One for the Road

I am still leaning on 5 chapters for this story, two more than the last tale, but each chapter is significantly longer. There might be a 6

th

, it depends on how I spread out the next one. I like the way this tale is going and it's been flowing out at a decent clip. I hope that others are enjoying it as well and please, as always, comment and vote if you want - enjoy your right to do so. As for me, I enjoy writing so I am already enjoying my rights.

This Chapter will see Jimmy hitting bottom. And when you hit the bottom you either bounce or break.

Like a great writer once said: Write what you know. So that's what this is, me writing what I know.

There will be no crazy glue body openings closed or A-Team style gunplay or shopping for a new cock cage or practicing kissing with your wife's lipstick. This is as close to reality as I could get it and still tell the story.

Enjoy! -V

*****

I sat on that unyielding wooden bench with my hands cuffed behind me and chained to an eye-hook located back there long enough for my legs to fall asleep. The reek of urine was sickening but there was nothing I could do since it was coming from my own crotch. Each time a cop walked in front of me I tried to make eye contact but they ignored me like I was a piece of shit. When I tried to address one of them, some big burly meatball of a fucker in a uniform stepped out from behind the counter and told me in a menacing tone to, "shut the hell up for now until we are ready to talk to you."

The fact that his hand was resting on the pepper spray on his belt, near the taser, near his pistol, had the bufuddled mess that was my brain shut the hell up.

Eventually I was interviewed by a surly looking lady officer who clacked away at her keyboard like she wished her fingers were probing at my inner organs. She listened to my responses and typed them away, finalizing her activity with a flurry of entering before folding her hands on her lap and sitting back. The big-assed meatball sized cop was nearby, watching me like a pit bull watches a wounded bird.

"Mr. Skelly," she began, "you waved the right to contact an attorney, correct?"

"Yeah. I don't need one and I don't have one."

"You are aware that you have been taken in for Drunk and Disorderly Conduct, Assault, Domestic Disturbance, and Resisting Arrest." Her eyes bored under my skin. "These are serious charges and you will need to go to Westbury to see the Judge for this."

"Then someone will have to drive me home because I do not have my car with me."

"Mr. Skelly, you will not be able to see the judge until Monday morning at 9 AM."

I made to stand up, unable to due to the chains and bindings. This caused both officers to tense up and made me realize that I was pretty fucked and should calm the fuck down. Like right now. I settled back and let out a deep breath, forcing myself to relax and hopefully showing them I was cool. "So, what is going to happen to me?"

"You are going to be remanded to the Nassau County Correction Facility in East Meadow where you will stay until Monday morning."

I was stunned. "I'm going to JAIL?!?"

She leaned forward just slightly, eyes a narrow pair of windows staring deeply at me. "Yes you are, Mr. Skelly."

The rest of my time at the police department was a blur as I was in shock at how fucking bad my day was turning out. The world's most fucked up Wednesday could not have been better perfected except for what I was going through. Within a half hour I had been what the cops called processed (involving pictures, finger prints, and a catalog of what I came in with from shoes to wedding ring) and then marched out to a cop car where I was placed in the back, my handcuffs once again chained, this time to an unyielding brace in the back seat.

The trip to Nassau Correction was short, but it felt like hours to me. Whatever buzz I had earlier had worn off and now all I felt was a sensation of being utter crap. Jimmy Skelly, going to jail, scaring his kids, hurting his wife. What a piece of shit. All I could feel was my self-pity worming its way throughout my everything.

We turned off Hempstead Turnpike and make out way north to Nassau Correction. The sheriff's office was right outside the barbed wire fence of the prison, the building squatting there like a guard dog ready to bite you. There were two gates to get in and we stopped outside the first one. A pair of guards with rifles, fucking rifles, stopped the cop car and spoke with the officer for a bit while I just stared out the window in shock.

Eventually we rolled through both sets of gates and we stopped in from of the main doors marked as "Admittance". I was helped out of the car and marched up to the double steel doors. Another officer opened them for me and I was whisked inside.

Inside prison.

They marched me down the grey and white hallway where the cop in question handed me over to the correction officers. A file was given as well, my name marked on the side tab, and then the Nassau County Police Officer turned and left.

"Name."

I turned, startled that anyone was talking to me. A heavy set male officer was seated outside another set of industrial green doors, computer screen in front of him, waiting for me to reply. The officer standing at my side, his hand holding the chain leading to my cuffs, gave me a nudge with his shoulder and motioned to the seated officer. "Answer him."

Oh. "James. James Skelly."

"Mr. Skelly, you have been remanded here to the Nassau Correction Facility until such time that you can be presented to the Nassau County Court in Westbury to meet with the judge regarding your crimes. Any time required for your crimes will be offset by the time spent here from this point Wednesday to Monday morning. Do you understand?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"You are going to be placed with the general populace in Section 4 where you will accord yourself properly. Any discipline problems may result in you being moved to a private cell and possible extension of your time here."

"I'm not looking for a problem. Honest."

"Please place all your belongings in this bin. There are clothes for you to wear in this bag, please put them on." He slid the cheap clear package of blue dyed clothing towards me. "There are two meals a day and if you have money on account, you can purchase other items from the commissary. However, being that this is only temporary for you for the time being, that option will most likely not be at your disposal."

I got undressed and they cataloged everything I owned, putting it in the cardboard bin and then sealing it up. I tried to limit the time I was naked in front of the correction officers, feeling uncomfortable in the new clothing. It just felt waxy and cheap on the inside; maybe a bit stiff at the joints. And it just didn't fit right.

When I was finished they escorted me down a large hall where another correction officer opened a set of double doors, let us through, and locked it behind us. There were a series of smaller hallways to the left but on the right were larger rooms, each with a huge stenciled number above it. We stopped in front of number 4 and waited.

"One to come in," said the officer to my left.

From a speaker to the side of the door a tinny voice replied, "One to come in. Stand clear of the doors." There was an electronic sounding buzz and the double doors opened. There were two more correction officers in here, professionally crisp in their uniforms and sporting a decidedly no nonsense look to their face. Each was armed and I could see there were others behind a thick pane of glass; some looking at me, others looking into the large room beyond. They checked me in and then stood me near the next set of smaller doors that would allow me to enter Section 4.

The same officer who had walked me down here could tell I was growing nervous as I stood staring at that last barrier. He had a grip on my arm just above my elbow, holding me firm and close enough to him. "Listen, Skelly," he said in a low whisper. "Keep to yourself and you'll be fine. Don't steal anything that isn't yours, watch your own stuff like a hawk, and if you let some of the harsher ones push you around, they'll run roughshod all over you."

I could hear the officers inform the inmates to move away from the door, three of them shouldering rifles and bringing them to bear. Holy fuck, rifles. They weren't pointing them at anyone specifically, just letting the populace know that they were not going to be trifled with. I had no idea how much of this was normal, how much was different or special. All I knew was I was not at all fucking prepared for this and I desperately needed a drink. Like right fucking now. But I also knew that there wasn't going to be one.

Finally the door opened with a series of metallic clicks and I was escorted inside. There was a painted box just inside the door, marked off on the concrete floor roughly four paces square. Once I was taken into that point the guard let me go, gave me a pat on the back, and backed out of the Section. I heard the door shut and then lock once more and there it was...Jimmy Skelly was in fucking jail.

The room I was in was large and divided into two main areas, a number of low simple beds that seemed to be bolted to the floor and a second area where there were tables and long benches situated, also bolted to the floor. The room looked like it could hold 60, and a quick count led me to believe it was almost that full.

"New meat," someone called and I realized I was still standing in that damned painted box. I stepped out of it and made my way across the floor.

Behind me there was a 30' wide window of either thick plastic or glass where I could see ten correction officers watching the men in the Section. One of them pulled a microphone attached to a bendable metal stand closer to his face and squeezed it. "Skelly. Bed 32."

I walked to the sleeping area and saw that the beds each had a simple painted placard near the feet so I wandered through until I came upon number 32. With a shaking hand I pressed down upon it, testing that it was VERY firm. The blanket was woolen but simple, and the pillow smelled faintly of bleach with a scratchy pillow case. I sighed and sat down, looking at the men around me.

They were a diverse group. Some of them looked like teachers or accountants, a few had a larger build to them but didn't look like you would assume a criminal to look. However, there was a minority of specimens who had a hardness to them. An excess of tattoos, a swagger to their stance, a feeling of arrogance to their demeanor. There weren't many of them, perhaps 12 total, but they were decidedly the alphas and real criminals in the room.

One of them must have been waiting for me to make eye contact, a swarthy Latino looking guy with a tracery of scar tissue along the side of his face and the faint discoloration that made me think he had been in a fight recently. "Hey!" he called, slapping his hand to his knees and bolting from his bed. "What'chu looking at?"

Ok, I know shit about prison etiquette. Outside of a few TV shows and maybe a movie about Alcatraz with Nick Cage and James Bond I couldn't tell you a fucking thing. I do know that I was unsure what to do, so I figured I'd treat the spindly prick coming at me like I would any other wanna-be bully on the playground. I bolted from my bed and stormed across the space to my approaching nemesis, gratified inside to see his eye falter and his arrogant step slow down. "I wasn't looking at a fucking thing. Now? Now that's a different story."

I saw him glance back at some of the others near his bed, two of them getting to their feet and sauntering over slowly. Fuck fuck fuck, Jimmy, 11 minutes in jail and you're already getting into a fight. Three on one, and where the hell are the guards? Aren't they going to come in and stop this shit?

"Fuck you, punk." He sneered, thrusting his chest out and closing to two feet of me. This had me both laughing and nervous. First rule about fighting was to be in your zone of strength and keep the other fucker out of his. I was a good eight inches taller than this guy and he closed in to me, right about where I could clean his fucking clock. But, all he needed to do was either rock forward and jab me, or wait for me to swing and then get me on the approach. I decided I would get him to hit me first, and the guards would see I was defending myself.

I hoped.

"Nah, I don't fuck men, but if you do - enjoy. I ripped one off already before coming in. And man, I made that, " think Jimmy, think, take a fucking guess, "little Ecuadorean bitch squeal she ain't never had a real sized cock before."

From the way his eyes flared and the rigidity of his jaw I was pretty sure I had guessed right. His body was already coming forward into my zone and I could read him like a book. As he stepped in to hit me I stepped back, blocked his leading punch with my forearm, and then finished my movement by swinging my right arm over my head, arcing it down, and blasting it against the top of his skull. The poor fucker actually cried out like a 9-year old school girl before he smashed into the floor face first, and I hoped he lost a tooth.

The other two pricks sort of stopped and looked at what happened, hands going up at the same time I heard the overhead speaker come on and the voice of the correction officer say, "We have a lockdown. Lockdown. Everyone put your hands on your head and stand at the foot of your bed. Again, Lockdown, lockdown. Skelly, Morales, don't move."

The main doors opened and too many officers with rifles came in. Everyone complied with their instructions while four of the officers came forward, took myself and I assume Morales, the guy I hit, out of the room and to another section of the prison.

I was placed in a smaller room, 10 x 10, Morales was taken elsewhere; honestly, didn't give a shit. There was a small table and two chairs, again each outfitted with the standard floor bolting. I was seated but not cuffed, and then left alone where I waited for only two minutes before a woman came in. She was in her mid-40's, had a no nonsense look to her. Her dishwater blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her clothing was a mix of correction officer looking as well as business ware. She had no make-up on that I could see and I was displeased to see she was packing a pistol, mace, and handcuffs on her belt.

"Mr. James Skelly," she began, her voice rough from too much smoking, "you are not here to cause problems."

"I am sorry, Ma'am. All I did was sit on my bed and look around."

"My name is Captain Phillips and you will refer to me as such." She drummed her fingers on the table. "Mr. Morales is a member of the Iron Nation, although not a highly placed member. By attacking him, you might have placed yourself in their view. Are you aware of this?"

I scratched my head and sighed. "Listen, Captain Phillips. This morning I woke up late for work, this afternoon I had too much to drink, this evening I was tasered by the police, and tonight I was attacked by a thug I would normally avoid because I accidentally glanced at him while sitting in prison. Who he is and what and Iron Nation is is right now just beyond me."

She glanced at her paperwork in front of her and then looked back at me. "You are here for a variety of reasons: drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest, assault and battery. Being that there will be no court until Monday, you will have to find a way to fit in and acclimatize for the four days and five nights still to come. I would suggest you keep to yourself and make no contact with the other inmates, or you might find yourself here longer or possibly in the infirmary."

"I understand."

"If there is another incident we will have to remove you and place you in solitary for your own safety. Do you understand?"

I nodded. "Yes, Captain Phillips."

She stood up, weight leaning forward. "Excellent, Mr. Skelly. Let us return you to your section."

I once again had to cycle my way in and was then cleared to return to Bed 32. When I got there I was dismayed to see my pillow and blanket were no longer there. Great, Jimmy, now some fucker took your pillow and blanket. I resisted the urge to say anything, instead I just wandered up the quiet row while the inmates watched me, expecting me to do something.

When I got to an unused bed I stripped the blanket off of it. I looked around and saw a few inmates were sleeping with two pillows. I gave them all a short once over, trying not to make eye contact, noting a few of the "regular" looking guys had a second pillow; most likely taken from the unused beds. I cleared my throat. "I'm not looking for a problem. While I was getting spoken to by the correction officers, my pillow...seems to have disappeared. Does anyone have a spare they might be willing to give up tonight."

No one replied.

I shrugged and went to turn back to my bed when a voice called out, "What you gonna give for it?"

I looked around and saw a fairly beefy guy with a 3-day growth and pretty greasy blondish hair lounging back in his bed. He had a third pillow that he was holding up, giving me his version of a stink eye. "What do you want?" I tried to think about all the prison and jail shows I had ever seen. "I don't have any cigarettes to trade."

The guy chuckled and so did a few others. "Nah, man. That ain't needed." He tossed the pillow up and caught it. "Tomorrow, I want your rolls."

"My rolls?"

"Yeah. Breakfast rolls. I want 'em."

I shrugged. "Ok. Breakfast rolls, done."

He tossed it to me. "Name's Scott, you can call me Sqautch."

"Thanks Squatch."

He waved his hand dismissively, "Don't want your thanks. Just want your rolls."

I wandered back to my bed with my new pillow and blanket, lay myself down and let myself fade away. All I could picture was Myra's face as we spun around and around the kitchen, her eyes were filled with pain. Such pain and sorrow.

I slept like shit.

Being in the Nassau Correctional Facility over Thanksgiving weekend was an eye opening experience for me. There were two main meals: 8 AM and 4 PM. They were not very filling and I quickly realized that I got very screwed giving up my two rolls to Squatch as I was hungry long before nightfall. In addition, by the time we got our food, it was barely warm regardless of what was being served: Soup, pasta, sandwiches, etc. Also, it wasn't like there was much to do. There wasn't a weight room with gangbangers working out. There wasn't the fear of getting ass raped in the shower. Surprisingly the majority of the guys read or played cards or checkers or chess.

The biggest thing I had to look forward to was boredom and my own thoughts. I had heard nothing from my family since I was taken from the house. I had been given the opportunity to make phone calls but no one answered at home. I also tried to call my parents but it was a collect call and no one took that call there. I was going to call Tim or Jerry but figured I didn't want any of my friends to know what happened to me so I didn't.

And that was a big piece of it. Besides feeling like a loser, I was also terribly embarrassed. I'm in jail. I can honestly never say that I had not been in jail if I was asked in the future. True I'm not a felon but it was cold comfort when I realized that I was going to spend the better part of a week "behind bars".

Each night some of the guys would have what they called a 'cook up' which involved some of the inmates hoarding their food during the day or trading to get better items. A few of the guys had some credit at the Commissary which allowed them access to coffee, tea, and just about anything else. After the last meal we would gather what we had collected and then use the hot water and hand heaters to make slow cooking instant soup mixes, breads, whatever that could be heated and eaten would be gathered into a garbage bag and left to percolate until there was something warm and filling later on that evening.