A Night At The Opera, Part Two

After a full day of being herded through endless mazes of confusion, heat-induced delirium, and cyclic fatigue, the long journey through the basement of Cook County was nearing an end. It felt like it was midnight, but unfortunately, it was only 6pm, based on the spurious guesses of fellow incoming thugs. We entered the area where a strange, futuristic three dimensional x-ray machine scanned the body completely, presumably looking for stashed goods. It was an odd, plexiglass phone booth, in which several rings moved around the person and presented a live image of the body incarnate. Back to bullpen twelve. About two hours later, it was time to be entered into the computer system. We sat on the cold concrete floor, in a long line, while data entry personnel howled last names from our herd to be logged into the computer. The computers were, appropriately, frighteningly old and outdated, still using a DOS based system to enter newcomer's names, addresses, next of kin, and phone numbers. After the irritatingly redundant process of being entered into the system, we each received our "number", in black marker, on the forearm. The thoughts of being a Nazi concentration camp inductee unfortunately crossed my mind. If anyone takes exception to that comparison, first of all, fuck yourself, and second of all, remember (or find out) that many modern prison intake procedures were directly "learned" from Nazi methodology in this era. That said, we were physically branded with numbers.

We then were herded back to a bullpen, cramped shoulder to shoulder, until someone called a few of our names to check in our property. Mine was already checked in, but we all still had to get in line, confirm what we had, and suffer a few screams of "stand up straight, muthafucka!" from the stormtroopers patrolling the floor. After I confirmed my possessions, the guy stamped my arm with something else, some type of indiscernable symbol to show I'd been through this station. Back to the bullpen. I heard my name again, and was told by a dumpy, loud, near-sighted black guard, I need to see one of the people on the other side for "psychological evaluation". I found an empty booth, and sat down.

"Name?"

Gave it.

"Number?"

Gave it.

"Ok, do you have any psychological problems?"

"No, but I did get..."


"Ever try to commit suicide?"

"Well, not really but..."


"Ever think of doing it?"
"Well there had been times..."


"Ok, put your right arm out."
Faceless data entry person writes a "P" in marker on my now heavily branded forearm...
"You're done...go to the end of the room for a picture and your ID."

That was my psychological evaluation. I had now assured the fine bunch that I wouldn't harm myself or that I had any psychological problems in the past. I'm sure the virtual forms were filled out for me long before sitting down with this highly trained individual.

Off to get my picture taken for my formal ID, inasmuch as my entire identity, wallet-wise, was in the possession of some profanity obsessed asshole behind the protection of chain link fence and other similarly scourged co-workers. The picture taking was the easiest of steps...one, two, three, and very DMVish. I signed off on my picture and was directed back to the original bullpen stuffed with the usual hostile, hungry, vocal, thirsty, hungry, and fatigued mortal frames with which I had endured the previous multiple hours' journey.

At this point, I found out it was after 10pm, and we had been enduring this process for over 10 hours. Standing in cramped cages, enduring screamings and guard abuse, wishing for a drink of water and ultimately, a bunk in some cell to collapse. Fortunately, at this point, I had a comaraderie with many of the fellow incoming "monsters". 80% of them in our group were massive gang people, many who knew each other, and they all thrived in the roughest parts of the city. I had a pretty intelligent conversation with a guy about how I thought Obama was a fake, and he was leading the blacks on. His "posse" was right there with me, agreeing completely. Turns out two of those guys were picked up on warrants for murder, and another one just was given $750,000 bond for gun possession and armed robbery. These folks were my talk buddies. I didn't care - I was pretty scary looking myself, and had already earned the nickname "Big Man" during the process. Oddly it would stick. I was myself - not scared, just tired and pissed. This whole process would be a badge I'd have to earn, and I was gonna earn it. When I wanted a drink from the occasional functioning faucet in the bullpens, I'd line up and take my time. Nobody would mess with me because I had nothing to lose. I was super tired and desperate for a place to lie down.

We all found out, while stuffed into that caged bullpen, that it might be about three more hours before we get to the point of receiving uniforms and being assigned to a cell. That's all we wanted - a place to lie down - we wanted our cell.

Finally, fatigue got the best of me, and after midnight, I realized that I could lie down on the cold tile floor underneath one of the benches that lined the walls of the bullpen area. That said, I crawled under people's legs, who were sitting on the bench, and found my little dark solace underneath the bench. There was garbage, roaches, grime, and other debris underneath this bench, but now I had floor space on which to lie down. I took both of my shoes and used them to rest my head upon, and despite the noise, dirt, cold, and uncertainty, I was able to catch a nap.

A Night At The Opera, Part One

I had a rough October, with issues from the past having caught up with me. The state of Indiana had some legal issues with me, some that ultimately were never resolved, though the impetus of these issues came from an era of unstable decisions several years ago. That said, things didn't get cleared up, and eventually, the State of Indiana decided they were very interested in seeing me...thus leading to an ugly Sunday in October when a few local officials were ringing my doorbell:

"Hi sir, it looks like your car out front might have been damaged last night - can you come out and check it? We just noticed it passing by..."

Stupidly, I bought this one, and came out wearing only shorts and socks...

"Nope, looks fine to me, thanks for checking though..."

Officer Friendly suddenly took a different tack:

"Have you ever been in Indiana, like a couple years ago, maybe [name omitted] County down there?"

Shit. All I could do was shake my head "no" and try to get back into the house.

"Are you sure you were never in Indiana, maybe got taken in for anything? If not, we can go to the station and clear up the mistake..."

I knew it wasn't a mistake...panic mode. I cooperated...

"Ok, well let me run in and get a shirt on, and a jacket..."

"No you can't go back in there...we'll get a shirt for you."

The "bad cop" out of the good cop/bad cop pairing was now blocking my front door, with all the subtlety of a freight train. I knew I was toast, and that it would be a long long week. I also knew right away, I was destined to be extradited to Indiana, and just admitted that I did have a legal run-in down in southern Indiana a few years ago. It was too late to keep denying things, computer records don't make mistakes! Yeah right!

They put me in their car, didn't read me Miranda rights, and off we went.After a night in the local holding pen, I was whisked off to the place I fear the most... Cook County Jail. I would have castrated myself right then and there to bargain my way out of spending even one night in a place that is normally referred to as "the worst place in the country". Unfortunately, there was nothing I could say or do to avoid being shipped there while waiting for officials from southern Indiana to pick me up. I figured, fine. Those folks will come for me in the afternoon, I'll be out of Cook County in less than a day, assuming the Indiana folks were to send someone to pick me up immediately. Or so I thought. Off to Cook County I went, and was soon sitting in a large room waiting for a hearing which allowed me the right to fight extradition - something I wanted to summarily waive, so the Indiana folks could pick me up and rescue me from this hell hole. At 6:30 in the morning, there I sat in this large room, waiting for my 11am hearing. Nothing beats trying to sleep, in a panic, on hard benches for 4 hours. Around 7:30 am, a friend of mine, who happened to be a Cook County Officer, had heard I'd be there, and he took me aside to talk. He was always a dear friend from my dart/bar days, and it was nice to see a friendly face. He, in an eerily stoic way, directed me into a side room. Nevertheless, it was nice to see a familiar face, after having dealt with harsh, faceless soldiers of justice.

"What happened?" he innocently asked.

I explained things, and that I was just hoping to not have to spend the night in this place, and that ideally the Indiana people would be here in hours to retrieve me. Then my heart sunk as he started to speak, with an element of resignation.

"Well, they have 30 days to come get you, so you may be here for a while."

The panic meter went beyond the red zone in my torso. All I could do was nod, ask if he could help keep me "safe" while there, which drew the "I can't help ya, buddy" response. I was hopelessly alone. Alone amidst a labrynth of cinder blocked walls, cold cement floors, graffiti, screaming, roaches, and uncertainty. After a relative eternity (first of many to come), I was given my moment in front of the judge to say I would be waiving my right to fight extradition. Hell, I could be fine in a small, southern Indiana county jail, the sooner I got down there, the better. Unfortunately, after the news about potentially being trapped here for a month, I didn't know how soon was "sooner". By 11:30, I was already beginning the process of being processed. I was stuck into a group of 200 people who were also due for being processed into the system, all of which were destined to spend at least one hellish night there. All 200 of us were loudly ordered through various stations along the process, and were held in caged "bullpens", which had room to seat 50 at most. Hours at a time would go by, being stuffed with others in these bullpens, forced to stand, for lack of room to even sit on the floor. Most of the fellow incoming deadbeats were really dangerous types, reciting gang tales and the like. Some were too dope-sick to stand up. I almost fainted twice from the lack of oxygen, water, and sheer fatigue. Little did I know that we'd be shuttled through 15 of these bullpens over the next 14 hours, and that I wouldn't eat anything or lie down in a cell's bunk until 2:30am. Thus, the night at the opera continued, and little did I realize that my adventures there would last another 3 days. Stay tuned.

Resolve Things

I doubt it would have been hard to notice, but after my 100th post, I had a bit of an extended absence. As such, I should address the reasons for the sudden leave of absence. It's of a personal nature, and without divulging too many details, I'll wrap things up in a neat little package, with a moral of the story as well.

I had to take some time to resolve some icky legal issues with the state of Indiana, those of which I put off handling, and eventually, it simply made things worse. During all of the months when these loose ties went untied, I couldn't rest comfortably at all. There was no such thing as peace and quiet at night. Slumber was kidnapped by nerve-induced cycles of sheer panic, offset with self-assurance that the complacency needed to end soon. Having such things hanging over ones head is simply too much for a person with copious amounts of time to think. Over the course of many months, the logic became "live to fight another day", instead of much more substantive logic, dictating that it would be best to clean up any unresolved issues and face the music. I knew, by then, that I was incapable of facing said music. It became too convenient to slip into the cycle of simply not taking care of things hanging over my head, but to rather attempt to ignore them and self confirm that I'd handle it later on. Then the bad dreams took form, almost on a nightly basis, to the point where I was afraid of falling asleep, despite the fact that pure unfettered rest was exactly what I needed for the moment. Nightmares became recurring - of being on a plane about to crash, being kidnapped, drowning, etc. While all of which were too easy to analyze, the bottom line was that they were a result of continual anxiety about things not having been resolved. More recently, I let a dear friend down by, again, putting things off, when I should have been building up a web site with sufficient support and promises of things to come.

Moral being, get things resolved now! Few things are worse than having unfinished business hang over one's head on a daily/nightly basis. It grows to constrict, confine, and distract. If you have tax returns to file, face the music! It won't be pleasant, but the burden will have been lifted. Make that uncomfortable phone call you may have been putting off. Personally, I think a moment of discomfort beats an indefinite period of avoiding the inevitable.