7 november 2000
down in the valley

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"Everything was conspired to make me feel I was dreaming, but dreaming the way you dream when you're on the verge of waking, when you dream that you are dreaming"
--Umburto Eco

I too often fail to adequately express gratitude that my mind has a lousy memory for pain, both physical and emotional.

Eyes open, Halloween morning. What was that banging, mahogany on metal like cacophonic orchestra bells, sit up, bang my head, ouch, look around, greyness, concrete, what time is it?

~~~

Flashback, 5(?) hours...

This night, mischief night, goosy night, devil's night, burn-down-detroit night, whatever ya want to call it, it happens to be Jen's birthday. We celebrated in Long Beach. Driving home, driving like an asshole, in a rush to get to sleep, very important day at work tomorrow, the last before the deadline for the project I was hired to lead. My mind was ahead of me. Eighty on the 101, shouldn't be on the cell phone, speeding, swerving, flashing lights in rearview, an angry officer saying "please step out of the car sir."

~~~

Eyes open, Halloween morning....

The guard was banging his nightstick against the bars. Orchestra bells indeed. I was given ninety seconds to wake up, and then thrown in a holding cell, four of us together now, and given breakfast. I drank the orange juice, but I didn't touch the amorphous steaming brown mass in the cardboard tray. We sat there for over an hour. I crouched, panicked, head between my knees, knowing not what to think, avoiding contact of any kind with the people around me, and yet I sized them up, and subsequently christened them all, humanized them ...

"The Hood" was pacing back and forth. I named him "The Hood" because I couldn't see his face, hidden beneath two separate navy blue hoods. "Double-cough" was crouched in the corner, eating prison food. Every thirty-seven seconds (yes, I counted) he would burst out with two coughs. This continued until "The Hood" said "yo, man, cover your mouth." After that the coughs came every eighty-three seconds.

My third cellmate I christened "Young Manson." He was the scariest of them all, like right out of a movie, the guy you _don't_ wanna get tossed in jail with. He had a mullett, that haircut from the eighties, mustache and long beard, generally scruffy looking don't-fuck-with-me vibe. I had him pinned for a mass murderer as soon as I saw him. He was the reason I had my head between my knees, hiding....He frightened me.

"Yo, whad day getcha fo?"

I lifted my head. It was "The Hood". I groaned. I didn't want to answer, and yet I did.

"Driving ... bad driving."

"DUI?"

"mmmmmmmmmmmmm" neither positive nor negative. "The Hood" got the hint. I didn't want to talk.

"Young Manson" got up to take a leak. The room got very tense for thirty seconds. And then he retreated to his bunk. The whole thing was just getting a little too surreal for me.

Finally, the guard came. "Bus is here. If ya gotta use the head, do it now. Then line up in front of me." So we did.

The Hood and Double-cough were chained together and led onto the bus. I was handcuffed and attached by a three foot chain to Young Manson. I let him lead the way outside, onto the bus, and to the back, where he indicated with an authorative nod of his head that I was to sit in the row in front of him, most likely to afford him the most comfort, as when I sat down the three feet of chain rested itself nicely on my left shoulder as Young Manson leaned back to fall asleep.

I felt like Richard Kimble in "the Fugitive." All I needed was for the bus to tumble off the road into the path of an oncoming train, and maybe I'd claim a bit of excitement in my life. Instead, we zigged and zagged around the valley, stopping to pick up some rather scary looking characters, both male and female, chained together, screaming, arguing. Entering Van Nuys, two women in the front row were arguing over the moral implications of raising a child in a meth lab. The argument escalated to near strangulation with a chain when the guard busted back and broke it up. I put my head down in repulsed whatever; looking back, Young Manson slept through the whole thing.

We were led off the bus at the LA County Court and Lock-Up in Van Nuys. Immediately, we were herded into a holding tank, thirty by thirty feet, benches on three walls, toilets on the fourth. It was like a very large, dirty sauna. Had this been a movie, I would have had the crap beaten out of me within five minutes. Thankfully, it was real life and I was left alone, for the most part, until "Young Manson" came up for a chat.

"You never been in here before, huh?"

I grunted affirmatively.

"Gotcha for DUI?"

Another noncommittal grunt.

"First Offence?"

I nodded my head.

"No worries, you'll get out today."

I found my voice. "What'd they get you for?"

"Ah, I was driving without proof of ownership."

"Your car?"

"Nah, I stole it." An evil grin.

I managed a chuckle and shook my head. "Proof of ownership." Bonding with Young Manson in the holding tank.

Simultaneously someone farted and another started puking into the nearest toilet. The cell door opened and they ordered us all out to be searched. We lined up against the wall and they came at us with rubber gloves. On the bright side, I was treated with a helluva lot more respect than the guy standing next to me, who finished with his pants around his ankles. As for me, the deputy found my glasses and asked why I wasn't wearing them.

"I don't want to see." I said it as much to myself as to him.

He didn't seem to understand, but he let me keep the glasses anyway.

Back inside the tank, I waited for the phone, called Brutus, told him not to expect me at work and waited for him to fire me on the spot. He just said to call him again when I knew what was up.

I retreated back to the concrete floor, where I spent an hour with my head between my knees, trying to keep my empty stomach full, listening to everything and everyone around me, knowing I'd eventually have to open my mouth again and that I was damned well better not gonna say the wrong thing.

They called my name, I was to step forward and call out the last three digits of my booking number. "666," I exhaled blandly. The deputies laughed. I wanted to kick them. I was escorted to an elevator with three other prisoners. We were put in a cage in the back of the elevator and told to kiss the back wall. Heaven forbid we should know what floor we were going to, or what time it was, or what the weather was outside.

On what I was later told was the fourth floor, we were put in one of those rooms divided down the center by a counter and bulletproof glass. This is where my three companions met with the public defender. Driving under the influence with no license and no insurance, no problem, they said. Slamming your fist through your wife's car window, no firearm involved? You'll be out today. The third guy had a newly stitched gash from just above his left eye to the top of his forehead. Do you remember the accident? No? According to the arrest report they found you on unconscious on the hood of your own car. Your blood alcohol level was .35. How would you like to plead?

They all got to see the judge. I was escorted back downstairs, alone, back to the holding tank, where "lunch" was being served. I gave my lunch away and made a new friend. The smell was nauseating; whatever microbe of freshness had been there in the morning had long since vanished. I found a spot of wall as far from the toilets as possible and tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep. Instead I just sat and thought, mostly about nothing, feeling solitude, missing those basic freedoms I had always taken for granted ...

My own name woke me from whatever daze I was in. I stood and recited "666" and was brought back up to the fourth floor. This time, though, they put me in another, smaller, holding tank with four inmates from the Central County Jail. I knew this because they were all wearing identical orange jumpsuits with "LA County Jail" stamped all over them.

These guys scared me more than anything I had been through with the street-people downstairs. I quickly retreated to a far corner and avoided eye contact. It wasn't long, though, before one of them attempted to engage me in conversation with the now trite "Whaddid they getcha for?"

The five of us wound up talking for two hours, about driving, about sheriffs, about jail. They were the most respectful and downright _human_ people I had encountered all day. I told them stories of playing in the band and corporate america; they told me tales of trustees and one-eight-sevens and other crazy shit that was more entertaining than any fiction could aspire to. I was almost disappointed when the public defenders showed up.

They saw my cellmates first, two of whom were about to be released. Another, the one who first engaged me in conversation, was explaining his need for "ten aliases" to a frazzled looking lawyer. Finally, a woman in her mid thirties appeared at the bars and called my name. She had the guard let me out so I could sit and talk to her. She introduced herself and reviewed my paperwork.

"What on earth are you doing in here?" she asked.

"I don't know, they said something about a failure to appear..."

"There's nothing on your record, weird. Must have been a mistake. Either way, let's get you out." She explained that they had me on a DUI (apparently once I got to the station, they tested me as legally intoxicated) but I could probably go to trial and get the whole thing thrown out. Without her asking, the court had already offered a reduced plea of "Wet Reckless Driving," which she found unusual. She said she couldn't guarantee my release from jail if I decided to go to trial. I said I just wanted to go home and decided to plea to reckless driving.

Fifteen minutes later, I was placed in handcuffs and led before the judge. I said "Yes, your honor" a lot and finally "No Contest" and then I was led out. Thirty minutes later I was back in the downstairs holding tank, being greeted by the reeking masses with numorous inquiries of "So, you goin home?" to which I replied in a hesitant affirmative.

Two hours later, at around 5:15pm, my name was called for the last time. Myself and ten other men were fingerprinted, processed, and given our belongings. We were marched through a door and a small courtyard by an obnoxious deputy who, holding the final door open for us, said "Y'all come back soon now, y'hear?"

I stepped out into the Van Nuys night. I took a deep breath, and I was giddy, laughing at lord-knows-what, smiling yet knowing I was incredibly unhappy. Arms were wrapped around me, my fellow ex-inmates. Street thugs and gang members, hugging me, me hugging back. "We're out, man! It feels so good."

I'll have to admit, freedom never felt better.

I took a taxi back to my car, and drove over the hill to meet Brutus at Granita. He was there with the whole department, for moral support, I guess. The sixty-minute transition from incarceration to gourmet restaurant was dizzying, and I wasn't in the most festive of moods. I found myself in bed by 9, and asleep by 10.

The next morning, I arrived at the office at 6am. I didn't leave my desk until 3pm, when I got up to tell Brutus that the site was live, launched on time and under budget. Despite my missed day, I still came through, and it felt fucking great.

~~~

This morning, I returned to court for my paperwork. Entering through the front door this time, I was amazed at how beautiful and pristine the "front half" of the building was. I paid $800 in fines and promised to do 12 hours of traffic school. Three separate clerks wondered aloud how I "got off so easily."

A quick call to the DMV informed me that I would lose my drivers license for at least a month. I was about to hang up when the woman said "You were released from the court on the charge of reckless driving?"

"Yes," I replied.

"And your blood alcohol level was, when tested at the station..."

".09, according to my papers."

"Something's up with your case, honey, you should have gotten a DUI. Something's up the court don't want you to know. Y'know, you can appeal the DMV decision, and get the arrest thrown out..."

"But the court...."

"No, honey, this has nothing to do with the court. If you appeal the DMV and convince them that something was wrong with the arrest, this whole thing will fall off your driving record. You don't lose your license, your driving priveliges aren't restricted, and your insurance won't be affected. It'll be like it never happened."

"So, you're saying I should appeal?"

"Oh no, honey, I can't give you legal advice, that's against the law. I'm just saying that I think there was something funny with your case, and that you have the option to appeal the DMV suspension of your driving priveleges."

"I see." I'm kind of smirking at this point.

She gave me a local phone number to call, and I thanked her, and I called to schedule an appeal. The woman on the other end of the line was nasty and abusive and did everything within her power to dissuade me. She succeeded. I hung up, got online, and found a local law firm that specializes in alcohol related driving offenses. Within two hours, I had hired them to represent me in my DMV hearing. The hearing is scheduled for January 19, and right now I have about a 60% chance of winning. That number will change for better or worse as the true facts of my arrest come out within the next month or so.

This whole thing is making my head spin, and I fear that things will never get back to normal. It took me almost a week to write this entry, and I still don't think I've come to terms with anything yet, let alone regained any kind of perspective on my life.

I lived the month of October like a reckless asshole. Maybe it was a reaction to quitting smoking, maybe it was just a cocky assertion of some demon somewhere deep within me. And all I can do is wonder if I'm ready to grow up yet. I am, though, finally ready to start sharing this experience with people, if only as a cautionary tale, to myself first, and anyone else who chooses to read.

07 november 1999: : on hiatus til december

09 november 1998: sunset stripping : Three floors of loud music, alcohol, raw fish, and the most beautiful of the beautiful people dressed to kill and making me feel horribly inadequate in my own state of geek normalcy.

07 november 1997: unplugged : And now the movers are standing in my door, tapping their feet.

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