When
I was a young lad in high school, I found myself on the wrong side of the
law. Now, the reasons for this arrest are trivial at this point, and
there is no use in reliving them in this forum, but suffice it say that my
youthful exuberance and indiscretion landed me in jail for a night. This
was not jail like you see on The Andy Griffith Show where you walk in under
your own recognizances, let yourself in and out of your cell, move the doilies
around and hang out with Barney. No sir. This was big boy
jail. Downtown Atlanta. At night.
Imagine
a young man, at the age of 18, on the cusp on manhood, having been arrested
after a formal dance. He is in a full coat and tie (none of which fits as
it is all hand me downs), barely shaves at this point in his young life, and
has no idea what he has just gotten himself into. The only thing he
really knows is that A- he is in a heap of trouble, B- man are his parents
going to be mad, and C- holy catfish are they really throwing me into the back
of this van, cuffing me to this enormous black man, and expecting me to get out
of this van in one piece? I have seen the movies. I know what
happens to preppy boys in jail. It ain't pretty. It is like a
really bad version of the Crying Games, which was a really bad version to begin
with.
After
going through the finger printing process, the picture taking, and waiting, I
was put in a holding cell that was approximately 40 x 50. There were
probably 100 men in there, one of whom was white. He was large, in a shirt
that was too small, and passed out under the urinal in the corner, which
apparently no one used. I think all my fellow inmates just peed on him,
or wherever they happened to be sitting at the time. I have cleaned a lot
of diapers and wet beds, but I have never smelled such an overpowering stench
of urine in my life. To this day, I have a hard time smelling my kids pee
without retching. It was like a wall of urine smell that was so bad I
preferred to hold my bladder than relieve myself in there. Plus, I
couldn't reach the urinal with the big white dude on the floor, and I did not
want to take the chance of peeing on him and making him mad or being the object
of someone's wrath in a place I did not feel I belonged.
This
holding cell had a bench that was bolted to the wall that went all the way
around it, stopping only when it got to the vicinity of the urinal. The
wall where detainees over the years had leaned against was dirty, but more
importantly, it was worn. And by that I mean, the place on the wall where
people leaned back and put their heads against it had all the paint worn off,
all the way around the room. It was like a dirty stripe of brown on a
wall that was a dirty brown to begin with.
Sidenote-
we have some friends who have children with cystic fibrosis. They
sanitize everything, and have a hand sanitizer squeegee in both cars, in their
pockets, pocket books, and every room in their house. I think if they
were to see one of their kids in this cell, they would just cash in their chips
and request a new child. It would just be too hard to de-germ them.
Back to my story.
The
only other thing of note in the room was a pay phone in the corner opposite the
urinal. Upon seeing it, I immediately saw my freedom, at least for a
minute.
I
looked around the room, scanning my fellow scofflaws and ne'erdowells, to make
sure it was okay to use it. I am not sure why I did that, other than to
say that I was already in a boatload of trouble, I certainly did not want to
get in any more. I casually walked over to the phone, because as we all know,
you never hurry in the slammer. You never want to show vulnerability or
weakness. That only breeds violence, and that is one thing this preppy
boy from Buckhead did not need. So, in such a way as to draw as little
attention as possible to my person, I shuffled my penny loafers in the general
direction of the telephone, acting as nonchalant and cool as possible.
My
plan was working great, until I finished dialing and was awaiting further
instructions from the operator. My eyes were downcast when they caught
sight of a rather large pair of bright red, shiny, dress shoes. They were
connected to an extremely large man, dressed head to toe in a red satin tuxedo,
complete with a hard red hat with a shallow brim trimmed in lace, that went all
the way around his head. He made me think of the Kool Aid guy, only this
dude was a pimp, muscular as opposed to fat, black, scary, and tall. He
did not have to say much. All he had to do was look at me like I was an
idiot, tap one of his red shoes a time or two, and wait for me to hand him the
phone. Which I did in short order. The phone, at that point, became
his. Apparently, he had a rather prosperous business at that time of
night and needed to check on his employees.
At
that point, I pretty much thought it was hopeless. I was never going to
be able to call my parents, explain the wrongful situation in which I found
myself, and be extricated from the premises. But, that was not to be the
case. Apparently, there was a Good Samaritan incarcerated with me who
took pity on my lowly station in life, and threw me a line.
What
I did not know about this area is you could leave the cell, and go to another
cell down the corridor if you so desired. It is simply a block of
identical cells and you are allowed to move about freely from one to
another. They are all gross, some just grosser than others. I think
everyone congregates in the least gross one as possible.
This
Good Samaritan took me across to the hall to an identical room. It was
significantly less crowded but smelled worse, if that was possible. In
fact, it was much worse, and hot, which is probably what made the smell worse.
That is why the previous room I was in was overcrowded. But, it had a
payphone that was not being used, so I snatched it up greedily.
This
time, I did not shuffle my way to the phone. I walked briskly to it,
picked it up, and made a collect call home.
What
you do not know about me is my parental situation as a youth. My parents
were married for 39 years before my father's passing, but they were an
interesting pair. In the case of an emergency, you absolutely did not
want to get mom. Especially if it was after 10:00 at night. It
didn't matter if you came into the house with an armload of orphans you just
saved from a burning building, mom was not made for late night
emergencies. It would be significantly worse if you were in trouble.
Well,
this evening I was able to make my phone call. By having a pay phone in
the cell, we could make as many collect calls as we wanted. Hollywood, it
turns out, did me a disservice by convincing me that I had one phone call and
one only. Who knows what else they erroneously taught me? I dialed
my parent’s number, and prayed for dad to pick up. He didn't. Mom
answered, did not accept the charges, and promptly hung up the phone.
Imagine
my surprise to finally get to a phone, have the ability to use it without the
threat of being beaten with it, only to have my own mother hang up on me.
In jail! It was and remains an all time low. But, I was not one to
be easily deterred, so I dialed again. This time dad answered. He
automatically knew what the trouble was and soon had me out, post haste.
Just
because I was out of jail does not mean that the lesson was over. I had a
lot of "community service" hours ahead of me in the
neighborhood. But, thankfully, dad did not make me wait around in jail
for a day or two to teach me the error of my ways. The police did a decent
job of scaring the hell out of me. They saw me coming a mile away and
knew they had easy pickings. I wouldn't be surprised if there are a few
who remember the incident and still laugh quietly to themselves from time to
time.
