Now, a lot of this has been erased from my memory due to it
being a looonng loonng time to be doing nothing. But I was talking to a
neighborhood kid about buying pot in the neighborhood and how the
neighbors/fellow renters have conversed with me about it to the point that the
next step is calling the police. So the business of doing illegal business
around my apartment building should be done elsewhere if at all. The problem is
I’d be a hypocrite to call because I did the same things in life, just not as
young.
But I remember how pot made me feel like I was one of the
gang even if I was sittin at home alone. Most times though my cousins and
friends took advantage of me, knowing I had been an outsider all my life, and
even at one of the last meetings with the fellow ‘heads my one cousin said to
my buddy “Don’t take him home yet. We haven’t gotten high and that’s why we
hang out with him.” This same slut got herself laid at a Penn State game as we
all sort of stood outside the car and watched the action of the car. When she
got married years later I debated giving her cash or a gift card. I figured she
couldn’t buy weed at target, so she got a gift card.
Personally I don’t care what these neighborhood kids do.
When I say kids I mean 15-18 year olds. Unlike my fellow renters, I was that
age once. They can smoke all they want and I have been outside while they
smoked a blunt anyway. I sparked a clove just to “fit in” yet again…
It’s crazy to think these kids were born when I was in high
school. But the business side of things need to be done elsewhere so that the
kids don’t end up where I am about to write about. . .
*********
About 12 years ago I decided to drive home after a night of
drinking at a place called Wanda’s. A friend had offered to give me a ride, but
at the time I liked weed a lot more than freedom. So I decided to roll and smoke
a blunt on the way home so mom wouldn’t ask why the whole house smelled like
weed. After stopping to pee on a building where we used to get together and
play basketball, I got back in my car and rolled up to the red light at the
corner of 21st street and Route 15 in Camp Hill. There used to be an
Exxon station at the light (now dunkin donuts) and the wendy’s that stood at
plaza 21 is still there (where I had my first job in fact.)
I put my car in park due to the notoriously long red light
there and laid my head back, periodically looking to see if the light was
green…
Next thing I knew it was some time later, and the light was
still red, but my car was not just surrounded by police, I was being nudged by
2 of them inside my car. The blinding light of their flashlights
stunned me into sobriety and I was ripped out of my car.
“Why are your pants undone?” one asked. “Any weapons inside
the vehicle? What’re you doing here sir”
--“I’m waiting for the red light to change… see? It’s red. I
don’t know why my pants are undone (lie)… no weapons in vehicle (truth).”
All the while stumbling and slurring.
“You’re under arrest for a DUI”…
--“But I wasn’t driving…?! I was waiting for the red light!
See? It’s still red!”
“How long have you been waiting here sir?”
--“10 minutes now… the bar should still be open right?”
“sir, it’s 4:30am.”
--“…………”
“Sir are there any drugs or alcohol in the car?”
--“no” (lie)
And after them whipping me around and slamming me against my
own car while asking me all these questions I stopped them immediately… “HEY! STOP
IT WITH THE MANHANDLING OF ME GUYS… I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE, I’M NOT GOING TO
RUN! PLEASE?”
These were your typical marine-type meatheads feeling good
to be on a police squad so they could justify their small clits by wielding a
gun. So they were happy to manhandle a weakling they used to shove into lockers
before they could be “legal” bullies. Yet when I stood up to the harsh
behavior, they became a little more human. They took me a little more gently to
their car. And if the night couldn’t have ended worse…
“well, there looks to be a half ounce in your center
console… why didn’t you tell us you had drugs in your car?”
At this point my mental state was in a steady rate of
decline. . . but I still had my wits…
--“who in their right mind or drunk or stoned or a
combination of the three would ever tell the police they had drugs on their
person, sir?”
“that’s a fine point sir”
he said, then got in the cruiser and transported me to the hospital.
I guess Harrisburg hospital was a better place for bloodletting
than Holy Spirit hospital which was literally less than a block away from where
I was picked up. So we went on a joyride all the way up to Route 81 and back
down Front Street. In the middle of all this we had to change police cars for
whatever reason. What did I know? I was bombed and lit at the time. I felt as
though I was on a trip to Florida per the length of time I was in the back seat
of the police car.
When we finally got to Harrisburg hospital the arresting
officer sat me in a room and said “where do you live?”
-“…with my mother.”
“do you want to call her and mention to her what happened this morning?”
-“no…………………………………………. can you?”
He seemed to dial the phone with such joy. Asshole… But as
mom answered and they conversed, he said to her that I was one of the most
respectful and pleasant arrests he’s ever had. I dunno what that means to me
even now at 36, I was still arrested. But at the same time I guess it made mom
proud of me even in my “free fall to rock bottom” moment.
So I was given ARD which meant drinking classes and loss of
license. If all went well, for however long time was, it would be ok… no jail
time, etc… and the pot charge was dropped. What did they do with my pot I wonder……………..?
I stop my digression…
You’d think this would stop me from doing it again, but less
than 6 months later…
Headed to gramma’s after a night of karaoke previous to the
family reunion, I decided to stop at 7-11 to get a drink, and as I stepped in
to the store, the officer pulled up behind my car, stepped out, and said “what do you think you’re doing?”
-um, getting a drink then headed to Gramma’s, sir.
“nope, you’re under arrest for a DUI…”
Needless to say I was deflated. I knew jail time was in my
future now. 2 in less than 6 months. Can you say time to grow up and learn a
lesson?
Now starts the quick clean-up process. They say a judge is
lenient more if you have a few things positive growing in your life. So I went
to rehab classes. Even though I didn’t really abide by their rules, they really
taught me a few things that proved later in life would pan out to be true. Like
your drinking/drug friends would leave you when you quit. (truth)
But also I would leave there and get a six pack to drink the
blues of the meetings away.
And the good thing was a slice of advice at the rehab
meetings from a kid who had been down on his luck in the past and he said
“before you go to jail for 2 days, stay up for 2 days so you just sleep through
most of it.” Probably the greatest advice a 4’3” grown assed man could tell ya.
He was a horse jockey.
The morning of the court date 1/15/03 I was woozy and yawny
from being up for more than 48 hours straight. I had followed the advice from
the little guy but as I yawned I teared up. That’s how tired I was.
I walked in after smoking my final cigarette and sat down.
The first guy got 6 years for killing a child with a stray bullet in a
gunfight.
Now it was my turn. Ever have to shit and piss and sneeze at
the same time and nothing, not a bathroom or a Kleenex was in sight… that’s how
this felt. Meaning either way this pans out, I was fucked.
My lawyer to the left of me, I handed in letters written to
me about my character to the judge. They were letters of improvement of self
supposedly written by neighbors, friends, etc… in fact I wrote them and went to
the people simply for their signatures. I figured why have them do homework for
my stupidity…? And they all agreed they were good enough for the judge, each
showing a different aspect of my improved character. Meaning I had less to
drink the last few weeks leading up to the court date.
The judge perused the letters and asked me if I had anything
to add. I apologized for my actions and he sent me to the clink.
The courthouse in dauphin county is perched above the
downstairs dungeon that holds its soon to be prisoners before the van ride to
the mall, err Dauphin County Prison. As I was lead through the hall and
handcuffed, I made a note of the time. 9:35am… (this is an approximation. I
don’t remember to the minute exactly, but it comes into play later)…
I sat in a holding cell across from another holding cell
with about 8 guys in it and they were seemingly well - adjusted to the view
through the bars. All were basically having a party except the one whom I was
lead down there with, the 6-year guy was laying flat on his back on a bench,
hands on head, presuming contemplating the new normal for the next 6 years.
I continually yawned, and again tired tears flowed, so the
pack of hyenas across the way pounced on that for some time.
“he’s crying! Hahahahaha!”
“that bitch ain’t gonna make it”
-
No man I haven’t slept in 48 hours… this’ll be a
breeze if I can just get to sleep…
“HEY! QUIET DOWN OVER THERE!” A booming voice said from the
check-in desk. “PETE, GET OVER HERE…” I went over to the guy when called and
who do I see but an asshole I went to school with. Go figure.
“How’s it goin?” he asked. “Why are we being reunited here?”
-
Hey pete. (his name too) DUI. 2 day stint.
Nothing big.
“Yeah you have nothing to worry about man. Did ya stay up
all night? Everybody does. Just try not to yawn till you get to your bunk. And
don’t mind the hyenas. They’re just happy to be out of the projects.”
-
Why you being nice?
“High school was years ago. Everybody fucks up man.
Everybody. Don’t let it happen again, so take care of yourself.”
-
Ummmm, ok.
Eventually the judge slung enough punishment to fill the van
and we were all handcuffed again and were driven to DCP. It wasn’t the school
bus type of ride that is cliché in prison movies. It was the panel van with
enough legroom for a Chihuahua. We were
stuffed in, I was seated inches across from the 6 year guy, separated by steel
mesh, and I thanked karma that I wasn’t him.
Getting to the prison it was odd to see it from that side.
We always drove past it going to the mall but from the other side it is a
fortress. Gates, gates, and more gates. Locks. Gates. Locks. Its amazing and a
wonder how anyone escapes these things. Desperate times for desperate measures
I guess.
They dropped me in a holding cell that looked like a large
concrete and cinderblock room. There were 4 of us in there and plenty of room
to relax, chat, whatever. It was a cathedral of concrete. I’d say the walls
could have been 20-30 feet high. One guy drying out from a DUI the night
before, and another in for whatever reason said this was a cleaner prison than
the one he was at in another state. Yup… pete and repeat (offender) were in a
cell… you finish it.
After seemingly hours, but could have been 10 minutes, I was
asked to be booked.
This was good I thought. Sooner done with this, the sooner I
could sleep. Yet the one thing true in the movies and known around the planet
are the following words: “Strip down, turn around, bend over, spread your
cheeks, then turn back around and lift your sack.” I wondered what degree this
guy earned as I looked at him upside down, balloon knot squinting in the light,
naked as a jaybird…
Donning orange, possibly burlap fabric clothes now (itchy,
orange and miserable… hooray!) I was lead into the booking wing. I sat down.
The nurse checking me in was an old acquaintance I knew from the graveyard
shift at AT&T. small world… This day won’t end.
After about an hour with her I was lead down a long corridor
surrounded by screaming and cages and cages of men. Maybe 40 to a cage in bunk
beds. And this was about 2 city blocks long. The humanity in a county prison is
staggering, and this place is like a small city minus the entertainment. Food
toilets sinks and beds. For thousands. It was a machine for the degenerates in
society. A sad cold hard life for the mistaken few… Few, who am I kidding?
Masses is more like it. Concrete, cinderblocks, and steel. If a mouse had
squealed, the acoustics would have allowed it to be heard from block A to block
Z, so imagine how long a human scream can be heard. Let alone a choir of
screams.
I was un-handcuffed in a room that had a bunch of beds in
it. The back wall was lined with cells, and this room of mattresses had about
30 mattresses in it, some bunk beds, but mostly regular beds. And when I say
mattress I mean less than an inch of foam on steel.
A few dudes were chatting in the corner of the hexagonal
room, and I could see faces from the slits behind the doors along the wall.
This was it. I was in…
So I laid down on the one mattress, using the prison guide
book they give you to let you know about life in jail as a pillow. Finally. I
could sleep. After 20 minutes maybe, the door unlocked again.
“LUNCH”
Lunch was some kind of turkey and gravy thing that makes
cardboard more appetizing. Peas, mashed potatoes, and milk. All of a sudden I
wasn’t hungry, yet the others said ya better eat it cause dinner is worse. One
of the guys in the back wall of cells asked me for my peas and I gladly gave it
to him. I had to finish my milk first though so I could fill the carton with my
peas.
I knew a few things. Go with the flow and don’t piss people
off is about it. So the guy got my peas. Some time later, I could lay down
again.
The door unlocked…
“WAMBACH”
I got up. I had to see the mental health guy they called a
doctor for some pills I never got to continue my home regimen, then they
dropped me off in a new cell, err home for me. It was another block, Q block,
and I was in one of those cells along the back wall in a big room again yet
without the mattresses like before.
8-A.
That was my address. It was a penthouse apartment on the
second floor of this block and my roommate was a guy dealing with heroin
withdrawal.
“You got a cigarette?” he asked shakingly…
-
Do the words ‘spread your cheeks and lift your
sack’ ring a bell? Sorry man. I got 2 days and a ton of sleep to catch up on
so… I’m sorry, no. What’s wrong with you?
“Heroin”
-
Ok, well, I am of no help man. Never tried the
stuff. Just remember this next time you do and maybe you won’t. I wish I could
bring you some help, but this isn’t the place for it.
He took my prison book and placed pages on the light that
was a fluorescent glare on the side wall. The light never turned off, even at
night. So the shade from the paper was welcomed. Later the C.O. made him remove
the sheets.
I hopped on top bunk, and passed out. The guy was cool. He
woke me up for dinner and breakfast, and lunch the next day. He sort of watched
over me and even lobbied for us to clean the floors. Any time doing something
other than staring at the cinderblock wall was a privilege, but unfortunately
we weren’t allowed that privilege. We were made to stay in our cell the entire
time. We were only let out to get our food trays. And in fact the coffee they
served in the morning may as well been made from tree bark. It made me wonder
if they gave the shitty experience to the guys who were first offenders to make
sure they didn’t reoffend.
But the title comes in big here. Boredom. Holy shit. You
couldn’t even masturbate.
The sounds of prison was constant screaming, yelling, and
more than one fuck was heard about every half a second. But in my cell, that
was the background noise to my celly. He was all about rubbing his hands back
and forth together and his feet as well. (think Mr. Muyagi in “The Karate Kid”
using his hands to heal Daniel-son… 24 hours a day) I guess it was comforting
to withdrawal between the sweats and weeping.
I remember finding a ballpoint pen in my bunk and wrote on
one of the painted cinderblock mortar the now patented “III”®… I wanted to let
the royal “them” know I had been there.
I also remember when pulling the mattress back on my bunk
that someone else wrote the following: “time go slow on Q”… even after sleeping
for the better part of my stint, time was indeed slow on Q-block.
The morning of release is probably the slowest that time
runs. I said goodbye to my celly and thanked him for his help through the hell
that was the weekend.
The door opened and I was again handcuffed and lead down the
now happy hallway of caged humanity and sent to another tiny holding cell. This
was more of a cage of chain linked fencing. I was there for seemingly an hour
watching the prison complex at work. I saw new people coming in looking scared
as I was, I saw guys in helmets running through with another guy who was
apparently misbehaving in his cell. I saw a friend of mine from the pool room
at college but made sure he didn’t see me.
Eventually I was allowed to change into my suit I wore to
court 2 days before and was given my shoelaces back. My oh my I had no idea how
much I loved shoelaces! I was also given back my tongue ring which was taken
out 2 hours before by the doctor at checkout. Needless to say it healed over faster
than I could get it back in. Unreal.
Soon I was lead to the door and I was free again. I saw my
dad and ran to him, hugged him HARD, and said what I wanted most at this point.
“GO TO RITE AID. I NEED CIGARETTES!”
-
Peter, now’s a great time to quit.
“After the weekend I have had, quitting is not in my
immediate future!”
When I got home, I hugged my mother, who was crying happy
tears. I immediately showered and changed into sweatpants. We chatted about the
weekend, I told her all of the above, along with details I missed at this
point, less than a month short of 10 years later. And I checked my phone. Among
calls and texts there was one in particular:
My friend Johnny K
had just had his first child Dylan, and his weekend was filled with joy as mine
was pure hell. But the one spec hit me funny. Dylan was born 1/15/03, at
9:35am… precisely as I was being handcuffed at the courthouse. I even had to
double check with him tonight as I wrote this when Dylan was born, and he was
shocked I had forgot.
But at the lowest, most bored you have ever been in your
life, do you remember it fondly or do you remember that vacation with family
and friends better?
I tend to try to remember the latter.
III
