I
confess: the title is a little dramatic. I wouldn't say I broke into jail in the
strict sense of the word—perhaps there’s a better way to describe it. But
“broke into jail” is the phrase other people tend to use after I’ve told the
story; it's usually something along the lines of, "Wow, I never heard of
anyone breaking into jail before!" It gives me a slight warm and fuzzy
feeling, like the years of my youth weren't entirely boring. But enough about
the title...
I had good parents. I grew up in what was probably considered a decent neighborhood. My family didn't have a lot of money, but we did alright. Unfortunately, there weren't many kids to play with in my small neighborhood, so I made friends with those in an older neighborhood, which was separated from mine by a fold of trees. There was a narrow dirt path that went through said trees, and I'd ride my bicycle down it, often barely missing the tight press of trees and limbs confining the path. Leaving my neighborhood was a rush of wind and pulse, and I enjoyed the simple taste of freedom that two wheels and exercise in the great suburban outdoors brought me.
The kids in the adjacent neighborhood were not like me. I couldn't put it into words then, but they seemed to be more fearless, harder, less worried about consequences or what danger the day may bring. In fact, I think some of them lived for that danger. They didn't seem to care about getting hurt, getting in trouble, or much of anything at all. And while I liked adventure, I was cautious. I knew I didn't quite fit with them. And I’d probably be off in saying they fully accepted me, but they let me hang out and were only dicks on occasion (as was I).
I had good parents. I grew up in what was probably considered a decent neighborhood. My family didn't have a lot of money, but we did alright. Unfortunately, there weren't many kids to play with in my small neighborhood, so I made friends with those in an older neighborhood, which was separated from mine by a fold of trees. There was a narrow dirt path that went through said trees, and I'd ride my bicycle down it, often barely missing the tight press of trees and limbs confining the path. Leaving my neighborhood was a rush of wind and pulse, and I enjoyed the simple taste of freedom that two wheels and exercise in the great suburban outdoors brought me.
The kids in the adjacent neighborhood were not like me. I couldn't put it into words then, but they seemed to be more fearless, harder, less worried about consequences or what danger the day may bring. In fact, I think some of them lived for that danger. They didn't seem to care about getting hurt, getting in trouble, or much of anything at all. And while I liked adventure, I was cautious. I knew I didn't quite fit with them. And I’d probably be off in saying they fully accepted me, but they let me hang out and were only dicks on occasion (as was I).
When
I first saw the movie, “A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints”, which is based on
a book by Dito Montiel, it gave me a familiar feeling of not quite fitting in
with the crowd I grew up with. I wouldn’t dare compare my childhood to the
experiences in that movie, but there was a vague familiarity. I could probably
write an entire book on my childhood and the friends I had back then, but to be
honest, I don't really like thinking about most of it. So that said, I'll fast
forward to the title.
I was around 18 when I went to visit my friend, Jeff (name changed), in the county jail. He wasn't the first friend I visited in jail, and by the time this particular trip came around, I already knew my way around the jail visitor halls fairly well. I went with his mother, who was a nurse and a hard working lady. I had a lot of respect for her, and sometimes wondered why Jeff struggled so much in finding a life path (if only I had known at the time the irony in wondering that, since my own path has proved quite difficult to uncover). But whatever the case, Jeff found his way into the confines of our county jail, which as I heard from another friend who previously stayed there, was a collective of people preaching the gospel around tables while watching reruns of Soul Train.
In order to visit someone at the jail, I had to be put on their visitation list at least 24 hours in advance. Jeff didn’t know I would be coming with his mom that day, so he didn't think to put me on his visitation list. When we arrived at the jail, they let her go back, but they wouldn't let me. My emotions flared at this perceived injustice, because after all, I only wanted to visit my friend. Where was the evil in that? And in my younger years, I had less understanding of my emotions, so they had a tendency to have too much rule over my actions. Being that was the case, my mind's gears started turning; I examined my surroundings. There was a locked steel door in front of me, which gave access to the jail halls. It had a fairly sturdy lock, which I considered trying to pick with my Swiss Army Knife, or whatever I had on me—I can't recall. But there was also a recessed guard watch post that was down about half a story so that there was a window at floor level, where a guard could watch from ground-up anyone who went through the door. He would look over at me from time to time, as I stood suspiciously close to that door. I felt my adrenaline start to pump when I decided I was just going to go through it the next time it opened for someone else. And so when my opportunity came, I grabbed the door before it could close, and then I hauled ass.
I was around 18 when I went to visit my friend, Jeff (name changed), in the county jail. He wasn't the first friend I visited in jail, and by the time this particular trip came around, I already knew my way around the jail visitor halls fairly well. I went with his mother, who was a nurse and a hard working lady. I had a lot of respect for her, and sometimes wondered why Jeff struggled so much in finding a life path (if only I had known at the time the irony in wondering that, since my own path has proved quite difficult to uncover). But whatever the case, Jeff found his way into the confines of our county jail, which as I heard from another friend who previously stayed there, was a collective of people preaching the gospel around tables while watching reruns of Soul Train.
In order to visit someone at the jail, I had to be put on their visitation list at least 24 hours in advance. Jeff didn’t know I would be coming with his mom that day, so he didn't think to put me on his visitation list. When we arrived at the jail, they let her go back, but they wouldn't let me. My emotions flared at this perceived injustice, because after all, I only wanted to visit my friend. Where was the evil in that? And in my younger years, I had less understanding of my emotions, so they had a tendency to have too much rule over my actions. Being that was the case, my mind's gears started turning; I examined my surroundings. There was a locked steel door in front of me, which gave access to the jail halls. It had a fairly sturdy lock, which I considered trying to pick with my Swiss Army Knife, or whatever I had on me—I can't recall. But there was also a recessed guard watch post that was down about half a story so that there was a window at floor level, where a guard could watch from ground-up anyone who went through the door. He would look over at me from time to time, as I stood suspiciously close to that door. I felt my adrenaline start to pump when I decided I was just going to go through it the next time it opened for someone else. And so when my opportunity came, I grabbed the door before it could close, and then I hauled ass.
Right
as I went through the door, I saw the guard jump up and try to shout something
at me as he went for a phone. I hauled ass down the jail halls as fast as I
could, through a couple flights of stairs, and finally to the visitation room
where Jeff and his mom were. Visitors and inmates were separated by the
standard glass and telephone communication system, and there were stainless
steel stools for people to sit on. I ran over beside Jeff's mom, and I crouched
down beside her, as to remain hidden as well as I could from the guards.
I got my chance to talk to my friend. We talked for at least a minute or two, and I can still remember both Jeff and his mom being utterly amused and surprised that I "broke into jail". The visit was short-lived, though, as three deputies quickly tracked me down. As I remained crouched down, I can still remember the force with which one of them poked me in the shoulder blade. I stood up, and they escorted me out of the visitation room. They gave me a brief lecture in the hallway about how if they ever saw me at the jail again, I wouldn't be just visiting. I also remember seeing the guard behind the window again as I was walked out. He gave me a stare of death, as if I had just killed his cat.
I walked to my car with my pulse still slamming. I had to take several deep breaths and reflect on what just happened, on what I just did. I knew it could have gone a completely different way—a worse way, as could so many things in my life. I was thankful it didn't.
I never shared this story with family, or with people who weren't in that circle of friends. I didn't think they'd understand, I figured they'd say it was stupid and get visibly upset over something that was already said and done. And they're right...it was stupid. The nice thing about being 18 is you're still allowed a few stupid mistakes. Once you reach adulthood and then get into your 30's, the consensus of society is far less forgiving. But sometimes I wish I could be that way again. I don't imagine it's uncommon for anyone to wish for the carefree days of youth to come back. We felt brave back then, but only because we thought we had less to lose. We felt strong back then, but only because we didn't have that much to lift. And I, for one, miss the self-perceived courage I had when approaching a girl I liked, or in quitting a shitty job and taking off to Chicago, because fuck it, we were young and not meant to be chained to a desk quite so soon. Or the carefree feeling walking down those cold streets of Chicago in the winter in flip flops and a t-shirt with a bottle of Glenlivet in my hand, because hell, I was immune to the cold when my hair still went down to my chin.
How can I be brave in my old age, and not be stupid? How can I take risks that matter, and how can I identify them? These questions spin through my head, now that I've got a job and bills, and now that all those old neighborhood friends are long gone. There's just nothing quite like feeling alive when your pulse starts racing. The trick is to get it to race for something that matters. And that's a good damn trick.
I got my chance to talk to my friend. We talked for at least a minute or two, and I can still remember both Jeff and his mom being utterly amused and surprised that I "broke into jail". The visit was short-lived, though, as three deputies quickly tracked me down. As I remained crouched down, I can still remember the force with which one of them poked me in the shoulder blade. I stood up, and they escorted me out of the visitation room. They gave me a brief lecture in the hallway about how if they ever saw me at the jail again, I wouldn't be just visiting. I also remember seeing the guard behind the window again as I was walked out. He gave me a stare of death, as if I had just killed his cat.
I walked to my car with my pulse still slamming. I had to take several deep breaths and reflect on what just happened, on what I just did. I knew it could have gone a completely different way—a worse way, as could so many things in my life. I was thankful it didn't.
I never shared this story with family, or with people who weren't in that circle of friends. I didn't think they'd understand, I figured they'd say it was stupid and get visibly upset over something that was already said and done. And they're right...it was stupid. The nice thing about being 18 is you're still allowed a few stupid mistakes. Once you reach adulthood and then get into your 30's, the consensus of society is far less forgiving. But sometimes I wish I could be that way again. I don't imagine it's uncommon for anyone to wish for the carefree days of youth to come back. We felt brave back then, but only because we thought we had less to lose. We felt strong back then, but only because we didn't have that much to lift. And I, for one, miss the self-perceived courage I had when approaching a girl I liked, or in quitting a shitty job and taking off to Chicago, because fuck it, we were young and not meant to be chained to a desk quite so soon. Or the carefree feeling walking down those cold streets of Chicago in the winter in flip flops and a t-shirt with a bottle of Glenlivet in my hand, because hell, I was immune to the cold when my hair still went down to my chin.
How can I be brave in my old age, and not be stupid? How can I take risks that matter, and how can I identify them? These questions spin through my head, now that I've got a job and bills, and now that all those old neighborhood friends are long gone. There's just nothing quite like feeling alive when your pulse starts racing. The trick is to get it to race for something that matters. And that's a good damn trick.
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