A week of freedom has been interesting.
I left the jail and started walking towards that water tower thing, which has the town’s name written on it, as if that would be a good place to try to get a ride to Mobile, but not before going into the “employees only” area of the jail and picking their ashtrays. (Note to Leonard: Some very good quality; premium brands; much unsmoked, out of camera range. Rating A-.)
The jail gave me no cash. They are going to mail the balance of my account, to my friend’s house, pissing them off even more than the FBI agents showing up at their residence and giving them possession my coin-holder, wallet type thing. I’m sure that, for their own safety, it had been thoroughly checked for weapons prior to being handed over. Now, they are going to be getting mail from the Baldwin County Jail.
So, I am walking down the street at this point, evening was falling. The setting sun glistened off the shiny water tower thing, with “Bay Minette” written on it, which also stared down upon me like a menacing eye, which seemed to foreshadow doom, by the way.
I had the nagging feeling of being stared at, as if someone was trying to see what kind of vegetables I had.
I got directions to a Wal-Mart, from some guys at an auto parts store. Guys that work at auto parts stores are usually good for directions, especially the one’s who sit out front puffing on cigarettes, I find. They directed me to the Wal-Mart, saying that it was 24 hours in operation, and that it would be a good place to find somebody with a phone that would let me call my friend Jeff, who was on the road, returning from Louisiana.
I somehow walked right past the Wal-Mart. I wasn’t sure if the auto parts guys meant that it was quite a ways, all the way to the Interstate, or what. I had gotten confused because they were debating the wisdom of me taking either of two routes to get “back to Mobile.” One of them would put the tunnel in my path, but would be advantageous in my desire to meet Jeff at a spot convenient to someone coming in from Louisiana way.
The other one involved me walking the opposite way and encountering a 15 mile long bridge at some point. A bridge that at least could be walked across, though, everyone I spoke to added that they “wouldn’t want to do it.”
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| This is where I've decided to insert this picture of a place where it gets "pretty darned" cold |
I figured the Wal-Mart was probably at the Interstate Exit, which turned out to be 5.5 miles from the jail. It was about as much leg exercise as I wanted after 70 days of “things that you do while sitting down.”
I finally saw a glorious light on the hilltop! It wasn’t the radiant image of God; coming down to me as an angel clothed in the light of 1,000 suns; to ease my burdens and carry me home, but it was a BP gas station. Beggars can’t be choosers.
I got to the gas station and remembered the axiom that someone once said: “Do what you can; where you are; with what you have to work with.” That is an axiom that usually comes to me when I am feeling powerless; in a shitty place; and I ain’t got shit, but, nevertheless.
I realized that I had “just released” written all over me, from my ghostly pale skin to the plastic bag I carried.
I decided to work it into a hustle.
I asked the female cashier where the Wal-Mart was. She informed me of my missing it about 5 miles back.
I then launched into a tirade about the harshness of being released to the street with no money and only the clothes on your back, and being expected to find your way home, like a certain pigeon is know for (and stories abound about dogs which were left behind in Kansas after they wandered off; only to show up three weeks later on the doorstep of their New Jersey home, a bit skinny and with something like motor oil on its fur.)
Then, I got my break. The manager lady was trying to get someone to clean the bathroom.
“I’ll clean your bathroom, for a cup of coffee. No, seriously, I’ll hit it with bleach really good...”
I didn’t get the job, but I was offered another position in the “Parking Lot Trash Can” department. The pay was the same; one cup of coffee (of course we all know that refills were had) and the work pleasant. There was a middle aged lady, picking trash as she walked around the parking lot using a giant tweezers type devise to snatch it up. I had sharpened my coffee hustle in the "big leagues" of the Baldwin County Jail, I guess.
I had a conversation with her, where the subject of pickling food came up, almost immediately.
I figured the hippie type (‘cause she was) lady had heard my “story” from the others. I was in touch by phone with a friend, who was on his way in from Louisiana. He wouldn’t be at the station until three in the morning. The station closed at 11:45. I was told by one person that there was a tree, not far from the station, that had branches that hung down and made a hiding spot where others were know to sit and wait for someone, or to sit and drink.
I went and sat under the tree. I saw a very bright shooting star. It had a fiery orange tail. It could have been symbolic. Then I saw another, dimmer, shooting star. I would have to interpret this as a warning from the gods that I would be eaten alive by mosquitoes, should I choose to kick back and enjoy the meteor shower.
Back in the parking lot, the ex hippie lady talked to me some more about her favorite hobby, pickling foods. She invited me to spend the time until 3 a.m. came at her house “in the country.”
Her house in the country was 4 miles out in the country and was a museum for mason jars of pickled foods; artwork, and dolls. It seemed like everything was from a certain time period; even her piano was probably circa 1800’s.
She had all kinds of pictures that basically depicted women and girls from at least 100 years ago.
Dolls stared out from everywhere. She had made some of them and some looked very pretty; especially to a man who had spend 70 days with little more than the Miss Universe Pageant, and Hailey on American Idol the time she wore the shorts, in an otherwise barren desert. But that is a story for another time.
Oh, and to put the icing on the cake, she told me that there had been a murder in her house. Of course there had been a murder at her house! What self respecting ex hippie lady that has a hobby of pickling foods hasn’t had a murder at her house?!?
She pointed to where the couch had been where the person that was murdered was murdered. She didn’t elaborate much more. Becky, as that was her name, gave me an enormous amount of food. A lot of it pickled, but some of it super sweet, like the candied figs. I wound up sleeping there pretty soundly. She got up in the early morning to go to a funeral. I slept more. It was afternoon before she returned from the funeral. She then gave me a ride to Mobile.
I wondered at the coincidence of a lady who pickles food coming into my life at that exact time. I had left a perfectly good cup full of pickled vegetables in my jail cell. I was planning upon a quiet evening, curled up with a good book and lukewarm coffee, after eating Ramen-with-pickled-veggies-and-essence-of-shrimp. They ruined a pretty good evening, did the jail with their piss-poor timing of a man’s release.
Becky got me back to Mobile.
Well, I just wanted to say hi to everyone. I have good news for you. Your sentences are just flying by now. It seems like time is just flying by, too, now that I am out of jail. So, you guys will be out in no time, I figure.
My attorney is actually an acquaintance of the editor of the Press-Register, and is going to make him aware of what happened to me in court, so that they may print a follow up article, bringing my case to a conclusion, in the media at least. It will go right into Dee’s shoebox, and be rarely seen in C block, I imagine.
Then, I had been out only three days.
My friend, Jennie, wife of Jeff, The Potter, was to bring my stuff by and drop it off to me. My stuff would be one guitar, one backpack, and the little change holder thing, which had my Mr. Nola Diamond botanical incense in it.
She had to make it Sunday. Sunday, it was and by that night, I was in my graveyard spot, reading a book by the light of an old whale oil lamp which Becky had put in with the pickled things.
I ate pretty well that week. I now stir peanut butter into my Ramen noodles without hesitation, nor fear of alienating myself from society.
I have a renewed interest in reading books, and I picked up a copy of The DaVinci Code at the Wings of Life thrift store for 50 cents. Gosh, that’s less than one soup!
Ironically, Becky threw a six pack of Ramen noodles (beef flavor) into the bag of pickled and sweetened foods. And just for you lovers of the bizarre; there was a mason jar of jalapeño jelly snuggled amongst the newspaper in the bag. Jalapeño jelly, honest to God.
Well, this is going into 5 sheets; at 10 cents per sheet, plus the envelope; damn; this is going to cost me an item before it’s through.
The botanical incense has been good for the laying in the sun, reading and sipping on gin and juice part of life (with my mind on candied figs and candied figs on my mind…) It has made me a little bit slothful.
I am not in a big hurry to perform music in public, I have the luxury of working my fingers into shape gradually; taking a good week to warm up.
I hope Ray got a good cellmate after I left.
I’m thinking of either, getting a good bike, and then being able to visit Becky in the country, as well as get around to Fairhope and other places where the clubs will let a guy play for tips.
The other option would be to get a huge duffel bag and go on the road, working my way towards the general vicinity of Charlottesville, Virginia.
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