by Marty Rafter
over a box…” Detective Kane continued “a potential terrorist threat, a threat to the safety of the public...”
“But it wasn’t a threat to the safety of the public, it was a paper mache head” I say
“So we found out, we had technicians surrounding the thing for six hours trying to figure out what some asshole hid in a big wooden box…”
“And then you found out it was a head” I say
“It is all a joke, huh?” says Detective Flowers “all those resources. All those people afraid...this is part of the kick for you?”
“No...no definitely not. In fact, if I had thought of it that way, I wouldn’t have done it.” I say
“Well, you did...and you must do it all of the time because as soon as word got out that what we had a joint departmental operational situation over was a damn paper head, we got a couple of calls right away saying that it was you that had done it”
“Wow.” I say
“So you are surprised?” Says Detective Kane
“Yeah, really surprised. Look guys, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be funny about the littering thing either. I guess I just don’t think of things that way”
“Well, you should start” says Detective Flowers
“There were a lot of people scared to death out there today”
“Seriously, wow. I’m sorry. I never would want something like that to happen” I say
The detectives look at each other, and then Detective Kane picks up my statement again while Detective Flowers busies himself with a coffee cup.
“Am I under arrest?” I ask
“Yes.” Says Detective Flowers
“What is the charge?”
“Right now, it is creating a public disturbance, but our investigation isn’t complete yet.” Says the other detective.
Then, the men ask me to stand up and I am put in handcuffs and read my Miranda rights and taken downstairs to be photographed and fingerprinted, and finally, a uniformed officer is called, and that policeman takes me in a squad car to the jail.
At the jail, I am told to take off all of my clothes and hand them through a small window to a woman wearing rubber gloves who slowly picks through them while my body is looked over with a flashlight by a uniformed guard. Then, I am called back to the window where my clothes are returned to me. After I put them on, I am shown a small plastic tray containing my wallet, my keys, my belt, and my shoe laces and am told to sign a form verifying the contents of the dish. Then I am led by a guard to large common containment cell where I am told I will be held until I will have a hearing. I ask the guard when the hearing will be, and he informs me that, due to the holiday, I will be in the cell until at least the 2nd, or likely the morning of the 3rd. Then, he puts me in, closes the door and walks away.
In the cell I talk for a while to a polite young junky with a red hands and a runny nose who patently explains what the guard did not, namely that I am not exactly in the “real jail” but rather a part of the jail where people who are waiting to go before a judge are held until bail is set. Then, he advises me to try to rest for a while on one of the benches until the cell starts to fill up towards the end of the night. I take his advice, and manage to rest. Then, a little later, I feel him shake my shoulder, and wake me up by telling me that “you don’t want to be taking up a whole bench no more”. When I open my eyes, the cell is nearly full, or what I latter discover, at about half capacity, and most of the new occupants are sullen drunks still dressed in party clothes.
As the night wears on, the cell continues to fill up. I get up from my bench to use the toilet, and when I return, my seat has been taken by a large angry looking man with a recently bandaged cut over his right eye. I look for another place to sit, but they are all taken, so I instead elect to stand with a cluster of other prisoners near the front of the cell. Then, I hear from the back of the cell a voice singing the bluegrass classic Will you Miss Me When I’m Gone? “Perhaps you’ll plant some flowers…round my cold unworthy grave”. The version is great, I once saw Ralph Stanley perform it live. He wore a suit and a cowboy hat and pressed his stubby hand against his chest as he sang. It was wonderful. I consider lending my own voice to the low part, and then someone from one of the benches screams “shut the fuck up!” at the original voice, so I decide against joining in. So, I then I start to look around the cell to see if I can find out who was singing, and as I do, I walk past one of the benches, and the Mouthwash Man stands up to greet me.
“Hey…it's you” he says
“Hi”
“Imagine this…. I end up in jail for being drunk on amateur night...of all the fucking days, right?”
I laugh “go figure”
“Yeah, they pulled me right out of the bar, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, probably didn’t want a regular around scaring away all the special customers” he says
“You are a regular somewhere?” I ask
“Man, I’m a fuckin regular everywhere. I don’t know what the big deal is. I’m a grown man…it’s a free country…If I want drink, I’m gonna fucking drink”
“Did you end up giving that head to your son?” I ask
“I called him, but he wouldn’t come. I guess he figured I was going to ask him for something.”
“Do you still have it?” I ask
“Yeah, I’ve got it. He can have it when I’m dead. He’ll probably feel bad when he finds out I wasn’t lying” He says. ”how’d you end up here?”
“I was looking for the guy who was singing?” I say
“You liked that?”
“Yeah…it reminded me of the time I saw Ralph Stanley. For an old guy, he put on a great show…taking requests, the whole bit.” I say
“Well, you’re looking at him.”
“That was you?” I ask
“Hell yeah, that was me. You think it was any of these fuckers?”
I look around to see if anyone noticed his insult, but no one is paying attention to us
“You were good” I say
“Oh yeah, I like all that old country… Carter Family...the Stanley Brothers…”
“I like those guys too…country music now stinks” I say
“There hasn’t been anyone good since Waylon” he says
“Willie Nelson is still out there” I say
And then he starts to sing, “Remember me, when the candle lights are gleamin’. Remember me, at the close of a long, long day…”
“Red Headed Stranger” I say. “One of the greatest concept albums of all time”
Then, from my left, I hear another voice.
“Luke? Luke Kolbe?”
I turn and see a man in a suit missing its confiscated tie walking towards me. His nice clothes are disheveled, and his hair is a mess, but he has a healthy complexion and a look of prosperity that makes him stand out from the rest of the other prisoners.
“Shit, man, am I happy to see you here...” he says “ looking around at all the rest of these fucking bums, I was thinking I might need some backup if a riot breaks up” then he laughs a bit too loud, and a few heads turn to look at him and then quickly look away
“You don’t fucking remember me, do you?...shit man, Chip Brady” he says thrusting his hand out towards mine “what they get you for? DUI? That’s what they stuck me with… “He says.
“Chip Brady. That sounds familiar.” I say
“Yeah, man. I’m Todd’s friend. He was telling me he saw you a little while back, at the zoo or something, says you’re in real estate now”
“Kind of” I say
Then, Chip Brady wraps his arm around my shoulder “well, shit brother, we need to talk” he says
I try to gracefully get out from under his arm, but Chip Brady is still drunk and a bit unstable, so removing myself from him takes some effort.
“I’ll tell you what. You use my lawyer. This shit won’t stick for one second. “He says, slurring into my face
“I got picked up a couple of years ago, I got right off. Tef-el-on, baby. Nothing sticking to this suit. You like this suit?”
“It’s nice” I say
“Better be fucking nice. It's custom. Costs as much as that cocksucker cop probably makes in six months” He says
“You might not want to tell them that” I say, and I notice that a few of the other prisoners are starting to look over at us. “We should also try to be a little quieter. There are probably a few more people here who shouldn’t know about your suit”
“These people?” He says, loudly “these people don’t give a fuck. “
Then, the Mouthwash Man stands up and walks over to us. Standing next to me, he looks at Chip Brady and says “Do you know who this guy is?”
Chip looks at him for a while swaying, but not saying anything, so the Mouthwash Man says, “This guy is an artist. A great artist”
Then, Chip looks at me and says “you know this fucking guy?”
“Sure.” I say
And Chip Brady looks at the Mouthwash Man with disgust and wraps his arm around me and says, “This guy…this guy…is no fuckin’ artist. This guy is the greatest bar tender that ever lived” as he pats me on the chest with his free hand
And then, a voice from the other side of the bars bellows “No physical contact between prisoners. No physical contact...gentlemen...”
And so, I free myself from under Chip Brady’s arm and say, “I think he is talking to you”
“Who. This fucking bum?” He says, pointing to the Mouthwash Man. And the Mouthwash Man takes a step towards Chip Brady and says,
“Say it again, prick”
And the two men, stand inches from each other combatively