After just over one week, the police are called because I stormed up to my room and slammed the door after a counselor told everyone in the room that my parents sexually abused me as a child. I didn’t even say that to this guy! He either got the information from some other counselor or made it up! The cops are very kind to me, even agreeing that it is wrong to betray privacy and confidence in this way, and they understand why I’m so upset.
I pack my bags under their supervision and call Lucas, a friend of mine whom I have rarely seen since playing hockey as a kid, to come pick me up. I’m not sure who else to call. On our drive home he says that if going back to school doesn’t work out, I can move in with him.
I go back to school, this time to Giovanni’s college, after soliciting financial help from Francesco. I get the money for a security deposit and get a single dorm room, but I’m clearly not an academic and I don’t last long. My world in college consists of one word, and one word only—enter the Beastie Boys famous lyrics and montage—Parrrrrrrrty!
Life has done a number on me by now. I am lost, have no plans, and have been living my life day by day for so long that it leaves me ill-equipped to handle life out on my own. The world seems big and scary, and the only security I have, the only thing that calms me, is weed, which is also steadily sabotaging my future.
After settling in, I almost immediately begin to calculate when I will be able to move into a house and end my month-to-month tenure in the single dorms. Moving from the dorms to a house is an exciting possibility and my friends and I contemplate who would live with whom; we are eager to find out what’s available. Almost all the houses available on campus are within walking distance of one another, and I want to be close to Giovanni, who already has his roommates lined up. We’ve decided not to live together now that we’re past high school. Both of us are ready for some space, I would say.
I’ve never known Giovanni’s intimate business with Francesco and whether he is seeking a life in La Cosa Nostra with a front like his dad has, or if he is hoping to go straight, have a small hustle on the side, or something else. The secrecy and code of silence has always been so prevalent in our relationship and in their home that if I ever dug too deep I would be met with a threatening glare, and that was all that was needed to keep me at bay.
Whatever his plan, Giovanni is definitely choosing a wiser path than I am, but our brotherly bond and fondness for each other keeps us connected. We also both still love to party. And now that we’re in college, there is nothing holding us back from going wild and hosting the baddest parties on campus. In the second semester of freshman year, Giovanni’s old friend Mike comes from Chicago to live with him and partake in the season of awesomeness that will prove to be comparable to the film Van Wilder. Being the center of attention in a party scene makes me feel secure and helps me avoid thinking about the future.
Giovanni brought his drum set to school—I had sold mine for drug money a while back, when I was starved for resources and preferred to sell what I had or steal, rather than create problems with Giovanni’s family or deal with my biological one. The choice came easily. I’d learned how to not value material items or favors from people very much, though I do enjoy those things when I get them.
We set up his kit in his basement, along with sound equipment and guitars, and we find a bassist through Craigslist, a guy who also sings vocals, and suddenly we have a band. Covering Blink-182 songs, we rock late into the night one Friday. Giovanni’s house is three stories and pretty run down, a typical college house in the area, and while we don’t invite anyone, we leave the door to the basement open so people can hear the music and just come in. Before long, we have a house full of people who’ve brought their own booze and goodies.
Strangers wandering in isn’t shocking since Giovanni’s house is located across the street from the dorm towers, which are the main hub of campus, and most of the school buildings are within two or three blocks. His basement has what looks like a full-size refrigerator but is actually a kegerator: a fridge that holds a keg inside, with a tap built into the front of the door. All you have to do is walk up to it, pull the handle, and let the ice-cold beer pour out.
To this day, Giovanni has photos of that night framed on his wall and plastered on his Facebook page. I don’t do anything except play drums and feel like I am the life of the party. Drum solo after song after encore after song request; we repeat the process for hours and everything about it is amazing. This is what I live for. I am certain the entire campus can hear our music, and indeed, some freshmen later tell us they heard the music in their dorms as they are getting ready to go out for the night. So many people come to check out the party; I can easily estimate a thousand or more partygoers popping in and out. Puffing on weed throughout the night, I notice the cute girls with their short party dresses, the hipster chicks with glasses looking like grunge librarians, the emo chicks with army boots, and the platinum blondes. It seems like they’re all checking me out. I think to myself that this is as good as it gets.
Over the course of the night, the basement door and several other doors from the house are unhinged and propped on top chairs to make beer pong tables. With beer pong games going on, music blasting, and guests flowing through the house to make their way to the second-floor balcony to smoke cigarettes and hang out, we once again feel like the coolest guys on earth. Then somebody yells, “Cops!”
When someone yells, “Cops” at a party filled with white college kids, there’s usually a mixed reaction. There will be a murmur among the kids about what to do. Most will head out, but some will stay. These aren’t kids who are deathly scared of the police. It’s expected that there might be a slap on the wrist and a caution to turn down the music, but that should be about it. A drinking ticket would only be expected if someone mouths off to an officer or is far too drunk to make it home on their own and ends up in the drunk tank back at the campus police station. For some reason, on this particular night, perhaps due to the rampant pot use in the basement, pandemonium and panic break out. With only one exit, paranoia immediately causes everyone to bolt for the door and scramble past, over, and under each other to get out. The officers soon make their way around the house, meeting each and every guest as he or she exits. Some people hide in the basement, others try to present fake IDs on their way out. It seems, though, that the officers just want to check out the party.
The officers approach Giovanni, me, and our bassist as we shuffle out from behind the set, and ask the band’s name.
“Um, we don’t have a name,” Giovanni says.
This seems to upset the officer, who takes it as an evasive response.
“There’s no need to be jerks. If you want to play this game I can make your evening real tough real quick.”
“No, no, officer . . .” chimes in Giovanni’s current roommate, and my former roommate, Shawn (who also switched schools). “This is their first show. They haven’t ever really even . . .”
“Don’t give me that, goddammit, all I want is for you to answer a simple question,” the officer says, getting agitated.
Then Giovanni blurts out, “Death Clown.”
The officer blinks and looks over at him, “What? Death Clown?”
The bassist and I are able to keep a straight face for about ten seconds and then burst out laughing. Giovanni ignores us and continues, “Yeah, Death Clown, and that’s Blazer and Razor, and I’m Blade,” he says, referring to an inside joke out of the movie Dodgeball.
“Pffft, oh, fuck . . .” I say, bursting into another bellowing, hearty laugh I just can’t keep in.
The officer tells us all to shut up and follow him up the stairs and out of the basement. This clears the way for partygoers in the basement to scurry away. All the way up the stairs and into the house, Giovanni is chattering away in an upbeat manner, hilariously trying to reason with the officer.
“Didn’t you boys think there would be a noise
complaint? It’s almost curfew hour. We’ve been getting calls all night and decided to wait until now.” He seems firm, but reasonable.
“Well, you know, when you wanna rock you gotta hammer down and tick the tock, you know what I’m saying?” Giovanni responds. I can’t control myself when I hear this, and begin laughing so hard that tears stream down my face. Snot drips from my nose and plops onto my thigh.
“Is, uh, your friend going to be okay?” the officer asks sarcastically, raising an eyebrow and looking from Giovanni to me and back again.
“Oh yeah, that’s Blazer, and he’ll be fine.” Giovanni ignores me.
As the cop and Giovanni are talking, Shawn kicks me. “Shut up, man, these cops are cool.”
Giovanni then says, “Officer, you ruined our party and without our music, people are going to leave; but it’s okay, we were almost done.” He looks at us this time and then as if he’s a father or our band manager, the adult in the house, he says, “Should we call it a night, boys?” There are untold amounts and various kinds of drugs and drug paraphernalia in the home, not to mention our kegerator in the basement, which we all pitched in to buy, so he has reason to want to push the cops on their way.
As the words leave his mouth, the second cop walks in through the balcony door. “Not so fast.” He drops onto the table at least a dozen bags of weed, rolled up neatly, totaling at least an ounce of high-quality pot. “I found all this in the basement and throughout the house.”
“Wait, what?” we all gasp. I’m not laughing anymore. “Where, what the . . . how?”
“All over the house, on the floor, behind the curtains, under the fridge, behind pictures hanging on the wall.”
Apparently as the cops entered the house, panicked guests decided the best course of action was to ditch all the drugs in their possession wherever they could find a quick spot to hide them. I stand like a fool with my mouth open as the officers begin to talk into their chest radios and fiddle around with the tools of apprehension on their belts. I’m intimidated and mute, as are the other guys. Only Giovanni finds the words to respond, “There’s no way that’s ours. Why would we be hiding our own pot all over the place? You know that stuff came from other people. They all ditched it when you guys came in.” Then as if he’s the straightest kid on the planet, he pleads, “Keep it please, we don’t want it! No, seriously . . . and don’t worry, the noise is done. We’re done, right, guys?”
The rest of us say yes in unison and this seems to appease the officers who stop messing with their handcuffs and look at one another, seemingly able to communicate with one another with just a single glance.
“If we hear anything else coming from this house tonight, you’re all getting charged and going to jail.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
This epic party is the first and last party we host in college. We soon find out that police regularly patrol the area. You can party all you want, but noise is an issue. If you are loud, there is trouble. Whisper as you let loose and express your sexuality, your angst, your freedom, your pressing desire for joy beyond reproach; yes, cast aside your inhibitions in every robust, lustful way possible, but keep it down or you are a criminal.
I can honestly say we had more fun in high school because the issues with cops just keep coming. One morning, at 7:00 a.m., I’m in my on-campus house when there is a loud thud on the floor above mine. The landlord tasked the guy up there with managing the place, along with several of his other properties on the same street. Unfortunately, he doesn’t like me at all and lives right above me. He enjoys getting up early and throwing his dog’s bone on the floor right above my bedroom ceiling, intending to wake me up with the sound of the bone hitting the floor and the noise of his dog barking and scurrying for the bone.
I have earplugs, though, to drown it out, and if it wakes me up, I just smoke some pot and go back to sleep. It’s usually no big deal—but this time, I wake up to the thud and a few minutes later I hear a knock on my door. I open it to see the cops. They ask my name and then storm in like gangbusters, not even showing a warrant. They search my room and find a quarter ounce of weed. I am placed under arrest for disorderly conduct and marijuana possession, sure to be evicted on my release. This is my first time going to jail in Milwaukee. I know the manager wants me out and that he’s using the cops to help.
The officers handcuff me and put me in the all-too-familiar back seat of a police car. One of the cops drives me to the police station and parks the car in a garage underneath it, and then the officer who arrested me helps me out of the car because I’m still handcuffed. Walking into the station, he is given high fives by officers who are leaving the facility, “Got another one? Nice . . .” They laugh. My face reddens and I look at my feet as I shuffle along behind him.
Still wearing my pajamas, I am put in a fairly large holding cell with concrete benches at the base of each wall and left alone. Extra thick, very narrow opaque glass windows line the walls. I lie on the benches with nothing to eat or drink until 4:00 p.m., while more and more black guys, presumably gang members, fill the holding cell. Soon the space feels tiny; imagine being crammed into a closet with three other people and locked into it. It’s the most boring and scary place ever conceived by man.
By the end of the day, there are twenty of us and together we’re taken underground across the street to the county jail. Each time I’m able to get a guard’s attention, I ask how long I will be here and if I can get some water or something to eat, but no one responds. As we approach the booking station, where pictures are taken and orange jumpsuits are issued, we are randomly strip searched. Staring in horror, I watch as two officers standing off to the side pluck guys off the bench, grab them by the arms, cuff them, and take them kicking and screaming to cavity search them after removing their clothes. This is done in full view of the other inmates who try to ignore what’s happening. I make up my mind that I will fight to the death before allowing anyone to do this to me. Luckily, I am not selected. After this horror is finished, we are all booked and taken to yet another holding cell to await cellblock assignments.
I notice there are female inmates on the other side of the large area, which is maybe 75 by 75 feet, with benches and small cells lining the walls and an office in the middle of the room. Many of the men and women peer curiously at one another, like roosters twisting their heads while pecking for food, but I look away, ashamed. We have been reduced to barn animals with no rights, corralled by the masters of the farm and at their mercy to get food or water. As I sit waiting on a hard bench, my rear end goes numb and tingles from discomfort, and I am overcome by anxiety. I wonder when I will get out of this horrid place.
After some time, an officer, a large bald black man, begins to call out names, and the corresponding inmates approach the desk where he is sitting. He orders us at gunpoint into a small cell that lines the perimeter until, eventually, all of us are crammed in and pressed up against one another. I can feel the heartbeats of the men next to me, their chests expanding with each breath. We try to avoid eye contact and remain calm, as a cleaning crew of inmates sweeps and mops the area. After being released from the tiny cell, the officer begins calling out names and leads us one at a time out of the area to our cellblocks. As each man or woman walks in front of the officer, toward his desk and then the door, he hurls ridiculous insults at the person. “Get up here, you piece of shit.” “To the door, you worthless skank—not that one, the other one, you fucking whore!” “Don’t look at me, you idiot, or I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”
The inmates either shake their heads in disgust or try not to laugh as we look on. I have been to military school and know I can remain calm under intense pressure, and I’m not afraid to be ridiculed in front of everybody. As long as I can finally get to a place where I can lie down for the night and have some water, I’ll suck it up and take his insults. It’s late by the time I’m called. “Bush, get up here you lousy
fuck . . . sick of these suburb motherfuckers. . . . Your family is downstairs trying to get you out, but we told them you ain’t here.” He grins sadistically at me and laughs. The man could have insulted me seven ways to Sunday and I wouldn’t have cared, but he says the one thing that can get under my skin.
I know he’s probably telling the truth, too, because I’m currently living with my cousins and have an aunt in the area who I’m sure knows from them that I’ve been arrested and taken to jail. The idea of my aunt knowing what’s going on and her and my cousins’ lives being disrupted on my account makes me feel pretty awful. I begin to feel increasingly anxious thinking about it. What if I get stuck in here for weeks? A panic attack starts and I try desperately to calm myself. I try to focus on my breathing, imagining I’m somewhere else. I conjure up places from memories past.
I finally make it to my cellblock in the middle of the night, after being forced to wear a wristband with identification credentials that is so tight that it cuts into my skin. In the cell I tear it off and drink water from the sink, then collapse onto the thin mattress that is two feet too short and lies on a steel bed that juts out from the wall. “They’ll fuck with you for that,” says my cellmate, pointing to my wristband now lying on the floor. He’s been here two months on a crack charge and he knows by now how things work.
The bunks are made of some sort of hardened metal that warps loudly and makes a horrible banging sound anytime someone rolls over, making it impossible to sleep soundly. The smell of body odor and low-grade laundry detergent are overwhelming, but I continue to tell myself to breathe slowly, in and out, hoping this nightmare will be over soon.
On my first morning in the can, I am roused from bed at 5:00 a.m. by an intercom announcement and we are made to stand outside our cell doors for a head count. Breakfast will soon arrive, and I peer around the gymnasium-sized facility: two stories of cells surrounding a common area with steel tables and seats built into the floor. About 95 percent of the guys inside are black, and it feels like each one of them is staring at me with pure hatred as I try to look straight ahead and act unafraid. The guards call names and as each man is called, he steps forward to receive his tray from the food cart that other inmates carry in as they make their way through each cell block, doing easier time than the rest of us by volunteering.
One by One Page 10