I left off with Mike, in the holding cell for us PC’s.
He told me a bit of his story, more than I needed but still I absorbed it, relished it. I’ve most certainly lived a bizarre life, but his is something that I will never experience. Gangs, bullets, drugs – it ain’t my bag, baby. I learned that it is the lifestyle for far too many. It is all that they think that they have, spoken through generations, handed down.
I’m in Santa Rita Jail now, somewhere in Dublin, a holding cell. It’s Thursday the 12th. I was arrested three days ago.Three days is a long, long time in jail.
We hear the jangle of keys and a deputy opens the heavy door, calls our names and checks our wristbands. We’re moving, getting placed. “Right shoulder to right wall, no talking. Follow the line.” Mike goes into pod 21, I go to pod 23. it’s 3 am.
My cell door opens electronically with a loud clack, and I step inside, shut the door. I meed Chad, my cellie. I piss in the toilet but it wont flush. “Waters off. Should be back on soon.”
I crawl into the top bunk and close my eyes. The foam matress is heaven, and I sleep.
Tired right now, don’t feel like writing. More later.