PiCkLeS & mE

Pickles was pissed. Every week the Tampa Tribune published photos of convicted drug offenders and he thought he recognized me. Why did this matter? Because Pickles was involved with a ring of drug dealers, one of which was my connection, George, and he convinced himself that I was about to turn them all in. And since George lived with a guy named Snook, he had further convinced Snook, a race car driver, to evict George.

A little background here, when I went north to Little Lake to withdraw from Methadone, I owed George $1100 for 80 milligram blue Oxys, which prompted George to send three thugs to my house in St. Pete. After my wife was kind enough to take care of my debt, all was forgiven and I returned to Florida and resumed my former dealings with George.

Now George was in trouble, so he decided to call me to help clear things up. He asked me to go with him to Pickles’ house and convince him he had the wrong guy. I said yeah, no problem. So George came over and we headed for Pickles’ house. On the way, George said it might get ugly, which wasn’t a problem for me since I always carry a Bowie knife and snub-nose 38 into these kinds of situations. I wasn’t going in there naked.

When Pickles comes to the door, I’m holding the newspaper and ask if I look like the guy in the photo. Like all drugstore cowboys, Pickles cows at the thought that his bluff is about to be called by someone who’s badder than he, which ain’t saying much.

Pickles is afraid. Now desperate for an out, he reminds me that I once ripped George off. After informing him that George’s and my dealings were none of his business, I warn him that I don’t want to have to come back there again.

The Pickles of the world don’t scare me. What scares me are out-of-control teenage relatives, Take my niece, Violet, for instance. What follows is the incredible story of how this ur-wigger ghetto lover had me thrown in jail and almost ruined my career.

She had come to live with us when she was a psycho-goth cutter whose family had disowned her. I figured a pistol packing Floridian like me could handle her. Boy, was I wrong.

One day I was minding my own business, grading exams from the Quantum Physics class I teach, when she started insisting that I set her up with a reptile terrarium. I said nope, not when you can’t even take care of the pot-bellied pigs I bought you. Upon hearing this she grabs a meat cleaver and starts brandishing it over my head like a banshee on meth. Seeing this, I bolt into my room, call the cops, and wait for backup. Meanwhile, she locks herself in her room and prepares to battle the police. Shortly thereafter, 6 squadcars show up and the cops surround the house.

Two hours later, they coax her out, separate us (me in the kitchen and she in her bedroom), and take down our stories. She gives her version and I give mine. After the cops huddle for a while, they read me my rights, then cuff (arms behind me) and arrest me.

After denying my request for a sweater and long pants, they put me in the back seat and whisk me off to the city jail. Since I only get one call, I phone my secretary and ask her to inform my students that class will be cancelled the next day. After that, they throw me in a holding tank where I’m to await transport to the county jail.

Meanwhile, my poor abused, psycho-niece grabs my wallet and keys and heads for the projects (my next American Express bill is in excess of 5 grand!). Oh boy!

Two hours later, the cops transfer me to the Seminole County Jail, a hell-hole-snake-pit reminiscent of Midnight Express and Cuckoo’s Nest. The physical layout looks like this. There are three holding cells for those being taken to court the next day. Because most of those awaiting arraignment are African-American, two of the cells are overcrowded with Blacks. The third cell, which I’m in, is sparsely populated by psychotic white redneck trailer trash, except for me (yeah, right).

I’m wearing skimpy shorts and a wife beater, the AC is set on freezing, the lights are brighter than a breakout from Alcatraz, there are no mattresses, pillows, or blankets, and the bed is a cold granite slab slightly elevated above floor level.

That night is hellish. I’m freezing to death, the noise of drunks and criminals being processed in throughout the night is deafening, and at various times new white nutjobs are thrown in until their morning court appearances. Trying to get comfortable, I grab a roll of toilet paper, use it as a pillow, and attempt to sleep. This one guy comes in, and it’s obvious he’s a crack-head. I try and pretend I’m asleep, but he wakes me up and starts railing about how much he loves Jesus and hates niggers. All the while, he’s intermittingly pacing frantically and doing one-armed push-ups. Since cycloptic sleep is impossible, I act like I’m asleep, all the while watching and dreading what this supremacist whack might try (where’s my gun and knife?).

After a seemingly endless night (I’m too old for this) they open the cell, shackle my hands and feet, put me in a police van with a prison inmate being arraigned for murdering a guard, and take me downtown to be charged with domestic abuse.

After waiting in a holding room adjacent to the courthouse, a guard comes in and tells me there’s been a mistake, the prosecutor has dropped the charges and I’m free to go, at which point I say, good, take off these chains. I’m then informed that I have to remain shackled until I’m returned to the jail and processed out.

Upon our return, the cop gives the turnkey a form telling her the charges have been dropped and I’m to be released immediately. The jailers keep me in for another 5 hours before finally releasing me.

Oh well, just another typical day in the life of Me.