by Adam Ellis
It was clear from its shape that it had been pinched off in a hurry. I hated that this turd told a story. I stood there for a minute or a day, I couldn’t be sure. Time seemed meaningless.
I sighed and looked up at the sky. It was blue and cloudless. I’ve had enough of camping, I thought. I collapsed my tent, gathered my supplies, and left. The turd remained. For all I know, it’s still there, collecting crystalline dew every morning.
On my way home, I stopped at my favorite Thai restaurant. I sank into a window seat and stared out onto the street, pondering my brief camping excursion. I wondered if I’d been out there long enough for it to be considered camping at all. Maybe camping just isn’t my thing, I mused. I still like the woods and stuff. Just not, like, for days on end. I’d hoped camping would be a revelatory exercise in independence, but it turned into just another experience dealing with other people’s shit.
WHAT COULD GO WRONG?
It snows maybe once a year in Portland, and even then it’s usually a light dusting of powder that melts upon impact. Portlanders are accustomed to their temperate climes, coddled by the cool northwest breeze, spoiled by the lush views of endless green. When that fantasy threatens to fade, Portlanders lose their shit. Such was the case in the winter of 2008, my first year in Portland, when it actually snowed a great deal. About a foot of snow fell that December, but having spent the previous four years in Boston, I was unfazed by the abundant precipitation. My attitude was not shared by the rest of the city. People flipped out. The media dubbed it “Snowpocalypse.” The city shut down.
Walking around outside that winter, it felt like the world had ended. Nobody ventured out, save for a few brave souls on their way to the grocery store to stock up on Tyson Any’tizers Buffalo Style Boneless Chicken Bites (such as myself). In Boston one year there was a blizzard that caused three feet of snow in some places; it piled up to eye level around trees and up against the doors of my dorm. That was a Snowpocalypse. I couldn’t understand why everyone in Portland was losing it over a mere foot of snow. It was almost eerie how desolate the city felt, as if something terrible was about to happen. I feared I’d turn a corner and come face-to-face with marauding bandits or a yeti looking to feast on human flesh.
If there’s a point to be made here, it’s this: Freaky weather makes people act a fool, and it’s an important factor in the account of how I ended up in handcuffs that year. I hope it will aid in understanding the events that led up to me sitting alone in jail, watching the same nighttime news cycle play over and over on a tiny television affixed to a concrete wall. It began, as most things do, with a girl.
That summer Portland had similarly extreme weather, though at the opposite end of the spectrum. It was late August and my childhood friend Paige was in town for a couple of days, passing through on her way back to San Francisco, where she lived. I hadn’t seen her in a long time. Several years prior we’d had a falling-out, but neither of us could remember the exact details of the fight, so we took her visit as an opportunity to reconnect. We met up for drinks that evening at a bar in the Buckman neighborhood and had a lovely go of it, easing back into our friendship and finding it remarkably simple to pick up where we’d left off. The awkwardness of not speaking for so long lasted mere minutes, and before long all was forgiven.
The bartender announced last call just before 2 a.m., and we walked out into the steamy night air. We milled about on the sidewalk for a moment, debating the next plan of action. It was unbearably hot during our walk home from the bar—strangely hot for Portland, in fact, and combined with the extreme humidity, it felt like we were trudging through guacamole. After a few blocks we were dripping with sweat, and felt disgusting.
“It would be really nice to go swimming, huh?” Paige remarked offhandedly. “Yeah,” I agreed, and for a moment we both remained silent as the notion sank in.
I make no excuses for the events that followed. As kids, Paige and I made a number of stupid decisions as a team, so I suppose that night was par for the course.
There was nobody around to be the voice of reason—no Velma to convince the rest of the Scooby Gang that what they’re about to do might not be wise—and Paige and I have always fed off each other’s reckless spontaneity. I brought up Google Maps on my phone and located a high school a couple of blocks away. We figured there might be a pool inside where we could take a quick dip, so we set off down the street.
We found the school in question, dark and still as an abandoned factory, and we set about looking for a door that had been left unlocked or a window left ajar. The building spanned a whole city block, so we had to creep around the premises looking for an entrance. All the while, the school loomed over us, silent and mysterious. It was hard to imagine such a foreboding thing housing children during the day. I spotted a window that wasn’t quite closed all the way. It was on the second floor but easily accessible by a flight of cement stairs leading up to the main entrance. It seemed almost too easy, like the window had been left open specifically for us. The window beckoned.
Paige hoisted me up, and I lifted her in after me.
We found ourselves in a small bathroom, only big enough to house one stall and a sink. I closed the window behind us and we ventured forth into the darkness of the empty school. The bathroom opened into a long hallway, with bulletin boards and classroom doors appearing on either side of us as we crept down the hall looking for the elusive pool. I hadn’t set foot in a secondary school since my teenage years, and it felt strange to be back in one. I looked over at Paige as we walked down the hallway and realized that the last time I’d been inside a middle school, Paige had been my classmate. We’d been the only two good drawers in school, and it had set the groundwork for a friendly rivalry. I smiled in the dark. It seemed pointless to have ever fought with her in the first place. I realized I’d missed her terribly.
The halls of the school were dim and cool, and as we explored the building, finding a pool became less of a priority. Our footsteps echoed and we tried to tread lightly, even though nobody was around to hear us. Our search led us not into the cool embrace of water, but into the dank depths of the school’s basement, where we meandered around the boiler room. But there was little to see.
We decided to leave the grounds and declare the adventure a bust. We walked back downstairs, past the lockers and water fountains, sweaty and ready to go home. On our way out, we passed a console against the wall and noticed a flurry of activity happening on the dashboard. Dozens of little red lights were flashing on and off.
Suddenly it dawned on us that we had tripped a silent alarm somewhere, and with no way of telling how long ago it had gone off, one thing was achingly obvious: We needed to escape. Fast.
“We should…” I started.
Paige nodded, adding, “Yeah, let’s bail.”
We didn’t need to say anything else; we shot each other the same uneasy look. If they didn’t already, someone would soon know the school wasn’t empty. We tore out of the building.
Paige and I had made it halfway across the front lawn when we were intercepted by a cop. I saw a flashlight turn on me and knew we were caught. It happened so quickly, I barely had time to make sense of the situation. A clean escape had been a futile idea from the start.
“Hold it!” I heard the cop say. This all felt a little too familiar. I wondered whether the chocolate milk debacle had made it onto my record. If so, I would surely be considered a hardened criminal. I was looking at a year in prison, at least. “What’re you doing here?” the policeman barked.
My head dropped, and I knew it was pointless to fabricate a story. Paige and I were both cuffed within minutes, cold metal bracelets placed on our wrists as we feebly attempted to explain that we had just been looking for a pool to cool off in.
“We were just hot! That’s it!” I exclaimed.
We were met with a look of disbelief, which gave way to a sort of awkward bewilderment once the cop realized we were probably telling the truth. Another cop showed up, li
ghts on but no sirens blazing, and then the superintendent of the school, who decided to make an example of us and press charges. Paige and I were split up into separate squad cars to have our information taken. I couldn’t see or hear her, but I assumed she was getting the same rundown that I was.
I find that in stressful situations I’m unable to take things seriously and tend to make jokes as a defense mechanism. Even in the worst situations I find myself at the very least giggling inappropriately. I didn’t have a driver’s license at the time, having lost it on a beach in Connecticut, and had been using my passport as identification. Since it lacked many of the required details the cop needed, I had to dictate my information to the officer orally.
From the front seat of the squad car, he asked me what my hair color was. “Dark brown, with some gray. More gray than I’d like, but what can I do, right?” (Later I would learn the cop had listed my hair color as simply “gray.”)
He asked me my weight and I told him I weighed 143 pounds. He replied, “Really? Usually people tell me an even number—142 or 144. I almost never get odd numbers.” I got the feeling that he felt the situation was as ridiculous as I did, which would explain his amicable attitude toward me.
“Well, I’m 143,” I told him. “You can put down 144 if you want.”
“I’m gonna write down 146 just to mess with you,” he said, chuckling. On the way to the police station we discussed our favorite episodes of COPS. He told me that if it had been his call, he wouldn’t have arrested me. I liked him.
I’m not sure what I expected lockup to look like. Ironically, it sort of looked like a public pool, all harsh lighting and concrete walls painted sea-foam green. The cops on duty took all my possessions, fingerprinted me, and told me to settle in. I sat down in the open seating area with the other detainees, situating myself on one of the nailed-down plastic chairs and feeling out of place in my polo shirt and Montauk Red chinos, looking like I’d been arrested for hosting a clambake without the proper permits. I surveyed the folks around me. Each of them had a similar weary, disheveled look. Most were drunk or asleep. Paige was across the room in a separate area for women, with only one other occupant. I waved at her, and was reprimanded by a guard. Paige looked the way I felt: exhausted and uncomfortable. We had a tacit understanding over the absurdity of the situation. We’re idiots, I thought, and I’m sure Paige thought the same.
I knew we’d be in jail until morning and I hoped things would stay quiet and uneventful. I turned my attention toward the little television. The news was reporting on Sarah Palin’s book tour. I watched for a bit, then folded my arms, put my head down, and closed my eyes, thinking I could maybe sleep for a few minutes. I was drifting off slightly when a new detainee appeared in lockup, screaming his head off about his arrest, to nobody in particular. He wore an ill-fitting wifebeater, and his hair was greasy and disheveled. None of the officers even seemed to notice him. From his rant, I gathered he’d been booked on domestic assault charges, but according to him, he was the one who’d been abused, not his girlfriend.
I considered mentioning to the guy that he meant “judicial,” not “judicious,” but thought better of it. He marched around the holding area for a while but eventually settled down and began mumbling profanities under his breath. Respite from his disturbance was fleeting, unfortunately. I’d just turned my gaze back to the television to watch a second cycle of the previous news story when an even louder man showed up. He was worse for wear than the last dude. His long, matted hair hung about his bony face, and his clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed in months. He was clearly high, covered in meth scabs, and it was obvious from his scrapes and bruises that he’d resisted arrest. During the next fifteen minutes I watched as he made collect calls to no fewer than eight people, trying, to no avail, to find someone to bail him out. With each subsequent phone call his story changed drastically, yet he always painted himself as the victim. All the while, he scratched at his lanky arms and sunken face, spinning tales about how he was simply minding his own business and had been arrested for no reason. Every person he dialed hung up on him before he could get his full fabricated story out.
In my head, I knew the guy was probably harmless, but his appearance unnerved me. I do my best to stay neat and tidy; if I don’t get a shower every morning, my whole day feels like a failure. Seeing someone so completely out of the hygienic loop made me instantly feel dirty. As I watched him dial number after number, I could feel my heart rate increasing. I prayed that when the guy finally gave up on calling someone to get him out of jail, he wouldn’t sit next to me. I am not a religious man, but I prayed for it, desperate to be heard by whatever deity might be listening. “Oh please, Baby Jesus, righteous Vishnu, merciful Kabbalah Monster, someone hear my prayer…”
I’m afraid of very few things in this world. Zombies scare me, sure, and I’m not too fond of bees because they’ll kill themselves just to make you uncomfortable for a few hours. Bugs in general don’t thrill me, but the only thing that makes me truly squeamish is meth scabs, and I shouldn’t even have to explain why. I’m uncomfortable with scabs of any sort, but meth scabs in particular are horrifying. They conjure thoughts of dirty needles and rotting teeth. I listened to the meth guy blather on the phone and scratch his arms absentmindedly, and I suddenly felt rather itchy myself. My teeth ached. I pushed on them with my tongue to make sure none of them were loose. All the while, I thought about this man sitting next to me—his methy, scabby skin flakes rubbing off on me. This in itself was enough of a deterrent against ever breaking the law again. I swore up and down that I’d learned my lesson.
Someone must have heard my prayer because amazingly meth-man retired to the bathroom after he’d run out of contacts to dial. He treated us to an off-key rendition of Hot Chocolate’s “You Sexy Thing” from behind the closed door, and I didn’t see him again after that.
Morning came; both Paige and I were notified that we had court dates the following day, and then we were released into the crisp, early air. Paige looked sleepy, and I shuddered to think how I must’ve looked. Though we’d only spent the night in lockup, it felt exhilarating to be free once again, like getting out of school on a Friday afternoon. For two mostly well-behaved kids from suburbia, the night had seemed endless. Exhausted, we had one thing on our minds: coffee. Paige took out a cigarette and lit it as we walked. After a few blocks we spotted a Starbucks, shining like a symbol of freedom. We ordered drinks and took them outside.
“So, uh, that was… interesting, huh?” I said. Paige chuckled and nodded as she took a sip of her coffee. We sat there in the comfortable silence of old friends as we finished our drinks.
Paige was the first to stand. “Well, see you tomorrow in court,” she said, smiling. I grinned back and Paige turned and walked toward the train station.
When I got home I fell asleep almost instantly, and it was a deep slumber. I awoke hours later, briefly wondering if the whole ordeal had been a dream before remembering I had a court date.
For my hearing the next day, I arrived an hour early, terrified I might not be able to find the building and would miss my appointment. In a bid to look presentable, I wore a new sweater I’d bought recently. It had been sitting on my floor for a few weeks, though, and my attempt to get the wrinkles out of it had been only marginally successful. I waited for Paige to arrive, anxious about what penalty the judge might dole out. When Paige finally appeared in a yellow dress, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, it struck me how out of place she looked in the courtroom. Tall and pretty, she looked like she should be heading to a garden party, not awaiting punishment for a crime.
The hearing was short and sweet. Our crime was downgraded merely to a violation, meaning it wouldn’t appear on our records once we’d completed the allotted hours of community service. After the ruling, a clerk gave us a list of places we could choose to do our service. Paige and I perused the same bright green sheet of paper.
“I wonder if there’s a way to do community
service online,” Paige half joked.
“Right?” I agreed. “Like maybe I can be the moderator of a video game message board for a couple days or something.” In the end I chose to work in a meal center for a weekend.
A few days later, I opened the mail to find a jury duty summons. What a strange twist of fate, I thought. The timing could not have been more surprising, but I reported back to court the following week prepared to do my civic duty. It felt strange to be returning to the exact same building, but for an entirely different purpose. I felt like an imposter, sneaking into a party I hadn’t been invited to. As a sort of disguise, I wore my glasses, which I rarely do, thinking someone might recognize me as a hardened criminal. During the preliminary interview process, I was asked a few questions by the defense lawyer.
“Have you ever been to court before?” she said, and I couldn’t help but smile.
Marching out of the courtroom, I reflected on the turn of events. Would I rather spend a few hours in the clink, or days and possibly weeks on a jury for some girl who shoplifted a tube of mascara? In an odd way, the circumstances had turned out in my favor. A few hours in lockup had saved me from a God-knows-how-long session of jury duty.
I felt a little guilty over how my stupid mistake had ironically worked out in my favor. It was like someone behind the scenes had mixed up my life’s paperwork and I was reaping the benefits. I just hoped the mistake would stay unnoticed.