Drunk Tank

I had never been arrested before so I didn’t know what I got myself into. When the bars closed behind me, I scanned the room for the right spot to sit and keep my mouth shut. The cell wasn’t that big, about the size of a living room on a Winnebago, so I took my steps carefully. I felt that if I stepped on the wrong toes I would the leave cell with more than just a devastating phone call to my parents; I would leave with my pride and dignity damaged, and probably a large gash on my forehead.

         The man across from me appeared to be a college kid, possible my age. He wore faded Abercrombie and Fitch jeans with a matching blue T-shirt. I immediately came to the conclusion that he was a fraternity boy in jail for probably the same reason I was, mouthing off to a cop and telling him to screw himself. He looked scared, like the toughness he expressed in front of his other frat friends faded away as soon as he was locked up. He looked like someone just ran over his family dog and was ready to burst out into tears. I knew the feeling.

         Sitting in a drunk tank, that’s what I called it, is like sitting around a television watching a sappy love story, except you’re watching it with ten or twelve grown men whom you don’t know, so if you show any emotion, crying, or tears, you’d get beaten up. The fraternity kid looked like he would be the first victim. I could see the tattooed biker with black in his eyes clench his fists in preparation. Once he saw the fraternity kid control himself, the biker’s face turned from a smile to the reaction of a little kid not picked to play kickball.

         I tried to force my head up from the hard concrete floor but my desires were postponed because my head felt like it was going to jump off my body. I could have killed for an aspirin or a cup of coffee but all I was given was a box of Corn Flakes and warm milk, a welcomed treat from the smiling police officers as they handed out breakfast.

         The room was pure concrete, like an empty dorm room with no posters or furniture in it. The slightest sound echoed down the hallway. I could hear pleas for mercy and forgiveness two cells down the hall, possibly from another young man suddenly aware of his situation. “This isn’t fun anymore!” and “I’m sorry” cries I counted I heard the most. It’s funny that when you first get arrested, you think you’re all tough, like you just hit a home run in a major league baseball game. That’s not how I felt. I felt like I didn’t belong there. I knew I didn’t belong there. I couldn’t be in that situation. I’m not built for it. I need to move. I need to be active. I’m the kind of person who’d rather play football than read books.

         If you walked into the cell I was in, you’d see a skinny man shaking his head profusely, offering handshakes to the air, his skin a pasty white from probably sleeping on the sidewalk for a while. He was obviously a crack addict. Next to him was the man who probably sold the crack to him. I thought this because the man didn’t say a word the entire time he was in there, almost like he’d been there many times before and knew exactly how long to wait. He sat there stiff as a board, his lips perked upward, and his arms crossed over his chest. He wore a T-shirt of Tupac Shakur, the late rapper known for his lyrics on drugs and violence, and had his pockets ripped out, probably from the cops searching for illegal paraphernalia. I tried to avoid eye contact with him. The guy sitting a couple feet away from me was having a conversation with himself, saying that was his third strike and he’d be going away for a while. Ten years to be exact. Ten years in one room the size of a closet. I’d rather be stuck in an insane asylum in that room with the padding on the walls, strapped in a straitjacket. At least that way I wouldn’t be able to hurt myself.

         Time doesn’t seem to exist when you have nothing to do but wait. My clothes were drenched in sweat and beer and all I could think about was when I was getting out of there. I remember feeling my heart sink into my stomach and sweat pour down my forehead. I felt the room become smaller and smaller as the day passed. People would get up and leave; officers would come and go with lunch then dinner then breakfast again. I couldn’t bear it anymore. I could feel myself become edgy and agitated. I had to leave. I had to go. I had to get the hell out of that cell. It’s amazing how much you appreciate life and death when you feel like you’re about to die.

         When it was finally time for me to get up and see the judge, I felt like ten years had been taken off my life. I didn’t feel tough. I felt weak. I felt like I left something in that drunk tank but what it was I don’t know.