The sweltering heat of August humidity descended, smothering the eastern seaboard like a soggy blanket. Between jobs house painting, I lacked the mobility to spend the final weeks of summer actively, and I sank into a state of lethargy. One day I received a call from my friend Toby suggesting an impromptu road trip to Alabama, where several branches of his family tree lived. Finally, an answer to break the tedium of summer’s dog days.
The southbound crew consisted of Toby, and his friend Andrew whom I have a loose acquaintance with, but we’ve always gotten along well. Andrew is a deceptive character who defies categorization. At face value it’s easy to dismiss him as a typical suburban townie thug with his thick Boston accent and no nonsense demeanor. Even the most self-proclaimed liberally open-minded people would judge him prematurely, completely overlooking his extraordinary intelligence. I can only theorize that such people are intimidated by him and use denial as a defense mechanism to disregard his brains. He is equally fluent in talking about drug dealing as he is in discussing advanced biochemistry, and this contradiction he embodies confuses and frightens people.
Accompanied by my two worthy travel companions we set off toward uncharted territory south of the mason Dixon line. We loaded the car with provisions and certain other essentials such as a half-ounce of marijuana, and a bottle of Klonopin with a couple of Percocets in it. In retrospect the pot made sense according to the south’s reputation for schwaggy quality goods, but the illicit pharmaceuticals were complete excess baggage. We must have been living out some sort of Hunter S Thompson fantasy, because I’m not entirely sure what provoked our decision. The pills originally belonged to Toby’s late stepfather,so I think we rationalized our choice by telling ourselves we were delivering them to his mother, the rightful inheritor. The trip proceeded smoothly; crossing state lines while smoking our illegal cargo and making stoned conversation. Toby and I rotated from the driver seat to the back every six hours or so while Andrew sat permanent shotgun. Toby’s undeveloped shifting technique in traffic led to an overheated engine outside of Scranton, but this isolated incident aside we were on track and making exceptional progress. Then everything went horribly wrong.
Posted along the highway in Virginia are signs warning of patrolling aircraft monitoring and enforcing the speed limit. We scoffed at this notice, thinking it only a bluff serving as a deterrent, not a legitimate threat. The idea of taxpayer money being allocated for the funding of an F-14 Tomcat to keep the streets of Virginia safe from reckless driving seemed absolutely ludicrous. I rest assured in the back seat while I entrusted Toby with the wheel and the late-night shift.
I awoke at daybreak in a groggy daze to a flurry of profanity and flashing red and blue lights. The ensuing panic woke me up in a hurry. Apparently Toby exceeded the 60mph speed limit by a solid 20, and with the lingering aroma of marijuana permeating the car,the situation did not bode well for us.
The officer conducted the standard procedure of questioning, trying to lure us into self-incrimination, but he undoubtedly knew all along he bagged his first catch of the day. “This here is a real humdinger of a Yankee fish!” I imagined him saying. Toby became detained and the cop took him back to the cruiser for further interrogation. Meanwhile Andrew and I sat in power less captivity, the thick tension and anxiety hardly mitigated by Bob Dylan’s raspy vocals faintly filling the air. The album Blonde on Blonde played; the agonizing irony of “Everybody must get stoned” impossible to ignore. Toby returned looking despondent and we were ordered to step out to step out of the vehicle. At this point I became painfully aware of the deep shit we were in. Toby cracked under pressure and confessed everything. The cops turned the car inside out, discovering our illegal cargo. In a desperate attempt to hide the pot Andrew stashed it rather conspicuously in a cassette tape case. Officer Dixon held the evidence up with a half ounce shaped bulge protruding from it.
“Whose of y’alls is this?” I knew I was walking right into admitting possession but what other choice did I have? I claimed it. What could I do? “Yes sir that is my collection of legal audio tapes, but that class 1 restricted substance? No sir I’ve never seen that before in my life.” It in fact belonged to Andrew and taking the fall for him for the greater good seemed like the noble thing to do anyway. He had quite and extensive juvenile record and would be facing some serious consequences had he been arrested. My Miranda rights were read and the cuffs constricted around my wrists. A backup officer arrived on the scene and made stilted small talk while the early morning sun illuminated the sky. The casual nonchalance struck meas odd seeing as we were in their custody, instead of something like waiting for a bus. That’s southern hospitality for you. Toby and I were taken into separate squad cars back to booking at the station. On the ride I gazed at the pastoral beauty of the rural Virginia countryside, while the officer escorting me tried to engage me in a conversation about NASCAR. I later learned that Toby experienced the exact same mental outlook. “This sure is as shitty state of affairs, but at least it’s fucking pretty.”
Once at the police station we awaited our fingerprints and mug shots while speaking to an incoherent drunk with spider bites all over his face. Our first order of business was getting a hold of a reputable bail bondsman to release us. While we waited for auspicious developments to manifest themselves, the liaison to the district attorney began to antagonize us. He was a slimy and smarmy little shit with a mustache and bow tie.“Y’all know what we do down here when we catch you with them pills? We ram ya in the ass.” He then emphasized and illustrated this threat with a ramming motion of his arm. I felt sick. I looked through the window at the outside world. I don’t remember it ever looking so bright. A sign supporting our recently deployed troops to Iraq and a declaration of “freedom isn’t free” snapped be back to reality. I filled with seething hatred for the south. Toby and I found ourselves relocated to a holding cell where we passed the time playing Gin Rummy until our arranged meeting with an unscrupulous bail bondsman. Clad in cowboy boots and an enormous hat he looked crooked, and the first words out of his mouth only confirmed it. “What’s yer daddy do?” Obviously money is a priority in his line of business but by expressing his interest so tactlessly with such a brazenly blunt question, he lost our patronage.
Our predicament centered around the fact that the bail fee was 4000 dollars, 1500 for me, 2500 for Toby. Ordinarily a prisoner held with bail is required to pay only 10% of the total fee with the county covering the rest until the court date. Since we were out of state yanks however, we needed the entire sum of money up front to prevent us from skipping town. This was something we clearly weren’t capable of providing so off to the jail cells for an indeterminate amount of time we went. Meanwhile Andrew wandered around town a stranger in a strange land. He tried to assess the chaotic situation and assist our freedom in any way possible. This proved difficult, partially due to a language barrier erected between two distinct accents.
Back in jail Toby and I prepared for an incarceration of unknown duration. All our personal belongings were confiscated and one of the guards demanded we strip and shower. Being naked and vulnerable shivering in an ice cold shower while a cop barks orders and threats is quite possibly the most dehumanizing thing I have ever experienced. We were issued official jail uniforms, which consisted of fluorescent orange slippers and black and white striped shirt and pants- like in the cartoons. A very stylish ensemble to say the least. Toby and I separated, each to our own cell. From this point on the elapsing of time became very blurry. Perhaps on account of the fact that everything moves slower in the south, and the bureaucracy of the justice system only exacerbates the time-crawl.
On top of all this I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, creating a nightmarish distortion of my grim reality. My cell mates were a colorful assortment of rapists drunks and neo Nazis. I didn’t speak until spoken to;I wanted to avoid fraternizing with these unsavory characters unless I had to. The conventional question “What are you in for?” got tossed toward me with an attitude of indifference. “Oh nothing, just some silly little drugs. Nothing glamorous like domestic abuse.”The claustrophobia of a confined cold hard space was augmented by the capacity of the cell block being exceeded. A narrow corridor connected all the individual cells, and this passageway was constantly overcrowded and filled with boisterous activity. I designated a corner for myself and tried to establish a thick skin to acclimate myself to my new unforgiving environment. I became paranoid of being an easy target for harassment, but my cell mates generally ignored me. Despite my exhausted condition, sleep proved impossible with a continuous stream of clanging steel and hooting and hollering echoing in my head. I spent the proceeding eleven hours or so conducting a variety of inane activities to keep myself from losing my mind. I first started doing push ups almost intuitively; it seemed like the only natural thing to do. I played solitaire, stacked card houses, and built domino sculptures, over and over. The selection of reading material was very limited. A pile of catalogues selling chintzy novelty merchandise, Better Homes and Gardens magazines, and evangelical propaganda pamphlets make for a strange read within the context of a jail. The triviality of rampant materialism and perfectly groomed lawns is all the more potent when deprived of basic human liberty.
A television glared down at us from the top of a corner on the far side of the room. Much like the magazines and catalogues it served as a skewed window to the outside world through a commercialized lens. Unfortunately, I couldn’t turn it off, and the noise emitted blended into the cacophony that surrounded me. I eventually got used to it and tried to mentally transform it into a soothing white noise with less than successful results.
I did end up interacting with several of my cell mates despite my initial reluctance. I think I had an aversion not only because most of them were low-life scumbags, but also I felt I would be making a commitment to spending time in jail. Ideally I would be bailed out at any given second, so why bother communicating with anyone? I suffered from audio hallucinations that deluded me into thinking I had attained freedom. I hit it off with a relatively nice convicted felon from Maryland. We didn’t have much in common other that our ineptitude at comprehending the drawl of southern dialect. I traded my grits at lunch because they are bland. The biscuits were pretty good actually. I got suckered into trading my sandals for a ridiculously over sized pair, and one of the older inmates warned me against getting taken advantage of. He almost seemed like a father figure. The fact that I began to see a social dynamic scared me. The thought of spending a prolonged period of time here was unfathomable. Every time I asked about Toby the guards would say:“Yer friends are gone! You could be in here fer weeks!” I became delusional and paranoid; convinced Toby was still there and the guards had constructed an elaborate plan to fuck with my mind. The method of social exchange between cell blocks consisted of screaming a question at the top of your lungs and within seconds you’d receive a booming indecipherable answer. I attempted to do this and it proved completely useless.
Later on in the evening after collect calling my folks unsuccessfully a fellow prisoner approached me and uttered words that make me shudder to this very day.“Yer gay right? We’re all gay here!” I soon realized much to my relief that he was only screwing with me, but for a while I suffered horrific visions of sodomy.
Nightfall descended, and I settled down on my nice little quarter inch foam pad with the peace of mind knowing I was safe from anal violation. The prime time programming improved and I watched Reno 911 and South Park while everyone traded their medication. I slept blissfully, having a very beautiful vivid dream. My physical body may have been confined, but my subconscious roamed wherever it pleased.
The following morning was uneventful until someone decided to go into a seizure. The whole cell block locked down, forcing me into a tight private cell occupied by two ornery southern gentlemen. They promptly fell asleep, leaving me to stare at their crude drawings of hot rods and vulgar portraits of imaginary women. At this point I was on the brink of insanity. I wanted to jump out of my skin and fly through the walls.
Suddenly a beacon of salvation emerged and released me. Setting foot outside after spending thirty hours in jail is really something. I can’t imagine what kind of sensation it must be after a year or even longer. My eyes squinted to adjust to the sun. A jovial man named Mr. Gregory whom I am eternally grateful to helped bail me out. “We shore do thangs differently down here don’t we?”
“Yeah tell me about it” I chuckled. He was the epitome of everything perfect about the south; warm, sincere and charming. I reunited with Toby, Andrew and my car sprung from the impound lot. We continued our journey into the deep south undaunted by the unexpected turn of events. I am never getting arrested ever again.