Behind These Bars

A middle-aged man groaned exhaustedly and lolled his head back lazily against the concrete wall of the jail cell. His eyes were dark and solemn and his hair was thinning and balding. The jail was dim and musty, in need of a good cleaning. It smelled like body odor, and it was strong enough to make any man nearly gag and hold his nose. He rubbed his hands up and down his forearms, feebly warming them from the bitter cold that the wintertime brought and that the jail had such a hard time keeping outside.

“What are you in for?” The man’s head shot down from the ceiling at the sound of another man’s voice. It was a deep, throaty voice, rich and clear. Across the jail cell an older man most likely in his sixties stared at him from deep sunken eyes. The man was surprised, he hadn’t seen this older man when he walked in the jail cell a half hour ago.

“Drunk driving. You?” The man’s head wasn’t clear, but it was enough to want to carry on a conversation with this stranger.

“How long are you in for?” The other man’s rich voice was refreshing in contrast to the rest of the jail which was filled with coughs, sneezing and nasal-sounding voices.

“Until my roommate bails me out, I already called so it should only be a few minutes.... It’s ridiculous. I can’t have fun anymore without being locked up and arrested for something,” the middle-aged man groaned, lolling his head back again. There was a deep chuckle from the other man, and he had a genuine belly laugh. He was a robust man who could easily be mistaken for a blues singer- his clear resemblance to B.B. King was uncanny.

“Heh,” the man chuckled, “maybe your idea of fun isn’t for you. Is there really anything in it for you?”

“What are you talking about?” The other man was getting slightly bothered. He couldn’t think perfectly straight and the room was spinning.

“What’s your idea of fun?”

“Partying, drinking. If that’s not fun, what is?”

“Have you found something you love to do?”

“Wha-?”

“For me, I love to sing. I can express myself through music- I love it.”

“You certainly have the voice for it.” The older man just stared curiously at him. “I don’t know though. I mean I like writing and it’s like an escape from the world for me. People told me it wasn’t a realistic career, that it would take years to get that far- to ever get something published and live off that.

“I believed them, and resorted to drinking to escape from my problems. I’ve been at this for years, it’s too late to go back or to change anything.”

The older man stared at him critically before sighing loudly and intertwining his thick, sausage-like fingers together.

“That’s how you escape, huh? Tell me something. Has it gotten you your dream home? Has it raked in thousands of dollars? Has it accomplished all your dreams? Or do you just not care and want to watch half your life go down the drain?”

To be blunt, the man was utterly in shock. This stranger had no right to attack him like this.

“Every life is a gift. If you’re going to let it go to waste you might as well never been born. No wonder the world isn’t making any progress at its pitiful state. It’s people like you that are slowing everything down. I don’t mean to be rude, but if there’s something you love, you better embrace that and run with it. If you have a passion or need to say something, you make that known.

“Every one is an individual and everyone has a voice. If you’re going to sit there and drink your life away, then you’re only as good as the beer that’s killing you. You have the power to change people for the better, we all do. There’s something in everyone, but some people would rather watch their life deteriorate and go unnoticed than move off their rears to make a difference.”

“What? It’s not like I’m going to change the world,” came the man’s biting remark, an edge in his low voice. He was feeling cornered and vulnerable. “Besides, I have potential.”

“Yeah? And where’s that going to get you if you don’t get started? Potential is nothing without effort. And if you can change one person’s life, you’ll be doing all you ever need to do in life. One voice is all it takes.”

“Mr. Rodman, your being picked up now.” A jail worker stood at the bars of the jail cell and opened the door to let the middle-aged man leave. He looked to the jail worker then back across the cell, but the space that was occupied before by the older man was just air. He was in shock.

“Was there someone just in here?” The man asked as he stood up shakily. The jail worker raised an eyebrow.

“There was someone in here an hour ago- but not just now. Besides, we just got a report that he was killed in a car crash.” The man followed the jail worker down the hallway of the jail in utter wonder. Was he hallucinating?

His room mate was standing at the end of the hall at a desk, handing some papers over to the man on the other side of the desk. He stood up straight and escorted his slightly drunk friend out of the jail.

“Hey Mike. This has really got to stop. This is the second time I’ve bailed you out this month,” Mike heard sheer disappointment in his faithful room mates voice.

“I know. I learned something tonight, I think. I’m never going to drink again.” Then more words flowed into his mind, reminding him that giving up drinking wasn’t going to be easy.

“Potential is nothing without effort.”