Chapter Five: Gangster’s Paradise
Aileen Wuornos seemed happy in prison. I saw a documentary about her once. The filmmakers were waiting for her in a visitors’ room in the prison, and when she came out, she gave them a big, happy hug. She looked good. Content, even. Like she’d kill those men all over again if she had the chance. They deserved to die.
I didn’t kill any men, I just drove drunk.
I got my first and what will assuredly be my only DWI last Christmas driving on the beltway around Arlington. This is what happens to me without Adderall. I do stupid shit out of boredom. I test my limits. I had a bottle in my lap as I was driving, for chrissakes.
Police lights appeared in my rearview mirror while I was swerving, changing songs on my phone. I blew 0.217. Jesus. I tried to act sober, but they saw the bottle of Svedka in my lap that I’d been pulling from, and it was all over. I was drinking and driving with an open container. I’d kind of always known I’d get a DWI at some point. I have a bad habit of pushing my limits. Of thinking I’m smarter than everyone, that I’m a better driver, that I can get away with things less brilliant people can. I am a fool.
They threw me in jail for the rest of the night. Like I’ve said, I’m a big believer that please and thank you go a long way, and I’ve always prided myself on being polite. I think in situations like this, it really goes a long way, when you’re dealing with employees who are used to people who are crazy, drunk, dirtbags, etc. I was mostly polite, but in retrospect it’s obvious that I was still intoxicated.
“You need some oil in your beard, it looks dry as shit.” I don’t know why I said that. To the sergeant, no less. I guess I thought I was being funny. Charmingly blunt. You get it.
“You need to fix your hair.” I thought it was hilarious that he snapped right back at me. My hair probably really did look like shit.
“I’m drunk, you’re on the clock, what’s your excuse?” I might have been pushing it a little.
I was released just before noon. I’ve always thought I’d do really well in jail, and to be honest, I did. I’m introverted, and I love to read. A day spent in bed, talking to no one, and reading a book is a perfect day to me. Of course, my options were limited. I read “A Walk to Remember” by Nicholas Sparks. I also read some of the Bible. Genesis. I got out less than twelve hours later, with a bail charge of several hundred dollars if I didn’t appear at my upcoming court date, which was scheduled about one month later. Well, I made it, of course, and I agreed to serve 2.5 more days in jail, to be scheduled over the weekend of my choice. Very nice.
Anyway, that was last Christmas, and now it’s April. And I have to check myself in for a full weekend of jail time.
I am to check myself into Arlington County Jail on a Friday morning to be released the following Sunday. This is sort of amusing, because just a few weeks ago I first learned about this practice at a Congressional briefing on recidivism. Representative Kelly Armstrong, from North Dakota, was there. He’s a Republican of course, but he’d been a judge, and he spoke empathetically about folks who he saw time and time again going through the system. Checking themselves into jail on Friday, leaving on Sunday. I’d never heard of convicted criminals checking themselves into jail over the weekend. I thought you were arrested, and then you did your time right then and there. But in Virginia, I was allowed to schedule my weekend of jail in advance. I picked a week in June when I had nothing else going on, and when Congress wouldn’t be in session.
My coworkers have no idea. The folks around here just don’t get into trouble like this. Probably no one in that briefing on recidivism imagined an attendee, a Capitol Hill professional, would be checking into jail just weeks later. It’s sort of funny to me, however stressful. I hate having secrets. I hate having to lie. It makes me miss the service industry. My colleagues from my food service days would take days off for court days, other bullshit all the time. If I was still there, I would just be blunt. I’d tell the truth. I fucked up, and now I have to do some time. I’ll need Friday off because I’m checking myself into jail. It’s just easier to tell the truth.
But I tell them I have a doctor’s appointment that will take all day. Even though this is a perfectly normal, common occurrence for any worker, I still feel paranoid that they think I’m lying. Again, I’d rather just tell the truth. But this is what I asked for. The career level-up, where the kind of trouble I’ve gotten myself into is unacceptable. None of my coworkers can know about this.
Day One
I show up to the correctional center mildly drunk. I’ve been drinking in my Uber. I’m going to jail. I’ll have some time to pass. It’d be great to be just tipsy enough to fall asleep as soon as they lock me up. Understandable, right? I assume so.
The process is designed to be humiliating, so it’s lucky that I’m not embarrassed easily. I really don’t. They make me put both my hands against a wall and stand with my ass sort of sticking out while they pat me down. They ask what’s in my pockets. “My medications,” I say, because I’d been told to bring any medications I need. I reach into my pockets to show them that they’re prescription.
“HANDS AGAINST THE WALL.”
“Right, sorry.” I know they’re just doing their jobs.
“Anything else in your pockets?”
“I don’t think so,” but reflexively I reach down again to check to be certain.
“HANDS AGAINST THE WALL.”
They’re treating me like a hard criminal. I understand it’s just the process, but it’s truly interesting how they’re instructed to basically dehumanize me. I try to focus on his hands as he searches me. His nails are dry.
The next step is to walk through a machine that looks similar to a TSA airport body scanner, but maybe more intense. I had considered hiding a rolled up notepad and a pen or two up my vagina, but this machine, I don’t know how thoroughly it can see through me.
I’m walked to the place where I’m supposed to change into prison scrubs. I was told to dress comfortably–sweats, pajamas, etc–but I’m not sure why, since I’m supposed to change into scrubs anyway.
I’ve written several phone numbers in Sharpie on my thigh. When I change into scrubs, they match me with a female corrections officer. She’s nice enough, hands me my scrubs, and then looks at her phone or something. Then she laughs.
“I thought that was a tattoo, hahaha, I have never seen that before.”
I’m sort of embarrassed because I do feel like I stick out like a sore thumb in this place. (A preppy white girl. I’m not preppy, but I sort of look like I am. I am white though.) When I arrived for my court dates, security assumed I was an attorney. I was in the line to have my items screened for security, and multiple officers told me attorneys were allowed to skip the line.
I’m sat down in the same processing area where I remember being processed for release the last time I was in this jail. An older Hispanic woman is the only other inmate-to-be in the processing area. She smiles at me. I lie down and try to take a nap.
Eventually a corrections officer takes me and the Hispanic lady to another floor, and shows us to our cells. The door shuts behind me with a clang.
It’s what you would imagine a jail cell looks like. Stone walls, concrete floor. Stale air, everything gray. I have a cot-like thing and there’s a clear frame where I’m supposed to lay it. There’s a small desk-like thing, and a sink, and a toilet.
It’s a good thing I don’t mind taking a shit in plain view of the officers. I know some people who are sensitive about those sorts of things. Some anal retentives. I could never. If I need to take a shit, I’m taking a shit. Everybody can all watch.
The cell is filthy. Food crumbs on the bench. The toilet splashed back at me. The sink sucks.
There’s a slit of a window where outside I can vaguely see the street. Not much of a view.
Soon after I’m officially admitted to my place, I hear a woman’s voice yelling, and banging on a door. The yelling isn’t coherent, I can’t make out any words, but it definitely sounds unhappy. These are the sounds of jail I guess.
The general jail population gets let out while I’m locked in my cell. I can hear women laughing boisterously, mostly a young-sounding crowd. This sort of makes me chuckle to myself. It’s like being in a rowdy sorority. An anti-sorority. I feel like I’m in a music video in this place. Jailhouse rock?
After a couple hours the sorority is locked back up, and the Hispanic lady and I are let out for our hour of “free time.” If we want we can shower, or we can look at the modest book collection sitting on a cart, or we can watch tv or pace. I take a shower, then I pull a chair up to the tv. There’s nothing else to do. The Hispanic lady joins me, and we talk for the remaining minutes.
She has two rows of front teeth, like a shark. I wonder how that happened. Her English is almost as broken as my Spanish is, so we can just barely communicate. I ask her what her name is in English. She says something I don’t understand, so I say, “me llamo Maria.”
“Ohh,” she says. “Mariana.” We smile at each other. We have similar names.
I learn that she’s also here for a DWI. She drank at home, drove her five-year-old son to a party, returned home, drank, then returned to pick him up. She took him home, then went out to get more liquor. That’s when she was picked up. She tells me what BAC she blew, but I unfortunately don’t understand this part. Probably pretty high.
She has tattoos on her forearms. Dates, I think. Birthdates of children I suppose. It’s hard to tell how old she is. She looks youngish, maybe in her mid-thirties, but too wrinkled for her age. Maybe it’s the drinking, maybe she’s been through some things. She tells me she’s from El Salvador.
Before the hour is up and the officers put us back in our cells, I check the rolling crate of books. There’s a memoir by an author whose fiction I’ve read before, so I grab that. There’s also a book of intercultural love stories. Satisfied I’ll have something to do during lock-down, I return to my cell, smiling at Mariana.
I lie down and read for a while. The book of love stories is clearly meant for young adults, a genre I’m not a fan of, but I read a couple stories anyway. The other book, by Sue Monk Kidd co-written with her daughter, is actually pretty good, and it occupies me for a while. Someone wrote “good book!” inside the cover.
We don’t have access to a dictionary, so I have to read without looking up words I don’t know. Garrulous. Polemical. I think I know what those words mean but I’m not sure. I just have to continue.
When I get sick of reading I lie down in my underwear and pick at my pubic hair.
At around nine PM I see the officer trailing the medication delivery cart around to the small number of cells in the area. I wonder if he’ll give me my Trazodone. I do not know how I’m going to get to sleep in here, after lying around all day. He finishes his rounds without coming to me, so I push the button to notify him.
“Hey, I brought Trazodone with me when I checked in, does that get delivered now?” I asked demurely. He tells me he’ll check. He has an arrogance about him that I don’t like, but I give him the benefit of the doubt, and I try to be as polite as possible.
Soon enough he comes back to me. “The bottle of Trazodone you brought is expired. We can’t give it to you.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. It’s true, it probably is expired. I kept getting refill after refill of Trazodone I wasn’t using, so I stopped refilling it for a while. I don’t use it that often, but I brought it here thinking it would be perfect to have in jail.
Well, fuck that I guess. I lie back down in my shitty little bed. I pick at callouses. I feel bad leaving dead skin in this already dirty cell. I’m furious at myself for not thinking to renew my Trazodone. Next time, I think. Ha.
I punch myself in the face to try to make myself sleepy. Again. Again. That time I see lights. Like I can see the other side for just a second. I lie down. Interestingly, it does help me feel sleepier, almost like being tipsy.
Could I take this further? Trick my brain into thinking it’s under the influence? I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. I shut my eyes tightly and wait forever for sleep to come.
After a little while I hear a male officer yell, “lights out, ladies! Thanks for a good day!” That’s nice I suppose.
Day Two
At 4:15 AM or so when they dole out morning medications, I hide the ritalin under my tongue. Stimulant medication empowers me to manage life. Jail isn’t life. It’s only going to make me restless these next two days.
They wake you up for medication so early, and now I can’t get back to sleep. I try hard to conjure up a sex fantasy. I don’t know why, I just can’t do it. Stress? I suppose. Maybe because I feel too exposed? The officers do rounds every fifteen minutes or so. Thank god I don’t mind taking a shit in plain view of them. Especially that one prick. He should watch me shit all day.
The fantasy I try to force is of the boy visiting me in jail. We’d have been writing passionate letters to each other. We write everything upon our minds without hesitation, like best friends who can’t stop gabbing when together. Even though I’m locked up, we exchange details about our lives and thoughts and emotions and everything like nothing’s changed, it’s just over paper now.
Okay. I can hold that thought. What else would happen? He visits me in jail. I start writing the fantasy down to keep my attention focused.
The situation is funny to me, because we both know he never dreamed he’d have a girlfriend he’d have to visit in jail. But he loves it and he loves me even though I’ve been a bad girl. He loves how interesting his life has gotten since he met me. He is dedicated to me.
I imagine writing letters to my lover from a facility. They have finally found me out and locked me up. I imagine admiring a crumpled folded photo of him, grinning, blonde, perfect, then holding the photo soulfully to my breast for a few moments before returning it to the pocket of my scrubs. Of course I don’t have a physical photo of him. They’re all on my phone, dead in a locker somewhere. I have to imagine his perfect, unblemished face in my mind. I try to convince myself of a new, modern romanticism–something not inferior to a burnt out soldier admiring a crinkled 4x8 of his good-girl fiance (also blonde and perfect) waiting for his return, urging him to fight on with her pure, untraumatized smile–but equivalent somehow.
I tell him I’ve been doing really well locked up, actually. I don’t mind it terribly. I tell him about what I’ve been reading. My mind is clear–I haven’t been able to do any drugs–I’m learning a lot. I’m feeling well and I’m proud of myself. I almost don’t want to leave.
He’s concerned about me of course, but he doesn’t need to be. I have no bills to pay, not yet anyway, no chores to do. I am at peace, except that I miss him desperately. Seeing him today makes me even more feral. I tell him to unbutton his top two buttons. Slowly, casually, so it looks innocuous to anyone who sees. He absentmindedly plays with his shirt buttons while talking to me about his family–his sister and his mother who he misses. He doesn’t like to talk about work which is a bummer because I’m interested in his work, but I do love to hear him talk about family. He’s interested in and sensitive to people, personalities, relationships, like I am. I like this about him. He indulges me generously because he feels badly for me, being on the inside and away from my own family.
I am an idiot. This is fucking stupid. I sit up in bed and try to think of something else to do until breakfast.
Trying to read now and my vision is blurry. Maybe I knocked something loose when I punched myself. Maybe it’s just the lighting. Or the lack of physical activity.
Breakfast comes, and as has been so for the last two days, the meal is cereal with a carton of milk that I give back. Straight milk makes me have some sort of allergic reaction after having refrained from dairy all this time, and it makes my throat feel as though it’s grown fur. There’s also a hard boiled egg. Eggs make me gag, but I eat it anyway. The morning after my arrest, I couldn’t bring myself to eat it, but today I do. I bite into it and it’s blue on the inside. Is that normal?
Breakfast is eaten. I’ve been looking forward to it since my medication was delivered, and now it’s okay. Now what. Nothing to do but look forward to lunch, and then sometime after lunch I’ll be let out for an hour to do nothing but pace around, watch more tv, and maybe take a shower.
I pretend I’m Aileen Wuornos. I’ve killed many men and now I’m locked up; what would I do with my time? It doesn’t work. I don’t know where to go with this fantasy.
I pretend I’m on a ship, holed up in my sleeping quarters until I arrive at my destination. This daydream doesn’t really work either. I’m still cooped up. Bored out of my mind.
I think about Brittney Griner. Sometimes we get calls about her at the office. The Biden Administration is negotiating her release, and certain people are furious. They say she hates America. What did she do while locked up in solitary for months on end? Probably smarter things than what I can think of. She’s an athlete. She’s probably doing squats and staying fit. I get bored after one squat.
This is going by so slowly I want to cry. Thank goodness the other inmates can’t see me. I’d be embarrassed crying in front of them. Even though one of them has been screaming and pounding on her door for about twenty minutes straight. I wonder what her deal is.
I think of a dog I saw at the shelter in my hometown once. It looked like it had been crying, if dogs could cry. My heart breaks for it. It’s probably dead now, that was years ago. But my heart still breaks. I hope it found a home. I hope it didn’t die alone.
I stand up and pad around my cell. Someone scratched FUCK COVID into the door. The fluorescent lighting is hideous. I can see every pore, every hair follicle above my lip. Still, I like how I look, when I back up at least. The outside matches the inside.
Lunch arrives. A long, ugly hot dog between two pieces of bread. A spurt of ketchup. A side of baked beans, thankfully. I eat those first. Then I eat the white bread, folding it in half and dipping it in the ketchup. Then I look at the sausage. I really don’t know. I’m not politically opposed to eating it; if I don’t it’ll just end up in the trash. It just looks disgusting. Smells disgusting. And I know it’ll taste like oil and saturated fat. I take a bite. At first it’s not bad. I think, I could eat this. I chew. Then it hits me. The greasy fat. I take several swigs of water and I place my tray by my door.
A gnat flies above my food tray. Is it the same one from this morning? I try again to crush it in a quick fist. Nope. Missed.
Well, I guess there’s nothing to do but read the Bible. I hazily recall my mother tell me she always liked the story of Jonah. I read Jonah. It’s about… mercy, I guess? I’ve always sort of been curious about reading the Bible, but damn this is boring.
The water in the toilet is so high my hand hits it when I wipe my ass. When I flush, the toilet splashes water back at me. I make a note to be mindful of this when I have food in my cell.
Tiny pieces of curly thread from my blanket stick to my skin all over. There’s a purple bruise on the inside of my thigh. No idea how that got there. Maybe from masturbating. My nails are getting filthy, too.
The officer working today is kinda cute. And really nice. He has a gentleness about him. I love gentle men. I think he likes me, too. I try to use him to masturbate. It doesn’t work. Maybe I’ll save him for when I get outta here. I need more than just the Rich Boy in my spank bank.
So many romance novels. I’m out for the sixty minutes I get to be out each day, so I’m perusing the book cart to see if there’s anything I can pass the time with. I see names like Johanna Lindsey and Danielle Steele more than a few times. And Jodi Picoult. I see titles like “Christmas Gold,” “Saving Graces,” “Blessings,” “Divine Moments for Women.” “The Journey” by Billy Graham. Some things in Spanish that look religious as well.
Someone wrote DAT ASS THO under the table.
I look crazier than I am with my scrubs and uncombed hair. This room makes a person crazy.
There’s what looks like a rust stain trailing down one wall, I’m not sure from what.
.
They finally give me some paper and a pencil, but my mind is suddenly blank. Jesus.
I hold the pencil between my fingers, like a pretend vape or cigarette, and try to hit it. The power of imagination! It doesn’t work. I try again. Still doesn’t work. At least I tried.
Yank out pubic hair to pass time. Never the hair on my head though.
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I get a juice packet with my meals. Not sure if it’s electrolytes, or just sugar, so I put only half of it in my water cup. I think it’s just sugar.
They don’t have napkins or paper towels, so I’ve been blowing my nose with toilet paper. Toilet paper also suffices as napkins.
I think about jail and prison food. My dream on the Hill was to work on food policy. Prisons, schools, and other federal institutions are one area where food can be determined by policy. I could one day be drafting policy to improve this shit food.
Boredom is deadly. What a dump.
I toss and turn on my shitty not-quite-mattress thing. I attempt to exercise, and it gets old quickly. I catch sight of some graffiti scratched into the mirror. “Free My Baby Daddy.” Ha. This is along with less interesting graffiti, like “SC + AK = ❤.” “MS.” “LORRAINE.” “MS” again in the corner of the mirror. “Fuck this place.” “Fuck the feds.” “Fuck covid.” I get curious and look under the sink. “Blondies got a tiny dick 4–14–21.” Alright.
Somebody painted a sunshine in the corner of the mirror with soap or toothpaste. Ha. I’d think that was sweeter if it didn’t make me wonder when this cell was cleaned last.
I wonder if there are mice in here.
I see my pretend vape on my little desk/eating table, and immediately I feel an urge to hit it. Ha! I guess it did work somehow.
It’s my sixty minutes out of my cell so I’d better take a shower. I haven’t felt incredibly motivated since, well, I’m in jail, so who do I need to smell good for, but I’m started to smell my own B.O. Jesus I hope the water gets warm. Describe the showers, we have blackheads on our back and chest from the mattress
Describe everything! Taste, touch, scent, sounds, sights
There is a list of public defenders’ phone numbers. Some have a single digit next to them, 7, 4, their extension I’m assuming. That’s considerate. Someone wrote “1–800-chokedatHoe” at the bottom.
It’s my turn to be out for sixty minutes again.
I paw through the modest book collection again. It seems to have permutated ever so slightly each time I look at it. Opening a hardcover, sleeveless book called something like “X” or “X” I see inside the front cover someone has written, “Good book!” That’s sweet. In another, inside the front cover it says, “3 out of 5. Not suspenseful as described. Too predictable.”
I change the channel on the tv because I’m sick of noiselessly watching home renovations. The next channel is a cooking show. I love these, too. Honestly, this isn’t so bad now that I’ve realized I can watch tv from my cell. I never watch tv. I’ve never paid for cable, only been a streamer since living on my own. So I enjoy the indulgence of what I call “hotel tv.”
I return to the book collection and find an envelope. “DO NOT Throw away!” It says. I turn it to the other side. “Add a quote to leave a good message. Read for a positive outlook on your situation. Delta 2025” That’s lovely. I really like things like this. I take it with me back to my cell to read when I’m locked back up.
Obligatory Bible verses and cliches, but I don’t mind. I enjoy corny positive platitudes, I really do. “Tomorrow will come :) Make good choices.” Things like that. “Stay bad you baddie!” I like these kinds of messages better.
“He who walks with wise men will be wise. But the companion of fools will be destroyed.” Alright. I sort of like that. It certainly is true.
One piece says, “hey gangster, you can make a paradise :)” with a little drawing of a palm tree, a bright sun, and a sort of emoji-looking sunglasses-wearing smiley face. Cute. That makes me smile.
“A fool does not delight in understanding, but only in revealing his own mind.” Ha. That one reminds me of Morgan. Tacky Cunt.
“You are a God. Jail is temporary.” Ooo, I like that one. I am a God.
There’s a big USA flag hanging over the common area. Below it a camera, looking like an alien eye watching over the common area.
The headphones are janky so I ask to switch. I can’t. Great. I guess conditions are supposed to suck. Yet recidivism remains high. Huh. I can see why jail, especially solitary, makes people crazier while acclimating us to the consequences of that crazy. The threat of more solitary no longer deters an inmate from acting out. I didn’t know it was even legal to put small-level offenders like myself in solitary, but I guess it’s a COVID development.
I hate how frequently I think about her. Why can’t I just enjoy my vacation.
The shitty tablet only catches internet some of the time. I find some Christian podcast to listen to (I’m not religious but I do find it interesting), and I hold the headphone jack in its socket tightly so the sound doesn’t fade in and out. But the internet cuts out and my podcast completely stops. Hm. I want my vape. Or even a damn cigarette. Oh well. Back to the books I guess.
I return to my cell after pacing and watching tv for about forty minutes. I have a shitty little chair in the cell, so I set it up facing my door and its large window, because I can kind of see the tv. Talk about them angling it to you kindly!! It’s a home renovation show. I used to love these when I was younger. Sixth grade me wanted to be an interior designer. I watched these shows constantly.
I pee a lot in here too… like in the office. Do my coworkers not drink enough water?
It’s lights out and I can’t sleep. I’m so bored. So hungry. I consider punching myself again, but I decide that could be dangerous. I think of one of the quotes I read in that envelope. Something like, “one may walk over the highest mountain, one step and a time.” That’s what being here is like. Climbing a mountain. One day at a time. One hour at a time. To pass time I go inward into another daydream.
My boy is God. I am God.
I want to lick the glass between us, to tell the truth. I lose my focus while he’s talking–and he’s talking so sweetly–because I’m taking in the sight of him. His perfectly fitted shirt. His hair, his eyes, his jaw. I tell him I’m wearing naughty lingerie under my oversized blue scrubs. He knows I’m lying but he plays along. I’ve never had a boy like him before and he’s never had a woman like me. Stupid.
It gets frickin cold in here at night. I shiver under my two thin blankets. I might be warmer if I readjusted them but I’m too cold to even do that..
Day Three
Day three and at some point today I will be released. I don’t know when, so I vow to myself that I’ll be patient and as polite as possible to the officers. I’m still crying at least a little every day. That’s fine, it’s good to feel something. It’s good to miss my family.
Oh good, it’s the prick. He meanders over to my cell and tells me…
“You’re here till Tuesday.”
“What?? I’m supposed to be released today, that’s what my defender told me.”
“Well, your defender might’ve made a mistake. It says here you’re serving five days, mandatory.” He seems to be getting off on this. I hate him.
“Listen. You come in here, you’re intoxicated when you check yourself in, you got a DWI, you’ve gotta do the mandatory five days. That’s how it works.”
“Please,” I say. “I could lose my job.”
“Best I can do is give you a phone call.”
“I don’t know my work number, I don’t know anybody’s numbers.”
“Well, that’s all I can do.” He walks away. I see him and the female officer snickering to each other.
I’m already crying when I sit down on my cot. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I fucked up this badly. I can’t believe my public defender. She said it would just be over the weekend. Fuck. Fuck her. Fuck me. Fuck everything.
The prick officer reminds me of people I used to fantasize about killing when I was a teenager. Just the worst kind of person to become a law enforcement officer. Just a terrible person in absolutely the wrong job. Where he should be is a therapist’s office, learning about fragile masculinity.
When I had to go to court, my public defender was about my age. With dyed orange hair. She told me she wasn’t prepared for my case, that she could probably get me out of jail time, but I’d have to come back at a later date.
Thinking I’d only be in jail over a weekend, I told her, “no, I can’t come back, I took off work for this.” (I’d said I had a doctor’s appointment, and since I really do have a lot of doctor’s appointments, I’ve already run out my sick day PTO.) “I’ll take the jail time.” Fuck. If I’d known she’d screw me like this I would’ve done something differently. I don’t know what, but something. Nincompoop. Orange-haired phony.
I think about jails in other countries. What would my punishment be in Sweden. I’ve heard that in the Scandinavian countries, they don’t even give life sentences to murderers. Only sixteen years or so. I don’t know if that’s true, but I wonder what they’d do for a DWI arrestee.
They really should let you have cigarette breaks.
Crying again. I don’t think I’ve gone one day without crying in here. What the fuck do I do now.
COVID. Of course. I have COVID. I look at the fading phone numbers on my thigh, and I decide to call Renee. I think I logged into my gmail account on her laptop the last time I was at her place. Maybe she’ll be able to email Morgan from my account. I ring the buzzer to call the prick to my cell again.
The first time, she doesn’t answer. Fuck. Of course the call is probably coming from some weird 888 number. Her phone is probably silencing it. I try again. She answers.
“Oh my god, thank god you fucking answered. Listen. I’m in deep shit.”
With the ten minute-clock running on my allotted phone call time, Renee logs into my account. Praise baby Jesus. I tell her exactly what to type, punctuation and all, so that it sounds like me, not that Morgan is terribly perceptive. Sent.
“You’re a very good friend, oh my god, I love you so much.”
I fart all night as I try to fall asleep, probably because of the food they’ve been serving me. The boredom is still lethal. Now that the stress of the day is over, there are no other emotions. Just boredom. Restlessness.
Day Four
After two days without Ritalin, my brain is buzzing. I slept terribly last night, if at all. I could barely daydream, either. It was just buzzing thoughts about nothing.
My shit smells horridly, probably because I’ve been eating meat. It stinks up my whole room. My lips are chapped and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t wait to get out of here and wash my fucking face. I eat the dry cornflakes and the hard-boiled egg for breakfast.
The rude guard is still here. I notice he has a tiny whitehead on the back of his hand. Is it the air, the dust in here? What a place to work. Anyway fuck him. Bring the cute, gentle guy back.
Teeny tiny pimples are starting to show up on my face. My cheeks, too. Not my T-zone. There’s a cold sore forming inside my lip. And little dark spots all over my face. The skin on my face looks blotchy. The skin inside my elbows and knees and on my arms and legs is itchy and red. My blackheads are shouting at me. They’re not just on my face, they’re on my neck and chest. I no longer like how I look. Instead of looking charmingly crazy, I just look ugly and crazy. I look unclean and sloppy. I feel a cold coming on. Stress? Or maybe it’s because I’m using the same unwashed spork for every meal for days in a row.
I always thought if I were stuck in jail, I’d pass the time daydreaming and masturbating. This is what I’m apt to do during my regular free time. However, I have not been able to masturbate once, and after two full days without ADHD meds I can’t get my brain to focus on a daydream for shit.
Or maybe it’s hunger. Supposedly when your need for food isn’t being met, you stop thinking about sex. You just think about food. That’s it. That’s exactly where my brain is. I think about what I’ll eat first when I get out of here.
I try to pass the time creatively. What does one do all day anyway? (Non-chronic daydreamers like me, anyway.) What do I do on my days off. Wake up, check, we’ve done that. Eat, check. Read. Check. So that lines up. Then what? Then I usually go for a walk or a bike ride. Well shit. A gnat flies in the stale air above my face.
I can’t wait to get out of here and wash my fucking face. My nails are filthy from scratching myself. I’m developing some hangnails that I can’t do anything about. Or maybe I can ask for a clipper. Are my nails growing faster? Am I crazy for thinking that?
I can’t daydream. Can’t masturbate. I can cry though. Mostly from boredom, but also from shame, and stress. I miss my vape. I miss wikipedia. I miss having space. I’m worked up and restless because my body’s used to exercise twice a day. There’s a sign in the gen pop area that recommends exercising in your cell. Push-ups, squats, etc. How patronizing. I lay out my blanket anyhow and do some stretches. It’ll be dirty but I only have to use it one more night. Unless something else got fucked up about my sentence.
I’m let out for an hour, and I decide to take a shower. I hate showering in here because the air is so damn cold, I shiver so much when I get out, but I’m filthy and sticky and I can smell my own body odor. When I step out with my wet hair, Mariana is there. She tells me she wishes she could take a shower, but she has a cast on her arm. She can’t undress. I offer to help her, but when I ask the officer if I’m able to do so, I’m told no. Inmates aren’t allowed to touch each other at all.
“Can someone else help her?”
No. I’m not sure why. Seems unfair. I don’t know what else the correctional officers are doing. I mean I’m sure they’re busy enough, but they can’t help this lady take a shower? I don’t understand. I apologize to Mariana. “It’s ok,” she says.
I visit the book cart again. It’s been switched out for another, fuller book cart. Still, mostly romance novels. I open one called “Daphne and the Woods” or something, and I see a note on the inside cover. “3 out of 5. Not suspenseful as described. Too predictable.” Haha. That’s nice. Jail book reviews. That’s considerate.
Tonight I can’t sleep. At all. Probably because I didn’t take the ritalin yesterday. This is what happens. My brain floods itself with the chemicals it’s now missing, and I’m overloaded with restless thoughts and energy.
I miss my friends. I miss outside. I miss my Mom. I miss the internet.
Day Five
Today is the day I’m supposed to be released, and I have not slept a wink.
My body is sticky when I wake up, even though last night I was shivering from the cold. I can’t wait to go home and exfoliate my whole body. Or just wash my fucking face.
I’m taken to a holding cell in the main processing area. As I wait to be processed, the gentleman in the adjacent cell is singing loudly. I realize it’s a Linkin Park song. A song I like, actually.
“I DON’T WANT TO BE THE ONE, THE BATTLES ALWAYS CHOOOSE.” It makes me smile. I’m here with the freaks.
I sing to myself a bit in my cell. Just nonsense.
“YOU ARE SO BADLY DRESSED! YOU ARE A FUCKING MESS!” Hahaha. Of course this is inspired by the Tacky Cunt. Seriously though, I hate how much I think about that badly-dressed bitch.
Eventually I’m let out of the holding cell and called to the front desk. I’m given a bag with the belongings I came in with, including the juice bottle I’d half-filled with vodka for the Lyft ride to the jail. I sign paperwork confirming everything is accounted for. I sign another piece of paperwork confirming I’ve been given a check for $20. Apparently Rose sent me $20 to spend on inmate canteen. I didn’t even know that was a thing. I sign some other papers.
I sit down and wait. I see Mariana let out of another holding cell, and she goes to the front desk to sign paperwork, presumably the same stuff I just signed. Then she sits down beside me and says something I don’t fully understand.
To be honest, I don’t feel like chatting right now. I’m just anxious to be released. I’ve never been good at communication when there’s a language barrier, probably because I’ve always struggled with talking with strangers even when there isn’t a language barrier. I give short answers and close my eyes to try to sleep while I wait.
Finally, Mariana and I are released. We’re let into a vestibule where a young woman, her daughter, is waiting. They hug and I see Mariana motioning to me and speaking in Spanish. The young woman approaches me.
“Thank you so much for your kindness!” I didn’t feel like I was incredibly kind, but that’s still nice to hear. Mariana and I hug, and it’s sincere. I really was glad to have her company through this experience.
They drive off, and I take out my phone to call a Lyft to take me home.
I leave smelling like the bad food I’ve been eating. My ass and back are sore from sleeping on that awful mat.
I arrive home about an hour later. (It’s only about X miles, but traffic in the DMV is no joke.) I stand in the doorway of my house holding my bag of belongings. Now what. I’m free, but it’s Tuesday. As far as my coworkers know, I’m still suffering from COVID. I wonder how long they’ll make me stay home. I should definitely work from home the majority of the time I’m out, so they don’t think I’m full of shit. It’s been two days since Renee emailed Morgan for me, so I’m probably having my worst symptoms right around now, but once those “subside” I’ll have to get back to work. Maybe I’ll go to the office at night when no one’s there to pick up my laptop. I’ve got to be as convincing as possible. Again, I really hate lying. It’s just so much work. I’ve never had COVID, but when I get back I’ll have to act as though I’ve just experienced it. Reddit will help me with that. Even the cold I felt coming on while I was in jail is suddenly gone. My skin is soft again, my face clearer, and I haven’t even washed my face or moisturized yet. Maybe it’s getting away from that stale air. I am still gassy, and that’s the truth.
For now, I’m still sick, and I’m not expected to work. I decide the first thing to do is eat some delicious food. There’s a new taco joint near me in Maryland with vegan options that I’ve been willing to try. There was one day in jail they served us tacos for lunch. That one wasn’t so bad. Soft shells with ground beef, a side of refried beans, and some boiled vegetables or something. I didn’t mind that day. I brushed the ground beef off the tacos and replaced it with the refried beans. Anyway I’ve been craving Mexican food. I’m always craving Mexican food.
It’s interesting how the best food in the DMV is actually in the suburbs. This place has a soy-based chorizo and seitan-based carnitas. Finally. Most taco places in DC proper have an underwhelming mushroom taco as their vegan option. This is what I mean about the mushroom tacos. I’m sick of them. To be fair the ones at the Missions aren’t bad I guess. I’ve tried Chaia, which should have better vegan options because they’re a totally vegetarian spot, but I’m just not a fan of sweet potato tacos either. I think they really rely on their cheese for their food to taste good at that place. Anyway the suburbs are full of authentic Hispanic and South American food. I’m used to big cities with an extensive diversity of ethnic food options, but DC is different. All the good tacos are in the suburbs. I arrive at Tacos a la Madre and order two each of their vegan taco varieties, and they’re fantastic.
