One Night in Jail (A Short Story)
Page 2
***
The officer finally removed my cuffs. Dark red rings circled my wrists. I remember thinking he’d placed them too tight, but I would have done the same. I’m a big guy after all.
I rubbed at my chafed wrists and took in my surroundings. I sat on a bench in the middle of the station. Cops wandered around, all business. When I’d show them a smile, they’d either roll their eyes or turn away. The stench of bar smoke radiating from my shirt drowned the rest of the odors. The few jail cells in view held multiple prisoners (I think they’re called prisoners in a county jail). They weren’t anything like they’re portrayed in the movies. No bars, no sliding door. Nothing but a small thick window in the center of the cell door, criss-crossed with wire.
To my left, sat a cute blonde, her eyes darting side to side.
Not a cop, so I grinned.
The corners of her mouth barely lifted. Her hair flailed when she shook her head. “This is bullshit. I shouldn’t be here.”
“What happened?” I assumed she wouldn’t answer, considering she looked like a lioness ready to pounce.
“They’re charging me with drunk driving.” Her voice raised an octave. “All I did was move my boyfriend’s car from one parking lot to another. I was only on the road a few seconds.”
“You were on the road a few seconds and they nabbed you? Wow. Crappy.”
Her eyes narrowed “Doesn’t matter anyway.” Her voice assumed a conspiratorial edge. “I’ll sue their asses.”
I’d like to say I continued with the easy chat or calmed her with my soothing words. I could have nodded my head and told her how sorry I felt. Instead, I pictured this little thing suing the police department and the judge tittering in her face. That’s when a laugh burst from my mouth. A nice, loud, healthy laugh.
I’m not sure exactly what she said next, but I know it included the f-word at least half a dozen times. Then tears poured from her eyes as she sobbed.
The female cop sitting at the desk closest to us threw her pen down and rushed to the girl’s side. While hugging the blonde, she shot me an evil glare. “What did you do?” She enunciated each word through clenched teeth.
I didn’t think it was possible, but her glare darkened even more when I began with another bout of laughter. The whole situation felt like a bad joke considering the bind I was in.
The cop who arrested me happened to round the corner right then. “Let’s go. We need to get you checked in.”
I resisted the urge to comment on the accommodations.
This is about the time I knew my night wouldn’t get any better. Who did I check in with? You guessed it. The same female cop who thought I’d committed some heinous act, causing the emotional wreck of a blonde to cry.
It wasn’t so bad. They took my jacket and my boots. I guess they consider steel-toed boots a weapon when in jail.
The big cop grinned as he explained how normally they took only the laces. “Sorry. We have to protect everybody. Don’t worry. Jane here will find you a pair of sandals to wear.”
The sandals Jane found just happened to be two sizes too small. My toes barely squeezed into the end and my heel hung over the back by a couple inches. What is it they say about a woman’s wrath?
They escorted me to the nearest cell. The cells were larger than I originally thought, but they also packed more prisoners (inmates?) in than I assumed possible.
The cell’s dimensions were about six feet by twelve feet, with the toilet squeezed in the extra space at the end. A short cement wall stood between the throne and the rest of the small room. A pleasant surprise after the movies I’d watched showing the prisoners use the restroom in the center of the cell.
At least a dozen men crowded the cell, tight enough that I didn’t dare raise my elbows. The door closed behind me. I stood at the front of the small group, noting that every set of eyes focused on me. My focus moved from one prisoner to the next. Some short, some tall, some huge.
“So… What are you all in for?” My stomach flipped as soon as the words left my mouth. The stereotypical saying didn’t sound as cool as it does when said in movies.
After a long pause, they cracked up. Music to my ears considering where I was.
The rest of the night went smooth for the most part. Over a period of hours, they removed every prisoner except two others and me.
I sat on the stone bench with my arms crossed, leaning back against the cold wall. I pondered the evening’s events and my actions. My thoughts went back to my dad and whether he’d forgive me.
As I mentioned earlier, I’m a big guy, yet the black man sitting nearby dwarfed me in comparison. He kept looking at me. I pretended not to notice. I thought that maybe my frazzled nerves were playing tricks.
A mouse of a man sat in the corner by the cell door, arms pulled tight around his knees and feet tapping. I guessed he was Hispanic, but I wasn’t sure. He wouldn’t look in my direction.
There I sat, thinking about how big of an idiot I was for putting myself in the current circumstances. The black man cleared his throat. I looked up from my rumination. He pointed to the floor next to the tiny man.
I glanced at the cement floor, then back to the giant. “What?”
He tapped me on the shoulder and gestured to the floor.
I figured he didn’t know English and this was his way of asking me to move. Mental fatigue (and probably alcohol) made his intentions unclear at first. Dark circles ringed our bloodshot eyes. Sleepiness caused mine, but I had no idea if either of the other men were there for drug charges.
With a nod, I slid to the floor and resumed my cross-armed cogitation. I’m not sure what might have happened had I not agreed to move. He seemed like a nice enough guy.
Three in the morning rolled around and I passed out on my sandy bed for the night, psychologically exhausted from the evening’s events.
Something tapped my shoulder. Adrenaline raced through my system, and I shot up from the floor, fists raised. The black man snored on the bench. To the side, the Hispanic man cowered in the corner, barely meeting my glare.
His whispered words didn’t reach my ears.
“What’s that?” I softened my bearing. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you.”
“Papalera!” His finger shot toward the black man.
“Papalera?”
“Si. Si. Papelera.” He pointed again.
High school Spanish class popped into my head. Papel meant paper. My gaze went to the black man again. Behind him on the bench sat a roll of toilet paper.
“You want the toilet paper?”
He nodded. “Si. Toilet paper.”
I reached over the snoring giant and removed the roll. After handing it to the extremely thankful man, Spanish rolled from his mouth in a rush. The word “gracias” stood out in the mix.
I leaned against the wall and slid down until seated. A few deep breaths calmed my nerves, allowing relaxation to set back in. I closed my eyes.
That’s when it began. A low moan echoed through the cell. My eyelids slowly cracked open. I searched for the strange sound, barely audible over the black man’s snores. I heard it again right before the splash of water.
Toilet paper flashed through my mind, along with the location of the Hispanic man. An hour and a half this went on. I wish I were kidding. Snores, moans, a putrid odor… And don’t forget the occasional splatter of water. I promised myself I’d never go to jail again.
I really didn’t sleep after that. Not more than seconds at a time. Eventually, the snoring stopped, and the black man sat up with a wide grin. No words were spoken after the “papelera” incident, and none were spoken until breakfast.
The space on the bench opened up again so I took a seat. I’m not sure what time, but it was early, a cop entered with three small brown paper bags. He handed one to each of us and left.
Inside sat an orange, a kid’s size box of Frosted Flakes, and a tiny carton of white milk. Starving at this point, I tore open the cereal and dug in. The orange s
tayed in the paper baggy, waiting until I consumed it as dessert.
We ate in silence, minus the swishing of the paper bags and the crunching of our cereal. When finished, I placed the empty carton and box next to me on the bench. No sooner than I sat them down, the black man said something to me. I say “something” because I have no idea what it was, confirming my earlier suspicions about him not speaking English.
Whatever it was he said, he pointed at my paper bag. I responded as I had all night. “What?”
The grin he’d worn upon waking appeared again. He reached into the bag and pulled out my orange. A few more unintelligible words escaped his mouth, and he began peeling the luscious fruit.
I said, “You’re welcome,” and resumed my place on the floor.
I sensed the end of the frightful night nearing. Also, I read the wall clock outside the cell. My dad had been the only person I called when I reached the station. He’d be there in minutes.
A bit after nine in the morning, a cop opened the door. Before I stepped out, I turned to the two men in the cell and in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation said, “Hasta la vista.”
Both men waved, the tiny Hispanic man showing more courage than he had the night before by standing while he waggled his hand.
Anxiety shortened my step. Sweat rolled between my shoulder blades despite the cool air circulating through the station. My biggest fear lay before me. The disappointment sure to cover my father’s face.
They gathered my jacket and other goods, including the steel-toe boots. I almost laughed when I saw how pointy my feet appeared from the tight sandals. The female cop from the night before was nowhere to be found. I thought I’d at least tell her thanks.
I stood before the final door to the outer chamber. The jet-black strands resting on my father’s head were visible through another small wire-crossed window.
What would I say? Would he understand why I did it? How do I explain this? Those and a hundred other questions streaked through my mind in the few seconds it took the door to unlock.
The thick steel door clicked and opened.
“Please pass through,” a voice said from the intercom overhead.
I stepped into the jail’s welcome area (I could find twenty other names more fitting). My father stood in the center, hands in his pockets. The early morning sun shot a glare across the waxed floor behind him. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a movie scene where the bad guy appeared in the perfect golden sunset, or perfect dusty alleyway. Slowly, he shook his head back and forth.
The moment of truth. Would I ever hear the end of it? Would he forgive me? This is the same guy who grounded me for a month when I missed my curfew. I opened my mouth, hoping to beat him to the verbal onslaught. The victory was his, but the words he spoke shattered my previous conceptions of the man.
He said, “Don’t let it happen again.” He turned toward the exit and nodded. “Let’s get out of here. You’re just lucky your mother didn’t come on vacation with us. Neither of us would hear the end of it.”
What’s that they say about looking a gift horse in the mouth? I can’t remember. What I do know is that my old man is much cooler than I originally thought. But I’m not challenging that perception any time soon.
The End
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About the Author
Kirkus MacGowan wrote his first book at age eight about traveling to Mars to find the cure for cancer. He put his writing dreams on hold for twenty-five years and focused his energies on playing baseball. The day he found playing softball with friends more satisfying than baseball, he quit and never looked back.
Since then, he graduated with a B.S. in Psychology, married a woman too good to be true, and moved back to his hometown. He gave up an amazing career waiting tables and now stays at home with his two crazy children. He spends his time writing mystery, thrillers, and fantasy, playing softball with friends, enjoying the occasional computer game, and wrestling with his kids.
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