I had been inside jails before, and since. I'd even been inside a prison once, all as part of my job. But it's a very different feeling walking into a jail as a visitor than it is being escorted inside in handcuffs.
The deputy administered a breathalizer test. Once I figured that number on that reading would be forever etched in my memory. But the etching has warn away. I don't remember what number I blew on that confounded machine, but let's just say I was well over the .08, which is the legal limit for intoxication. Which was pretty shocking at the time, because I had just felt like I was starting to catch a good buzz when I left the bar. I was obviously well past buzzed and more in the neighborhood of technically shitfaced.
After the deputy asked me questions and filled out some paperwork I was escorted into a holding cell. It was about a 10-foot, by 15-foot concrete and steel cage, with hard wood benches along two of the walls and a basic metal toilet and wash basin in the back. To use one of those things, your dignity would have to surrender to your bladder or bowels.
On one wall was a pay-type telephone, but there was no coin slot. You either had to have a credit card number memorized or call collect. And would you really want to say your credit card number in a jail cell? I guessed it was for the so-called one phone call. But I had no one to call. I didn't know how long I was going to be there, so I didn't know who to call in the middle of the night to tell them where I was. So I sat on the bench and waited.
After some period of time, and I'd not sure how long -- it seemed like hours -- I hear someone calling my name over a loudspeaker. The cell door opens and I'd directed out into the hallway. I'm directed down to a guard station where a couple of deputies are working in a large glass control-type booth.
At that time I'd directed to empty my pockets. And I had a lot of crap in my pockets. I was wearing a leather coat that had a big inside pocket where I tended to stick things I might need later, like gum, chewing tobacco, lip balm, scraps of paper, etc. The woman in the glass booth was not amused by all the crap in my pockets. I can't tell is she was more pissed at me or the deputy for the stuff still being in there, but I got to pay the price. Normally when you are cited for driving under the influence, in California anyway, it is what police call a cite and release. You get processed, and then sent home. They hold you for maybe a couple of hours. My jail stay was going to end up being more like 8 or 9 hours.
After getting fingerprinted and photographed, I was sent back to the holding cell, this time without my jacket or watch or much else. And over the course of the night a couple of other people joined me in the cell. No one seemed too chatty though, which was a relief. I tried to stay awake, not wanting to sleep in a cell with people who were IN JAIL, but I was exhausted. So, I tried to get some rest on one hard, extremely uncomfortable bench. I dozed off and on, but true sleep was elusive. Jails are not exactly quiet places, even in the middle of the night. Sound echoes through corridors, and there are no draperies or carpeting to absorb any of the sound or make the place warm and welcoming either.
At some point someone came around to deliver breakfast. The meal, if you can call it that, was serve in one of those Swanson's TV dinner-type trays. There was a greasy, nearly inedible sausage, something that resembled scrambled eggs, and disks that looked like hotcakes but tasted like rubber. Nothing to drink. It wasn't IHOP, that's for sure.
Soon thereafter, there was a lot of clamor outside in the hallway. There was the sound of cell doors opening and slamming closed, footfalls on the concrete floor, and a lot of chatter. Something was obviously happening. Soon I would find out what it was. A large mass of guys ended up outside the holding cell door, and the cell door was opening. Then all these people started being herded into the holding cell, The cell, which had seemed roomy, if stark before, was now filled to overflowing with people. Fortunately, I had a spot on the bench already, because in short order, every inch of the benches was filled and guys were picking out spots on the floor. Guys leaned with their backs to the wall, other guys were camping out on the floor, sprawling out wherever they could find room. You could not have walked across the cell without stepping on someone, and these looked like guys you didn't want to step on. They would probably step back. They didn't have that frightened lamb look that I just knew was written all over my face.
These guys had tattoos, less than a full set of teeth and life experiences I hope to never know. And some of these guys were chatty.
Thug1: "Man, I hope they don't send me back to Chino. I hate the fucking place."
Thug2: "Chino's not so bad. It's better than Corcoran."
Yea, well the Victorville city jail is never going to make the Top 10 list of tourist dream destinations either, but I wasn't going to the say that. I wasn't saying anything. No sure. I'm keeping my mouth shut.
Thug1, on the other hand, was quite the talker. He went on to describe how he got arrested this time. Apparently one of the cops was out to get him and just giving him a hard time. He also had some very useful tips on how to hide drugs or a gun in the engine compartment of a car so that drug-sniffing dogs would never know they were there. But, given the fact that he was now in jail, and not for the first time, it was difficult to tell just how reliable the tips were.
In the meantime, I'm getting very claustrophobic. Not that I'd paced the floor before, but I was now extremely aware of the fact that I had no room to move. And I had to pee. And the hangover was kicking in pretty good, so my head was pounding. Toto, we aren't in Kansas anymore, and clicking my heals together three times didn't work for shit.
One of my new cell mates picks up the phone and realizes it has been turned off. But he keeps trying it every few minutes. Finally, one of our veteran cell mates says: "Yea, the turn off the phones before the bus arrives to take us down the hill. I guess they're afraid we might be calling for a jail break or something."
Some of the people laugh. I don't find it funny. Nothing seems very amusing right now, thank you very much.
After what seems like forever, there is some chain rattling in some unseen location outside the cell.
Thug1: "The bus must be here, I hear them getting the waist cuffs ready. They'll be moving us soon."
Not soon enough. It seems like another eternity before the deputies come to escort these characters out. I'm just glad I didn't somehow get mistaken for the bus trip. Welcome to West Valley Detention Center. For those of you joining us for the first time, bend over and kiss your virgin ass goodbye. After the guard get through checking your anal cavity for contraband, your new bunkmates will be using that cavity for their own amusement.
Finally they leave and eventually, I can breath again. But it is still a long while before anyone comes for me. But after another arduous wait, my name is called and I go back to the little cage to sign some forms and pick up my belongings. Then I'm ushered out a back door and out into the retina-searing sunshine. It's now about 10 a.m., the time I usually go to work. Even though the jail is only about a mile from my office, it's obvious I'm going to be late for work.
The question is, how do I get home? My roommate has already left for work. So, I call my boss to tell him I'm going to be late. And I end up confessing my plight as well. At the moment, I didn't really care if I had a job or not, I just wanted to go home and die in peace. Fortunately, my boss was a friend and offered to come pick me up and get me home.
I learned a lot from that experience. Mostly I learned I don't ever want to go through anything like it again. I don't want to know the jail routine from the inside, like Thug1 does.
But I also learned that other people don't learn from our experiences. I shared my jail horror story with close friends, but that didn't stop them from drinking and driving. Hell, covering fatal crashes involving alcohol didn't stop me. I lost count of how many broken bodies I'd seen splattered on asphalt and covered with tarps at crash scenes. And seeing the effects did first hand didn't stop the cop who got popped for DUI and ended up in my court-ordered alcohol awareness class. It is just too ingrained in people's lives in modern culture. Our booze and our cars are part of us. It's the weekend ritual. It's the after work routine. Would you like wine with your dinner? Happy hour anyone? Hell, in Texas they have drive through liquor stores, or they used to anyway.
We hear the don't-drink-and-drive messages, but the way people interpret them is "don't get drunk and drive." But what I now know is that once we start drinking, we no longer have the capacity to judge whether we are "OK to drive" after consuming alcohol. The California Highway Patrol and DMV send out a handy little chart in DMV documents that allows you to calculate how alcohol may affect your blood alcohol content for various body weights. But people just don't use math to calculate their level of intoxication. People don't say things like, "No, I'm not OK to drive, I've had more than 1 drink per hour and thus I am probably impaired."
Some lessons people just seem bound and determined to learn things the hard way,like the fact that handcuffs aren't built for comfort or that jail food is less than appetizing, or that it will cost you thousand of dollars if you are pulled over for driving under the influence, and that's if no one gets hurt or killed in a crash. It's a pretty heavy price to pay for that one last drink for the road. Can I get that in a to-go cup? I'm in a hurry to fuck up my life or someone else's.
But it's OK, because everyone does it. Right?
Yea, let's drink to that. Last one to the pokey is a rotten egg.
Been there, done that. Where's my T-shirt?
Drinking and driving
1 comment:
Great post!
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