When last we left our hero, he was being wheeled into an over-sized lemur cage on a hand-truck in a straight jacket with a leather mask placed over his face, to protect those with-in striking distance. One problem exists with this lead in; I’m way ahead of myself. I described my first hours in the belly of the K.C. B&B, but please allow me to digress a bit.
Wednesday I was sentenced, Friday morning I turned myself in, But between those days (in usual fashion) was Thursday, and Thursday night my friends and I meet for what we’ve named, guy’s night (mainly because there are only guys there). My friends knew that I was going to be put away for a few days (10 if all went well) and that I was essentially spending my last hours of freedom with them, so they determined that I should be allowed to choose what we had on the television for the night. We never really watch T.V. at Rick’s house, we just have it on to serve as background noise and to suggest topics of discussion on slower nights. I chose “The Dukes of Hazard”, and while I didn’t give it much thought that night, perhaps I made that particular choice because of the good natured ribbing “the man” (represented by Roscoe and Boss Hogg) gets while mishandling every opportunity to bring those rascally red-necks to justice. The theme song included the lyric,”someday the mountain lion get ’em, but the law never will”, sadly I never caught the episode wherein the mountain lion got ’em…it sounded delightful. Thursday was a good night, but alas, it was not to last, for now it was mid-morning Friday…and I was on my way into the lemur cage.
The guard who led me to my digs was a woman about three inches shorter than I, those who know me realize how rarely this happens to me, and was a real ass-kicker…She hit the door and immediately tore into the man who was in the cell that I’d also be staying. His offense, using the two pads for the bunks on his bunk alone, this is not smiled upon in the lemur cage. “Great”, I thought,” get him nice and pissed-off and then leave…this should work out spankingly. (Warning: the word spankingly is not a recognized adverb in American nomenclature, and should not be used as such.) He returned what would become my bunk pad to my bunk, the top one. Luckily, regardless of whether or not my cell mate was pissed-off, he was not to be my celly for long, he left after a couple of hours. Before he left, he gave me the impression that he was in for a much more egregious offense than my own; as such, I made note that there was a possibility that I might be housed with people with a lot less to lose than I, and that I should be very careful whilst in the lemur cage.
I spent the next day in the cell alone. During that time the toilet sink was not an issue…there was plenty of time for that to change, and change it did.
The next day I got a new cell mate, he was a black guy who had been picked up in Kitsap County for a parole violation involving drugs. He was quite certain, and hopeful, that he’d be extradited to Thurston County. I’m not sure why on either account. He was a nice guy, and we made a little small talk, mainly concerning the rules, and he quickly got busy making a deuce in the toilink. (Note: There is no barrier between the toilink and the bunks…only four and a half feet of air and opportunity.) I’m assuming this brought him a great deal of relief, but it left me with a fair bit of anxiety as to how many more times I would have to endure this particular hardship of adult time-outery. Shortly after dropping the Browns off at the Super-Bowl, my cell-mate asked me if I smoked weed, I told him that I didn’t, his reply was the question, “Do you mind if I do?”. This is the definition of the term “loaded question”. What was I supposed to say,” Gee, I wish you wouldn’t”? The fact was that I really didn’t care one way or the other, I just wanted to get home to my girls as quickly as possible, which meant keeping the old sniffer clean. I told him that he could do whatever he wanted to do, I was going to go to sleep, and if anyone hit the door my plan was to sit straight up in bed and ask, “What the hell is that smell?”. He told me he would see to it that I wouldn’t get in trouble. This, interestingly enough, was my point. I laid down, feigning sleep, wondering where the contra-band had been stored, given the sequence of the events leading up to my celly enjoying his jail-spliff. (Google spelling suggestion for jail-spliff: jail spiffy…) After about seven meals, three sleepless nights, one shower, several embarrassing potty breaks, one enlightening conversation concerning Hawaiian real estate, and a five in the morning incident involving me, the stairs, and my breakfast tray, I was called out of the lemur cage to my new home. This new spot could aptly be described as one of the shittiest frat/flop houses ever envisioned by the most noon-day brilliant sadist nature has ever produced. Do you think I’m exaggerating? Take a look at posts 1-4, there-in lies a recipe for finding out for yourself…do yourself a favor; take my word for it. That was just my first impression; the room, it turns out, was really insignificant in comparison to the possible pit-falls the sum of all its parts, of which I was becoming, had to offer.