A friend of mine is in jail. He is the only person I have ever been friends with who has spent more than a night or two behind bars. I will call him Hal.
I met Hal quite a few years ago at a golf club where we both used to play. He was a much better player than I, and was kind enough to help a neophyte conquer the initially frustrating techniques a beginning golfer must learn, so he can move along to the next set of frustrating techniques.
Hal was a salesman and did a lot of business on the golf course. He was a natural comic, fast with a bawdy joke told with a big smile, which revealed bright white teeth framed by a deep golden golfer’s tan. The kind of guy who women gravitate toward at a party. He was engaged twice, but slipped the rope both times. He was also a drunk. His favorite line was “I always stop drinking for a month every year. February, the shortest month.” This was his attempt to manage his alcoholism.
It didn’t work. Hal was stopped for DUI a couple of years ago. Then he was stopped again, and his license was suspended. And then it happened. Police spotted his car late at night as he headed home from a bar. They ran the plates and discovered the suspended license. Bottom line…. he was driving drunk for the third time and with a suspended license. The judge gave him fourteen months in jail.
Guys like Hal have a lot of buddies, and his close ones show up with regularity for jail visits. But after a few months, and with better weather warming golf courses, his closer buds started calling his less close buds. That’s when my phone rang.
Hal’s close friend: “Bob you don’t know me but I’m a friend of Hal’s.”
Me: Right.
Friend: ”Hal, as you know, is a guest of the state and could really use some new company. Several of us trade off seeing him on the weekends, but to be honest, we’ve got this traveling game that in two weekends is at Myrtle Beach, and to make a long story short, can we count on you to go see Hal?”
Me: Sure.
Can we count on you? Very clever. What kind of guy wants to be known as a man who can’t be counted on? What kind of guy would turn his back on some poor schlub who was in a miserable cell with God know who in the next bunk. I had not seen Hal in several years, but off I went for a weekend in another city, in another state, for my first visit inside a jail.
I found the place without any trouble. It was just on the outskirts of town. Visiting hours were one to three, and I sat in the parking lot for about an hour thinking about how a guy I used to ride in a golf cart with could find himself here. Golf course restaurants generally have pretty mediocre food, but I’ll bet Hal would give about anything for a ham and cheese sandwich, fries and an Arnold Palmer Lemonade. I also thought about what to say to him. “How are you?” seemed ridiculous. He might be too embarrassed to talk about what he is going through. Maybe I’ll tell him about my life. My girlfriend, and my trip to Maine coming up. Get his mind off of where is. No! That is stupid! Why would I talk about women and travel to a guy living behind bars with other men!! As I walked toward the entrance to the jail I had no idea how I was going to fill the next two hours.
From my car in the lot the facility looked no more threatening than a middle school. But as I got nearer, the razor wire above the metal fencing became more obvious and serious. The quiet of the countryside was broken now and then by a shout, or a metal door slamming shut. I admit, I was a little uneasy.
I opened the double door to the office area and walked into a surprisingly small room that again had a middle school feel to it. In the right corner of the room was a large window with a sheriff’s deputy leaning against the counter. Not that big a guy. About 28 or so. His face wore a mask that said “I’ve seen and heard enough B.S. for a life time. I don’t care what you brought, what you forgot, or how you feel. Here, we go by the book.” He gave me a form to fill out.
“You can sit over there,” he said, motioning toward a bank of gray plastic chairs set against a beige cement block wall. On the opposite wall was a rudimentary mural that covered the entire wall. It was done in gaudy, almost psychedelic colors, and depicted several people walking up a golden hill. Each of the people was either Hispanic or African-American. Along the sides of the golden road was a school, smiling family members, a church and for some reason bikes and birds. The only white face was a middle-age man giving a diploma to a Hispanic appearing male. Political correctness had not made much of an impression here.
I filled out the form which basically explained who I was, and sat down on the gray plastic chair. In a couple of minutes an older guard poked his head from behind the counter and growled at me, “You need to wait outside.” I shot up and went out to lean against the brick wall. In a few minutes other visitors started to arrive. They were closer to the actual time we would be let in. First, an African-American family. I guessed a brother, mother and grandmother. Then a very pretty brunette woman about twenty-five and a little blond girl I thought to be her daughter. After that around ten to fifteen other people showed up representing a cross section of today’s America.
After about thirty minutes we were one by one called inside. I was asked to pull out the pockets of my pants and walk through a metal detector. Then I walked into a small space where I was sealed, as the sliding metal door closed behind me. A second door opened where another young sheriff’s deputy with the same “I don’t need to hear it” face greeted me. He searched me and directed me to a room about the size of a company lunchroom. More gray plastic chairs ringed it. I sat and waited for my friend. First to the room was a white guy who I guess was the husband of the pretty brunette. Then it was Hal. Another deputy walked him in. I must say this was handled with as much respect as one could hope for, given the situation. Hal was wearing street clothes, jeans and a light blue short-sleeved shirt. He waved and smiled when he saw me.
“How ya doin?” Hal asked, in a relaxed surprisingly happy tone.
“I’m great, thanks,” I said.
“Thanks for coming, I know this sucks, blowing a weekend.”
“No, it’s fine, I found a great little mom and pop place for breakfast.”
We talked non-stop for two hours, and he did most of the talking. He told me about the second week when a new cellmate went nuts and started screaming at him at three am. The guy took off all his clothes and for no reason kept throwing a small chair at Hal. Then he grabbed Hal’s small radio and shoved it up his own butt. It was three days before they moved the guy. And the other prisoners thought Hal snitched, so when he would walk down a hallway the occasional fist would meet his face or shoulder. He spoke of working hour after hour in the kitchen. This business of lying around a cell all day and reading was not a part of Hal’s life. I won’t disclose anymore of our time together other than to say he told me this….
“I will never, ever allow myself to be in this situation again. Most of these people are drug addicts. They have never held a job for more than a few weeks at a time. They have no life-skills. I volunteer to help them understand how to fill out a tax form and a job application. It is impossible to sleep at night. I have a hearing problem and no one cares. The noise is unreal and I am worried about my other ear.”
I listened for two hours. When I was ready to leave we stood up and I hugged him. He seemed resolved to his situation and to turn his life around. I also think he put on his best upbeat face for me.
“You see that hot looking girl there” referring to the brunette with the child. “That’s her husband, not a bad guy. We go to the AA meetings together. He’s a cokehead.”
I looked at the brunette. Her eyes had a distant anger; her face revealed resentment that life landed her here with a child, at her age, with her beauty. Her husband wore a wide smile as he tickled his daughter’s chin. She stared through the window looking for some life that didn’t exist.
I told Hal I would return in a few weeks, and I will. His jailer led him away for more work in the kitchen. He smiled and waved at the exit of the room. At nine tonight his day will end and he will fall asleep on the hard bed with a blanket for a pillow. Screams and shouts will ring throughout the night. The prison soundtrack.
Be careful, Paris. Be careful Lindsay, Britney, and Nicole. You are but a party or two away from the same fate. In an equal America.
A few years ago a radio personality who was arrested for sending his maid out on the streets to buy drugs for him, told me that there was no such thing as a political moderate, only far right-wing people who were always right, and far left-wing people who were always wrong. 