1996 PART ONE: JAILBAIT
[Shakycam here with the first of several 1996 entries. You see, 1996 was an epically bad year for me. Expect several more 1996 entries mixed in with the present-day stuff in the future.]
The Italian Stallion drove the car into the ditch on purpose, I’m sure of it. The guy had amazing driving skills. Like the true hurricane and destroyer of everything in my life that I allowed him to be for those 3 months, this foolhardy and dramatic action was the catalyst that landed me in jail for the first time in my young life.
I threw a tantrum during the sub-zero walk back to Blondie’s house that night, expressing that my car would be pulled out of that fucking ditch if I had to tie a tow rope around it and drag it out with my teeth. Blondie was never good at being subtle and it was obvious to me that this turn of events was right up her alley; the Italian Stallion would be spending the night under her roof, and the two of them could continue their nauseating flirtation, uninterrupted. I, on the other hand, was picturing my own bed back in Da Grove, thank you very much, and the two of them could do whatever the hell they pleased. Blondie said her dad would be home in the morning and that I should just “chill” for the night. I considered calling a cab at one point, which you don’t really do in the suburbs unless you’re loaded and since I was chronically unemployed at the time, that was hardly the case.
I managed to drag a grumbling Blondie out to her father’s F150 and we bounced down the frigid road to the ditch, leaving The Italian Stallion behind in the warm house relaxing by the fire. Blondie tossed the tow rope around the trailer hitch on the back bumper, I got in the front seat and threw the car in reverse. It took about 5 seconds of tugging before the Oldsmobile jerked and Blondie was skidding down the road, pulling my bumper along the pavement behind her, sending up a brilliant shower of sparks like a hundred tiny orange stars.
“Oh shit, dude,” was all Blondie could say when I met her in the road and we surveyed the hopeless damage. It took both of us a great deal of straining and struggling to get the bumper into the back seat of the big car.
When we got back to the house, I stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door. I sat on the toilet and cried for about twenty minutes. After awhile, I stood and glanced out into the rustic backyard and blinked. A family of deer was nestled around the bird feeder, munching serenely. I watched them for about ten minutes, flicking their ears, completely unaffected by my presence, and the frigid temps.
It may have been one of these same deer that lost its’ life a few miles down the road from here a few months from now, when it darted out of the brush and slammed into the very car that was currently resting bumper-less in the ditch. I shit you not. The deer hit me, not the other way around. Stupid animals, really. It fucked my car up pretty bad.
I suddenly realized that no one had come to check on me. They didn’t even care enough to check on how I was doing. Stung, I stomped out of the bathroom and found them on the couch, giggling and cuddling. I threw myself into one of the kitchen chairs which was actually a plastic lawn chair. Blondie’s father had lost everything in the divorce.
I made myself an incredibly strong Bacardi OJ and gulped it down bitterly, hoping for the kind of sour drunkenness that would allow me to unabashedly vent on these two and blame it on the liquor later. I ended up just getting really depressed and really bad heartburn because I had an empty stomach. Apparently, he lost all the food in the divorce, too.
I don’t know where I slept or if I slept that night. If I did it was fitfully at best. Blondie’s father arrived early that morning and he and some co-workers pulled my bumper-less car out of the ditch in less than 30 seconds. Her father scolded Blondie for being a dumbass, telling her that she knew she should have put the rope around the frame somewhere.
For me, that was the beginning of the end of my friendship with The Italian Stallion (the first time, anyway) and it wasn’t just because I knew he had done it on purpose, but because my job as his wheel man was at an end because you can get pulled over and ticketed for not having a bumper and The Italian Stallion had an intense fear of cops. At the time, I also had bench warrants and no insurance and all of our haunts were prowled by hyperactive and incredibly bored suburban cops. The Italian Stallion had, in effect, rendered me car-less, and that was the final insult. Also, a lot of his initial intrigue and mystery had dissipated when I began to realize he was merely fucked in the head like the rest of us.
I drove him home that bright morning, still too young for a real hangover, but complaining of one nonetheless. I was pissed off, laughing at the cops that didn’t notice, daring them to pull me over. He got out at his place saying he‘d call me later when I was sane. I giggled and gave him the finger as I pulled away. I cranked up the stereo, singing at the top of my lungs, and made it all the way home without incident where I finally collapsed in bed and cried. To be without a car in the suburbs is a sad fate indeed, and at last I was alone to truly sink into despair.
February 13, 1996
There is a feeling akin to electrocution when you see those flashing red lights in your rearview mirror and you have no insurance, several bench warrants and unpaid parking tickets under your belt. I believe they call this the fight or flight response. I know why those dumbasses on “World’s Scariest Police Chases” take off. Because running is much less terrifying than “coming down with a serious case of handcuffs” as I heard the over-dramatic narrator dryly intone once. They have nothing left to lose. I knew how they felt. I was a wanted man, a fugitive, and now I was being brought down by the long arm of the law.
I expected he would take me to the nearby Da Grove jail where I had heard they serve you Happy Meals and let you watch Cable TV in your very own roomy cell. Nothing could prepare me for the numb horror that followed the words: “I’m gonna have to take you downtown”. It also wasn’t nearly as thrilling as I expected it to be handcuffed and helped into the tiny confines of the backseat. It’s not like it looks in the movies at all when the hero valiantly struggles and screams desperately: “Wait!! You don’t understand!! You’re making a big mistake!!” That they WEREN’T making a big mistake was one part, but the other part was that all I could manage when I felt the cold steel snap around my wrists was a wimpy “Ow!”
It hurt being in that backseat. It’s not as fun as you might think, being trussed up like an animal in the back of a cop car. I first surveyed this big cop who had been my downfall and tried to picture him saying in a sexy growl, “You’re in a lot of trouble kid. Maybe if you do me a favor I can pretend we’ve never met, heh heh.” It was even harder to picture with the photo of him and the two fat kids grinning cheekily at me from the dashboard. And the chances of that happening twice in one year was just plain ridiculous. This time I was “going downtown” but not in the fun way.
My car looked sad, betrayed and forlorn as it was towed away to god knows where. I finally had to lay down helplessly. It made me mad that this was necessary, an impotent complaint that haunts me to this day. Why wasn’t this jerk after the REAL criminals? Crack fiends, child pornographers, rapists, muggers, pimps and politicians were cheerfully going about their dastardly business that day while they were carting my suburban butt 20-plus miles to the Castle of Greyskull in the heart of the big, scary city.
The big cop tried to give me a pep talk, told me that drugs were bad and when I mentioned I had been hanging around stupid people he took that and ran. “You’re twenty years old. Time to stop running around with a bad crowd and get a life.”
I pictured being a valedictorian of a class of some kind sometime in the future, the bizarre flat square hat perched nobly on my head, my face aged a bit by the passage of time, the hard-won knowledge I had received. I would wait for the cheers to die down, for everyone to take their seats as I cleared my throat and thanked everyone for their contributions because I couldn’t have done it alone, but especially thanks to Officer so-and-so who had stopped my runaway 20 year old train from jumping the tracks and truly helped me be what I am today. I even saw this cop, an honored special guest withered with age with tears in his eyes take a grateful bow at his standing ovation.
But they were just words. This cop was an unbelievable asshole. He was ruining my day and bringing me to a place where unspeakably horrible things were about to befall me. I imagined prison rape (and not the sexy kind in gay porn: “I‘d rather be YOUR bitch. At least you‘re HOT! PLEASE protect me!” -cue the cheesy techno and disrobing), beatings, brutal guards, deadly shanks made out of toothbrushes, being passed like currency between fat, drooling, foul inmates, and being forced to ingest all manner of drugs. I assumed I would be released whenever I was released HIV positive, hooked on smack, beaten beyond recognition and horribly scarred with razor blade tattoos that said “Butch’s Bitch” on what was left of my abused ass. I was no fool. I had seen “Bad Boys” and “Lock-up”. I thank god to this day that “Oz” wasn’t in existence yet. I would have passed out dead at the thought of going to jail if it had been.
When we were downtown and stuck in traffic I made myself look as much like a mad criminal as I could, sneering out of the backseat and scaring little kids and old ladies. Everyone else seemed to be looking at me how I looked at people trussed in the back of cop cars: “Ha Ha!! You got fucked UP!!”
What surprised me the most was the mind-numbing, bone-rattling boredom of it all. At least if I was being raped or force-fed drugs or tattooed I would have had something to do. I literally just SAT there for nearly ten hours listening to mindless banter, being shuffled from room to room (all of them reeked like the locker room in Junior High) with all manner of screwed up humanity as my company. There were drunks, thugs, dope fiends, and other bewildered suburbanites like me.
One of the worst rooms was packed and had a toilet sitting right out in the open. I was so horrified at the thought of having to use it I don’t know if I shit or pissed for a week afterwards. Others weren’t as horrified. A guy sat down and took a shit and I can say it was one of the most interesting things that happened in those ten hours. We all watched.
I truly believe I hallucinated out of sheer boredom. I started getting really nervous about the people around me. Didn’t this guy next to me have something that said “Wanton Serial Killer” around the eyes and mouth? I read everything I possibly could. I tore the labels out of my clothing (including my underwear) so I could read about permanent press, etc. I even considered asking other people for their labels as well. I couldn’t read the labels on my shoes because they had taken them and given me big, cheap flip-flops. Apparently, they thought I might try to hang myself with the shoelaces at some point and as the hours droned on I was stung that I wasn’t left with that option.
At one point in the toilet room, there was a murmur as one of the doors opened and the saddest human being, accompanied by a gruff, brutal-looking armed guard, served us what was considered lunch downtown. Call it an Un-happy meal. It was two soggy baloney sandwiches with nauseatingly thick slices of waxy government cheese and a bruised apple. So that’s how I ate the worst sandwich of my life. On the concrete floor of a holding cell in downtown Murderapolis a few feet from a toilet. I passed the mushy red apple off to a twitchy character near the door.
The next room I was in was full of activity. A guard called our names one at a time and we were made to line up in a grim hallway lined with guards. Then we started a slow-shuffle walk to the end where a guard with a clipboard waited. With dawning horror I realized this was a Nazi-esque selection process. If the guard pointed to the left, you were handed an orange jumpsuit and were staying for the night. If he pointed to the right you were given your ONE PHONE CALL and were going home at some point. My heart thudded dully as I watched the crestfallen men accept their ugly construction-orange jumpsuits and line up against a wall, looking stunned and horrified.
I don’t know if the words that came out of my mouth sounded as much like a prayer to the surly guard as they did to me. “Name?” he growled. “Shaky Please Jesus God Christ Almighty NOT THE LEFT Cam please please please...” He smacked his gum and his evil eyes glittered at me briefly before he grunted and pointed to the right. “SWEET JESUS THANK YOU!!” I don’t now if I actually said that. The funny thing is, I am not even remotely Christan, but any crutch will do in times of abject terror.
I was so giddy at the thought of my imminent freedom I didn’t mind that I was fingerprinted like a common sneak thief with big goopy ink and then had my picture taken with the card (YES THE CARD) held beneath my chin first facing forward, then a profile. I wanted to ask the prison photographer how I could get a copy of the picture to send out as Christmas cards, but I was shoved into another room.
My one phone call was to my mother. She was horrified at the thought of having to come downtown after a hard day at work. Believing my release was imminent I told her to come down as soon as possible. This was 6PM. Little did I know I wouldn’t be out of there until after 11PM. Yes FIVE hours from then.
The last room was the worst because I spent five hours in it. It had the acoustics of a locker room shower and several drunks talking at the top of their lungs. There were a group of thugs from the same gang there that were incredibly nice, contrary to my suburban picture of GANG MEMBERS. They called me “Cuz”. “Whatcha in for, cuz?” “No insurance.” “HAHAHAHAHA!” A little later when a twitchy little dope fiend started hassling me, they told me to come over and sit by them. I spent the last few hours in their company where they mostly talked about their “Bitches”. They never engaged me in conversation, just seemed to watch over me, for whatever reason.
I waited for the phone in this room for nearly an hour. The guy in front of me spent all sixty minutes arguing with his girlfriend. He never once referred to her as anything but “bitch” and “ho”. In fact, those two words flew out of his mouth so many times I think if I had called a female of any kind at that point I would have said: “What’s up, bitch?” because my brain was so polluted with bitches and hoes. As it was, I called my friend Sexy who was befuddled to see “Inmate” come up on his caller ID. I was on the phone with him for about two minutes when a guard came in and called my name. The conversation went something like: “Yeah. No insurance. Can you believe it? I’ve been here for nine and a half damn hours and OH MY GOD I’M FUCKING GETTING LET OUT OF HERE!!”
I remember this cracked everyone in the room up and they howled in laughter when I dashed out of the room and hugged the stunned guard, surliness be damned.
I was given all of my belongings back, and for some reason the money I had (three dollars in change) was given back to me in the form of a check. The gravity of my situation didn’t sink in until I was outside. My mom was long gone and I was stuck in the middle of downtown Murderapolis at NIGHT without even a quarter to call anyone to come and get me. I grumbled something about becoming a real criminal as I stomped to my friend Ryan’s apartment at the University of Minnesota, 3 miles away.
The Italian Stallion drove the car into the ditch on purpose, I’m sure of it. The guy had amazing driving skills. Like the true hurricane and destroyer of everything in my life that I allowed him to be for those 3 months, this foolhardy and dramatic action was the catalyst that landed me in jail for the first time in my young life.
I threw a tantrum during the sub-zero walk back to Blondie’s house that night, expressing that my car would be pulled out of that fucking ditch if I had to tie a tow rope around it and drag it out with my teeth. Blondie was never good at being subtle and it was obvious to me that this turn of events was right up her alley; the Italian Stallion would be spending the night under her roof, and the two of them could continue their nauseating flirtation, uninterrupted. I, on the other hand, was picturing my own bed back in Da Grove, thank you very much, and the two of them could do whatever the hell they pleased. Blondie said her dad would be home in the morning and that I should just “chill” for the night. I considered calling a cab at one point, which you don’t really do in the suburbs unless you’re loaded and since I was chronically unemployed at the time, that was hardly the case.
I managed to drag a grumbling Blondie out to her father’s F150 and we bounced down the frigid road to the ditch, leaving The Italian Stallion behind in the warm house relaxing by the fire. Blondie tossed the tow rope around the trailer hitch on the back bumper, I got in the front seat and threw the car in reverse. It took about 5 seconds of tugging before the Oldsmobile jerked and Blondie was skidding down the road, pulling my bumper along the pavement behind her, sending up a brilliant shower of sparks like a hundred tiny orange stars.
“Oh shit, dude,” was all Blondie could say when I met her in the road and we surveyed the hopeless damage. It took both of us a great deal of straining and struggling to get the bumper into the back seat of the big car.
When we got back to the house, I stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door. I sat on the toilet and cried for about twenty minutes. After awhile, I stood and glanced out into the rustic backyard and blinked. A family of deer was nestled around the bird feeder, munching serenely. I watched them for about ten minutes, flicking their ears, completely unaffected by my presence, and the frigid temps.
It may have been one of these same deer that lost its’ life a few miles down the road from here a few months from now, when it darted out of the brush and slammed into the very car that was currently resting bumper-less in the ditch. I shit you not. The deer hit me, not the other way around. Stupid animals, really. It fucked my car up pretty bad.
I suddenly realized that no one had come to check on me. They didn’t even care enough to check on how I was doing. Stung, I stomped out of the bathroom and found them on the couch, giggling and cuddling. I threw myself into one of the kitchen chairs which was actually a plastic lawn chair. Blondie’s father had lost everything in the divorce.
I made myself an incredibly strong Bacardi OJ and gulped it down bitterly, hoping for the kind of sour drunkenness that would allow me to unabashedly vent on these two and blame it on the liquor later. I ended up just getting really depressed and really bad heartburn because I had an empty stomach. Apparently, he lost all the food in the divorce, too.
I don’t know where I slept or if I slept that night. If I did it was fitfully at best. Blondie’s father arrived early that morning and he and some co-workers pulled my bumper-less car out of the ditch in less than 30 seconds. Her father scolded Blondie for being a dumbass, telling her that she knew she should have put the rope around the frame somewhere.
For me, that was the beginning of the end of my friendship with The Italian Stallion (the first time, anyway) and it wasn’t just because I knew he had done it on purpose, but because my job as his wheel man was at an end because you can get pulled over and ticketed for not having a bumper and The Italian Stallion had an intense fear of cops. At the time, I also had bench warrants and no insurance and all of our haunts were prowled by hyperactive and incredibly bored suburban cops. The Italian Stallion had, in effect, rendered me car-less, and that was the final insult. Also, a lot of his initial intrigue and mystery had dissipated when I began to realize he was merely fucked in the head like the rest of us.
I drove him home that bright morning, still too young for a real hangover, but complaining of one nonetheless. I was pissed off, laughing at the cops that didn’t notice, daring them to pull me over. He got out at his place saying he‘d call me later when I was sane. I giggled and gave him the finger as I pulled away. I cranked up the stereo, singing at the top of my lungs, and made it all the way home without incident where I finally collapsed in bed and cried. To be without a car in the suburbs is a sad fate indeed, and at last I was alone to truly sink into despair.
February 13, 1996
There is a feeling akin to electrocution when you see those flashing red lights in your rearview mirror and you have no insurance, several bench warrants and unpaid parking tickets under your belt. I believe they call this the fight or flight response. I know why those dumbasses on “World’s Scariest Police Chases” take off. Because running is much less terrifying than “coming down with a serious case of handcuffs” as I heard the over-dramatic narrator dryly intone once. They have nothing left to lose. I knew how they felt. I was a wanted man, a fugitive, and now I was being brought down by the long arm of the law.
I expected he would take me to the nearby Da Grove jail where I had heard they serve you Happy Meals and let you watch Cable TV in your very own roomy cell. Nothing could prepare me for the numb horror that followed the words: “I’m gonna have to take you downtown”. It also wasn’t nearly as thrilling as I expected it to be handcuffed and helped into the tiny confines of the backseat. It’s not like it looks in the movies at all when the hero valiantly struggles and screams desperately: “Wait!! You don’t understand!! You’re making a big mistake!!” That they WEREN’T making a big mistake was one part, but the other part was that all I could manage when I felt the cold steel snap around my wrists was a wimpy “Ow!”
It hurt being in that backseat. It’s not as fun as you might think, being trussed up like an animal in the back of a cop car. I first surveyed this big cop who had been my downfall and tried to picture him saying in a sexy growl, “You’re in a lot of trouble kid. Maybe if you do me a favor I can pretend we’ve never met, heh heh.” It was even harder to picture with the photo of him and the two fat kids grinning cheekily at me from the dashboard. And the chances of that happening twice in one year was just plain ridiculous. This time I was “going downtown” but not in the fun way.
My car looked sad, betrayed and forlorn as it was towed away to god knows where. I finally had to lay down helplessly. It made me mad that this was necessary, an impotent complaint that haunts me to this day. Why wasn’t this jerk after the REAL criminals? Crack fiends, child pornographers, rapists, muggers, pimps and politicians were cheerfully going about their dastardly business that day while they were carting my suburban butt 20-plus miles to the Castle of Greyskull in the heart of the big, scary city.
The big cop tried to give me a pep talk, told me that drugs were bad and when I mentioned I had been hanging around stupid people he took that and ran. “You’re twenty years old. Time to stop running around with a bad crowd and get a life.”
I pictured being a valedictorian of a class of some kind sometime in the future, the bizarre flat square hat perched nobly on my head, my face aged a bit by the passage of time, the hard-won knowledge I had received. I would wait for the cheers to die down, for everyone to take their seats as I cleared my throat and thanked everyone for their contributions because I couldn’t have done it alone, but especially thanks to Officer so-and-so who had stopped my runaway 20 year old train from jumping the tracks and truly helped me be what I am today. I even saw this cop, an honored special guest withered with age with tears in his eyes take a grateful bow at his standing ovation.
But they were just words. This cop was an unbelievable asshole. He was ruining my day and bringing me to a place where unspeakably horrible things were about to befall me. I imagined prison rape (and not the sexy kind in gay porn: “I‘d rather be YOUR bitch. At least you‘re HOT! PLEASE protect me!” -cue the cheesy techno and disrobing), beatings, brutal guards, deadly shanks made out of toothbrushes, being passed like currency between fat, drooling, foul inmates, and being forced to ingest all manner of drugs. I assumed I would be released whenever I was released HIV positive, hooked on smack, beaten beyond recognition and horribly scarred with razor blade tattoos that said “Butch’s Bitch” on what was left of my abused ass. I was no fool. I had seen “Bad Boys” and “Lock-up”. I thank god to this day that “Oz” wasn’t in existence yet. I would have passed out dead at the thought of going to jail if it had been.
When we were downtown and stuck in traffic I made myself look as much like a mad criminal as I could, sneering out of the backseat and scaring little kids and old ladies. Everyone else seemed to be looking at me how I looked at people trussed in the back of cop cars: “Ha Ha!! You got fucked UP!!”
What surprised me the most was the mind-numbing, bone-rattling boredom of it all. At least if I was being raped or force-fed drugs or tattooed I would have had something to do. I literally just SAT there for nearly ten hours listening to mindless banter, being shuffled from room to room (all of them reeked like the locker room in Junior High) with all manner of screwed up humanity as my company. There were drunks, thugs, dope fiends, and other bewildered suburbanites like me.
One of the worst rooms was packed and had a toilet sitting right out in the open. I was so horrified at the thought of having to use it I don’t know if I shit or pissed for a week afterwards. Others weren’t as horrified. A guy sat down and took a shit and I can say it was one of the most interesting things that happened in those ten hours. We all watched.
I truly believe I hallucinated out of sheer boredom. I started getting really nervous about the people around me. Didn’t this guy next to me have something that said “Wanton Serial Killer” around the eyes and mouth? I read everything I possibly could. I tore the labels out of my clothing (including my underwear) so I could read about permanent press, etc. I even considered asking other people for their labels as well. I couldn’t read the labels on my shoes because they had taken them and given me big, cheap flip-flops. Apparently, they thought I might try to hang myself with the shoelaces at some point and as the hours droned on I was stung that I wasn’t left with that option.
At one point in the toilet room, there was a murmur as one of the doors opened and the saddest human being, accompanied by a gruff, brutal-looking armed guard, served us what was considered lunch downtown. Call it an Un-happy meal. It was two soggy baloney sandwiches with nauseatingly thick slices of waxy government cheese and a bruised apple. So that’s how I ate the worst sandwich of my life. On the concrete floor of a holding cell in downtown Murderapolis a few feet from a toilet. I passed the mushy red apple off to a twitchy character near the door.
The next room I was in was full of activity. A guard called our names one at a time and we were made to line up in a grim hallway lined with guards. Then we started a slow-shuffle walk to the end where a guard with a clipboard waited. With dawning horror I realized this was a Nazi-esque selection process. If the guard pointed to the left, you were handed an orange jumpsuit and were staying for the night. If he pointed to the right you were given your ONE PHONE CALL and were going home at some point. My heart thudded dully as I watched the crestfallen men accept their ugly construction-orange jumpsuits and line up against a wall, looking stunned and horrified.
I don’t know if the words that came out of my mouth sounded as much like a prayer to the surly guard as they did to me. “Name?” he growled. “Shaky Please Jesus God Christ Almighty NOT THE LEFT Cam please please please...” He smacked his gum and his evil eyes glittered at me briefly before he grunted and pointed to the right. “SWEET JESUS THANK YOU!!” I don’t now if I actually said that. The funny thing is, I am not even remotely Christan, but any crutch will do in times of abject terror.
I was so giddy at the thought of my imminent freedom I didn’t mind that I was fingerprinted like a common sneak thief with big goopy ink and then had my picture taken with the card (YES THE CARD) held beneath my chin first facing forward, then a profile. I wanted to ask the prison photographer how I could get a copy of the picture to send out as Christmas cards, but I was shoved into another room.
My one phone call was to my mother. She was horrified at the thought of having to come downtown after a hard day at work. Believing my release was imminent I told her to come down as soon as possible. This was 6PM. Little did I know I wouldn’t be out of there until after 11PM. Yes FIVE hours from then.
The last room was the worst because I spent five hours in it. It had the acoustics of a locker room shower and several drunks talking at the top of their lungs. There were a group of thugs from the same gang there that were incredibly nice, contrary to my suburban picture of GANG MEMBERS. They called me “Cuz”. “Whatcha in for, cuz?” “No insurance.” “HAHAHAHAHA!” A little later when a twitchy little dope fiend started hassling me, they told me to come over and sit by them. I spent the last few hours in their company where they mostly talked about their “Bitches”. They never engaged me in conversation, just seemed to watch over me, for whatever reason.
I waited for the phone in this room for nearly an hour. The guy in front of me spent all sixty minutes arguing with his girlfriend. He never once referred to her as anything but “bitch” and “ho”. In fact, those two words flew out of his mouth so many times I think if I had called a female of any kind at that point I would have said: “What’s up, bitch?” because my brain was so polluted with bitches and hoes. As it was, I called my friend Sexy who was befuddled to see “Inmate” come up on his caller ID. I was on the phone with him for about two minutes when a guard came in and called my name. The conversation went something like: “Yeah. No insurance. Can you believe it? I’ve been here for nine and a half damn hours and OH MY GOD I’M FUCKING GETTING LET OUT OF HERE!!”
I remember this cracked everyone in the room up and they howled in laughter when I dashed out of the room and hugged the stunned guard, surliness be damned.
I was given all of my belongings back, and for some reason the money I had (three dollars in change) was given back to me in the form of a check. The gravity of my situation didn’t sink in until I was outside. My mom was long gone and I was stuck in the middle of downtown Murderapolis at NIGHT without even a quarter to call anyone to come and get me. I grumbled something about becoming a real criminal as I stomped to my friend Ryan’s apartment at the University of Minnesota, 3 miles away.
posted by Shakycam | 1:09 PM
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