductive day on the lake, we headed to the shore. I wondered if anyone had been caught without a fishing license. I expressed my concerns about this to our fishing guide. He laughed. “You know how many game wardens there are in the state?”

Obviously, no…

“There are about two that are active in this area. By that, I mean a large section of the state.” He shrugged. “You do the odds. So, the short answer is no. I’ve never had my boat checked. You guys all have licenses, don’t you?”

We all confidently assured our guide we did. My buddies and I didn’t really think much more about it. We all had licenses—end of story? As it turned out, that wasn’t quite true.

We approached the shore after a long time on the water. I spied a white truck that looked suspiciously like a government vehicle sitting in the parking lot. I pointed to it and suggested that our captain and guide’s luck may have changed.

“Damn, well, I guess I’m going to have to be more careful. Are you sure you all have licenses on you?”

We all nodded, and I even reached for mine in my wader’s vest pocket. I was the out-of-state girl, so they all raised their eyebrows as I patted my chest. “All good, gentlemen.” Only it wasn’t.

As we came off the boat, the fishing warden approached and asked if we had a good day. Confident of our legal status, we still had to admit we only had one fish.

“Oh, so sorry. Anyway, I need to see your licenses, thanks.” He couldn’t have been nicer. The fishing guide had to present his credentials­—all good. We then individually had to show ours.

I think John was first. He pulled out his laminated license, and the warden shook his head. “No, I need your Georgia license. This lake is on the border, but it’s on the Georgia side of the line.”

My two companions were in shock. Of course, I laughed and mentioned I would be happy to bail them out of jail. After all, I had a license for both states. Smug would not accurately describe my attitude as I brought out my Georgia license. I handed it to the warden and turned to my buddies and winked. I quietly hummed the tune of Jailhouse Blues while I waited for the return of my license.

“Ma’am, this isn’t the full license. You haven’t got the stamp for lake fishing. You only have one for stream fishing.”

“What?” And now the guys were punching me in the back.

“We’re all gonna go to jail together, miss smarty.” Larry was the host and lived locally. So, John and I turned to him and John mentioned to the warden. “This is the guy who led us astray. He’s the one you want.”

The warden was almost amused. He kept a straight face and announced he was taking me back to his truck to sort out my problem. He said he would be back in a minute to recheck the licenses for my two companions. He may have mentioned that the licenses could be obtained online.

The warden and I walked to his truck, where he searched his database for my details. My concern was that I would be fined. Once you turn a certain age in Georgia and are a resident, you must have a license, but it’s free.

So, the warden found my name and license and showed me where I could get the stamp. As we were sorting my issues, I occasionally looked over at my buddies who were attempting to get Georgia licenses. I saw them raising their phones in the air, trying to get a connection. I noticed the warden also watching them, and he occasionally smiled.

He eventually said I now had the stamp needed for lake fishing. He told me he was done with me and told me to return to our vehicle while he did some paperwork. As I approached our SUV, I began singing, “I’m in the Jailhouse Now.” I didn’t even try to hide my smirk. Both men were still working on their Georgia fishing licenses.

Larry seemed to have his sorted, but John was struggling. He wailed, “I can’t go to jail. I’m blond. Blonds don’t do very well in jail.”

Of course, at our age, “blond” was long gone. As a woman, I may have enhanced or shall we say altered my features, but neither Larry nor John had tried to hide the downward spiral that comes with aging.

I lost it. I couldn’t stop laughing, now that I knew I was in the clear. I think someone mentioned that John’s natural color wouldn’t be detected by the general prison population. He would be left alone.

After several minutes, our now hero game warden returned. He asked to see Larry and John’s licenses. They proudly showed him their phones, which displayed the new permits. The warden smiled and told us to have a good day. We couldn’t thank him enough.

As we left the parking lot, John and Larry mentioned they couldn’t see what had transpired at the truck. “So, do we need to thank you for flashing our new friend?”

“Uh, no. First, I don’t love you guys enough to do that. And second, if I had at my age, I would have had to do more than lift my shirt.”

I can’t look at John without remembering “I’m blond, and blonds don’t do well in jail…”