It was Jackson’s 11 year sobriety birthday and he was feeling fine driving home from the AA hall. Life was finally starting to smooth out. Jackson had a good job at the plant, a fine woman for girlfriend, and had regained a relationship with his family, and most importantly the stormy waters of his mind had smoothed a little. And to make things even better this year he had finally quit smoking! It was a battle but he did it, with God’s help of course. He was fond of telling people that God was finally doing for him what he could not do for himself. After a warm bath complete with bath salts, he was all ready to lay it down in for the night.
His feeling of fineness was interrupted when he heard the neighbors yelling as he was settling into bed. This was getting to be a common occurrence. Jackson had bought the house a 5 years ago (another gift of sobriety), and it was a strange twist of fate that one of his old running buddies Rob, and his fiancé Linda were living with Rob’s grandfather Ronny next-door. Jackson had gotten sober but Rob never had, he had only gotten worse over the years, hit the skids, and had to move in with his grandfather Ronny. By that point neither Rob nor Linda had worked a steady job for some time. Rob said he had severe back problems that kept him from working, so instead stayed high on pain pills and booze, but got a little disability check each month. He went to a doctor that helped him with the process of filing for disability, and the two had developed a close working relationship over the years. Rob would spend most of his money on Hydrocodone and Dilaudid at the doctor’s office, and when he was running short he could get by on credit till the first of the month, or he could “borrow” some from his grandfather. Linda could not get along with anyone so she tended to get fired within a few months of starting a job so had no references or work history to speak of at 35. She also had a felony conviction for intent to distribute Zanex which made it hard to even get her foot in the door. She also had diabetes and complained about her knees hurting if she stood for more than an hour at a time. She was severely overweight.
Often Jackson would pull up from work and Rob and his blushing bride to be would be hanging out on the porch or the yard drinking beer and listening to music. They would invite him over to hang out and drink with them but he would always decline. He finally told Rob that he had cleaned up his act, and was sober, and didn’t drink beer anymore. Sometimes they would get to talking about the shape of Rob’s life and Jackson often asked him to come to meetings. It was becoming more and more apparent to Jackson that Rob’s life was spiraling out of control. Sometimes he would see Ronny outside yelling at Rob or Linda. The yard had become trashed since he moved in. The old man seemed very clean but it looked like his property was turning into a white trash heaven. Rob’s old pickup was parked in the yard, and had an oil leak. Rob was constantly working on this or that, constantly with plan of getting it on the road and doing some traveling etc..,
Jackson liked Ronny, he seemed a solid hard working type and reminded Jackson of his own father. He had talked with the old man and over the years and gleaned something of his past. He was born so poor that at least one of his siblings had died of what sounded like malnutrition or lack of proper care shortly after birth. The baby had been “birthed unnaturally by some no good witch doctor that didn’t know shit about medicine” at their 3 roomed house. The bank repossessed the farm and the family had to move west shortly after it's death. Ronny signed up for the military right after Perl Harbor and had to get special permission from his parents and the constable because he was only 16. He didn’t see any action but was sent to Hawaii and worked as a cook. He said it was the best thing could have happened to him. He got an education and learned a trade. Upon returning he got married to his high-school sweet heart, and got a job as a cook at the Local High School cafeteria. In time he worked his way up into an administration position with the school board overseeing the purchase and transportation of large amounts of food for all the schools in the district. He retired at 65 with full VA benefits and a nice retirement package from the state. His wife had died shortly thereafter and it was a blow because he wanted to spend his “golden years” with her. He had worked so hard, and seen her much less than he had wanted too. He had missed a lot of time with the family because he had to work, and a man had to work.
He was of the opinion that everyone could make it in America, given a little hard work and a little character and a little discipline. His brother had been a drunk and a bum who rode the rails, and by god he swore that he would never disappoint his mother the way his brother had. Ronny felt that sometimes people want to be bums and that was that. He had sent his only son to a good collage and wanted the boy to be something better than his father, the boy was smart as a whip, but he had the same problem as his uncle, and drank too much, and now he is a bum too, and never called.
For Ronny drinking and the bumming that went with it was a moral problem. Ronny’s only son was a heavy drinker, had finished college and then moved to California. Shortly thereafter Rob had come to live with his grandpaw because his father had become unable to support him. It had been 20 years since anyone in the family had heard from him. He winced a little when he talked about his son and it was apparent to Jackson that Ronny was very hurt about the situation. Ronny's sweet daughter lived in Michigan and had a good job with a large internet security firm and is married to an ex-Navy man, a good hard working man, thank god.
“See” Ronny would say, “you did it, you straightened up, so can my son and grandson, so can any man, he just has to pull his head out of his ass and work hard. This is America. Anyone can make it. I did it, you did it, anyone can do it. The only people who can’t make it in this country are the lazy and the degenerate. Simple as that…”
Jackson knew a little more about alcoholism, or at any rate had a different take on the problem, and tried to tell Ronny that is was not as easy as a problem of simple self-control, or moral degeneration, that it was a disease, both physical and spiritual, and that once it gets ahold of you it takes more than a simple “decision” to break loose. He tried to tell Ronny that Rob was very sick, and that he would have to get sober before he could get and keep a job, and that would take some help, the help of others. Kicking him out might not be a gbad idea, but he had to treat him with the care one would treat a sick person, and not try and shame him. He feels enough shame as it is.
“Bullshit” Ronny would say. “I’m about to kick that no good lazy bastard out, just like I did his dirty hippy dad. I'm not gonna be made a fool twice. I supported his dad for years and all the sudden he just quits calling. He just threw me to the trash heap when he don’t need money. Me and Martha never raised him to be that selfish. Look at his sister, she’s an angel, we raied those kids right. And I damn near raised Rob too cause his no good dad was off doing whatever. Am I supposed to just carry him the rest of his life? I tried to send him to school and he stayed loaded and dropped out his first semester. I can’t get him to work, or anything. He is lazy and disrespectful, and that nasty pig of his is eating me out of house and home.”
Sometime after Jackson’s prayers thanking god for his sobriety, he was driven from his warm secure bed by an abrupt banging on the door. He could here screaming outside. Jackson ran to open the door. Rob stood there without shirt, in torn bloody jean shorts, with one sock on and one bare foot. He was holding up his hands. As soon as the door open he started talking franticly, holding up his hands “I didn’t do any thing, I swear, he fell is all, the old man fell.”
Jackson took one look and immediately ran to the phone, he called 911 and told the operator that there was some trouble and that someone was hurt badly, and gave her the address. While the operator was pleading with him to stay calm, to stay rational that every thing was going to be ok, that the autorities would handle it, and to stay on the line, Jackson hung up, put on a pair of shorts, and ran over to see what he could actually do to help.
When he entered the front door, Linda was kneeling in panties and bra, her bulging body spilling out of her underwear, screaming, trying to pet or rub Jackson’s head, which was broken open, blood and brains spilling out onto the floor. She was babbling that it would be ok, and that god loves them all, that the doctors, the smart doctors would fix it all up.
Jackson ran over to her and pulled her back, telling her that it was ok, that everything was going to be ok, that the doctors and police would make it ok, las you would tell a child that’s scared of the dark. Rob was backed up against the wall still screaming that he fell, that the old man fell, that he didn’t do anything.
Jackson stood for a time over the body, looking at the Ronny’s bleeding head. All hthe poor old man's life, his hard work, his memories, his personality, his needs and wants and dreams for his family, he hopes that his son could do better, all splattered across the cheap imitation tile. Jackson listened to the rapidly approaching authorites.
Jackson just wanted to go home, to get in bed, to cover his eyes with his warm blanket. He wanted to go home and pray that all this works out, because after all god has a plan for everyone. Jackson was powerless in this situation and it would be worked out somehow, in this world with this world's autorities, or in the next, with the angles and god and all that pretty pretty.
The cops came in and the paramedics ran in right after them and the last thing Jackson remembered seeing were the cops cuffing Rob. He climbed in bed and pulled the blankets over his eyes and tried to picture god, smiling, omnipresent, with a plan for everybody
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Grand Dead (thank u god dub)
It was Jackson’s 11 year sobriety birthday and he was feeling fine driving home from the AA hall. Life was finally starting to smooth out. Jackson had a good job at the plant, a fine woman for girlfriend, and had regained a relationship with his family, and most importantly the stormy waters of his mind had smoothed a little. And to make things even better this year he had finally quit smoking! It was a battle but he did it, with God’s help of course. He was fond of telling people that God was finally doing for him what he could not do for himself. After a warm bath complete with bath salts, he was all ready to lay it down in for the night.
His feeling of fineness was interrupted when he heard the neighbors yelling as he was settling into bed. This was getting to be a common occurrence. Jackson had bought the house a 5 years ago (another gift of sobriety), and it was a strange twist of fate that one of his old running buddies Rob, and his fiancé Linda were living with Rob’s grandfather Ronny next-door. Jackson had gotten sober but Rob never had, he had only gotten worse over the years, hit the skids, and had to move in with his grandfather Ronny. By that point neither Rob nor Linda had worked a steady job for some time. Rob said he had severe back problems that kept him from working, so instead stayed high on pain pills and booze, but got a little disability check each month. He went to a doctor that helped him with the process of filing for disability, and the two had developed a close working relationship over the years. Rob would spend most of his money on Hydrocodone and Dilaudid at the doctor’s office, and when he was running short he could get by on credit till the first of the month, or he could “borrow” some from his grandfather. Linda could not get along with anyone so she tended to get fired within a few months of starting a job so had no references or work history to speak of at 35. She also had a felony conviction for intent to distribute Zanex which made it hard to even get her foot in the door. She also had diabetes and complained about her knees hurting if she stood for more than an hour at a time. She was severely overweight.
Often Jackson would pull up from work and Rob and his blushing bride to be would be hanging out on the porch or the yard drinking beer and listening to music. They would invite him over to hang out and drink with them but he would always decline. He finally told Rob that he had cleaned up his act, and was sober, and didn’t drink beer anymore. Sometimes they would get to talking about the shape of Rob’s life and Jackson often asked him to come to meetings. It was becoming more and more apparent to Jackson that Rob’s life was spiraling out of control. Sometimes he would see Ronny outside yelling at Rob or Linda. The yard had become trashed since he moved in. The old man seemed very clean but it looked like his property was turning into a white trash heaven. Rob’s old pickup was parked in the yard, and had an oil leak. Rob was constantly working on this or that, constantly with plan of getting it on the road and doing some traveling etc..,
Jackson liked Ronny, he seemed a solid hard working type and reminded Jackson of his own father. He had talked with the old man and over the years and gleaned something of his past. He was born so poor that at least one of his siblings had died of what sounded like malnutrition or lack of proper care shortly after birth. The baby had been “birthed unnaturally by some no good witch doctor that didn’t know shit about medicine” at their 3 roomed house. The bank repossessed the farm and the family had to move west shortly after it's death. Ronny signed up for the military right after Perl Harbor and had to get special permission from his parents and the constable because he was only 16. He didn’t see any action but was sent to Hawaii and worked as a cook. He said it was the best thing could have happened to him. He got an education and learned a trade. Upon returning he got married to his high-school sweet heart, and got a job as a cook at the Local High School cafeteria. In time he worked his way up into an administration position with the school board overseeing the purchase and transportation of large amounts of food for all the schools in the district. He retired at 65 with full VA benefits and a nice retirement package from the state. His wife had died shortly thereafter and it was a blow because he wanted to spend his “golden years” with her. He had worked so hard, and seen her much less than he had wanted too. He had missed a lot of time with the family because he had to work, and a man had to work.
He was of the opinion that everyone could make it in America, given a little hard work and a little character and a little discipline. His brother had been a drunk and a bum who rode the rails, and by god he swore that he would never disapoint his mother the way his brother had. Sometimes people want to be bums and that was that. He had sent his only son to a good collage and wanted the boy to be something better than his father, the boy was smart as a whip, but he had the same problem as his uncle, and drank too much, and now he is a bum too, and never called.
For Ronny drinking and the bumming that went with it was a moral problem. Ronny’s only son was a heavy drinker, had finished college and then moved to California. It had been four years since anyone in the family had heard from him. He winced a little when he talked about his son and it was apparent to Jackson that Ronny was very hurt about the situation. Ronny's sweet daughter lived in Michigan and had a good job with a large internet security firm and is married to an ex Navy man, a good hard working man, thank god.
“See” Ronny would say, “you did it, you straightened up, so can my son and grandson, so can any man, he just has to pull his head out of his ass and work hard. This is America. Anyone can make it. I did it, you did it, anyone can do it. The only people who can’t make it in this country are the lazy and the degenerate. Simple as that…”
Jackson knew a little more about alcoholism, or at any rate had a different take on the problem, and tried to tell Ronny that is was not as easy as a problem of simple self-control, or moral degeneration, that it was a disease, both physical and spiritual, and that once it gets ahold of you it takes more than a simple “decision” to break loose. He tried to tell Ronny that Rob was very sick, and that he would have to get sober before he could get and keep a job, and that would take some help, the help of others. Kicking him out might not be a gbad idea, but he had to treat him with the care one would treat a sick person, and not try and shame him. He feels enough shame as it is.
“Bullshit” Ronny would say. “I’m about to kick that no good lazy bastard out, just like I did his dirty hippy dad. I'm not gonna be made a fool twice. I supported his dad for years and all the sudden he just quits calling. He just threw me to the trash heap when he don’t need money. Me and Martha never raised him to be that selfish. Look at his sister, she’s an angel, we raied those kids right. And I damn near raised Rob too cause his no good dad was off doing whatever. Am I supposed to just carry him the rest of his life? I tried to send him to school and he stayed loaded and dropped out his first semester. I can’t get him to work, or anything. He is lazy and disrespectful, and that nasty pig of his is eating me out of house and home.”
Jackson would nod and just tell him to pray about it.
To be cont….
His feeling of fineness was interrupted when he heard the neighbors yelling as he was settling into bed. This was getting to be a common occurrence. Jackson had bought the house a 5 years ago (another gift of sobriety), and it was a strange twist of fate that one of his old running buddies Rob, and his fiancé Linda were living with Rob’s grandfather Ronny next-door. Jackson had gotten sober but Rob never had, he had only gotten worse over the years, hit the skids, and had to move in with his grandfather Ronny. By that point neither Rob nor Linda had worked a steady job for some time. Rob said he had severe back problems that kept him from working, so instead stayed high on pain pills and booze, but got a little disability check each month. He went to a doctor that helped him with the process of filing for disability, and the two had developed a close working relationship over the years. Rob would spend most of his money on Hydrocodone and Dilaudid at the doctor’s office, and when he was running short he could get by on credit till the first of the month, or he could “borrow” some from his grandfather. Linda could not get along with anyone so she tended to get fired within a few months of starting a job so had no references or work history to speak of at 35. She also had a felony conviction for intent to distribute Zanex which made it hard to even get her foot in the door. She also had diabetes and complained about her knees hurting if she stood for more than an hour at a time. She was severely overweight.
Often Jackson would pull up from work and Rob and his blushing bride to be would be hanging out on the porch or the yard drinking beer and listening to music. They would invite him over to hang out and drink with them but he would always decline. He finally told Rob that he had cleaned up his act, and was sober, and didn’t drink beer anymore. Sometimes they would get to talking about the shape of Rob’s life and Jackson often asked him to come to meetings. It was becoming more and more apparent to Jackson that Rob’s life was spiraling out of control. Sometimes he would see Ronny outside yelling at Rob or Linda. The yard had become trashed since he moved in. The old man seemed very clean but it looked like his property was turning into a white trash heaven. Rob’s old pickup was parked in the yard, and had an oil leak. Rob was constantly working on this or that, constantly with plan of getting it on the road and doing some traveling etc..,
Jackson liked Ronny, he seemed a solid hard working type and reminded Jackson of his own father. He had talked with the old man and over the years and gleaned something of his past. He was born so poor that at least one of his siblings had died of what sounded like malnutrition or lack of proper care shortly after birth. The baby had been “birthed unnaturally by some no good witch doctor that didn’t know shit about medicine” at their 3 roomed house. The bank repossessed the farm and the family had to move west shortly after it's death. Ronny signed up for the military right after Perl Harbor and had to get special permission from his parents and the constable because he was only 16. He didn’t see any action but was sent to Hawaii and worked as a cook. He said it was the best thing could have happened to him. He got an education and learned a trade. Upon returning he got married to his high-school sweet heart, and got a job as a cook at the Local High School cafeteria. In time he worked his way up into an administration position with the school board overseeing the purchase and transportation of large amounts of food for all the schools in the district. He retired at 65 with full VA benefits and a nice retirement package from the state. His wife had died shortly thereafter and it was a blow because he wanted to spend his “golden years” with her. He had worked so hard, and seen her much less than he had wanted too. He had missed a lot of time with the family because he had to work, and a man had to work.
He was of the opinion that everyone could make it in America, given a little hard work and a little character and a little discipline. His brother had been a drunk and a bum who rode the rails, and by god he swore that he would never disapoint his mother the way his brother had. Sometimes people want to be bums and that was that. He had sent his only son to a good collage and wanted the boy to be something better than his father, the boy was smart as a whip, but he had the same problem as his uncle, and drank too much, and now he is a bum too, and never called.
For Ronny drinking and the bumming that went with it was a moral problem. Ronny’s only son was a heavy drinker, had finished college and then moved to California. It had been four years since anyone in the family had heard from him. He winced a little when he talked about his son and it was apparent to Jackson that Ronny was very hurt about the situation. Ronny's sweet daughter lived in Michigan and had a good job with a large internet security firm and is married to an ex Navy man, a good hard working man, thank god.
“See” Ronny would say, “you did it, you straightened up, so can my son and grandson, so can any man, he just has to pull his head out of his ass and work hard. This is America. Anyone can make it. I did it, you did it, anyone can do it. The only people who can’t make it in this country are the lazy and the degenerate. Simple as that…”
Jackson knew a little more about alcoholism, or at any rate had a different take on the problem, and tried to tell Ronny that is was not as easy as a problem of simple self-control, or moral degeneration, that it was a disease, both physical and spiritual, and that once it gets ahold of you it takes more than a simple “decision” to break loose. He tried to tell Ronny that Rob was very sick, and that he would have to get sober before he could get and keep a job, and that would take some help, the help of others. Kicking him out might not be a gbad idea, but he had to treat him with the care one would treat a sick person, and not try and shame him. He feels enough shame as it is.
“Bullshit” Ronny would say. “I’m about to kick that no good lazy bastard out, just like I did his dirty hippy dad. I'm not gonna be made a fool twice. I supported his dad for years and all the sudden he just quits calling. He just threw me to the trash heap when he don’t need money. Me and Martha never raised him to be that selfish. Look at his sister, she’s an angel, we raied those kids right. And I damn near raised Rob too cause his no good dad was off doing whatever. Am I supposed to just carry him the rest of his life? I tried to send him to school and he stayed loaded and dropped out his first semester. I can’t get him to work, or anything. He is lazy and disrespectful, and that nasty pig of his is eating me out of house and home.”
Jackson would nod and just tell him to pray about it.
To be cont….
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Olympian
Jacob was feeling good, and why shouldn’t he? His law firm had the best month that he could remember, his daughter was in a good school, making good grades, his son just got a promotion at the law firm, and his wife was at that bitch of a stepmom’s and, for the next week all he was going to do was get fucked up and party with stripers. He was damn happy he stepped out on a limb and got the condo in the city. Of course the wife had complained at first, but after reminding her who brought home the bacon, (and lots of it) and making the case that being closer to the firm would allow him to be more productive, she finally saw it his way. Of course the diamond tennis bracelet didn’t hurt either.
After a night of cocaine and other vices, Jacob always found it helpful to eat a few Hydrocodones to take the edge off the come down. As he was driving home he could feel the warm sensation starting to wash over him, each wave a little more pleasant. “Yes”, he thought, "it had been a good night, and sleep will come thankfully soon".
Any nagging residue of guilt for the things he had done would be fixed by the drugs and the fun he would have tomorrow. "Besides", Jacob mused, "everybody had fun, no one got hurt, the girls and the drug dealers made a few bucks, nad I got what I needed, and I deserve it. Capitalism at it’s best, and lord knows it’s been good to me".
He settled into the plush leather of his Porsche. The best thing about having a Porsche is knowing how the little people looked at him when they saw what he was driving, and how the word spread throughout the club what he was driving. Strangely enough, he always tended to get more attention from the girls when he drove the Porsche. As well he should. He had done this for himself, he made it. He made it because he was smarter, harder working, and more cunning than the rest. "That’s justice", he thought. The only justice that’s worth the name, the people who have things are the people who work hard, and the people who have the guts and the capability and brains and the upbringing to make it. That’s a man’s job, to provide, to make it, and men are rightly ranked by how well they do in this respect.
For people like us, the millionaires, perhaps we more than men in a weird way. Jacob liked this thought. Everyone needed people to look up to, to emulate, and the little people have guys like us, guys who could push their way to the top while they stalled at the bottom. He laughed out loud at the perfect sense it all made. Without us, their betters, they would be more inclined to be skeptical, and skepticism is the mark of a sick society. People need their royalty, there betters. We show that you can make it in America. And, it gives them a sense of place to be ranked below us. It’s a good system.
Walking up to his apartment he was startled by a voice from behind, “Excuse me sir”.
He spun around. Standing a few feet from him was an old man in torn rags, with a long dreaded beard. “excuse me sir, I’m sorry to startle you, I’m a traveler and I don’t know anyone in this town, I’m looking for a warm bed and perhaps a meal. I’m an old man and I’ve traveled a long way, and still have far to go.”
Jacob was stunned. His brain clattered, "How the hell did this trash get in the gate! Where the hell did he come from, he just came out of nowhere! Probably because he has lots of experience sneaking up on people, he looks like some kind of dirty pervert. Needs money I’m sure. What a looser. How can people let them selves sink so low. I guess that's justice too".
Jacob was stunned at the call of the bum, “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are but you must be fucking crazy if you think anyone in their right mind is going to let you in their house. Most of you guys just ask for money, but you have some balls.” He started to reach into his pocket.
The bearded man responded, “I’m sorry to have offended you sir, it’s just that where I’m from travelers are offered hospitality, it’s the law, I thought it was universal."
Jacob laughed “The law, ha, you must be from Cuba or Uzbekistan or something. I don’t care what you barbarian communists do, in America everyone rows his own boat, that’s fairness, no one rows it for you and you are not asked to row anyone else’s, that’s justice, but since I’m in a good mood all I’ll over you a few bucks, even though I know it's wrong, or more exactly, unjust.
The old man raised his hand “I’m sorry sir, please keep your money, I wanted hospitality,not money, travelers should always be offered hospitality, as long as they don’t take advantage. You have queer ideas of justice . You know, where I’m from, to break the law of hospitality is a terrible offense, punishable by strict retribution.
Something had blown in Jacobs eye, and he was getting sleepy, the Hydrocodone was working it’s magic. He was rubbing his eyes and yawned, “listen old man, my eye burns and I’m very tired, I tried to give you a few bucks and that’s all I can do, so spare me your silly lecture and get the hell out of here before I call the police.”
Jacob turned to go. He had a hard time negotiating the elevator to his condo because his eye was burning a little. When he got upstairs he washed his face with warm water and felt immediately better. The wine and hydrocodone were working fine. He walked to the balcony for one last smoke. He didn’t realize how early it was. The sun was just starting to rise over the horizon. “Good god” he thought, “I’ve been at it all night, like I was 18.” The sun was spilling red over the city. Jacob couldn’t remember the last time he had seen such a red sun rise. He went to bed, and dreamed he eye was being ripped from his skull.
After a night of cocaine and other vices, Jacob always found it helpful to eat a few Hydrocodones to take the edge off the come down. As he was driving home he could feel the warm sensation starting to wash over him, each wave a little more pleasant. “Yes”, he thought, "it had been a good night, and sleep will come thankfully soon".
Any nagging residue of guilt for the things he had done would be fixed by the drugs and the fun he would have tomorrow. "Besides", Jacob mused, "everybody had fun, no one got hurt, the girls and the drug dealers made a few bucks, nad I got what I needed, and I deserve it. Capitalism at it’s best, and lord knows it’s been good to me".
He settled into the plush leather of his Porsche. The best thing about having a Porsche is knowing how the little people looked at him when they saw what he was driving, and how the word spread throughout the club what he was driving. Strangely enough, he always tended to get more attention from the girls when he drove the Porsche. As well he should. He had done this for himself, he made it. He made it because he was smarter, harder working, and more cunning than the rest. "That’s justice", he thought. The only justice that’s worth the name, the people who have things are the people who work hard, and the people who have the guts and the capability and brains and the upbringing to make it. That’s a man’s job, to provide, to make it, and men are rightly ranked by how well they do in this respect.
For people like us, the millionaires, perhaps we more than men in a weird way. Jacob liked this thought. Everyone needed people to look up to, to emulate, and the little people have guys like us, guys who could push their way to the top while they stalled at the bottom. He laughed out loud at the perfect sense it all made. Without us, their betters, they would be more inclined to be skeptical, and skepticism is the mark of a sick society. People need their royalty, there betters. We show that you can make it in America. And, it gives them a sense of place to be ranked below us. It’s a good system.
Walking up to his apartment he was startled by a voice from behind, “Excuse me sir”.
He spun around. Standing a few feet from him was an old man in torn rags, with a long dreaded beard. “excuse me sir, I’m sorry to startle you, I’m a traveler and I don’t know anyone in this town, I’m looking for a warm bed and perhaps a meal. I’m an old man and I’ve traveled a long way, and still have far to go.”
Jacob was stunned. His brain clattered, "How the hell did this trash get in the gate! Where the hell did he come from, he just came out of nowhere! Probably because he has lots of experience sneaking up on people, he looks like some kind of dirty pervert. Needs money I’m sure. What a looser. How can people let them selves sink so low. I guess that's justice too".
Jacob was stunned at the call of the bum, “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are but you must be fucking crazy if you think anyone in their right mind is going to let you in their house. Most of you guys just ask for money, but you have some balls.” He started to reach into his pocket.
The bearded man responded, “I’m sorry to have offended you sir, it’s just that where I’m from travelers are offered hospitality, it’s the law, I thought it was universal."
Jacob laughed “The law, ha, you must be from Cuba or Uzbekistan or something. I don’t care what you barbarian communists do, in America everyone rows his own boat, that’s fairness, no one rows it for you and you are not asked to row anyone else’s, that’s justice, but since I’m in a good mood all I’ll over you a few bucks, even though I know it's wrong, or more exactly, unjust.
The old man raised his hand “I’m sorry sir, please keep your money, I wanted hospitality,not money, travelers should always be offered hospitality, as long as they don’t take advantage. You have queer ideas of justice . You know, where I’m from, to break the law of hospitality is a terrible offense, punishable by strict retribution.
Something had blown in Jacobs eye, and he was getting sleepy, the Hydrocodone was working it’s magic. He was rubbing his eyes and yawned, “listen old man, my eye burns and I’m very tired, I tried to give you a few bucks and that’s all I can do, so spare me your silly lecture and get the hell out of here before I call the police.”
Jacob turned to go. He had a hard time negotiating the elevator to his condo because his eye was burning a little. When he got upstairs he washed his face with warm water and felt immediately better. The wine and hydrocodone were working fine. He walked to the balcony for one last smoke. He didn’t realize how early it was. The sun was just starting to rise over the horizon. “Good god” he thought, “I’ve been at it all night, like I was 18.” The sun was spilling red over the city. Jacob couldn’t remember the last time he had seen such a red sun rise. He went to bed, and dreamed he eye was being ripped from his skull.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Christmas Gift (variation on a theme in MO
Jack had not seen his son Daryl since he had went to prison five years ago. Jack had been trying to recover from alcoholism for 3 years, and felt deeply guilty about the way his son had turned out. Daryl was moved to a holiday unit so that the two could visit for about two hours in the reception room of the complex, which was specially designed for such occasions. Jack was very nervous about the meeting, but his sponsor in AA insisted that he go and tell Daryl how he felt and make amends. He felt that he had consistently let Daryl down, and that his criminality was the result of the terrible upbringing he had.
Daryl’s mom was killed while driving drunk, and at the time Jack was working shift work at a plant, six days a week. Jack’s brother Sam offered to help out by looking after the boy at night. Sam was a high school civics teacher. Sam molested Daryl at a pool party to commemorate his 6th birthday, and continued to do so until Daryl finally talked to his youth minister about it three years later.
When the story broke in the press and Jack had a nervous breakdown and tried to kill his brother, who was out on bail awaiting trial. As he was kicking in the door to his brother’s house the cops showed up, and Jack brandished a gun. It was a small town and the cops knew about the issue and were able to talk Jack out of the homicidal rage he was in, promising that justice would be served. After a very tense 30 minutes of negotiation Jack finally went along silently, and was charged with attempted aggravated assault. He was denied bail, but was shortly released after his brother had been sentenced to a 25 year bid.
Jack was put on probation, but was not able to successfully complete it because he took to drinking and drugging very hard, and got a string of DWIs and DUIs. Things spiraled out of control until Jack went to prison on felony DWI and child protective services arranged for a home for Daryl. The families he was put with were good people, but were unable to handle Daryl’s increasingly violent and disruptive behavior. He skipped from family to family until he went to Juvenile Detention for threating to kill the principal of his school at 16. At 18 he held up a liquor store and while doing so called the Korean owner a lot of racist names. After the owner began to protest his treatment Daryl pistol whipped him. Daryl had gotten Nazi tattoos in Juvenile Detention and the DA pushed for a hate crime conviction. The hate crime charge didn’t stick and Daryl accepted a plea for 8 years. He was sent to a “gladiator camp”, which is what they call units reserved for young violent criminals, but Daryl was a not considered an easy target, so mostly his time was without major incident and he managed to stay out of segregation. By the time Jack got out of prison Daryl had already began his stay.
As soon as Daryl was sentenced the youth minister Francis, who he had originally told about the abuse began writing him. Francis was very faithful in this task. As a result of the constant advice by the minister, Daryl attended church regularly in prison and enrolled in one of the few vocational programs the state cared to offer. There was a long waiting list for each but Francis was able to write the warden and get Daryl moved to the top. He learned to weld and got a high school diploma. Francis encouraged Daryl to begin thinking about his life critically from the day he went in. He also sent him religious and political literature to read. Daryl began to feel that it was not entirely his fault that he did what he did, and that there was a spiritual and political way out from the physical and mental pain the world inflicted on him.
When the cops buzzed Jack into the reception room Jack was so nervous he was shaking. The reception room was crowded and hot. People of all kinds filled the tables set up in the middle of the floor, or lounged on couches or played with children in a little corner with the too few toys the state brought in. Jack immediately spotted Daryl at a table and walked directly over to him. The two shook hands stiffly. The two sat and Jack immediately told Daryl what he needed to tell him. He told him that he felt he had been a terrible father and that he felt directly responsible for all the harm that had come to him. He told him that he was working hard to stay sober and put away money so that when Daryl got out he would have a little cushion and he wanted to do right by him finally. He told him that he was making good money and that if his son needed to move in with him he could. Daryl just sat quietly and listened. He wanted to rewind time, to make it all better, to make the pain stop. He wanted to stop the hate and the anger and the overwhelming rage and alienation that had driven him all his life. He wanted to tell his dad that it was ok, that it would be ok, that he was going to work hard and get sober and that life would be fine and that mom was watching over them both. But he didn’t say much of anything, he mostly simply listened, and when it was over they were both crying and they hugged for a long time. Daryl simply said that he was going to do right when he got out and that was the only planes he had, beyond that who could say? Then they went over to the couches and watched football saying little.
On the drive back Jack felt incredibly light. He felt the lightness and stillness that comes after a great emotional surge, the satisfied satiation of the soul. One small voice disturbed his spent state. As he slowed for a stop sign he suddenly knew in a quiet way he would no longer have to kill Sam when and if he was released. He stopped at the stop sign and put the car in park. The day was cold and grey and blanketed by thick grey clouds. High up in the cold air he could hear the harsh call of geese moving south, following their star mapped soul to a climate where food and warmth were abundant. Jack stepped out of the car and looked up, but could not see the geese. He could only here them, and assume that they were there, looking down at the world from their great and beautiful distances, detacthed and perfect like the gods.
Daryl’s mom was killed while driving drunk, and at the time Jack was working shift work at a plant, six days a week. Jack’s brother Sam offered to help out by looking after the boy at night. Sam was a high school civics teacher. Sam molested Daryl at a pool party to commemorate his 6th birthday, and continued to do so until Daryl finally talked to his youth minister about it three years later.
When the story broke in the press and Jack had a nervous breakdown and tried to kill his brother, who was out on bail awaiting trial. As he was kicking in the door to his brother’s house the cops showed up, and Jack brandished a gun. It was a small town and the cops knew about the issue and were able to talk Jack out of the homicidal rage he was in, promising that justice would be served. After a very tense 30 minutes of negotiation Jack finally went along silently, and was charged with attempted aggravated assault. He was denied bail, but was shortly released after his brother had been sentenced to a 25 year bid.
Jack was put on probation, but was not able to successfully complete it because he took to drinking and drugging very hard, and got a string of DWIs and DUIs. Things spiraled out of control until Jack went to prison on felony DWI and child protective services arranged for a home for Daryl. The families he was put with were good people, but were unable to handle Daryl’s increasingly violent and disruptive behavior. He skipped from family to family until he went to Juvenile Detention for threating to kill the principal of his school at 16. At 18 he held up a liquor store and while doing so called the Korean owner a lot of racist names. After the owner began to protest his treatment Daryl pistol whipped him. Daryl had gotten Nazi tattoos in Juvenile Detention and the DA pushed for a hate crime conviction. The hate crime charge didn’t stick and Daryl accepted a plea for 8 years. He was sent to a “gladiator camp”, which is what they call units reserved for young violent criminals, but Daryl was a not considered an easy target, so mostly his time was without major incident and he managed to stay out of segregation. By the time Jack got out of prison Daryl had already began his stay.
As soon as Daryl was sentenced the youth minister Francis, who he had originally told about the abuse began writing him. Francis was very faithful in this task. As a result of the constant advice by the minister, Daryl attended church regularly in prison and enrolled in one of the few vocational programs the state cared to offer. There was a long waiting list for each but Francis was able to write the warden and get Daryl moved to the top. He learned to weld and got a high school diploma. Francis encouraged Daryl to begin thinking about his life critically from the day he went in. He also sent him religious and political literature to read. Daryl began to feel that it was not entirely his fault that he did what he did, and that there was a spiritual and political way out from the physical and mental pain the world inflicted on him.
When the cops buzzed Jack into the reception room Jack was so nervous he was shaking. The reception room was crowded and hot. People of all kinds filled the tables set up in the middle of the floor, or lounged on couches or played with children in a little corner with the too few toys the state brought in. Jack immediately spotted Daryl at a table and walked directly over to him. The two shook hands stiffly. The two sat and Jack immediately told Daryl what he needed to tell him. He told him that he felt he had been a terrible father and that he felt directly responsible for all the harm that had come to him. He told him that he was working hard to stay sober and put away money so that when Daryl got out he would have a little cushion and he wanted to do right by him finally. He told him that he was making good money and that if his son needed to move in with him he could. Daryl just sat quietly and listened. He wanted to rewind time, to make it all better, to make the pain stop. He wanted to stop the hate and the anger and the overwhelming rage and alienation that had driven him all his life. He wanted to tell his dad that it was ok, that it would be ok, that he was going to work hard and get sober and that life would be fine and that mom was watching over them both. But he didn’t say much of anything, he mostly simply listened, and when it was over they were both crying and they hugged for a long time. Daryl simply said that he was going to do right when he got out and that was the only planes he had, beyond that who could say? Then they went over to the couches and watched football saying little.
On the drive back Jack felt incredibly light. He felt the lightness and stillness that comes after a great emotional surge, the satisfied satiation of the soul. One small voice disturbed his spent state. As he slowed for a stop sign he suddenly knew in a quiet way he would no longer have to kill Sam when and if he was released. He stopped at the stop sign and put the car in park. The day was cold and grey and blanketed by thick grey clouds. High up in the cold air he could hear the harsh call of geese moving south, following their star mapped soul to a climate where food and warmth were abundant. Jack stepped out of the car and looked up, but could not see the geese. He could only here them, and assume that they were there, looking down at the world from their great and beautiful distances, detacthed and perfect like the gods.
Friday, December 23, 2011
The Party
The Party
We stood in small groups talking about all the interesting things we were doing or wanted to do or told ourselves we would do. The House was full, college kids mostly, and a few of us old duffers milling around. The music seemed to get louder as the night went on, or as I got drunker. Most of us men engaged in pissing contests. I couldn’t quite keep up but I tried. Any intellectual or pseudointellectual jargon drew me into the discussion. I can be smart too. Look at me I’m smart too. I can say interesting things. I wondered how much of it was for the women. The music got louder and louder, we all tried to talk over it, but it was hard. Kids spilled out into the back yard where the keg was. Everybody talking and talking and laughing and talking and some dancing. We pumped and pumped at the keg. A warm creeping delirium began to wash over me, the kind that starts in the middle of your guts and slowly spreads, the kind that makes you forget who you are.
I was watching Kate. I stared at her because I could never place her in context. She seemed tight lipped and hid a seething rage or pain or both, and seemed always terribly out of place, unable to relate, a spring wound to the breaking point, ready to explode. We barley spoke, but I felt a secret affinity to her, like the mother ship dropped us both off in the middle of this alien world and we both knew they were not coming back to get us. But still we were miles apart. I was convinced she hated me. Or maybe not and we just couldn’t really make the connection that friendship requires. We didn’t speak the same language.
The men mostly kept talking. It seemed like the women entirely drifted away from our ego and beer fueled n symposium. Our navel gazing grew louder and louder, more aggressive, more determined to make some theoretical point. The more we talked and stepped on each other’s toes, the more I wanted to destroy something. I wanted to smash something, or to fly away, or vibrate to the point of breaking into a thousand tinny pieces. One guy in particular got more convinced and began to dominate the conversation. In the end it usually boiled down to one or two contenders, and everyone else became spectators, or moved on. Someone began yelling. Good, I liked the yelling.
Meanwhile, Kate slid in and out of tight groups of people arguing about world affairs and then gave it up and began dancing. More and more the women began to drop out of these little contests and dance. Some wildly. Someone turned up Birdy Nam Nam and more slowly began to crowd the living rooms turned dance floor. Some of the men turned to look, but most just kept arguing. Matilda began to dance wildly, arms spread, spinning. All began to sweat. The men stood around the perimeter. I wanted so badly to dance but I was too afraid. I watched them like a raptor, whishing to be one of them, or close to them. What must it be like to be so beautiful and graceful? What must it be like to dance with total abandon, in love with yourself, like no one else exists, like the world was made for your body and the animal purity of it's motion and sweat and the flex and release of it's muscles, to dance as we did around camp fires, as we did when we could still hunt along planes where the air was full of sage and the harsh call of geese, and great herds of bison,to dance as we did before theory became our weapons of choice. I thought how badly it wanted to resolve my mind into my body entirely, but someone quoted Freud and so I returned to the conversation that was still raging in the corner.
We stood in small groups talking about all the interesting things we were doing or wanted to do or told ourselves we would do. The House was full, college kids mostly, and a few of us old duffers milling around. The music seemed to get louder as the night went on, or as I got drunker. Most of us men engaged in pissing contests. I couldn’t quite keep up but I tried. Any intellectual or pseudointellectual jargon drew me into the discussion. I can be smart too. Look at me I’m smart too. I can say interesting things. I wondered how much of it was for the women. The music got louder and louder, we all tried to talk over it, but it was hard. Kids spilled out into the back yard where the keg was. Everybody talking and talking and laughing and talking and some dancing. We pumped and pumped at the keg. A warm creeping delirium began to wash over me, the kind that starts in the middle of your guts and slowly spreads, the kind that makes you forget who you are.
I was watching Kate. I stared at her because I could never place her in context. She seemed tight lipped and hid a seething rage or pain or both, and seemed always terribly out of place, unable to relate, a spring wound to the breaking point, ready to explode. We barley spoke, but I felt a secret affinity to her, like the mother ship dropped us both off in the middle of this alien world and we both knew they were not coming back to get us. But still we were miles apart. I was convinced she hated me. Or maybe not and we just couldn’t really make the connection that friendship requires. We didn’t speak the same language.
The men mostly kept talking. It seemed like the women entirely drifted away from our ego and beer fueled n symposium. Our navel gazing grew louder and louder, more aggressive, more determined to make some theoretical point. The more we talked and stepped on each other’s toes, the more I wanted to destroy something. I wanted to smash something, or to fly away, or vibrate to the point of breaking into a thousand tinny pieces. One guy in particular got more convinced and began to dominate the conversation. In the end it usually boiled down to one or two contenders, and everyone else became spectators, or moved on. Someone began yelling. Good, I liked the yelling.
Meanwhile, Kate slid in and out of tight groups of people arguing about world affairs and then gave it up and began dancing. More and more the women began to drop out of these little contests and dance. Some wildly. Someone turned up Birdy Nam Nam and more slowly began to crowd the living rooms turned dance floor. Some of the men turned to look, but most just kept arguing. Matilda began to dance wildly, arms spread, spinning. All began to sweat. The men stood around the perimeter. I wanted so badly to dance but I was too afraid. I watched them like a raptor, whishing to be one of them, or close to them. What must it be like to be so beautiful and graceful? What must it be like to dance with total abandon, in love with yourself, like no one else exists, like the world was made for your body and the animal purity of it's motion and sweat and the flex and release of it's muscles, to dance as we did around camp fires, as we did when we could still hunt along planes where the air was full of sage and the harsh call of geese, and great herds of bison,to dance as we did before theory became our weapons of choice. I thought how badly it wanted to resolve my mind into my body entirely, but someone quoted Freud and so I returned to the conversation that was still raging in the corner.
Friday, November 25, 2011
babtism
Baptism.
On weekends, the Harris County holding tank is pretty-much standing room only. It varies of course, depending on the population count, but it’s mostly packed. The holding tank is the place where they take you when you first get to jail, get booked in, and all the rest. It’s where you wait to be moved back to population.
One guy in the tank was named Pavitch, or something like that. He had a thick accent and he looked real scarred. The cops started calling him Pabitch because he kept pushing the button by the little speaker, asking when he was gona’ see the judge. I could tell by the conversation that he had been there quite a while. The cops are not supposed to keep you in holding more than 42 hours, because conditions are so crowded and dirty, but when the jail backs up, so does processing, so you might be there a while. You basically sleep on top of each other, on a dirty cold concrete floor, so after a few days guys can tend to get irate. Most take it out on each other, but some, like Pavitch try and buck the system. It might hve been too that Pavitch was not a citizen, or was in the U.S. illegally. If that’s the case, you might be there for a week. Guys that are ini the country illegal are treated much worse, because they don’t have the same rights legally as citizens, or that’s what it seems to me. I’v known migrant workers who were thrown in jail and never saw a lawyer till 3 months later, I mean they never even were asked about it. Nor did those guys ask any questions, they just sat and smoked cigarettes and waited.
Pavitch on the other hand was asking a lot of questions. He kept bugging the bosses, and they got to just ignoring him, or threatening him to let them be, and let them do their work. Other guys told him to let it alone, but Pavitch got more and more pissed. The guards got to taunting him “Little Pbbitch got his panties in a wad”, and all that sort of stuff.
Finally after Pavitch had rung the buzzer for the 100th time and asked to see the judge they rushed in, got on top of him, grabbed by his hands and feet, and took into the “get right room”. The get-right room is mostly for violent drunks who have pissed or otherwise defiled themselves. It is a cell that they keep very cold, and it has a drain in the middle of the floor for guys to piss and shit in. It is all white and very bright. Sometimes they spray guys down if they are covered with shit or throw-up or something. It happens.
They threw Pavitch in the room and rolled out a hose and sprayed him good. We could not see him from our cell because he had backed up against a wall, but we could hear him rasing a ruckus. HE was cursing and saying something in his foreign language and telling them all sorts of shit. They closed the door and he kept at it, cursing and carrying on and such. After twn minutes or so of that, we say the riot guys go in with fill dress and we could hear them working him over, telling him that this was what happened to bad little bitches. I figured they also handcuffed him to one of the rings that was secured to the wall.
After they left he was suddenly real quite. And guys went on talking about it low, telling how they told him so, and that’s what happens, and you got to get along to go along, and all that.
When I made bail I looked in the room as I walked out and saw that he was slumped in the corner, shivering and slumped and with what looked like a large bruise on his forehead. He looked like a man in hell. It was a terrible pathetic sight to see.
A few weeks later I ended up back in the tank, another DWI. When the cops transported me I threw up in the back-seat of the cop car and got a little bit of the get right room myself. Damn it was cold. I asked a round the cell block in and I heard that after they took him back to population he made a shank outta some plastic forks, and got a razor outa those stupid little razors they give you and cut up a medics face pretty bad, put his eye out is what they said. Maybe so, maybe not, you can’t believe half the shit you hear in the joint.
On weekends, the Harris County holding tank is pretty-much standing room only. It varies of course, depending on the population count, but it’s mostly packed. The holding tank is the place where they take you when you first get to jail, get booked in, and all the rest. It’s where you wait to be moved back to population.
One guy in the tank was named Pavitch, or something like that. He had a thick accent and he looked real scarred. The cops started calling him Pabitch because he kept pushing the button by the little speaker, asking when he was gona’ see the judge. I could tell by the conversation that he had been there quite a while. The cops are not supposed to keep you in holding more than 42 hours, because conditions are so crowded and dirty, but when the jail backs up, so does processing, so you might be there a while. You basically sleep on top of each other, on a dirty cold concrete floor, so after a few days guys can tend to get irate. Most take it out on each other, but some, like Pavitch try and buck the system. It might hve been too that Pavitch was not a citizen, or was in the U.S. illegally. If that’s the case, you might be there for a week. Guys that are ini the country illegal are treated much worse, because they don’t have the same rights legally as citizens, or that’s what it seems to me. I’v known migrant workers who were thrown in jail and never saw a lawyer till 3 months later, I mean they never even were asked about it. Nor did those guys ask any questions, they just sat and smoked cigarettes and waited.
Pavitch on the other hand was asking a lot of questions. He kept bugging the bosses, and they got to just ignoring him, or threatening him to let them be, and let them do their work. Other guys told him to let it alone, but Pavitch got more and more pissed. The guards got to taunting him “Little Pbbitch got his panties in a wad”, and all that sort of stuff.
Finally after Pavitch had rung the buzzer for the 100th time and asked to see the judge they rushed in, got on top of him, grabbed by his hands and feet, and took into the “get right room”. The get-right room is mostly for violent drunks who have pissed or otherwise defiled themselves. It is a cell that they keep very cold, and it has a drain in the middle of the floor for guys to piss and shit in. It is all white and very bright. Sometimes they spray guys down if they are covered with shit or throw-up or something. It happens.
They threw Pavitch in the room and rolled out a hose and sprayed him good. We could not see him from our cell because he had backed up against a wall, but we could hear him rasing a ruckus. HE was cursing and saying something in his foreign language and telling them all sorts of shit. They closed the door and he kept at it, cursing and carrying on and such. After twn minutes or so of that, we say the riot guys go in with fill dress and we could hear them working him over, telling him that this was what happened to bad little bitches. I figured they also handcuffed him to one of the rings that was secured to the wall.
After they left he was suddenly real quite. And guys went on talking about it low, telling how they told him so, and that’s what happens, and you got to get along to go along, and all that.
When I made bail I looked in the room as I walked out and saw that he was slumped in the corner, shivering and slumped and with what looked like a large bruise on his forehead. He looked like a man in hell. It was a terrible pathetic sight to see.
A few weeks later I ended up back in the tank, another DWI. When the cops transported me I threw up in the back-seat of the cop car and got a little bit of the get right room myself. Damn it was cold. I asked a round the cell block in and I heard that after they took him back to population he made a shank outta some plastic forks, and got a razor outa those stupid little razors they give you and cut up a medics face pretty bad, put his eye out is what they said. Maybe so, maybe not, you can’t believe half the shit you hear in the joint.
Babtism
Baptism.
On weekends, the Harris County holding tank is pretty-much standing room only. It varies of course, depending on the population count, but it’s mostly packed. The holding tank is the place where they take you when you first get to jail, get booked in, and all the rest. It’s where you wait to be moved back to population.
One guy in the tank was named Pavitch, or something like that. He had a thick accent and he looked real scarred. The cops started calling him Pabitch because he kept pushing the button by the little speaker, asking when he was gona’ see the judge. I could tell by the conversation that he had been there quite a while. The cops are not supposed to keep you in holding more than 42 hours, because conditions are so crowded and dirty, but when the jail backs up, so does processing, so you might be there a while. You basically sleep on top of each other, on a dirty cold concrete floor, so after a few days guys can tend to get irate. Most take it out on each other, but some, like Pavitch try and buck the system. It might hve been too that Pavitch was not a citizen, or was in the U.S. illegally. If that’s the case, you might be there for a week. Guys that are ini the country illegal are treated much worse, because they don’t have the same rights legally as citizens, or that’s what it seems to me. I’v known migrant workers who were thrown in jail and never saw a lawyer till 3 months later, I mean they never even were asked about it. Nor did those guys ask any questions, they just sat and smoked cigarettes and waited.
Pavitch on the other hand was asking a lot of questions. He kept bugging the bosses, and they got to just ignoring him, or threatening him to let them be, and let them do their work. Other guys told him to let it alone, but Pavitch got more and more pissed. The guards got to taunting him “Little Pbbitch got his panties in a wad”, and all that sort of stuff.
Finally after Pavitch had rung the buzzer for the 100th time and asked to see the judge they rushed in, got on top of him, grabbed by his hands and feet, and took into the “get right room”. The get-right room is mostly for violent drunks who have pissed or otherwise defiled themselves. It is a cell that they keep very cold, and it has a drain in the middle of the floor for guys to piss and shit in. It is all white and very bright. Sometimes they spray guys down if they are covered with shit or throw-up or something. It happens.
They threw Pavitch in the room and rolled out a hose and sprayed him good. We could not see him from our cell because he had backed up against a wall, but we could hear him rasing a ruckus. HE was cursing and saying something in his foreign language and telling them all sorts of shit. They closed the door and he kept at it, cursing and carrying on and such. After twn minutes or so of that, we say the riot guys go in with fill dress and we could hear them working him over, telling him that this was what happened to bad little bitches. I figured they also handcuffed him to one of the rings that was secured to the wall.
After they left he was suddenly real quite. And guys went on talking about it low, telling how they told him so, and that’s what happens, and you got to get along to go along, and all that.
When I made bail I looked in the room as I walked out and saw that he was slumped in the corner, shivering and slumped and with what looked like a large bruise on his forehead. He looked like a man in hell. It was a terrible pathetic sight to see.
A few weeks later I ended up back in the tank, another DWI. When the cops transported me I threw up in the back-seat of the cop car and got a little bit of the get right room myself. Damn it was cold. I asked a round the cell block in and I heard that after they took him back to population he made a shank outta some plastic forks, and got a razor outa those stupid little razors they give you and cut up a medics face pretty bad, put his eye out is what they said. Maybe so, maybe not, you can’t believe half the shit you hear in the joint.
On weekends, the Harris County holding tank is pretty-much standing room only. It varies of course, depending on the population count, but it’s mostly packed. The holding tank is the place where they take you when you first get to jail, get booked in, and all the rest. It’s where you wait to be moved back to population.
One guy in the tank was named Pavitch, or something like that. He had a thick accent and he looked real scarred. The cops started calling him Pabitch because he kept pushing the button by the little speaker, asking when he was gona’ see the judge. I could tell by the conversation that he had been there quite a while. The cops are not supposed to keep you in holding more than 42 hours, because conditions are so crowded and dirty, but when the jail backs up, so does processing, so you might be there a while. You basically sleep on top of each other, on a dirty cold concrete floor, so after a few days guys can tend to get irate. Most take it out on each other, but some, like Pavitch try and buck the system. It might hve been too that Pavitch was not a citizen, or was in the U.S. illegally. If that’s the case, you might be there for a week. Guys that are ini the country illegal are treated much worse, because they don’t have the same rights legally as citizens, or that’s what it seems to me. I’v known migrant workers who were thrown in jail and never saw a lawyer till 3 months later, I mean they never even were asked about it. Nor did those guys ask any questions, they just sat and smoked cigarettes and waited.
Pavitch on the other hand was asking a lot of questions. He kept bugging the bosses, and they got to just ignoring him, or threatening him to let them be, and let them do their work. Other guys told him to let it alone, but Pavitch got more and more pissed. The guards got to taunting him “Little Pbbitch got his panties in a wad”, and all that sort of stuff.
Finally after Pavitch had rung the buzzer for the 100th time and asked to see the judge they rushed in, got on top of him, grabbed by his hands and feet, and took into the “get right room”. The get-right room is mostly for violent drunks who have pissed or otherwise defiled themselves. It is a cell that they keep very cold, and it has a drain in the middle of the floor for guys to piss and shit in. It is all white and very bright. Sometimes they spray guys down if they are covered with shit or throw-up or something. It happens.
They threw Pavitch in the room and rolled out a hose and sprayed him good. We could not see him from our cell because he had backed up against a wall, but we could hear him rasing a ruckus. HE was cursing and saying something in his foreign language and telling them all sorts of shit. They closed the door and he kept at it, cursing and carrying on and such. After twn minutes or so of that, we say the riot guys go in with fill dress and we could hear them working him over, telling him that this was what happened to bad little bitches. I figured they also handcuffed him to one of the rings that was secured to the wall.
After they left he was suddenly real quite. And guys went on talking about it low, telling how they told him so, and that’s what happens, and you got to get along to go along, and all that.
When I made bail I looked in the room as I walked out and saw that he was slumped in the corner, shivering and slumped and with what looked like a large bruise on his forehead. He looked like a man in hell. It was a terrible pathetic sight to see.
A few weeks later I ended up back in the tank, another DWI. When the cops transported me I threw up in the back-seat of the cop car and got a little bit of the get right room myself. Damn it was cold. I asked a round the cell block in and I heard that after they took him back to population he made a shank outta some plastic forks, and got a razor outa those stupid little razors they give you and cut up a medics face pretty bad, put his eye out is what they said. Maybe so, maybe not, you can’t believe half the shit you hear in the joint.
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