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.