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SCOTT L. ANDERSON
If there was a chart to rate hangovers by, say on a scale of one to five, five being the kind that would knock a gorilla on his ass, and one being the kind that a cup of coffee would take care of, the hangover I have right now is off the charts at a seven. I threw up some Blackjack gum this morning and I don't think they even make that crap anymore.
I think I really screwed up last night. I hadn't drank since I had been down here, but I hooked up with this tourist couple who thought I was some fuckin' Jimmy Buffett throwback because I live in a tent on the beach, and they must have bought me close to a half a case of Corona and I don't know how many shots of that tequila that the old lead singer from Van Halen is always pimping. I definitely hit the blackout zone, but that doesn't bother me. I've done that a zillion times. But somewhere in my foggy, alcohol soaked brain, the little man that lives up in there keeps telling me that I royally screwed up.
That I talked.
Told THE story.
The story that I swore would never pass through these lips again.
By the way, my name is Jimbo. Real name is James but I haven't gone by that for years.
My problem wasn't that I drank. My problem was that I liked to fight when I drank. And I drank enough and fought enough that I wound up getting kicked out of high school, getting a record with the juvenile cops, and ended up working at Jiffy Lube changing the oil in cars. A real shitty job, but that goes without saying. If it was a such great job changing your oil no one would be paying the folks at Jiffy Lube twenty five bucks to do it for them.
So life wasn't all beer and hot dogs for me. I was twenty years old, didn't have even a G ED, had a rotten job, and with a record probably wasn't going to get a better one. And I was living in my parent's basement. Wouldn't you want to drink if your life was like that?
So that's what I did one payday Friday. I cashed my check, went home and showered Jiffy Lube's shit off me, and went downtown to play some darts and tie one on .
I drank I don't know how many pitchers of beer that night, but it was plenty. The thing about it was that I wasn't in a real rowdy, fightin' kind of mood. Really kind of mellow. Thought about maybe trying to get laid.
Then this hot little blonde walked by me, shaking her fine little ass, and smiling at me.
I really don't remember how the whole deal went down, but the police report version said that I grabbed this chick by her sweet ass and her big college football playing boyfriend got pissed and punched me and when I got up I hit him with a chair and really busted him up. Turned out later that the ball player was the grandson of the mayor of St. Paul.
Then the cops showed up and I guess another bit of a scuffle broke out and one of the cops got a bloody nose and his glasses broke. Big deal! Two of my ribs got damn near broken and it took twenty stitches to close the cut over my eye and you don't hear me bitching. I didn't know that being a pussy was a prerequisite for being a cop!
But this time the judge had seen enough. With my past record and all, he said he thought I might be "unbalanced", and he was going to send me down to a hospital in the southern part of the state to have me evaluated. I guess he didn't buy my feeble explanation that I was just out trying to get some trim and that it wasn't my fault that the jock couldn't handle it.
I kinda flipped out, which didn't help matters much, and called the judge a dirty son of a bitch. So the bailiffs wound up escorting me out of the courtroom right past my mom who was giving me her famous shit eating smirk while mouthing the words "maybe now you'll learn", and my dad who was shaking his fist at me and telling me what a no good rotten bastard I had always been.
The next morning these two big sheriff's deputies handcuffed and shackled me and drove me about an hour south of the city to the hospital. Only it wasn't your regular kind of hospital. It's called a security hospital and it’s the kind of place where they put criminals who are too goddamn crazy to be in prison. There aren't any bars on the windows, just glass so thick you couldn't drive a car through it.
I hadn't been on my unit a half a day, hadn't even seen the shrink yet, before this big old Mexican dude tried to kiss me and grab my johnson while I was sitting in the TV room, watching another one of those endless fucking reruns of M*A*S*H. Let me tell you right now, one hell of a fight broke out, the Mexican dude must have been on some sort of medication or something because he was real slow and I whipped his ass but good, his nose split like a ripe peach, and I wound up getting put on this special isolation unit, after I got cracked on the back of the head with a billy club, where there was only ten of us.
My new unit held twelve patients but only ten cells were occupied. There was also an super dooper high security cell that held an inmate named Wes Dibley. That cell was never opened unless there were four staff present and had video cameras goin’ twenty four hours a day. Wes was never allowed out. He took his meals in the cell, and had his own shower and television. Wes was what you would call an "evil genius" and was considered real dangerous. He had a college degree from Yale and had been committed after blowing up a savings and loan and the block surrounding it with dynamite, and wound up killing fifteen people. Wes had a lot of fun at the hospital by assaulting both security and medical staff with home made weapons like zip guns, shanks, and mace made out of Vaseline and pepper, until he got locked up permanently in his specially designed condo.
The staff didn't come on the unit much. They had a big observation bubble where they just sat and drank coffee and watched us. They'd only come charging on the unit if something like a fight broke out or if some wing nut took a big turd and threw it at the bubble, which I did see happen a time or two.
There was two Indians, four blacks, and me and three other white guys on the unit. One of the white guys was about the biggest dude I have ever seen. He was easily six foot six and way over three hundred pounds, some fat but a lot of muscle. Big cannonball shaved head with a tarantula tattooed on the top of it and a swastika right in the middle of his forehead. And he had mean, beady little eyes that had blue tears tattooed under them. Now that I think about it, he kinda looked like that fat bastard, Butterbean, that's always fighting on cable TV.
Supper was being handed out when I got processed onto the unit, and man, it looked like shit. And I hadn't eaten all day. Suppose to be some kind of chicken patty but looked more like someone had stomped on a mouse, fried it up in a pan, and threw it on a bun. There was a blob of mashed potatoes big enough to feed two men and it was covered with some yellow, gelatin like gravy. All topped with a pile of mixed vegetables and a oatmeal cookie as big and hard as a hockey puck. Kool Aid to drink. Kool Aid got served at every meal .
There were three tables bolted to the floor and each table would seat four people. Two of the tables were full, the blacks had one table to themselves, the two Indians and two white guys had one, and the big man was sifting at the remaining table all by himself. I could feel everybody watching me when walked over to his table and sat down.
Those beady eyes were burning a hole in me.
"Gotta pay to sit at my table, punk." He had a voice that sounded like it had been thickened by years of whiskey and cigarettes, but he talked real low, kinda rumbled.
"What, are you fucking deaf? To sit at my table you have to pay. Today it will cost you that cookie and half of them spuds."
"What if I don't want to pay?"
“Then you'll have to squeeze in with the rest of the retards over there."
"Hey, man, I don't want any trouble. But I'm hungry as hell. I haven't eaten all day long."
"Your story is tearing at my heart, but tough shit."
This guy was fucking enormous. There was no way in hell I could take him on and not get either seriously beat to shit or outright killed. But I was so hungry you could hear my guts rumbling. I was beyond the point of caring.
"Look, man. I just got locked in here for kicking one guy's ass about two hours ago so I'm not looking for any more trouble. I respect where you're coming from, this isn't the first time I've been locked down so I know you're the boss here. But I'm fucking hungry, so if you want to get squirrelly, you just jump."
It got so quiet in there you could hear a mouse fart in the corner. The big man didn't say a word, just sat there looking at me like I had just flown in on a starship. Suddenly his face broke into a grin.
"Fucking A! Finally a motherfucker comes in here that's got a set a nuts on him." He stood up and pointed a sausage sized finger at the other two tables.
'Unlike the rest of you fucking retards and baby rapers."
He reached across the table to shake my hand. I could feel the bones in my hand
"Norm Grabowski is the name. Those pricks may think they run the show." He shot the middle finger to the guards who were staring at us from the observation pod. "But this is my fucking unit."
Truer words were never spoken. Norman "Spider" Grabowski was the end result of over twenty one years spent in the state's finest penal facilities. From the age of thirteen on, Norm had been locked up in every correctional institution in the state, eleven months being his longest break between sentences. He had a rap sheet a mile long. It started off with shoplifting, and then continued on with burglary, auto theft, assault, sale of narcotics, statutory rape, possession of twenty pounds of marijuana, and about anything else you could think of. He was also a suspect in the unsolved murders of five black inmates. Now at the age of thirty-three, Norm was a high ranking member in good standing of the Aryan Brotherhood prison gang, a gang not known for their liberal views, and had been committed to the security hospital as mentally ill and dangerous after stabbing a guard at the penitentiary in the stomach .
Guards and inmates alike were scared shitless of him.
Norm shoved his sandwich into his mouth and stood back up and walked over to the table where the other two white inmates were sifting. "Let me introduce you to these homos."
Norm stood behind a lanky, greasy haired, foul smelling man of about forty who was wearing clothes from the disco era.
"This first shitbag is Bob. And he is a shitbag, literally. He got thrown off a tier at the pen by a gang of brothers who were strong arming him. Busted up his back and left him shifting and pissing in a bag. They had to put him in here for his own safety while he recuperated. But Bob, being the great guy that he is, wound up almost strangling a nurse to death while he tried to rape her with his useless dick. Now his whole life revolves around cigarettes and enemas." Norm leaned over and spit a green lunger onto Bob's mashed potatoes, walked over and stood behind the remaining white inmate, then suddenly grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed his face down into his tray. The guards in the pod all jumped to their feet.
"This puke is Danny. Danny got brought in here for raping his ten year old sister. Said some demon was talking to him, told him to do it. The quacks have been pumping him full of thorazine and electric shock three times a week and now Danny has refried shit for brains. Every night he lets the soul brothers come into his cell and play ass darts on him. Then the injuns get sloppy seconds."
Norm wheeled around and faced the guards in the observation bubble. "Get back to jerking off, you fucking pussies," he screamed. You could see the guards shuffling uneasily in their bubble.
He came back over and sat down at our table. "I'm not going to insult you by introducing the rest of these scrotum heads. They're not worth the shit on the bottom of my shoe." The blacks and the two Indians ate their supper silently while looking down at their trays.
.'I'm glad you're here, brother. I need a good right hand man," he whispered hoarsely.
A week had passed and I was starting to work on a wicked case of claustrophobia slash cabin fever. Being locked up on a maximum security, crazy as a shit house rat ward, without being crazy will do that to a guy. Because of my association with Norm, the other inmates avoided me like I was carrying the Ebola virus, so I didn’t have any problems in that area. But it's damn hard to live in a place where the accepted behavior includes sitting in the television lounge jacking off while watching Oprah, participating in a nightly massive anal and oral gangbang of a brain fried fellow inmate, throwing your shit around like it was a baseball, or sitting down with a issue of Rolling Stone and eating the entire magazine after you got done reading it.
It was recreation time and we were out in our unit’s tiny yard. There was an old, rusty Universal weight machine stuck in the corner and I was watching Norm go through his routine on it. He was using every plate on the stack and was still doing at least fifteen reps per session without breaking a sweat.
I was voicing my concerns to Norm that I had been there for a week and had only talked to the shrink once.
“Thats all they need." He grunted as he benched the entire stack of three hundred.
"The court, my brother." He sat up and wiped his pumpkin sized head with a towel. "Look, this is how it works. You got a history of whipping the shit out of people. Finally you punch a cop. A big no-no in the eyes of the court. They send you here for a court ordered observation and you ain't here long enough to have a cup of coffee and you kick some other douche bag's ass. They got you by the short and curlies now, man. Shrink comes in and has a little sit down with you. Writes up a nice report to the court and the next thing you know you get the big M. I. and D designation. Mentally ill and dangerous. That's the worst you can get in this shithole."
"How long is that for?" My voice was squeaking.
Norm gave a evil grin and started pumping out reps again. "Could be years. Could be forever. All depends. Getting committed ain't like getting sentenced to the joint. That's the thing about the bughouse. Free world people think that a convict is getting off easy by getting sentenced here instead of prison, like it's a fucking country club."
He let the pile drop with a loud crash. 'What bullshit that is! In here with the M. I. and D., the big bitch, that can be as good as a life sentence. You throw in the electric shock and all the dope they pump in you every fucking day, couple a years you'll be doing the thorazine shuffle and shittin' in your pants."
I couldn't believe what the fuck I was hearing. I was so stunned I couldn't speak.
Norm sat back up on the bench. "Jimbo, I'm not saying that it's going to happen but I seen it happen a dozen times since I been here." He stood up, casting a huge shadow over me.
"But it doesn't have to be that way, little dude. I know how to get you out of here. But it ain't for free. Its gonna cost you, big time. You'll owe me and the Brotherhood."
He started in on his lat pulls. "Up to you."
Norm had AIDS. He had contracted it shooting speedballs and sharing the needle with his Aryan buddies at the penitentiary. He had done the hit on the guard because he had nothin' to lose. That was why he was at the security hospital. Since he was going to die anyway, the state figured it would be safer and smarter to send him to the security hospital while he waited to punch out rather than to lock him up in segregation. From the hole he could still carry out prison business, but by putting him in the nuthouse they could cut him off from his Neo-Nazi friends.
'Wonder if they don't commit me? What if I just have to stand trial? If I copped a plea I'd maybe do less than a year county time? I escape from here, I'm on the run for good."
It was almost time to lock in for the night. Norm and I were the only inmates sitting out in the day room, the rest of the unit had either already hit the sack, the medication the committed inmates were on tended to make them turn in early, or they were in Danny's cell, pounding his ass for a nightcap.
'That's the chance you have to take. You can wait it out and see what the courts say. And you may be right. They may just go to trial and you can cop a plea. But if they don't, you could wind up being in here until your a shriveled up old man blowing dudes for Snicker's bars and cigarettes. Man, look at Danny. The bucks are in there every night nailing him. I'm not going to live forever. And you'll be in here all by your lonesome. Think about it. I'm going to fucking bed, got me a new stroke magazine in the mail today, gotta break it in." The giant inmate lumbered to his feet and headed towards his cell.
The guard on duty announced on the intercom that it was five minutes to lock down and as I was walking to my cell, I glanced in at Danny. They had him stripped down buck naked. One guy was hitting him from behind while another was slamming him in the mouth. He looked out of the corners of his glazed eyes at me. I turned around and walked over to Norm's cell.
"I'm in. I'll do what ever the fuck I have to do to get out of here."
"First thing you have to do is give me the address of your parents and any brothers and sisters."
It was morning and we were leaning over trays of greenish scrambled eggs, hash browns, and a gigantic, sweating sweet roll that was laying on top of the whole mess. The sight of Norm shoving it all into his gaping cake hole was about enough to put me over the top..
"What the hell for?'
'That's just the way the system works, dipshit. I get you out of here, you're going tohave to work for us. You decide to bolt, the Brotherhood needs to know where to find you. They can't find you, well then mommy and daddy and little sis will have to take the heat for you. And I can goddamn guarantee you that if they know where you are, they'll talk." He spread his python sized arms wide. “Take it or leave it."
"When does it happen?" I was going to have to rush to my cell, the combination of the smell of the breakfast and the thought of what Norm was telling me was making me want to power puke.
"Couple of days. My boys on the outside have to make sure you gave me the right addresses of your folks. And by the way, if you try to fuck me and give me some bogus information you will be in a world of shit."
I was on my hands and knees barfing into my toilet when Norm stuck his head in. "I forgot to tell you this. Get your armpits wet and soap 'em up and let 'em dry without washing off the soap. Tonight show the nurse the rash, tell her that you're allergic to the roll-on deodorant. They'll switch you to spray. But don't use it, just leave it in your cell. You're gonna need it."
Straight up midnight and the unit was quiet as a tomb. I looked out the cell door window of my cell and could see just the tops of the heads of the two night guards, both of whom Norm said were major league stoners and never made more than two rounds a night, usually one at the beginning and one at the end of the shift. They were watching a movie on the VCR, looked like Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I turned back to my bed to check out my supplies. Two cans of Right Guard, one mine, one Norm's, a damp towel, and a book of matches.
I stuck a piece of cardboard that I had cut from the back of a notepad to fit into my cell door window so the guards wouldn't see the flame. I took one of the cans of Right Guard, lit a match, and sprayed it.
It took off like a fucking flame thrower!
As soon as I directed the flame to the crash proof glass that was installed in my outside window, I knew that it was going to work. The glass seemed to start to melt almost immediately. Halfway through a can I had an opening about ten inches wide. Within five minutes both cans were empty and I had a hole easily wide enough for me to slide out. I cooled down the edges of the hole with the damp towel and started to slide my head out the hole.
"What in the double fuck is going on?"
In a panic I pulled my head back in. One of the guards was standing inside my cell! He had obviously been smoking weed. His eyes were like two piss holes in the snow and he was holding a can of beer. I couldn't believe that I didn't hear him come in. He was standing there in the middle of the cell with his jaw hanging down and this look of pure stupid amazement of his face.
On nothing but shit in your pants fear and pure animal instinct, I threw the hardest fucking roundhouse right that I have ever thrown to this day. The punch pole-axed him right between the eyes, I could feel the bones snap in my fist, and the guard dropped to the floor like he had been shot in the head.
I turned and somersaulted through the window, falling about four feet, and landing flat on my back, knocking the wind right the hell out of me. I staggered to my feet and while clutching my throbbing, broken hand to my chest, I slipped into the shadows and began to work by way down the side of the building to the cover of the woods that bordered the back of the hospital.
There was only one light on in any of the cells. It was Wes Dibley's, the resident evil genius and mad bomber. He was the one who had given Norm the idea about using the Right Guard as a blow torch. Wes was buck naked and was standing in his toilet bowl, a Playboy in one hand, his dick in the other. His head turned slowly towards me, like it was on a swivel, like he was a fucking owl. He gave me a slight nod and a smile and turned back to his fun.
I ran into the woods.
When I broke free of the woods on the other side I came out onto a county road. Following Norm's directions, I stayed down low in the ditch and ran south about two miles to a closed Exxon station. Behind the station, a beat up old Cadillac was idling with it's lights off. When I walked up in front of the car, the lights came on, blinding me. I heard the door open.
"Are you Jimbo?" The voice was female.
"That's me." I whispered.
"Well, get in cowboy. You can drive."
Sliding over into the passenger seat was a woman child who was crack whore thin and had the teeth to match. Her hair was spiked up in a punk fashion and she must have had thirty facial piercings. Her face looked like it was made out of aluminum and every inch of skin on her that I could see was covered in jailhouse tattoos. She was smoking a huge fatty that she was washing down with a peach wine cooler.
I put the car in gear. "Where to?" I was sweating like a whore and smelled worse.
"Keep going south about four miles and we'll catch the interstate into the city." She passed me the joint.
"Are you Norm's wife?"
She laughed like a little girl. "Me? Norm's wife? Fuck no!"
That was about all she seemed to want to talk about that, so I let the subject drop. I needed to calm down anyway. She popped a CD in the stereo and cranked up some kind of death metal shit so loud I thought my ears would start bleeding. As I pulled onto the interstate she slid over next to me, unzipped my fly, pulled out my crank, and slid her lips over the head of it. I groaned as my eyes rolled back into my head and I had to fight to keep the car on the road. I felt myself wanting to cum immediately.
She sat back up. "Oh no you don't." She reached into her purse and pulled out a vial of white powder. Licking the head of my dick she tapped out a small pile of the coke onto it and rubbed it all over the head, numbing it.
"Mmmmm. That's much better." She started in again, blowing me all the way to Minneapolis.
"What the hell took you so fucking long?"
We were standing in this incredibly nasty, filthy house trailer, just north of Minneapolis, that smelled like B.O., cat piss, pot, and Old English 800 malt liquor. And standing in the kitchen screaming at us was this enormous, bleach blonde woman, that I figured out quickly was Norm's wife. She wasn't wearing a shirt or a bra, just a pair of dirty jeans, and her giant tits were completely covered with a massive Harley Davidson tattoo. I'll bet the bed she and Norm bone danced on had to be reinforced with cinder blocks.,
She reached out and grabbed Rita's face with a catchers mitt sized hand, Rita being the woman that had picked me up.
"Did you fuck him? Huh? Is that what took you so long?"
Rita giggled. "No, Glenda. I just blew him."
Glenda turned and glared at me. I felt my bowels loosen.
She shook Rita's head and pointed at me with her free hand. "Now you listen to me you bag of shit. Rita is off limits to you, you understand? You touch her one more time you'll find your balls in my martini glass and your ass in a wood chipper. I don't give a shit what Norm says."
She turned back to Rita. "Strip down and get on the couch." She barked.
Without a word, Rita stripped down, she was even scrawnier naked, and knelt on the couch, doggie fashion, while Glenda walked to the back of the trailer. When she came back out, she had taken off her Levis and was strapping on a huge black dildo.
"Sit your ass down in that chair, asshole. I want you to watch this."
Pushing a sleeping, mangy cat and a couple of empty Budweisers out of the way, I eased myself down into a recliner.
Spitting in her hand, Glenda lubed up the fake dick and shoved it hard into Rita's ass.
She looked over her shoulder at me. "Don't you think about fucking with me! We own you." I could hardly hear her over Rita's screams of pain.
The sun was trying to stream in through the grit and grime that was coated on the trailer's windows. The dildo assault on Rita had finally ended and she-was laying in a corner, unconscious. Glenda had force fed her a tranquilizer that a horse would have had a hard time swallowing. The whole incident had been like watching an X-rated version of the Twilight Zone.
Glenda had taken off her crank, but was still lounging naked on the couch, working on her sixth bottle of Bud and smoking a bowl of hash. I was trying my best not to look at her.
She leaned back and let out a loud belch that practically rattled the windows, then glared over in my direction. “Take off your fucking clothes off and get over here."
"You heard me, fuckstick! Take off your clothes and get over here. You got a pussy to eat."
"Glenda, please, I don't think Norm would..." I was stammering like one of the retards in the hospital.
"Listen to me, little shit. I don't think you quite understand the situation you're in. Norm and the AB got you out of the stammer. So now you work for us. What we say, whatever we want, you do. Jesus Christ, you're stupid. What do you think Rita is here for? She's paying off a debt her old man owes up in the penitentiary. If it wasn't for us he'd have an asshole so big you could park a go-cart in it."
She leaned back on the couch, spread her legs, and used her fingers to open up her gaping snatch.
"Now get out of those fuckin' clothes and get over here. But first get in my purse over there by your chair and get me a fresh pack of cigarettes."
I shakily stood up and took off my clothes while the fat hog leered at me and then picked up the dildo and slid it into herself. I shuffled over, stark naked, and opened up her purse. When I bent over she must have seen something she liked.
"Oh, yah. I'm gonna break that brown eyed beaver in good." My dick and balls shriveled up to the size of a thimble and a couple of acorns. I was close to puking or passing out, it didn't really matter at this point.
Nestled in next to her Lucky Strikes was a wad of cash the size of a Big Mac. But that wasn't what set my heart to racing. No! What got my adrenaline pumping like I had just mainlined a dose of meth, was the sight of a snub nosed .38 laying at the bottom of her purse.
Glenda had already realized her fuck up, because by the time I had whirled around and aimed the pistol, almost dropping the damn thing in the process, she had already staggered to her feet.
"You better drop that goddamn piece right now, asshole!” She screamed.
Without thinking or aiming I fired off a round. But the fist that I had broken on the guard's head had swollen to the point that I couldn't even open my hand so I was holding the gun with my left, my wrong hand, so the first shot went wide of Glenda's head and took out the living room window.
If you never done it before, you wouldn't believe how loud it is to shoot off a high caliber pistol in a shitbox trailer.
"Jesus Christ! Have you lost your fucking mind?"
Glenda started to slowly walk towards me. "Now give me the gun you little pisspot and we'll forget about everything, because I don’t think you know just what the hell you're doing."
I dropped my aim down to her tattoo covered tits and started firing, four quick shots, the force of the them driving her back down onto the couch. She was sifting there, frantically trying to stop the spouting geysers of blood that were pumping out her by covering them with her hands, when I walked over and fired the remaining shot into her head. Some of her brains blew out the back of her skull and sprayed all over the curtains.
I dropped the gun, bent over and barfed on my bare feet.
After I was through throwing up my shoes and socks, I dressed as fast as humanly possible and went back to Glenda's purse and shoved the wad of cash and a big block of hash into my pocket. Rita must have been in a coma because she didn't move a muscle through all that screaming and shooting. I picked the pistol back up, wiped it off with my shirt, and put the weapon in Rita's hand.
Grabbing the keys for the Cadillac, I raced out the trailer door. Someone must have heard the shots because I could hear sirens in the distance. I fired up that old Caddy and took off in the opposite direction.
Once I got back to the city, I parked the car in the parking lot of a grocery store and hopped on a city bus that took me downtown to the courthouse. They had just opened the doors when I got there so I was in and out of there in about twenty minutes with a copy of my birth certificate and driver' license. All I had to do was give the lady behind the counter forty bucks and a sob story that I had lost both of them when my apartment caught fire.
That's all you need to get into Mexico. Your drivers license and a copy of your birth certificate. I never knew that until Norm had told me. The dumb shit!
I hopped in a cab and had him take me to a hotel just outside the airport. I was there for two days waiting for my charter flight to Cancun. I spent the time smoking Glenda's hash, eating room service, peering out through the curtains, and watching pay for view porno movies. The one time I turned on the news they were talking about the murder of a biker's wife. I got to feeling sick all over again so I never turned on the news or read the paper again.
At the airport, standing in my Hawaiian shirt and shorts, I was shaking like a dog shitting peach pits I was so nervous. I kept looking all around the lobby looking for cops or tattooed covered bikers, but all I saw was families of tourists or drunk college kids going on spring break.
Just before they announced my flight, feeling guilty, I decided to call my parents.
The old man had answered on the second ring.
"Hey Dad, it's me."
"You really screwed up this time, Mr. Big Shot. The police have already been here. You better turn yourself in. What the hell were you thinking of, breaking out of that hospital? Now you're going to have to go back to court, and this time you're going to wind up in jail! Not some country club hospital. And you know what? I'm glad! Maybe a little time in jail will straighten you out, you good for nothing bum."
The boarding for my flight was being announced.
"Say goodbye to Mom for me. And Dad? If any big guys on Harleys roll up into your driveway, you better lock the doors and call the cops. See ya!"
"What in the hell are y......
I hung up the phone and walked down to the gate.
So that's pretty much the whole shebang in a nutshell. I flew into Cancun with all the tourists and took a ferry over here to the island, Isla Mujures. I just never went back. I sell Cuban cigars and other tourist trinkets to the people on the beach. I don't make a lot of money but I get by. The main thing is I just try to keep my mouth shut and to stay out of trouble. I can't afford to get busted down here and sent back to the states. Not with the cops and the AB and God knows who else is looking for me.
By the way, you got a beer in that cooler you could spare?
Scott L. Anderson