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Blog, Storytime

I’ve been to Jail

This is one of those stories that when I look back, it feels unreal. I’ve told it several times to others, but I don’t think I ever shared it with the world. 

In 1998 I was living in Chicago and dating a female bodybuilder, Th-resa. I’d written about her before, if you wanna know more.
She lived in Virginia near DC, so our relationship consisted of me driving there, her driving to me, or us driving somewhere to meetup. And on this particular occasion I was driving us both to and from Atlanta Georgia because she was to compete at the annual Jan Tana bodybuilding event happening there. It was a big deal, and an exciting time. She looked great, and there she won heavyweight champion! We were in heaven all weekend. By Sunday morning we were riding high as we drove out. I remember listening to the album Flag by the band Yello, which is music that’s really easy to drive really fast to. It’s the album’s theme, actually. Especially for me who at that moment was living his dream life sitting next to my fetish, having just won contests and driving my new Saturn 2 door coup. A car that could go fast. And the music. We were driving through North Carolina, Th-resa was asleep in the passenger seat when I saw the red and blue lights flashing in the mirror.

“Shit. We’re being pulled over. I was speeding. I’m getting a ticket. It’ll be alright.”
Th-resa was noticably more worried than I. I was naive. The cop approached the window.
“You were going 83 in a 55.”
“I know I was speeding, I’ll take the ticket. I apologize.” as I handed over my license and paperwork.
“No no. Step out of the car. You’re going to jail.”
“Really?”
“Really. You have out-of-state plates. You’re from Chicago? You can’t leave the state until this is paid. So unless you can pay this now you’re going to jail. Step out of the car.”
In complete disbelief I got out and he ordered me up against the car, hands behind the back.
While cuffing me he said, “Does that n****r know how to drive??”
My heart dropped. “What?” 
“Does that n****r have a license. Can she drive a car? Because she’s gotta follow us back to the station.”
“Yes, she can drive my car.”
“So you don’t mind me handing over your keys to her? It looks like you got all your stuff there in the back. I could call a tow truck?” He was smiling, insinuating that she was likely to take my stuff. He assumed she was a prostitute.
“She’s my girlfriend. I have no problem with you giving her the keys.”
I was able to tell her to get the money to pay the fine to get me out. She promised.
So there I was in the back seat of that cop car, and he was doing everything he could to get me to admit she was a prostitute. “Where’d you pick her up? Are you sure she’s gonna get you out? I don’t see her following us. It looks like she split. Yeah, she’s gone.” He was delighted. And here’s me in the back seat explaining that we were coming from a bodybuilding event in Atlanta, and she won heavyweight, trying to convince him that we were legitimate people. I was not believed.

They took me in, sat me on a bench, handcuffed me to a black guy whose other hand was cuffed to a bar on the wall. 
“What’re you in here for?” He asked.
“Speeding”
“Oh wow. Don’t tell anyone that.”
I was already panicked.
“What do I say?” I’m sure I looked like I was on the verge of tears.
“DO NOT CRY. If they see you crying they’ll take advantage. Say drugs. Act like you’re on drugs. Just don’t cry. Don’t talk to anyone. Act crazy. You’ll be alright.”

Me, this skinny white kid, with pretty dyed hair, tight jeans, looking all wavy. I was terrified.

I was finger printed, mugshot, and asked if I wanted to make my phone call. Did I really want to call someone? Who the fuck would I call? My brother in Chicago? What’s he going to do? My folks? A lawyer? They gave me two dimes and there I was standing in front of an old shitty looking payphone mounted on a cement wall and the only number I could remember was home. I decided to call Rick. My brother/roommate. I clumsily dialed, the ear piece speaker was shit. I thought I heard our answering machine pick up, but the noise at the station, and the shit receiver, I hung up. Left no message. I was on my own.

I was put alone in a cell. 6’ X 12’ cement room with a bench, metal toilet, and a door with a small window up top. I’d never felt so caged and helpless in my life. And time moved very very slowly here. Every so often I could hear the cops out there walking by, joking. Laughing. They’d jingle their keys and pull on the door every 20 minutes or so to make me think they were coming to get me, then walk away.

When they finally did open the door again, it was to bring in someone else. A different black guy who sat as far away from me as possible at the other end of the bench. He said nothing and we sat there in silence together. Then the door opened, this time for lunch. A plastic plate with a baloney and cheese sandwich (one slice of baloney and one slice of cheese) between 2 slices of Wonderbread, some dried up carrot sticks, an orange, all under cellophane, and a carton of milk. I ate mine and he ate his.

More key rattling and door shaking. I even heard one cop say, “You see the one in there with the hair?” followed by, “You see the woman he came in with??” And more laughter.

Hours passed.

The next time the doors opened it was to toss in two drunk guys, white, that’d been in a fight. Fighting each other actually. But they were also buddies. They both stood at the wall across from the bench and were still complaining to each other about their situation. They looked moderately beat up. Swollen cheek. Half closed eye. Dirt on the elbows, etc. It’s at this point I thought I should start acting a little crazed and drugged, so I kept my head down, swayed forward and back. Occasionally rubbed my arms. 
“You’re jonezen pretty hard, huh?” The main one directed at me.
“Yeah”
“What’re you in for?”
“I dunno.”
“You eat already?”
“I dunno.” I said again.
We were sitting next to our empty plates.
“You didn’t eat? Did he take your food?” Pointing at the black guy.
“I didn’t take his food.” First words I’d heard him say since he arrived.
“Shut up. Did he take your food??”
“No, I ate my food. He didn’t take it.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. I ate my sandwich, orange and everything.”
“I told you. I didn’t take the guys food!”
Luckily we were believed, and the drunk went back to harassing his buddy about their fight earlier.

Hours passed. 

Then they had to move us to a different, bigger cell because they were bringing women into this one. They cuffed us all again, led the four of us to a new cell. And time, like ourselves, sat still again there.

The black guy with us was saying nothing. Trying to turn invisible, I assume. While the other two were livelier, gabbing about shit that’d happened outside of here on some other shitty day. I don’t know why I said it, but out of nowhere I asked the group, “So, anyone seen any good movies lately?” It sounded witty and common-folk enough to ask.
“I don’t go to the movies, dude.” Said the main drunk, giving me a dirty look. His buddy and him both. God, I felt like a douche. I really had no idea where I was. I shut the fuck up.

Then the door opened and they took the black guy away. While doing so the cop said to me, “You know that woman you were with? She’s gone. She split with your stuff. Your car and everything.” Shut the door and left. All eyes were on me. I knew it was BS. I knew where they were coming from by then and what they were trying to do. But it still had the effect they wanted.
The drunk said, “Someone bailing you out? You’ll be alright. You look like someones gonna bail you out.”
And he was right.

After who knows how long, the door finally opened, “Hain. Robert. You’re leaving.”

And as I left the drunk exclaimed “AAND THERE HE GOES!” waving his arms toward the door like he knew this would happen all along.

My fine had been paid. But the cops don’t tell you shit. They just tell you what line to stand on, hand you a bag with your wallet, chapstick, wrist watch or whatever, make you sign something, and push you out into a lobby crowded with sad people in folding chairs waiting for their jailbird to come flying out. Th-resa wasn’t here, so I exited out into the parking lot, and there she was standing at my car with those giant muscular arms spread wide. She was way more emotional than I. She squeezed me hard and long. It was exactly what I’d wanted to walk into after leaving jail. I’d been there 6 hours. 1pm to 7pm Sunday, July 25th, 1998. And as I drove us the exact speed limit out of North Carolina she told me about the day she had. How much trouble she had finding a cash machine, but there were some helpful people. She’d actually paid the fine within an hour after I got there! $200.
“I was so angry!” she cried, “I was telling them, ‘DO YOU KNOW WHO HE IS?? HE’S A FAMOUS PHOTOGRAPHER ARTIST! HE’S FAMOUS!’ I was so upset! I kept telling them who you were and no one would listen!”
Ahhhh. I understood now.

I drove her back to Virginia, and the next day I headed back to Chicago. On that drive I had a lot of time to think about everything, and concluded that my adventures, for now, were done. I’d had enough. It was time I got a real job and tried being normal in Chicago again.

I was inspired by Bukowski to tell this story. The specifics were taken from my journal entry written the following Tuesday.

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Atheism, Blog, Storytime

My Satanic Panic

I’m reading The Basketball Diaries atm (never read it before, surprisingly), and I’m inspired to make an entry.  A memory I think of often but never wrote about.

Back in 1985 this was my grandparent’s house (where I live now) and this is where we came every year for 4th of July. And at this time I was really into the band Frankie goes to Hollywood. RELAX was #1 on the charts and I was listening to Welcome to the Pleasure Dome (a great album btw) on my walkman while laying in bed staring at this same ceiling, absorbing every note and word. I would have been 17, and a strong believer in God above. I was sure. I mean, I didn’t LOVE Him, or read the Bible or like church all that much, except for the youth events with all my friends, but I really believed in God, and the Devil, and spirits and the other dimension they all got here from.

This all took place during what’s referred to now as the “Satanic Panic”. Churches and mothers and Tipper Gore and everyone were declaring war on rock-n-roll and MTV for all the Satanic influences coded into the music kids like me were consuming. I was hearing sermons on Sunday about it. Our youth pastors were bringing Led Zeppelin and KISS albums to church to show us how if you held them up to a mirror in a certain way there’s an image of the devil there in the art. All popular music was on the chopping block; Madonna, Twisted Sister, all heavy metal, and of course Frankie Goes to Hollywood. I still remember on one of these Wednesdays our youth pastor Fritz looking to us kids for examples in what we’re listening to, and my buddy Bill explained, “I listen to Huey Lewis, but that song isn’t about drugs. It’s about wanting that feeling you get when you’re around the girl you love!” 
Huey Lewis, for Christ’s sake. Lol

Anyhow, 17 year old me is laying on that bed with Frankie (Holly Johnson) singing his evils into my virgin ears, and my brain clicked. Satanic Panic, just as it’d been taught. I started to feel, and even believe I was seeing the evil that album had summoned. I remember looking around that room thinking, “Even though they’re invisible, I can feel evil spirits all around! Just like at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark!”

During the song “Welcome to the Pleasure Dome” there’s a slowed-down voice repeating the line “WELCOME TO THE PLEASURE DOME! WELLLCOME!” just like Jabba the Hut! I was genuinely scared. Alone in this room with a whole bunch of demons swirling around me, to the music. Subliminal messages conjuring up perversions of every sort! I consciously allowed my emotions to get swept up in the whole experience in hopes, I think, to actually see something. I wanted to really experience this mysterious thing I’d been told about. And it worked! Mind you, it wasn’t enough for me to turn it off and throw the cassette out the window, but emotionally I was shook. I never really saw what I thought I should, but when I closed my eyes I was able to visualize that moment in Raiders and convince myself “Yup, that’s real.” 

It fucked with my head for a while. I tried to recreate the experience at home, but never to the same effect. By that time I’d listened to it too many times, and somehow the familiarity with it and my own bedroom was enough to prevent further fantastical hallucinations in that direction. Now I understand how music can stir your mind and emotions to such a degree. I’m sure I shared this experience in some way or another with the Wednesday group. It’s one of the best methods I had to grasp at coveted popularity there. Stories like that work every time at church youth group.

Atheism, Blog, Storytime

Crucified Skapegoats

Yesterday while I was drawing here at the coffeeshop, a guy came over and asked what my tattoos meant. I noticed immediately the cross necklace he was wearing, but he was being very non-confrontational. Polite and friendly. Above each elbow I have a pointy tailed red devil crucified on a cross. I’ve given many different answers to this question in the past.

man with Crucified Satan tattoos

One time at the amusement park Michigan Adventure I was with my niece and nephews when a lady behind us in line abruptly stated “Is that a devil on a cross? That’s not right. What do those mean??”
Not wanting to cause drama there in front of the kids I responded with, “It’s the devil, because that’s who SHOULD be nailed to the cross!”
Sorta shocked, she said, “Oh, well, I guess I can get behind that.” And nothing more was said. My brother  right after said, “That was slick.”

You can bet that back in the day when this happened in NYC I had no qualms getting loud and proud about my non belief. But I’ve calmed since. So I asked him if he wanted the quick answer because it’s kind of a deep topic.
“I just wanna hear what it means to you. I don’t mind whatever. We’re all adults here.” 
My explanation went pretty much like this:
“I was raised Christian, and taught that people’s wrongs, their sins, could be put onto someone else to pay for. I don’t believe that anymore. It’s a bad concept, taking your bad deeds and pushing them onto someone or something else who pays the price instead of you. Shifting the blame. In no way does that work. It defeats the whole purpose of punishment. It’s a scapegoat. So it’s crusifying the scapegoat.”

I told him how there’s some cultures where hey take a goat or a cow and the whole village puts all their bad deeds into the animal and they eat it, or banish it from town. Then all the people are cleaned of their wrongs. Jesus on the cross is just another version of that. And it’s not real. I understand why people want it to be true, but it’s just scapegoating.”

I could feel it churning up inside me to babble on and on, but I stopped there. He responded to me with “Thank you for that. I understand what you mean. I always enjoy hearing someone else’s perspective. Thank you.” Then we shook hands and that was all. 

It was later I realized, yup, they’re crucified scapegoats. 

And as I sit here now writing this, I’m overhearing two guys at a table next to me talking excitedly about their new church and how they’re trying to get more people to attend. All I can think about is how eager people are to be convinced of scapegoating, and this will surely draw in people who want it.

Blog, Storytime

The Car Chase

Robb and I were sophomores in high school in 1986. I was 16 years old for one last month, and probably the most obnoxious I’d ever be. As a freshman I was too insecure and overtaken by puberty to fully express my personality disorder. By junior year I was pretending way harder to be cool, supressing myself enough not to be as much a douche as I’d been the year previous. Sophomore Bob however, was the perfect balance of over-confident wise-guy meets witless brat. And this was especially so when I was hanging out with my friend Robb. 

Bob & Robb 1986

Robb, in my opinion, was the funniest guy I hung around, ever. He really liked to shock me with the funny/evil stunts he’d pull. Stuff I’d never have the guts to do.

Like, we’d be at a store and there’d be a mother with her six year old next to her. And while the mom wasn’t looking he’d stare at the child and mouth the words, “I hate you and I’m going to get you.” while angrily baring his teeth. Of course the kid would clench mom’s leg in tears. Then, when she’d look over he’d sweetly smile at her, “Your child is adorable… So cute.”
Like a harmless admirer.

They’d always smile back in complete belief. Then as soon as she looked away he’d sneer again at the kid and mouth, “I wasn’t joking”. 

I was always left gasping for air at how hilariously terrible it all was. And my reactions only encouraged him.

There was the time Robb came to school with pinkeye. And he loved to tease his stepbrother Eric, whom I was also good friends with. And I witnessed Robb wipe his finger in his eye, then poke Eric in the eye with it.
The next day Eric showed up at school with pink eye too. It was really funny, I gotta say.

But on this day, in early June of ’86, Robb invited me to come with him to visit his dad who was a couple hours drive from Lakewood, Colorado. Robb had his own car, and as a driver, he was brand-spankin new. His license was as fresh as his attitude. And with me in the passenger seat, it was an easy recipe for trouble.

Details of the following event were taken from the diary I started writing in 1985.

So it’s the middle of the day on the freeway on our way to meet Robb’s dad’s. Two sixteen year olds thrilled to be on our own and on the road. Almost like adults! Then we notice this orange & white Bronco to our left. There’s two guys in it and they’re yelling and pointing at the front of our car like there’s something wrong there. I describe them in my diary as being “beer drinking 20 year olds.”

Robb and I are both looking out at them and where they’re pointing and see nothing, nor can we understand what they’re shouting. I’m shrugging my shoulders at them, and Robb tells me we’re about to take this next exit on the right. We both agree it’d be funny if I gave them the finger after we exit safely out of their reach. What a great idea! So as he’s merging off, and they’re in the far lane over, I flip them the big ol’ bird.

Much to both of our surprise, they steer their truck abruptly across the median through a cloud of dirt and dust and get off the same exit directly behind us. And they’re fucking pissed. They close in fast, bumper nearly touching ours, determined to revenge my disrespect. We can’t believe this is happening, but we also weren’t as scared as we probably should have been. Because as the speeds increased upwards of 80+ mph, they pulled up along side us again, and this time we understood what they were saying. 

“YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD! YOU’RE MINE! YOU THINK YOU’RE HOT SHIT! YOU BOTH ARE FUCKING DEAD!!” 

Now I cannot say what exactly came over me at this moment. What I chose to do as a response wasn’t logical. And if it hadn’t been Robb sitting there next to me I probably wouldn’t have even considered it. You see, what I did was put my hands on my cheeks and sarcastically mouth the words “OH I’M SOOOO SCARED” to their face. And I remember it was at their faces because the look their faces changed into at that moment told me they were even madder than before.

I remember Robb pointing at the speedometer and the little red wand was at the number 80 as they swerved their truck back and forth at us. Then the guy in the passenger seat started throwing stuff. A shoe, and then bottles. Panicked, Robb slowed way down, to which they pulled in front of us and slowed down even more. We did not want to pass them, so we slowed down until both of our vehicles were bumper to bumper edging onto the shoulder, coming to a dead stop. For a few seconds we were bumper to bumper, them in front of us, standing still on the side of the freeway. Then they began backing towards us. That’s when Robb gunned it back onto the freeway, swerving around them and back into traffic. Of course they started chase again, right up to our bumper. Speed increasing quickly.

We had no idea what to do. How do we get away from this? Then we saw another exit coming towards us. This one down to a shopping district. We agreed that to lose them we should take the exit at the very last second. As the off ramp got closer, with them on our bumper, Robb waited until there wasn’t any space for them to follow and he swerved right across the lines and down the exit. They didn’t give a shit. They swerved across the lanes, over the median, their truck bouncing over the curbs right behind us. It was exactly then we saw the red stoplight ahead of us with a stream of cross traffic that could not be driven through.
“Red light!”
“We hafta stop!”
”They’re right behind us!” 

As we came to a stop behind another car we frantically rolled up our windows and locked the doors. Their truck stopped right behind boxing us in. They both got out and stormed our car. We each had one of these monsters outside our window punching it with their fists. Then somehow, the guy at my door got his fingers over the top of my window, yanked, and pulled the whole glass out, shattering it onto the street. My pink face was there completely naked for him to pummel. Then, by luck, the light had turned green and the car ahead of us moved forward, probably witnessing what was happening. Robb was able to get around and speed away leaving them there standing in the street. They were screaming, laughing, yelling things. I don’t know what, because by then we were scared bright yellow.

We were trying to figure out where to hide when we saw a parking lot with a cop car in it. We ended up filing a police report telling the whole story, except the part about me flipping them the bird that started everything. Just two doe-eyed teens innocently driving to see his dad, when all of a sudden…
The same story we told his dad to explain the busted window.

I remember nothing at all about that weekend spent there. Besides getting the window replaced, we probably did some fun stuff. But nothing as memorable as that car chase.

After graduation we totally lost touch. It wasn’t until my 30th class reunion I saw Robb again, and the very first thing he said to me was,
“Bob! Remember that car chase?!?”

I most certainly do.