I'm going to stop from recounting the shit I've done in the past and really get to the scab of how I feel about a couple of things. No matter how I spin it or try to make it funny, prison is a horrible place filled with swine and murderers, child molesters and monsters. This is a place I wouldn't send my worst enemy, let alone a friend.
I want to talk about the situation that got me here or mostly I'd like to talk about the people who would have gladly taken a hand in it if they had gotten the chance first.
Now, we know that in a fit of anger my wife showed my father-in-law a picture of me holding a pistol. Based on that photo, my father-in-law lost his shit and went to my probation officer, "to see if he'd straighten me out." i.e. throw me in jail.
Who gives somebody the right to judge what I'm doing with enough authority to take away my freedom? Whether it be 2 days, 2 weeks, or 2 fucking years? This is the question I will discuss. There is never any shortage of people who think they know how best to deal with or save somebody who isn't them. The same people who get into or on their vehicles after a long night at the bar or smoking weed or whatever else in their homes and cars. These sanctimonious fucks who, under the justification that they've got their shit together enough not to get caught, think that they have everything put together enough to judge someone else.
I want to explain my big crime that I seemed to have committed previous to my coming in here that tempted others to want to call the law on me before my father-in-law did.
I WASN'T SPENDING ENOUGH TIME AT HOME WITH MY WIFE AND CHILDREN AS FAR AS THEY WERE CONCERNED.
I was working full time. When I was around my children I devoted my time to them. I became a member of a motorcycle club that I had wanted to become a part of for years. I spent a lot of time with the club, I admit, but because every tubeworm likes to just assume, they failed to understand why. I'd also like to mention that "a lot" consisted of Friday and Saturday nights and a couple of hours on Wednesday after work.
I have a brotherhood that can't be explained. We don't make any money doing illegal shit but you know what, when push got to shove it was my club who paid for an attorney for me. It's my club who has money in the safe for whenever I need it. While I have a couple of friends who would do this to an extent, it was the club who, when my bike wasn't working and I couldn't afford to get it fixed (because of all the drugs I wasn't selling), gave me a custom Softail to ride, indefinitely if I needed it. All with nothing owed.
Nobody would know this because nobody cared to fucking ask.
One visit up here Alison said to me that before her dad had done anything there were people who told her they were going to do the same thing - call the law. BECAUSE THEY WERE WORRIED ABOUT THE DIRECTION I WAS HEADED! Are you fucking kidding me? You people act like I'm out on a corner shooting dope and robbing old ladies while walking around in shit-soiled jeans. Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck is anyone to judge how my behavior is effecting me based on whatever Alison has told you? I'm sure she was upset when I'd finish work, give the kids a ride around the yard on the motorcycle a few times, do what needed to be done and then go up to the club house for meetings or to get shit together for an event.
Now, I'm talking about the club a lot here because I know it was Alison's biggest bitch so I'm sure that's what the people she bitched to (the ones who also wanted to call the fucking law) heard the most about. I told Alison before I even probationed that they first year or two would be very busy. I don't have to go into detail about why to you, but she knew and agreed. She knew how bad I wanted it. But just like anything else people are agreeable to, something once said can quickly become untrue. The transparency of people or at least the translucency of people disturbs me.
I know a lot of my friends only want me around them tentatively. I can tell none of them ever really feel comfortable around me. I sort of interjected myself into their lives and they, more than anything, tolerated me. The only real and close accepting friends I've ever had were Matt and Jessica and Mikey. A third of that group is dead. Before them I had some close friends but due to circumstances within my control they accept me around in a 'hows everything going' kind of way.
I live my life the only way I know how. I don't do anything just because I think it might be impressive or with any regard to how it will look to other people. I haven't written any fiction in this blog. I am really and seriously uncomfortable all the time. Getting through the days are a struggle for me. I have to live life in a way that I'm not so banged around that I can't bear it. It isn't up for debate and it certainly isn't anybody's fucking decision to take my freedom away because of it.
THAT IS NEVER AN OPTION, person who has never spent a day of life in a jail cell. Who is the person who thinks it's ok to take a father from his kids because you perceive that I'm "going downhill"? How do you do that without even consulting me first? It never once ran through anybody's head to talk to me about how you felt? No, that would put a wedge in your prejudiced mind. I am hardly speechless. Who gets to do these kind of things? I am here because of a woman's vengeance and a father's (you know, I was going to call it love, but it's not) fury.
Alison talks too much. We all know that. I have never laid a hand on her. When I got pay checks I signed them over to her. I got through the week on a $20 bill here and there. If I was living a miserable existence, what business is it of yours? Alison wasn't the only one unhappy. If I had come bleeding my feelings all over the fucking floor, would the answer have been to "man the fuck up you cry baby"? I believe it would have.
Whatever happened or happens in my marriage is not anybody's concern. I didn't abuse my wife. I did things that my wife didn't like. Just like in any young marriage, she did things that I didn't like. So fucking what? If anything was going on that needed immediate police action, me having a picture with a pistol isn't it. The picture wasn't even for Alison, she broke into my phone to find it because she thought I was banging everything with a pussy. Even if this was true, IT STILL ISN'T ANYONE BUT MINE AND ALISON'S BUSINESS. YOU DON'T GET TO MAKE DECISIONS FOR ME. Especially when it comes to my freedom. They wanted to give me five years minimum for that picture. I got 30 months.
I sit in this fucking place and I hate. I am stuck in a cattle lot for another year as of this writing. You, on the other hand, have a hard time relating, doing whatever Summer time demands. You go to the beach and drink beers, I constantly have to look over my shoulder for flying locks and shit in public.
I've only been in here for nine months and if Alison's phone rings her mother says, "You don't have to answer that." and if she's going to bring my kids to see me, her dad says, "You don't have to go up there." I don't know who the people are who would have been the ones to "do this for my own good," but I'm certain I'd never hear from them because it wasn't for my own good, it was just a good way to get rid of me.
Out of all my friends and family, I converse with four people on a regular basis. Besides Alison, Jeff (when I can get him to answer a phone), Alexa, Meghan, and John. My club brothers also answer the phone anytime I call. I know it's tough out there, there's lots going on. It'll be tough when I get out, too. Real tough.
I also want it to be known that the excuse, "I didn't think they'd give him that much time," won't fly. Taking away two days of my freedom is unacceptable. I have to say these things. I'm not sorry if it hurts feelings. I don't want anybody thinking that doing that is ever ok. If that the way you think, then call the police the next time you see one of your friends smoking weed. The next time a drunk friend argues with his wife, make that call.
I just need to reevaluate some things. If this was ready to happen before, it will most certainly happen again. They were never my friends nor were they enemies. They were simply another pig-masked face in the crowd. I'm not sorry. I can't just change my being and be you. I can't and I won't. The way I live my life is hard even for me. I have terrible short-term memory loss from repeated skull poundings. I don't think or act in commonplace ways. I act and think and live to excess. I've lost too much and gained too little. I try to make my way forward every day and sometimes I just don't get anywhere. I have weeks of lucidity that are always followed up by storms of madness. I am always uncomfortable. I miss and I hurt and I live the only way I know how. Some people know that and I do not ever bind anyone to me unwillingly. Anybody is free to go at any time without the threat of violence. At any time. After years of having my freedom taken because of myself I will not have it taken by others. EVER. I don't care how high the horse it, how sharp the chip may have gotten. As I write this, my grandfather is recovering, tentatively, from brain surgery. I can't touch him and on the phone he asks me, "Where are you? Why aren't you here?" I can't tell him that somebody thought this was in my best interest, that the way to fix somebody is to place them in a cage with monsters and hope he come out better for it. I spit on your faces. I've made amends with the people that deserve it, it's nobody's business. I know few people lose sleep but believe me, sleepless nights will be had. If my grandfather dies while I'm in here for your righteousness, Hell will be your haven.
Me And The Jailbird
I first met Ryan sometime around the Summer of 2005. We are from the same hometown and have a bunch of mutual acquaintances, but had never formally met. That isn't to say I did not know who he was. The first time that I remember seeing him was probably during the Spring of 1997, the end of my freshman year of high school.
During the time that I was in high school, the late nineties, our hometown had a thriving music scene. Well, it was about as thriving a scene as a town of 10,000 could support. Young people took it upon themselves to rent halls, book, and promote concerts featuring local bands and acts from around the state. This still happens there to a certain extent, but with the same recklessness that it did 15 years ago. It was at one of these shows that I first saw Ryan. Back then he was Kemo.
My friend put on an outdoor concert in his backyard which happened to be on the same street that ended with that terrible trailer park that Ryan described earlier. This was about ten years before the place was bulldozed. Some of my older acquaintances were playing in a band called Deaf Child Area and their 'singer' was this guy that everybody called Kemo. My band had already played so I was free to watch the spectacle. Kemo was shirtless and quite drunk with long hair that was reminiscent of Chris Cornell from Soundgarden. He looked dirty as fuck. I'd heard about this guy many times, mostly stuff like, "Kemo beat up my dad," or,"I was just skateboarding along when all of a sudden Kemo. . ." but this was the first time that I'd ever seen him in person. He was screaming and ranting and taunting the crowd. I'm pretty sure he roughed up this tiny mohawked kid named Mark that everyone used to call "Hair Boy" because he was like five feet tall but had a massive 14-inch liberty spiked mohawk. I stayed away from him. It was probably a good choice. At that point I was a pretty soft kid. I don't think that I had it in me to try to not get trampled in the stampede that Kemo seemed to be.
Some short time after I graduated from high school I went with my friend Marc to a music venue in Ypsilanti, Michigan to see a bad local band. A few of my friends from school and past jobs were there and Kemo was there, too. Only I think that by this time he was probably 'Ryan.' He ran up to my buddy, Scott, and picked him up in a big bear hug. He was wearing a driver cap, had short hair, and I noticed a spider tattoo on his neck. He kinda gave off a Mike Ness vibe. I didn't talk to him.. Still intimidated, although less so at this point. By then I was getting drunk and picking fights with people who wouldn't fight back out of boredom. It would be a couple more years until I actually met Ryan and figured out that under that rough exterior is some more roughness but plenty of thoughtfulness, genuine curiosity, and fierce loyalty.
I met Ryan at a party at a place that we call, "The Ranch." The Ranch is our good friends' parents' house on the outskirts of our home town. Jan and Steve are really great people who gave their daughters' friends a safe place where kids could be kids. I'm sure they still do it, even though the kids are approaching thirty and have kids of their own. Ryan was camped out in an rv on their lawn, for some reason, and had started hanging out with one of my best friends and the singer in my band, Eron. I guess they would get really drunk and possibly otherwise intoxicated and write song lyrics, which is what they did for most of the night when our bad played at the Ranch. In the morning when we went to say goodbye to Ryan, there was a pair of cowboy boots and a quarter of a bottle of whiskey sitting on the step to the rv, getting hotter in the early morning Summer sun. He wasn't really happy to be woke up only to say goodbye.
In early 2005 we all started listening to a band called The Hold Steady. I won't really get into the band itself because I could write on for pages about them. We all got tickets to the show when they came to Hamtramck that year and we were all crazy excited to see them. Around this time, Ryan was having a hard time with drugs. At the last minute before the show, Eron managed to wrangle Ryan a bed at this free detox in Ann Arbor that was notoriously hard to get into. It meant that Ryan wouldn't be able to go see The Hold Steady, but we knew that his health was more important. Eron picked him up and drove him to the detox place himself because he knew that if he left it up to Ryan, he would skip out and go get high. You can't trust an addict. Ryan went in to the building but came out shortly and told Eron that they said that since he was already starting to have withdrawal symptoms, he would need to go get high and come back and that Eron should drive him to where he could get one last fix. This didn't sound right to Eron so he said that he would go in so they could tell him what they told Ryan and then he would do it. Ryan was like, "Goddamnit, fine. I'll go." And he went back in. He was getting clean while we were watching the Hold Steady for the first time. The crowd for that show was really small, but the most obvious void was created by Ryan's absence.
He has been clean since then.
I'll only speak to things that I know. I'll leave the rest up to Ryan.
During the time that I was in high school, the late nineties, our hometown had a thriving music scene. Well, it was about as thriving a scene as a town of 10,000 could support. Young people took it upon themselves to rent halls, book, and promote concerts featuring local bands and acts from around the state. This still happens there to a certain extent, but with the same recklessness that it did 15 years ago. It was at one of these shows that I first saw Ryan. Back then he was Kemo.
My friend put on an outdoor concert in his backyard which happened to be on the same street that ended with that terrible trailer park that Ryan described earlier. This was about ten years before the place was bulldozed. Some of my older acquaintances were playing in a band called Deaf Child Area and their 'singer' was this guy that everybody called Kemo. My band had already played so I was free to watch the spectacle. Kemo was shirtless and quite drunk with long hair that was reminiscent of Chris Cornell from Soundgarden. He looked dirty as fuck. I'd heard about this guy many times, mostly stuff like, "Kemo beat up my dad," or,"I was just skateboarding along when all of a sudden Kemo. . ." but this was the first time that I'd ever seen him in person. He was screaming and ranting and taunting the crowd. I'm pretty sure he roughed up this tiny mohawked kid named Mark that everyone used to call "Hair Boy" because he was like five feet tall but had a massive 14-inch liberty spiked mohawk. I stayed away from him. It was probably a good choice. At that point I was a pretty soft kid. I don't think that I had it in me to try to not get trampled in the stampede that Kemo seemed to be.
Some short time after I graduated from high school I went with my friend Marc to a music venue in Ypsilanti, Michigan to see a bad local band. A few of my friends from school and past jobs were there and Kemo was there, too. Only I think that by this time he was probably 'Ryan.' He ran up to my buddy, Scott, and picked him up in a big bear hug. He was wearing a driver cap, had short hair, and I noticed a spider tattoo on his neck. He kinda gave off a Mike Ness vibe. I didn't talk to him.. Still intimidated, although less so at this point. By then I was getting drunk and picking fights with people who wouldn't fight back out of boredom. It would be a couple more years until I actually met Ryan and figured out that under that rough exterior is some more roughness but plenty of thoughtfulness, genuine curiosity, and fierce loyalty.
 |
| Eron, baby Joseph, Ryan, and Me, shirtless for some reason. 2007 |
In early 2005 we all started listening to a band called The Hold Steady. I won't really get into the band itself because I could write on for pages about them. We all got tickets to the show when they came to Hamtramck that year and we were all crazy excited to see them. Around this time, Ryan was having a hard time with drugs. At the last minute before the show, Eron managed to wrangle Ryan a bed at this free detox in Ann Arbor that was notoriously hard to get into. It meant that Ryan wouldn't be able to go see The Hold Steady, but we knew that his health was more important. Eron picked him up and drove him to the detox place himself because he knew that if he left it up to Ryan, he would skip out and go get high. You can't trust an addict. Ryan went in to the building but came out shortly and told Eron that they said that since he was already starting to have withdrawal symptoms, he would need to go get high and come back and that Eron should drive him to where he could get one last fix. This didn't sound right to Eron so he said that he would go in so they could tell him what they told Ryan and then he would do it. Ryan was like, "Goddamnit, fine. I'll go." And he went back in. He was getting clean while we were watching the Hold Steady for the first time. The crowd for that show was really small, but the most obvious void was created by Ryan's absence.
 |
| Me and Ryan at The Hold Steady concert in Pontiac, MI. 2008 |
He has been clean since then.
I'll only speak to things that I know. I'll leave the rest up to Ryan.
20. Part Two - In Which The Author Finds Soul In The Glow Of A Crack Pipe, Reflected From The Mascara Running Down A Dude's Face
Catch up by reading PART ONE before you read PART TWO
Okay, guys. where were we? Leaving New Mexico I believe. I really liked New Mexico. It was all really hippy. There were these co-ops where aging hippies would buy you all this food made from twigs and brush and shit. As if any of us need any more difficulties, add sandy bowel movements to the equation and it was a laugh-a-minute.
We met some interesting people and did a ton of illegal things and then left before they caught our scent. Shad and Heather were in a hurry to meet up with some of her friends in West Hollywood. and I was game for anything.
We took off into the desert and it is not as cool as the tv would lead you to believe. It's hot and miserable and I was worried that we didn't have nearly enough luxuries like water and gas. The towns were so small and far between that it took almost two days to get through the fucking thing. We couldn't really steal gas because the towns consisted of five dudes with shotguns, so we'd limp in and beg a couple of dollars here and there to lube up the tank. God, it sucked. Do you put $3 in the tank and (hopefully) get almost to the next level of Dante's inferno or buy a couple of slushies to cool your dick off in? I tell you it was ridiculous and surreal on a Dali level. Time melted and just sitting in those gas stations for hours was murder. My head baked and constantly throbbed and after a time you'd just have to laugh cause the heat made you delirious and nobody within 100 miles even wanted you there, sitting on the curb telling dirty jokes with a biblically-ugly linebacker with tits. It was like Young Guns when whoever says, "Why ain't they killin' us?" and then what's his face says, "Cause were in the spirit world, asshole." It was like that but without the sitting on the couch, comfortable and wondering why Emilio Estevez didn't change his name to Sheen when everyone knows that his acting chops couldn't carry his pretentiousness. Yeah, it got confusing like that.
We did finally get out of there, though, and it was good. On the third day, there was West Hollywood. Holy fucking West Hollywood. Remember when told you that I loved crazy people? Well gang, this is where they're all from. It was like a drive-through insane asylum. They really know their crazy there. We got into town and kinda drove around aimlessly because we didn't know where the fuck we were. Heather had talked to her friends on the phone and had come up with a vague meeting place by a YMCA that we had no idea even existed let alone where it was located. The logical assumption here would be to find YMCA-y type people. While this is ultimately the best case scenario for me, it was frustrating for Shad and Heather. I drove until we found a relatively quiet residential area to leave the car and decided to walk a bit.
Did you know that there's two Melroses? OH Christ. There's Melrose Place and there the Melrose we found that kinda looked like Detroit's East side but with trannies stumbling around on broken heels with balls hanging out of their short skirts. Trannies with five-o'clock shadow and leg hair, deep voices trying to 'come hither' you. Would you have guessed the glow from a crack pipe reflecting off of the mascara running down a dude's face could be soulful? It was the Devil's Ray-Bans. It was getting late so we found this squat (an abandoned house or building filled with degenerates, deviants, and the all-around maladjusted) and decided to hunker down for the night. Now we had no idea that on the other side of the large brick wall next to the squat was an elementary school, nor did we know that these guys had been throwing dirty needles and shit over it, but the cops did. We hadn't been there a couple of hours when they raided it full-on Cops style. There was fucking helicopters shining lights everywhere, guys in riot gear screaming and chasing trannies and junkies all over hell and back, bull horns squelching and blaring. It was chaos and blindingly bright. That's what really made it something - how bright it was. You don't ever really grasp how dark a place is until someone shines a light on it, usually unannounced and uninvited. It's then that you see the things you'd have rather not seen. The dead and rotting body of a rat only feet from where you were laying. The used and sad condoms and bent needles discarded only because they were so clogged with infected blood that they refused to work any longer. All the receipts for nothing but the cheapest beer or wine in the largest bottles, broken bracelets that had been unwillingly torn from somebody's wrist, four kittens huddled in a corner, too scared to even mew. These are the narrow places, gang, it's where it gets really heavy.
We were all rounded up and sat down. The cops asked if any of us had ID then laughed and began to give us all a lecture on the virtues of adulthood while wearing riot gear and pointing assault rifles. I know there's something poignant or maybe ironic there but i'll be damned if I'm going to give it a go. I'd probably be wrong anyways, who am I the fuck to say, right? Everything ever worth taking has always been done so and the end of a gun, but were they taking of giving? Can someone in the depth of such a state be drawn back to the realities they've hoped to run from with threats? These equally violent overweight brutes couldn't possibly have had more guts than us. This guy who's teaching a class here in this prison would probably call this deluded thinking. So far he'd lay it all out as that, but I don't know. I don't think it's so simple. I ask questions in his class but if the answer isn't in the manual that they gave him after his hard won two years he seems awfully vague or directly hostile, but I guess that's not what we were talking about.
We moved on and found this little place where Hollywood Blvd. ends at the 101 that feeds the homeless and sometimes gives you clean works if you're a junkie. Mostly it's a safe place for younger runaways. It's clean and the people who worked there were pretty up & up. If parents called looking for their children the place kept it's word of anonymity and wouldn't tell them if they were there or not, but would take a message. Nobody looks too hard for lost children, though. I found a note on that board from my aunt Cindy, though. I never called here based on that note but I always did wonder how she found the place. That woman helped me through some heavy places, but that's a different story I suppose.
Shad, Heather, and I used that place as our base of operations so to speak. The gave you something to eat a couple of times a day and it was the one place we knew we could go to regroup. Shad and Heather would go out to find her friends and I'd leave to wander around and find the twists and knots. There's a hotdog stand that's run by transvestites. Mustard with grilled onions and a bitching place to score meth if speed and tough hand jobs was your thing. Most of the liquor stores that were in the "inside" (kind of a behind-the-street street, dirt swept under the rug) all had small walls outside to sit on so you could drink your beer and argue with fat Mexican girls.
I never looked for Marilyn Monroe's star but that whole town was her grave, only every time air from a grate blew up a dress I swear to Christ there was a dick under it. I have to stop here. I'll continue next with meeting Shad and Heather's friends and some other fun and gross shit. Till then, hugs and kisses.
-Ryan
Okay, guys. where were we? Leaving New Mexico I believe. I really liked New Mexico. It was all really hippy. There were these co-ops where aging hippies would buy you all this food made from twigs and brush and shit. As if any of us need any more difficulties, add sandy bowel movements to the equation and it was a laugh-a-minute.
We met some interesting people and did a ton of illegal things and then left before they caught our scent. Shad and Heather were in a hurry to meet up with some of her friends in West Hollywood. and I was game for anything.
We took off into the desert and it is not as cool as the tv would lead you to believe. It's hot and miserable and I was worried that we didn't have nearly enough luxuries like water and gas. The towns were so small and far between that it took almost two days to get through the fucking thing. We couldn't really steal gas because the towns consisted of five dudes with shotguns, so we'd limp in and beg a couple of dollars here and there to lube up the tank. God, it sucked. Do you put $3 in the tank and (hopefully) get almost to the next level of Dante's inferno or buy a couple of slushies to cool your dick off in? I tell you it was ridiculous and surreal on a Dali level. Time melted and just sitting in those gas stations for hours was murder. My head baked and constantly throbbed and after a time you'd just have to laugh cause the heat made you delirious and nobody within 100 miles even wanted you there, sitting on the curb telling dirty jokes with a biblically-ugly linebacker with tits. It was like Young Guns when whoever says, "Why ain't they killin' us?" and then what's his face says, "Cause were in the spirit world, asshole." It was like that but without the sitting on the couch, comfortable and wondering why Emilio Estevez didn't change his name to Sheen when everyone knows that his acting chops couldn't carry his pretentiousness. Yeah, it got confusing like that.
We did finally get out of there, though, and it was good. On the third day, there was West Hollywood. Holy fucking West Hollywood. Remember when told you that I loved crazy people? Well gang, this is where they're all from. It was like a drive-through insane asylum. They really know their crazy there. We got into town and kinda drove around aimlessly because we didn't know where the fuck we were. Heather had talked to her friends on the phone and had come up with a vague meeting place by a YMCA that we had no idea even existed let alone where it was located. The logical assumption here would be to find YMCA-y type people. While this is ultimately the best case scenario for me, it was frustrating for Shad and Heather. I drove until we found a relatively quiet residential area to leave the car and decided to walk a bit.
Did you know that there's two Melroses? OH Christ. There's Melrose Place and there the Melrose we found that kinda looked like Detroit's East side but with trannies stumbling around on broken heels with balls hanging out of their short skirts. Trannies with five-o'clock shadow and leg hair, deep voices trying to 'come hither' you. Would you have guessed the glow from a crack pipe reflecting off of the mascara running down a dude's face could be soulful? It was the Devil's Ray-Bans. It was getting late so we found this squat (an abandoned house or building filled with degenerates, deviants, and the all-around maladjusted) and decided to hunker down for the night. Now we had no idea that on the other side of the large brick wall next to the squat was an elementary school, nor did we know that these guys had been throwing dirty needles and shit over it, but the cops did. We hadn't been there a couple of hours when they raided it full-on Cops style. There was fucking helicopters shining lights everywhere, guys in riot gear screaming and chasing trannies and junkies all over hell and back, bull horns squelching and blaring. It was chaos and blindingly bright. That's what really made it something - how bright it was. You don't ever really grasp how dark a place is until someone shines a light on it, usually unannounced and uninvited. It's then that you see the things you'd have rather not seen. The dead and rotting body of a rat only feet from where you were laying. The used and sad condoms and bent needles discarded only because they were so clogged with infected blood that they refused to work any longer. All the receipts for nothing but the cheapest beer or wine in the largest bottles, broken bracelets that had been unwillingly torn from somebody's wrist, four kittens huddled in a corner, too scared to even mew. These are the narrow places, gang, it's where it gets really heavy.
We were all rounded up and sat down. The cops asked if any of us had ID then laughed and began to give us all a lecture on the virtues of adulthood while wearing riot gear and pointing assault rifles. I know there's something poignant or maybe ironic there but i'll be damned if I'm going to give it a go. I'd probably be wrong anyways, who am I the fuck to say, right? Everything ever worth taking has always been done so and the end of a gun, but were they taking of giving? Can someone in the depth of such a state be drawn back to the realities they've hoped to run from with threats? These equally violent overweight brutes couldn't possibly have had more guts than us. This guy who's teaching a class here in this prison would probably call this deluded thinking. So far he'd lay it all out as that, but I don't know. I don't think it's so simple. I ask questions in his class but if the answer isn't in the manual that they gave him after his hard won two years he seems awfully vague or directly hostile, but I guess that's not what we were talking about.
We moved on and found this little place where Hollywood Blvd. ends at the 101 that feeds the homeless and sometimes gives you clean works if you're a junkie. Mostly it's a safe place for younger runaways. It's clean and the people who worked there were pretty up & up. If parents called looking for their children the place kept it's word of anonymity and wouldn't tell them if they were there or not, but would take a message. Nobody looks too hard for lost children, though. I found a note on that board from my aunt Cindy, though. I never called here based on that note but I always did wonder how she found the place. That woman helped me through some heavy places, but that's a different story I suppose.
Shad, Heather, and I used that place as our base of operations so to speak. The gave you something to eat a couple of times a day and it was the one place we knew we could go to regroup. Shad and Heather would go out to find her friends and I'd leave to wander around and find the twists and knots. There's a hotdog stand that's run by transvestites. Mustard with grilled onions and a bitching place to score meth if speed and tough hand jobs was your thing. Most of the liquor stores that were in the "inside" (kind of a behind-the-street street, dirt swept under the rug) all had small walls outside to sit on so you could drink your beer and argue with fat Mexican girls.
I never looked for Marilyn Monroe's star but that whole town was her grave, only every time air from a grate blew up a dress I swear to Christ there was a dick under it. I have to stop here. I'll continue next with meeting Shad and Heather's friends and some other fun and gross shit. Till then, hugs and kisses.
-Ryan
19. Number Nineteen, In Which Our Author Hops Trains And Kicks Teeth
I got a bug up my ass to travel once. I had close friends who used to ride trains around the country and I thought that was where it was at. I still envy these kids, I really do. It almost killed me. By the way, that's literal, not a cheap THS rip-off.
My close friend, Shad, was in town on a break from travelling. He'd brought this ugly scary chick he'd found at some homeless camp in Canada. She was filthy and built like an ox. Her face looked like a child crying in a sandbox and her pores looked three times as large because of the coal dust crammed in them.
She was a masterpiece and so goddamned ugly I could appreciate the women of the rennaisance paintings. Our idea was to ride a train out to West Hollywood to meet up with some of Heather's friends. After about four bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 I came to driving through Nebraska in my mother's car.
None of us had any money or food or clothes. I had about five days worth of morphine which I made last a whole three days.
Even being sick and having stolen my mother's car, this was a great time. Like outlaws we stopped in small town off the map and stole gas or we'd wait behind a pizza joint at closing and the teenage kids would give us their throw-away pizza. You can also go through the garbage of a fast food chain and dig out a bag, take the receipt inside and claim you didn't receive a couple of the items.
I saw a lot of the country with zero dollars. Always staying off the expressways if we could, listening to the three crust punk and one Willie Nelson tape that we had. At this time, right around Georgia, Shad wanted to get back to riding trains and the gorilla he'd brought with him was thinking the same. As much as I wanted to I did have my mother's car and just didn't feel comfortable leaving it on some Georgia back road to be accosted by gypsy moss and the slow, dragging heat. It just didn't seem fair. My conscience works overtime at the most inconvenient of moments. We agreed to stay together till Hollywood. I told Heather she could get out at any time and that she was ugly to boot. You remember the movie Cry Baby with Johnny Depp? She was Hatchet Face with tangled brown hair and shaped like an odd dwarf, everything proportionate except her short arms and personality.
We decided that we wanted to stop in Albuquerque, New Mexico after we had a grand old time in Denver and New Orleans. (I didn't even want to talk about New Orleans. Alison and I went back there not to long ago and it was a much more relaxing time, except for the stupid phone call that I made to Eron. I apologize still, not only to Eron, but to Steve, EJ, (Was EJ there?) that chicks tight pants and her husband.)
Denver, though, was beautiful as was the Garden of the Gods. All those rocks with flowers planted around them by people who aren't gods. I should think that the gods would be less concerned with pretty areas of land and more concerned with the amount of retarded babies they're making. Besides my cynical observation it was beautiful and we got drunk as fuck up there and probably left a few bottles of King Cobra around to prove it. Nobody gets mad when there's a 40 bottle laying on Mack Ave. even with it's extraordinary architecture, but leave one King Cobra bottle among a bunch of rocks and flowers and you're a real piece of shit.
On our way to New Mexico we needed to stop for gas and the only place that was close enough was this fucking huge mega truck stop. I pulled in and it was chaos. About five acres of trucks in the lot, 15 pumps all being used, and last but not least - four cops parked outside a restaurant attached to the service station. All of them were inside but I was still nervous. Nervous like an altar boy. No, it was less sexual than that. I was nervous like a child who has thought about returning the candy bar to the store shelf but said "fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound."
Anyways, we're all scared shitless and nobody wants to pump. I decided to do it because it's my mother's car. Where I came to the moral or ethical decision that I should be the one to pump the gas just because I was the one who had stolen the car, I'm not entirely sure, but I started pumping. Okay, so rule one when stealing gas is to look nonchalant. Now, if you're within view of four cop cars I DARE you to look non-fucking-chalant, especially if you look like I look when you're just regular old chalant. Needless to say, I was shook and because of this my reasoning told me to just put in a few gallons, like that made any goddamn difference. I then gently took the nozzle out of the gas hole (that's an Eron term. "Get your nose hole away from the gas hole," regarding me smelling how much if any gas was in Pinky.) like any small click or noise would alert the guards, and then rested it on top of the pump itself.
Fact: If you steal gas and then hang up the nozzle it will beep inside to let the cashier know that you're finished pumping. Don't steal gas, friends. Listen to that little cop on the sticker on the pump.
I got back into the car and Shad and Heather were crammed in to the back seat like I was a fucking bomb or something. I told the to stop being pussies so I'd stop feeling like a pussy and tore off a little too fast and a little bit in the wrong direction.
I ended up lost in the lot full of semi-trucks and I couldn't figure out how to get out. It seemed like I circled that lot for an hour thinking that those cops would be blocking the entrance if I ever found the fucking thing. Every lap or so I could still see the cops parked at the restaurant. I finally found a hole and took it. It wasn't necessarily an exit hole but it got us out of there and, just so you know, a 90's Lumina can take some serious air and be okay. We entered into traffic Dukes of Hazzard style with an impressive fishtail that fizzled out too quick for my taste thanks to front wheel drive, ran a red light, and jumped on the expressway like five gallons richer. For forty minutes we thought the State Police would be behind us at any minute. That little restaurant in New Mexico must have had some really good food. I don't think that any of those cops budged unless they were some elaborate decoys or something.
We made it to Albuquerque. We were there to meet up with some of Shad's train-hopping buddies for some R and R and general rowdiness. I'd never been to the desert before this and I'd probably be okay with myself if I never do again. If I ever hear somebody say "Yeah, it's hot but it's a dry heat." I'm gonna punch their face and say, "Yeah, it's a punch, but it's a dry punch." So, it's hot and there's no grass yards. People rake their dirt. I'm not shitting you, these people are all crazy. The one plus is that all the bars and shit are outside and they have this system where it mists on you from pipes hung overhead. It's so hot that you never get wet, it just cools you off. If you don't have any money, you can walk along the sidewalk and benefit from this mist - and get drunk snatching drinks off the table while the people at it are staring at your friends' facial tattoos. Win-win in my book.
We met up with Sid, John, and this other kid - I can't remember his name. They were part of train gang called The Outlaw Rail Riders. I can tell you with all honesty that these kids are 10 times more scary than any colored gang or motorcycle club by far. These guys and girls leave home at 12 or 13 years old and live on these trains going town to town like goddamn hurricanes. You don't know much about them and you've probably never seen one unless you live in a major city. They're rarely dangerous to anyone that's not a traveler, but among themselves their like warring tribes.
Now if you consider the normal gangs, they sound dangerous. They are, and that's why we love them, just not out loud. It's just that their danger is more mythical. These big gangs can become infamous as the result of one publicized incident and ride that out for years with just small pockets of violence to keep the myth rolling. These train kids, they're the real deal and they don't want you to know it.
In the life there's different castes, so to speak. Train kids who just like to travel and are crusty and dirty can be violent and drunk but they're not always murderous. There's hobos, these are the original train hoppers. Some are absolute wet heads from drinking wine that comes by the gallon for so long that they're harmless in a scary insane way. Then there's the others who would kill you as soon as look at you. Lastly, there's the train gangs - young, indiscriminate killers but also, coincidentally, really fun to party with.
These guys live in a way most will never experience and that I only got a glimpse of and ultimately was at the receiving en of. One minute we're partying, having a good time, the next someone's gulping for air with that scared, long away look and everyone's slowly walking away. There was no argument, no screaming and fighting, and no "fleeing" the scene. There, in fact, was no scene because we were literally in the middle of nowhere because the train had stopped in the middle of nowhere. There are hundreds of faces on milk cartons that at one time matched the scared, gulping face of a kid who just didn't know what he'd gotten himself into. When the young murder, it's more primitive than moral. It just is and it feels that way. When you see it, it feels like a ritual in some way. Like Inuits pushing the elderly out onto ice floes.
Sid, John, and the guy who's name I can't remember were alright, though. Shad had traveled with them before and they had a pretty good repoire. They were still pretty stand-offish with me for a while, especially Sid. Sid was 16 and his face was completely covered in pseudo-Maori tattoos and random train signs everywhere else. This kid had absolutely no regard for anything, living or dead. It was like walking around with an untrained and un-diapered spider monkey. It was an example of barbarism that can only be exercised by hungry youth. We spent two days together camped out in the back yard of some crazy guy who walked around with a grocery cart full of junk and claimed to be the manager of GG Allin. It must have been true, he DID have a GG Allin shirt. In those three days I witnessed Sid punch two college kids for no reason and got into a rumble with him one night drinking Early Times. Sid was on my team.
The six of us had stolen a fifth of Early Times at the grocery store and were sitting in a circle, passing it around. an hour or so into this peace pipe-type drinking session, four kids happened along. Among the train kids they're called House Punks (the punk rock kids who have homes). and the ones who want to be more but try too hard are considered "oogles". They are hated. They are from a weaker tribe, an invading tribe. These kids sat down and we drank and things got impressively tense. One of the guys had no shirt on, a pair of suspenders, and the word "oogle" spray-painted on his back.
After I've been drinking I can become violent. There's never any doubting that. When I am violent it's usually over a slight I've perceived as being at myself or a friend. I had been with these people long enough. I started to become entrenched in their ideology. The mindless violence for violence's sake. The way these kids would tattoo their faces and become murderously violent unprovoked might have been a preemptive measure. It might not have. I do know it was contagious.
For no reason I got up from the circle we were all sitting in and with my steel toed Carolinas I kicked that oogle dead in the mouth with a football-style punt. His mouth exploded and he tipped over backward, bleeding and choking on teeth. Before I could even decide what to do next, this kid's friend and I were fist fighting. When I think back on it I'm glad someone cared enough to risk major bodily harm to keep his friend out of a coma. If this guy hadn't jumped up and started swinging at me I'm sure I would have continued to stomp and kick at the downed kid.
Now here's where the unflagging loyalty of like people shows itself and has been something that has never left me. While I was one on one fighting, the downed kid's friend and his other friends had circled me. they had no time to accomplish revenge. Sid had already smashed the whiskey bottle over my opponent's head and was moving to the others. There was a general melee that happened faster than I can recall and then they all ran, Sid and John not allowing them to collect their fallen friend. This guy I'd kicked, unprovoked, in the face was dragged and left in a ditch.
Being so deeply entrenched in this lifestyle I felt no remorse for him. I wont lie, I still don't. Men fall, some don't. It could have just as easily been me. As a matter of fact it was me. I was probably left worse. We're not there yet, though.
My close friend, Shad, was in town on a break from travelling. He'd brought this ugly scary chick he'd found at some homeless camp in Canada. She was filthy and built like an ox. Her face looked like a child crying in a sandbox and her pores looked three times as large because of the coal dust crammed in them.
She was a masterpiece and so goddamned ugly I could appreciate the women of the rennaisance paintings. Our idea was to ride a train out to West Hollywood to meet up with some of Heather's friends. After about four bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 I came to driving through Nebraska in my mother's car.
None of us had any money or food or clothes. I had about five days worth of morphine which I made last a whole three days.
Even being sick and having stolen my mother's car, this was a great time. Like outlaws we stopped in small town off the map and stole gas or we'd wait behind a pizza joint at closing and the teenage kids would give us their throw-away pizza. You can also go through the garbage of a fast food chain and dig out a bag, take the receipt inside and claim you didn't receive a couple of the items.
I saw a lot of the country with zero dollars. Always staying off the expressways if we could, listening to the three crust punk and one Willie Nelson tape that we had. At this time, right around Georgia, Shad wanted to get back to riding trains and the gorilla he'd brought with him was thinking the same. As much as I wanted to I did have my mother's car and just didn't feel comfortable leaving it on some Georgia back road to be accosted by gypsy moss and the slow, dragging heat. It just didn't seem fair. My conscience works overtime at the most inconvenient of moments. We agreed to stay together till Hollywood. I told Heather she could get out at any time and that she was ugly to boot. You remember the movie Cry Baby with Johnny Depp? She was Hatchet Face with tangled brown hair and shaped like an odd dwarf, everything proportionate except her short arms and personality.
We decided that we wanted to stop in Albuquerque, New Mexico after we had a grand old time in Denver and New Orleans. (I didn't even want to talk about New Orleans. Alison and I went back there not to long ago and it was a much more relaxing time, except for the stupid phone call that I made to Eron. I apologize still, not only to Eron, but to Steve, EJ, (Was EJ there?) that chicks tight pants and her husband.)
Denver, though, was beautiful as was the Garden of the Gods. All those rocks with flowers planted around them by people who aren't gods. I should think that the gods would be less concerned with pretty areas of land and more concerned with the amount of retarded babies they're making. Besides my cynical observation it was beautiful and we got drunk as fuck up there and probably left a few bottles of King Cobra around to prove it. Nobody gets mad when there's a 40 bottle laying on Mack Ave. even with it's extraordinary architecture, but leave one King Cobra bottle among a bunch of rocks and flowers and you're a real piece of shit.
On our way to New Mexico we needed to stop for gas and the only place that was close enough was this fucking huge mega truck stop. I pulled in and it was chaos. About five acres of trucks in the lot, 15 pumps all being used, and last but not least - four cops parked outside a restaurant attached to the service station. All of them were inside but I was still nervous. Nervous like an altar boy. No, it was less sexual than that. I was nervous like a child who has thought about returning the candy bar to the store shelf but said "fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound."
Anyways, we're all scared shitless and nobody wants to pump. I decided to do it because it's my mother's car. Where I came to the moral or ethical decision that I should be the one to pump the gas just because I was the one who had stolen the car, I'm not entirely sure, but I started pumping. Okay, so rule one when stealing gas is to look nonchalant. Now, if you're within view of four cop cars I DARE you to look non-fucking-chalant, especially if you look like I look when you're just regular old chalant. Needless to say, I was shook and because of this my reasoning told me to just put in a few gallons, like that made any goddamn difference. I then gently took the nozzle out of the gas hole (that's an Eron term. "Get your nose hole away from the gas hole," regarding me smelling how much if any gas was in Pinky.) like any small click or noise would alert the guards, and then rested it on top of the pump itself.
Fact: If you steal gas and then hang up the nozzle it will beep inside to let the cashier know that you're finished pumping. Don't steal gas, friends. Listen to that little cop on the sticker on the pump.
I got back into the car and Shad and Heather were crammed in to the back seat like I was a fucking bomb or something. I told the to stop being pussies so I'd stop feeling like a pussy and tore off a little too fast and a little bit in the wrong direction.
I ended up lost in the lot full of semi-trucks and I couldn't figure out how to get out. It seemed like I circled that lot for an hour thinking that those cops would be blocking the entrance if I ever found the fucking thing. Every lap or so I could still see the cops parked at the restaurant. I finally found a hole and took it. It wasn't necessarily an exit hole but it got us out of there and, just so you know, a 90's Lumina can take some serious air and be okay. We entered into traffic Dukes of Hazzard style with an impressive fishtail that fizzled out too quick for my taste thanks to front wheel drive, ran a red light, and jumped on the expressway like five gallons richer. For forty minutes we thought the State Police would be behind us at any minute. That little restaurant in New Mexico must have had some really good food. I don't think that any of those cops budged unless they were some elaborate decoys or something.
We made it to Albuquerque. We were there to meet up with some of Shad's train-hopping buddies for some R and R and general rowdiness. I'd never been to the desert before this and I'd probably be okay with myself if I never do again. If I ever hear somebody say "Yeah, it's hot but it's a dry heat." I'm gonna punch their face and say, "Yeah, it's a punch, but it's a dry punch." So, it's hot and there's no grass yards. People rake their dirt. I'm not shitting you, these people are all crazy. The one plus is that all the bars and shit are outside and they have this system where it mists on you from pipes hung overhead. It's so hot that you never get wet, it just cools you off. If you don't have any money, you can walk along the sidewalk and benefit from this mist - and get drunk snatching drinks off the table while the people at it are staring at your friends' facial tattoos. Win-win in my book.
We met up with Sid, John, and this other kid - I can't remember his name. They were part of train gang called The Outlaw Rail Riders. I can tell you with all honesty that these kids are 10 times more scary than any colored gang or motorcycle club by far. These guys and girls leave home at 12 or 13 years old and live on these trains going town to town like goddamn hurricanes. You don't know much about them and you've probably never seen one unless you live in a major city. They're rarely dangerous to anyone that's not a traveler, but among themselves their like warring tribes.
Now if you consider the normal gangs, they sound dangerous. They are, and that's why we love them, just not out loud. It's just that their danger is more mythical. These big gangs can become infamous as the result of one publicized incident and ride that out for years with just small pockets of violence to keep the myth rolling. These train kids, they're the real deal and they don't want you to know it.
In the life there's different castes, so to speak. Train kids who just like to travel and are crusty and dirty can be violent and drunk but they're not always murderous. There's hobos, these are the original train hoppers. Some are absolute wet heads from drinking wine that comes by the gallon for so long that they're harmless in a scary insane way. Then there's the others who would kill you as soon as look at you. Lastly, there's the train gangs - young, indiscriminate killers but also, coincidentally, really fun to party with.
These guys live in a way most will never experience and that I only got a glimpse of and ultimately was at the receiving en of. One minute we're partying, having a good time, the next someone's gulping for air with that scared, long away look and everyone's slowly walking away. There was no argument, no screaming and fighting, and no "fleeing" the scene. There, in fact, was no scene because we were literally in the middle of nowhere because the train had stopped in the middle of nowhere. There are hundreds of faces on milk cartons that at one time matched the scared, gulping face of a kid who just didn't know what he'd gotten himself into. When the young murder, it's more primitive than moral. It just is and it feels that way. When you see it, it feels like a ritual in some way. Like Inuits pushing the elderly out onto ice floes.
Sid, John, and the guy who's name I can't remember were alright, though. Shad had traveled with them before and they had a pretty good repoire. They were still pretty stand-offish with me for a while, especially Sid. Sid was 16 and his face was completely covered in pseudo-Maori tattoos and random train signs everywhere else. This kid had absolutely no regard for anything, living or dead. It was like walking around with an untrained and un-diapered spider monkey. It was an example of barbarism that can only be exercised by hungry youth. We spent two days together camped out in the back yard of some crazy guy who walked around with a grocery cart full of junk and claimed to be the manager of GG Allin. It must have been true, he DID have a GG Allin shirt. In those three days I witnessed Sid punch two college kids for no reason and got into a rumble with him one night drinking Early Times. Sid was on my team.
The six of us had stolen a fifth of Early Times at the grocery store and were sitting in a circle, passing it around. an hour or so into this peace pipe-type drinking session, four kids happened along. Among the train kids they're called House Punks (the punk rock kids who have homes). and the ones who want to be more but try too hard are considered "oogles". They are hated. They are from a weaker tribe, an invading tribe. These kids sat down and we drank and things got impressively tense. One of the guys had no shirt on, a pair of suspenders, and the word "oogle" spray-painted on his back.
After I've been drinking I can become violent. There's never any doubting that. When I am violent it's usually over a slight I've perceived as being at myself or a friend. I had been with these people long enough. I started to become entrenched in their ideology. The mindless violence for violence's sake. The way these kids would tattoo their faces and become murderously violent unprovoked might have been a preemptive measure. It might not have. I do know it was contagious.
For no reason I got up from the circle we were all sitting in and with my steel toed Carolinas I kicked that oogle dead in the mouth with a football-style punt. His mouth exploded and he tipped over backward, bleeding and choking on teeth. Before I could even decide what to do next, this kid's friend and I were fist fighting. When I think back on it I'm glad someone cared enough to risk major bodily harm to keep his friend out of a coma. If this guy hadn't jumped up and started swinging at me I'm sure I would have continued to stomp and kick at the downed kid.
Now here's where the unflagging loyalty of like people shows itself and has been something that has never left me. While I was one on one fighting, the downed kid's friend and his other friends had circled me. they had no time to accomplish revenge. Sid had already smashed the whiskey bottle over my opponent's head and was moving to the others. There was a general melee that happened faster than I can recall and then they all ran, Sid and John not allowing them to collect their fallen friend. This guy I'd kicked, unprovoked, in the face was dragged and left in a ditch.
Being so deeply entrenched in this lifestyle I felt no remorse for him. I wont lie, I still don't. Men fall, some don't. It could have just as easily been me. As a matter of fact it was me. I was probably left worse. We're not there yet, though.
17. Did You Just Hit Me With A Fucking Lock?
Remember when I mentioned that I got into a tangle with another convict and won? Well, you never really win. Yesterday, Thursday the 19th to you, I had just gotten off of a really good visit with my cousins. Alexa brought Meghan, my cousin from RI, whom I've previously mentioned, up for a visit. We drank coffee and bullshitted and gossiped. They left and Officer Handsy got me naked while talking about his wife and himself going to see the movie, Mirror, Mirror.
I left out of the shakedown room in a fairly good mood aside from the shame of spreading my ass cheeks so someone can look at your asshole and proceeded to hit the bathroom for a piss. I was minding my own business, staring at the wall and whistling "Hoodrat Friend" by The Hold Steady when lightning went off in my head. It staggered me some and the momentum made me surge forward and, as a result, piss all over myself. I knew I'd been hit. It's not a sensation that I am unfamiliar with. I spun around while trying to stuff my stuff back in and expecting more. If you're not knocked out snoring there's always more. Now this next part is surreal, or was to me. I saw the guy I'd fought with's friend standing there and he was kinda just looking through me, looking at some place back in my head. His lack of forward moving aggression stopped me from advancing and I asked him calmly, "Did you just fucking hit me with a lock?" which was a stupid question as he was standing there holding a sock with a lock tied to the end. (NOTE: Locks are rarely stuffed into a sock for hitting. When you get to swinging it like that it will shift around inside too much making it less effective. The lock is either tied to the end of the sock or to a belt.)
He had only hit me with a glancing blow not causing too much damage. There was the usual head wound blood but he didn't put me away like he'd hoped. He stood there looking at me and then just like a comedy movie he did the quick turn around and RAN. SHOOM, he was out. I took off after him but it was a short race. You come out of the bathroom and can go left, which will run you straight into the guards, or right which leads you down a short dead-end hall lined with our cells. He juked right and b-lined for his cell. And made it. It was a situation that, had I not just been hit with a lock, I would have laughed at. As I rounded out of the bathroom he was trying to get his key into the lock on his cell like a b-movie actor in a zombie film. By the time I got there he had shut his cell and just stood there looking at me. Are you fucking kidding me? As I stood there looking back at him a random guy comes out of his cell and says, "Hey honkey, you're bleedin', bro." Uh, no shit. Now, I wanted to scream and yell death threats at this dude, (the dude who hit me, not the observant convict.) but if I'd done that the guards would get curious about the commotion and come down to check it out, ruining any chance I'd have to get at this asshole. I wagged my finger at him instead in a 'well-played, sir." type of manner and went to wipe my head off.
There wasn't an excessive amount of blood at all and it left only a small nick. It was the point of the thing that really pissed me off. In my mind I was planning to kick the shit out of him at the next available chance. In his mind he was probably thinking, "This honkey's gonna stab me." He'd be correct if this was a situation where I had any more than just a year to do. That would definitely be something I'd consider. Not in this situation, though. He did out fox me. He didn't leave his cell the rest of the evening and after lock down he shot a kite requesting to be put into protective custody.
The only positive thing I can say is he didn't snitch (even though it would just be on himself). His bunky told me that he wrote that he owed out too much money on the tables. (gambling tables: a no-no, but generally overlooked) I was at his cell waiting for him first thing in the morning. He was already gone. The most positive thing to come out of this is that there's nobody to retaliate against. The guy I'd originally fought had rose out to another joint because of an unrelated incident, and now this guy's locked up. If I had retaliated, and I would have, there's no way around it, it would have become an unending circle. I mean it really would have got to sucking. So at least it's over. I can piss in peace. It did ruin my good visit but as I'm writing this I know Al is bringing my boys to see me tomorrow so I have that. That and probably total enlightenment on my deathbed.
I left out of the shakedown room in a fairly good mood aside from the shame of spreading my ass cheeks so someone can look at your asshole and proceeded to hit the bathroom for a piss. I was minding my own business, staring at the wall and whistling "Hoodrat Friend" by The Hold Steady when lightning went off in my head. It staggered me some and the momentum made me surge forward and, as a result, piss all over myself. I knew I'd been hit. It's not a sensation that I am unfamiliar with. I spun around while trying to stuff my stuff back in and expecting more. If you're not knocked out snoring there's always more. Now this next part is surreal, or was to me. I saw the guy I'd fought with's friend standing there and he was kinda just looking through me, looking at some place back in my head. His lack of forward moving aggression stopped me from advancing and I asked him calmly, "Did you just fucking hit me with a lock?" which was a stupid question as he was standing there holding a sock with a lock tied to the end. (NOTE: Locks are rarely stuffed into a sock for hitting. When you get to swinging it like that it will shift around inside too much making it less effective. The lock is either tied to the end of the sock or to a belt.)
He had only hit me with a glancing blow not causing too much damage. There was the usual head wound blood but he didn't put me away like he'd hoped. He stood there looking at me and then just like a comedy movie he did the quick turn around and RAN. SHOOM, he was out. I took off after him but it was a short race. You come out of the bathroom and can go left, which will run you straight into the guards, or right which leads you down a short dead-end hall lined with our cells. He juked right and b-lined for his cell. And made it. It was a situation that, had I not just been hit with a lock, I would have laughed at. As I rounded out of the bathroom he was trying to get his key into the lock on his cell like a b-movie actor in a zombie film. By the time I got there he had shut his cell and just stood there looking at me. Are you fucking kidding me? As I stood there looking back at him a random guy comes out of his cell and says, "Hey honkey, you're bleedin', bro." Uh, no shit. Now, I wanted to scream and yell death threats at this dude, (the dude who hit me, not the observant convict.) but if I'd done that the guards would get curious about the commotion and come down to check it out, ruining any chance I'd have to get at this asshole. I wagged my finger at him instead in a 'well-played, sir." type of manner and went to wipe my head off.
There wasn't an excessive amount of blood at all and it left only a small nick. It was the point of the thing that really pissed me off. In my mind I was planning to kick the shit out of him at the next available chance. In his mind he was probably thinking, "This honkey's gonna stab me." He'd be correct if this was a situation where I had any more than just a year to do. That would definitely be something I'd consider. Not in this situation, though. He did out fox me. He didn't leave his cell the rest of the evening and after lock down he shot a kite requesting to be put into protective custody.
The only positive thing I can say is he didn't snitch (even though it would just be on himself). His bunky told me that he wrote that he owed out too much money on the tables. (gambling tables: a no-no, but generally overlooked) I was at his cell waiting for him first thing in the morning. He was already gone. The most positive thing to come out of this is that there's nobody to retaliate against. The guy I'd originally fought had rose out to another joint because of an unrelated incident, and now this guy's locked up. If I had retaliated, and I would have, there's no way around it, it would have become an unending circle. I mean it really would have got to sucking. So at least it's over. I can piss in peace. It did ruin my good visit but as I'm writing this I know Al is bringing my boys to see me tomorrow so I have that. That and probably total enlightenment on my deathbed.
16. "There are no moral phenomena at all, but only a moral interpretation of phenomena" - Nietzsche OR: "I used to do drugs. I still do, but I used to, too." - Mitch Hedberg
I think I became addicted to drugs by accident. I'm not sure anymore it's been so long. I was 14 or 15 by the time I was on my way. The drug use of my youth was sloppy at best and very unrefined. There was the usual pot smoking and beer drinking, you dig, the kid shit. I wasn't even clear on what addiction was. Well, addiction at it's most polished, anyhow.
Now I want you to know right off the bat that this isn't going to be some "drugs are bad for you and now i'm righteous, motherfucker." That's not what this is, but I feel I probably need to foreshadow some to get to the place I'm headed. I warn you, though, I'm going to wherever the opposite of a beautiful tree-covered lane opening onto a wide, beautiful field goes. The polar fucking opposite.
Like I said, I wasn't sure what an addiction really was, but i knew in my soul that drug use at it's base was at least romantic. I really thought this and I still kinda do. I've always been drawn to filth, to degeneracy. I've always thought that this, people at their most mad, was the place where we do our purest living.
I felt the most comfortable in basements full of speed freaks and hookers. I loved to get high and watch their movements, how they hustled and glided and interacted with one another. It was like watching hyenas and lions fight over a zebra carcass. I was mesmerized when it seemed like they were biting at each other's faces like dogs who try to eat out of the same bowl. I felt at peace in the middle of all that chaos, and I admit that sometimes I can't get comfortable still. I am rarely comfortable.
When I was 15 I started to take morphine. I was in it's liquid form and very strong. Some friends of my mother were prescribed the drug and we took the shit out of it. I was a warmth that I had been looking desperately for at the time. I didn't feel constantly nervous. My muscles weren't constantly tense. I didn't hate, and lash, and punch. I felt at peace and all the filth that came with it, well that was a bonus. The liquid became the pills and there was so much of it that it never occurred to us to stop taking it. And when we did it didn't occur to us that those flu-like symptoms were withdrawal.
Withdrawal. Motherfucking withdrawal. I wish I could explain my love-hate relationship with this thing, this creeping, holding thing. I really don't want to get poetic about it, which is what I seem to automatically lean toward. It's the unexplainable-ness of the thing. I guess in one way it must be like giving birth. It hurts like a bitch but once it's done you forget about it enough to do what caused it again? That's entirely too simple, but fuck, isn't that the thing? There's no big payoff in the after. There's nothing and you're never really better. Not really. I think it's a reminder of how tough you really are. If I'm going to get right at it, dig righ into the sore, that's the truth of it to me.
Withdrawal is the love of the thing. It lets you know it still hurts, that everything's still real, and pain is a slinking, spidery beast that wants to scream and beat it's chest at you. Your job is to not flinch too much. That might make it charge. You lay on a jailhouse floor or sweat through a mattress and curse gods and children. You curse every breath and movement and drip of sweat that streams like an electric eel sliding down your torso. Shower water is like small, hot needles worming their way to your core like an Albert Fish X-ray. The same if you try to drink. You can't move but you have to keep moving. Have to keep squirming. You can't talk much but you don't need to, the conversations in your head are the arguments of the gods. A great tug-of-war, the push-pull of guilt vs. salvation. Salvation never wins out. It never has in thousands of years. We will continue to indulge our every pleasure.
Your face doesn't feel attached. It feels almost too loose on your skull. Any pressure to it or any part of your body is like a small, steady current. You can't hardly touch your dick - pissing is torture and if you do luck into some minutes of drool-laden sleep, you're sure to wake up having cum all over yourself. Only this is no solace, no ray of light in the storm. It's cold and sad and it's like a wet dishrag left in a corner with all the small bits of food stuck in it to stink. It's the whore shivering in the couch. There's no end to it. You tell yourself only four days. That's the worst of it, four days. You;re only deep into day one now. Besides that, you think about your drug. You pine and shiver for it. You don't tell yourself you'll never do this again. You tell yourself this is payment, this is a sort of toll. Nothing is free. The greatest pleasures to your mind and body must be paid for. Ain't shit free.
The thing needs to be paid, it will be paid. You never end up owing. You see this in the movements of junkies and whores. The imperceptible jerks of the eye to look at and focus on the tab.
Once you've completed this you can get high again. Withdrawal happens for a couple of reasons. Either you can't pay for your dope or you're trying (or forced) to quit. Both are inevitable. It will happen and the withdrawal is never any easier. It's only when the sickness outweighs THE SICKNESS can you contemplate stopping. You'll think about it and talk about it and try to convince your loved ones that you have a plan. It's all smoke.
I'm having a hard time here. This is really so hard to explain, to get right at. I want to tell you how it really is, put the rock right up against the roll, but at what cost? I understand now why everything I've ever read by an ex-addict who is now sober sounded like utter bullshit. It was. So to avoid lying I'm going to sort of move on to where I'm trying to go. I'm sober now. I have to stay that way. I could let the spider eat me, I just can't throw certain people into the web. I can't, so I have to let that be my drive. I have to keep telling myself that, even now, because I still want to go back. I can't though. I need to keep my children out of the web.
When I was 18 or so, I moved to Detroit to pursue my career as a drug addict. I was living off of State fair on the East side because it was close to Tony. I went to school with her and her mom died of M.S. leaving her a two-family flat in Ferndale. Tony had been getting high for as long as me but she was smarter. She had looks as well and started selling ass. Her operation was this: get seven girls of good quality, move them into the house and charge a percentage of the ass that they sell in exchange for room and board.
These were top-class girls, not the wild-haired, Garfield shirt wearing, two different shoes on, type street girl. I started going to her place to get my dope. Tony, who was familiar with my propensity for violence, asked if I wanted a job. I would drive the girls to their dates and wait outside with a burner until they were finished and bring them home safe and sound. I got $20 a trip. This was a mostly 24/7 gig, so I made excellent money, sometimes clearing $500 or more in a 24-hour period. roughly $400 went to dope. This, my friend, was where it was at, as far as I was concerned. Tony was a fucking hustler. She was a sexy pit of despair sitting on a toilet seat, blood running down to and dripping off of her knuckles with a belt tied around her arm.
She was slicker than owl shit. She would take a trick behind the water heater downstairs in the basement. She would kneel down in front of him and as she started to unzip his pants she'd start to cry, I mean really turn on the water works. She'd claim this was her first time, that she didn't know if she could do it. Half the time the guy would run off embarrassed leaving her with the money. The other half she'd just get slapped and have to work. Either way, she cried, but 50% is good odds. Workable odds.
These girls got to be like sisters. I know it sounds like too much, but I got protective. I never slept with any of the girls. For me it wasn't about that. It's like working at McDonald's and never wanting to see a french fry again. Well, almost. It was an inescapable circle of dirty, lusting madness. The men who came around amazed me. Their demeanor captivated me. These men were either infants again or large, imposing, hurtful fathers. Some had wicked smiles that never left their faces. I kept a close eye on these ones. Some had almost no expression at all and they were the most worrisome. I filled my days and nights trying to keep these girls safe and I never succeeded.
I walked in on a guy prodding Tony all over while she was passed out. She was spread eagle on the bed and this guy was kneeling in between her legs just poking and prodding like some filthy doctor. It seemed like a degeneracy I'd never encountered. It stirred emotions I had stopped having. It seemed like an affront, but I didn't know to what. My first reaction was to shoot him, then I moved to pistol whip him, but that would have led me to shooting him. Instead I just got to beating him. I beat the man until it woke Tony and she freaked out on me. By this time the other girls were in the doorway, but they looked restless, they just looked tired. This made me sad, that and Tony yelling at me for beating this guy because, as she put it, he was an honest man, that he would have paid. I looked at him where he laid in between the wall and the bed and he was fucking nodding in agreement like a beat child. I was furious. I was enraged. I was sad and sick and shivery. If she got paid that means that i would have gotten paid. I stopped working there not long after. It all went to shit. i left those girls to be poked and prodded and I just hope that they were honest men.
XOXO,
Ryan
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