Part III

11 September 2011: I want to shout:

QUIT CRYING!

God, how did You ever dream up all these people?

“Would you like a tissue, Miss?” I ask.

She nods.  A thin clear dot of snot drops from her nose onto the counter.  I set the Kleenex box in front of her.  She takes one, blows her nose.  She takes another, cleans away the mess left behind from the first one.  She takes a third, dries her eyes.

I buy the Kleenex with my own money.  It’s worth it.  Otherwise I would have to gamble there would be a spare roll of toilet paper in the shitter.  It’s more than worth the expense.  The tissue offering can bring a moment or two of peace.

Ninety nine-point-five percent of the crybabies are female.  That’s just a fact.  Whether they’re a minor in possession of alcohol, like this drunken titty-flashing college girl here, or whether they’re a full grown murdering mommy, the females are much more apt to bawl their eyes out over their criminal fate, whether great or small.

2:40 in the morning.  Sunday morning.  This is where I end up?  I don’t want to be here.  But here I am, anyway.  That tells you everything. . .

“Do you have any scars, marks or tattoos?”

This is question number fourteen in the process of booking new arrests.  Depending on the answers given, there can be up to ninety-two. 

The drunk girl looks aghast.

“I god scars. . .on my leg.”  She glances around, as if to see if anyone is looking.  “I doan likeda talk aboudid.”  She looks around, like she wants to make sure no one else is listening.  “On my leff leg.  Horr, horrbull scars.  Dey starad de ankull an go aw de way up.  Almose aw de way up ta my. . .ta my p-p-pussy.”  She bursts into tears.  Again.

2:41 in the morning.  Sunday morning.  I realize it is now the Great 9/11Anniversary Day.  In my mind I see the famous picture of one of the Tower jumpers plummeting to his death. 

Anyway, I don’t believe I’ve ever had anyone mention their pussy before.

The girl takes another tissue and blows her nose.

“I doan likeda talk aboudid.”

“That’s fine.  We’ll move on to the next--”

“When I wuz yun, when I wuz veryveryveryvery yun, my dad-ad ranover my leg wiff de. . .wiff de lawnmower.  Id wuz, id wuz compleadly aggs, compleadly aggsidennull.”

“Uh, OK.  So the next question is: do you know your blood type?”

“I doan likeda talk aboudid.”

“You don’t like to talk about your blood type?”

“I doan likeda talkaboud de scars.”

“We’re done talking about that.  Now I’m asking you about your blood type.”

“He dind dewid on purpose.  De scars go aw de way ta my pussy.”

She bursts into tears.  Again.

The police found her staggering between a couple friends on South University.  They would have let it go, but she was flashing her titties to every stray male she passed.  They wrote her up for a minor in possession of alcohol, and now she’s here until she sobers up.

“My futurezover,” she wails.  “Now I haffa reggerd.”

“Try to stay calm.  This isn’t that big a deal.  Just a few more questions and then--”

“I applied fer a inder, indership ad de cenner fer, cenner fer eading dizorders.  An now I woan gedid.  I wanna be a psygollajizz.”

“I don’t believe this will have any effect on that.”

“YEZZ ID WILL!!”

Everybody in intake looks up to see what this drunk is shouting about.

Dear God, I resent the arrogance of this kid.  Daring to talk about *the future.*  Her future.  None of us have a future.  There is only the end of what You have already decided.  This kid has no modesty.  Assuming her bogus future was going to be glorious.  At least now she momentarily assumes a humbler future. Of course, when she sobers up she’ll assume her throne, again.  And, of course, she adopts worldly standards for success.  Material and carnal. 

And her lack of modesty is so thorough, it includes her attire.  She’s dressed in a gray ultra-mini skirt with black tights and a too-small black t-shirt.  Despite her pathetic drunkeness, she’s an attractive girl.  In fact, with her long dark hair, green eyes and thick eyebrows, she looks remarkably similar to Jennifer Connelly.  A The Hot Spot-era Jennifer Connelly.  A physically attractive girl.  With a chewed-up leg.  With a 9/11 leg.  That’s why 9/11 isn’t even a blip in the real history of the world.  But now it’s America’s Christmas and Easter.

“MY FUTUREZOVER!  ZOVER!”

I look at the other booking clerks and corrections officers.  They’re enjoying my being stuck with this drunken wreck.

“We need to get this process moving along, Miss.  There are quite a few more questions I have to ask.  So, please--”

“I haff scars aw over my leg.  Aw de way ta my pussy.  I show ya.”

She bends downs, tries to roll up the tights on her left leg, nearly topples over.

“It’s all right.  I don’t need to see.  We’ve moved on to the next question.”

“Oh. . .kay,” she says, wobbling her way upright.

“Do you know your blood type?”

“I think izz, I think izz--”

Her brow furrows, then panic wrinkles the drunken stupidity of her face.

“Dijew hear dat?

“Hear what?”

“A dog.”

“A dog?”

“I heared a dog barking.  I candbe aroun dogs.  I’m scareda dogs.”

“There aren’t any dogs here.”

“I heared id.”

“We don’t allow inmates to keep pets.”

I don’t have the patience for this.  Some nights this place is amusing.  This always ice cold waiting room, this ice cold cinder block and fluorescent bulbed waiting room full of drunks, wife beaters, home invaders, bank robbers, sexual deviates and murderers.  Some nights this place is amusing, in a carnival freak show kind of way.  But, not this night.   And not many nights, recently.  I don’t have the energy to deal with these people’s essentially trivial sins.  Even murder is a trivial sin.  A mechanical sin.  And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear Him which is able to destroy both soul and body in Hell.  I’m trying to find eternity, and these people here are only interested in time.  How long until they can go back to wallowing in the mire?  How long until they can go back to wallowing in the mire of oblivion, that’s their concern.  Hopeless cases.  They can be amusing, the way a puppy chasing its tail can be amusing.  But not tonight.  This girl here is nothing but vanity and vexation.  And worse.  I need to get her out of my face.  I start filling in her booking questions with my own made-up answers.  It doesn’t matter.  She’ll be sober and out of here in eight or ten hours--and nobody will ever bother with her paperwork.  I stand there typing in answers while she rambles on about dogs.

“I god bided bya dog.  Bya dig bog--” She laughs at her drunkeness.  “I mean, bya BIG DOG!”

“Let me guess:  the dog bit you on your pussy.”

“Hey!  Dazz nod nize!”

Now she’s crying.  Again.

“I doan belawn here!  My futurezover.  ZOVER!”

I finish her intake questions and print her booking card.

“Just sign here, Miss.”

“Wuzz thizz?”

“Just sign it.”

“Whud izz id?”

I write ‘refused’ on the inmate signature line.

“OK, Miss, you can take a seat, now.”

“Huh?”

‘Huh?’  That’s right.  It doesn’t make sense to her.  She expected everything to be explained to her in some laborious bureaucratic detail.  She thinks her *legal* status is important.  No.  I’ll explain it to her so she can understand:

“You’re just drunk.  Later, I’ll take your picture and fingerprints.  Then when all the liquor’s out of you, you can go home.”

She starts to say something, but I turn around and walk away.  I drop her paperwork in the fingerprint basket, then go into the bathroom.  I stare at myself in the mirror.  Look at that dumb bastard.  When I come out, the drunken The Hot Spot-era Jennifer Connelly girl is nodding off in the female seating area.

Look at all these people.  Arrested.  Their lives arrested.  Black and white.  Male and female.  Mostly poor.  Mostly cheap-looking.  Mostly unkempt, unshaven, disheveled.  Mostly fat.  Their feet stink.  Their lives arrested.  Brought to this purgatory.  Today will any of them be with Jesus in Paradise?  That’s what it’s all about.  But we don’t live that way.  We live as if the world is it.  Our energy devoted to pursuits of little profit.

Jesus went to visit His friends Mary, Martha and Lazarus.  Martha spent her energy trying to make the event a success, preparing food, cleaning, serving the guests.  She worked her ass off while Mary sat and *did nothing,* listening to Jesus.  Martha complained to Jesus, asked Him to tell Mary to help her.  Jesus looked at this woman, who is everybody in the world today, and said: Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things.  But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.

Four more hours in this dump.  And then what?  Home.  Sleep for six hours.  Wake up.  Pick up the kids at school.  No, it’s Sunday.  They’re at home.  Dinner. Living.  Back to work.  Day after day after day.  The darkness of the mechanical existence.  Machines operate in darkness, unable to perceive light.  The Light is the Life of the world.  The automaton is without life. 

I cannot stand another day of this.

I may have years more of it to endure.



After work, after leaving the jail, I drive to the Chase ATM at Stadium and Packard.  I sit in the car in front of the machine.  I watch the minutes come and go on my cell phone clock. 

7:11.  7:12.  7:13.  7:14.

Sunday morning.  Blue skies.  Sunshine.  Low sixties. 

7:15.  7:16.  7:17.

Three crows pick at a pile of vomit two blocks up from Fraser’s Pub.

I drive to the Mr. Stadium laundromat on South Industrial.  Two college girls and a homeless-looking man inside.  I wander around, glancing a few times at the women’s restroom door.  I stop at the candy machine.  Drop in some quarters and get a bag of Peanut M&Ms.  There’s a bulletin board on the wall, with flyers, notes, ads.  Bikes for sale, carry out food coupons, tailoring service.  As I pop a green Peanut M&M in my mouth, I notice one particular flyer:

THE APOSTLE SEÁN RAY
Prophet of the Eternal Light
Holding Services in the True Faith of the Messiah Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Every other Sunday at Noon PM
Fellowship Room C in the Northside Presbyterian Church
[Donations for Room Rental Encouraged by the Holy Spirit]
AND SUDDENLY! God’s Kingdom is upon You
Your Excuses will no Longer be Winked at!

Hmmn.  One thing: how would I know if today is an *Every other Sunday?*

At the bottom there are little tabs with the address and phone number.  Nobody’s taken any.  I tear one off and stick it in my wallet.

I check the women’s restroom door one more time.

Nothing to do now except go home. . .