The Curious Case of Christopher Comtois (Part XVII)

Pearl Harbor

     When Jake and Elwood Blues exit the “Bluesmobile” for the final time after they reach their destination towards the end of The Blues Brothers, the car literally falls apart.  Every piece of metal tumbles to the ground.  It had sped all over northeastern Illinois at top gear for multiple days eluding the cavalcade of police cars and officers that followed.  The vehicle that Elwood had recently picked up at a police auction had made impossible jumps, thrown a rod, lost all of its oil and somehow delivered the residents of 1060 West Addison (“…that’s Wrigley Field”) to “get the band back together”, promote and play their two gigs and finally bring them to the Honorable Richard J. Daley Plaza so they could pay the $5000 tax assessment to save the orphanage.  After all of those nonstop miles at or near full throttle, the car finally broke down.  After seven days of incarceration, on Saturday afternoon inside of my cell, all of my mettle fell off and I broke down. 

     It was unexpected and confusing.  While lying on my toboggan during our mandatory afternoon cell time, I think I hit my body finally hit its limit of stress, worry, anxiety and sleeplessness.  I was trying to re-start the book of short stories again and without warning, I literally felt like my internal motor was shutting down.  The room began to close in on me and a feeling of intense impending doom engulfed my whole being.  I was filled with unspeakable dread and negativity.  I wasn’t even consciously thinking about anything related to my circumstances, but I began to sob uncontrollably.  Chris was sound asleep and semi-snoring, but I tried as hard as I could to keep my breakdown as quiet as possible.  I curled up into a ball under my blanket and experienced feelings that I didn’t know I had within me.  I had worked so hard all week to keep my positive outlook in the forefront, and although I was very aware of the heavy load of stress that I was carrying, I thought that I had done a damn good job of maintaining my sanity and controlling my emotions.  Just like the Bluesmobile, you can only run at top gear for so long before everything cracks.  I was definitely falling apart and there was nothing I could do about it. 

     I have never been a crier, so to speak.  We never really showed our emotions in my house growing up.  Occasionally I’ll get misty during a sad movie or shed tears of joy when one of my sports teams wins a big game, but I can’t remember a specific time in my life when I cried like a junior high school girl.  I think I’m an emotional person on the inside, but rarely, if ever, had I openly wept without the ability to stop.  I’ll tear up watching “One Shining Moment” at the end of the NCAA basketball tournament or when Kevin Costner asks his dad if he wants to “have a catch” at the end of Field of Dreams, but nothing substantial.  The most I think I had ever cried was during my 24 hour drive back to Missouri from Florida after finding out that my father had passed away in 1999, but I still felt funny about it.  Plus, I thought that I was supposed to cry and may have tried to force it.  This isn’t to say that I don’t get sad or feel those emotions, but I’m very much like my dad, who internalized most of his feelings.  I wouldn’t consider myself an open book by any stretch of the imagination.  I’ve always been very good about keeping my emotions in check and my stress levels low, so I was in shock as I laid there huddled up under my blanket trying to catch my breath between sobs. 

     It made sense.  Given everything that I had gone through and what I was facing, coupled with the lack of sleep and my brain running on overdrive, it made sense that I would reach a breaking point. Honestly, I was surprised that I lasted as long as I did.  I felt the inkling of a breakdown several times throughout the week and certainly spent hours upon hours in a very dark emotional place, but even then I worked hard to alter my focus to a more positive thought process.  I cried for what seemed like hours.  Luckily Chris slept through the whole event.  Maybe he had gone through a similar during his first week in jail.  I doubted it.  My situation was fluid.  The ending was unknown and the outcome still very much in doubt.  I wasn’t even sure if I was still closer to the beginning of my ordeal or even the middle.  During any sudden event in life, you won’t know where the middle is until it’s over.  It was Saturday afternoon and I knew that I was at least a day and a half away from anything new happening, and although I was semi-enjoying my stay at the County Jail, I was still in fucking jail.  My body chose that moment to remind me that everyone has a breaking point.  I couldn’t breathe and stopped producing tears, although I couldn’t stop crying.  I had a horrible pain in my stomach from the sobbing.  I wondered if this was what people suffering from severe depression felt like. 

     At some point, I fell asleep.  It may have been for five minutes or an hour, I couldn’t tell.  I woke up with a terrible headache, which felt exactly like a hangover, but without the fun that had preceded it.  When our door opened up again for dinner, I didn’t feel like eating or trying to remain composed among the D Block population.  I wasn’t sure if staying in bed, or toboggan, was allowed during meals, but I didn’t get up to eat dinner.  Even if I was hungry, my energy level was in the negative and I don’t think that I could have gotten up anyway.  I heard Chris walk out and I must have fallen back asleep since it seemed like just a minute later he was walking back in after eating. 

“Hey, man, you missed dinner,” Chris said as he sat down on his bed.

“Yeah, I’m not feeling very well,” I replied.  My voice didn’t work at first and only came out in a whisper, so I had to say it again. 

“Shit, dude, I hope you’re not getting sick.  Colds travel fast around here and I don’t want to get what you got,” he mumbled.  His compassion was overwhelming.

     I didn’t move for nearly three hours.  I was still in a ball under the blanket and had fallen in and out of sleep multiple times.  Never in my life had I experienced such an incredible lack of motivation or energy.  I felt trapped and unable to function.  I thought that I had hit the bottom of the barrel earlier in the week, but that barrel was miles above my current location.  I was off the map.  I don’t even think that my brain was functioning since all I could think about was not wanting to move.  I knew that I wasn’t giving up but I also knew that everything within me had to take a break.  Even if I wanted to fight it, I was powerless to do so. 

     During another semi-conscious moment between sleep and reality, I became very, very thirsty.  It was like a “check engine light” lit up inside me that indicated that my fluid level was dangerously close to empty.  It was like I was in a desert and hadn’t had water in days.  For the first time since the mid-afternoon, I stretched out my legs and slowly tried to stand up.  My right arm had completely fallen asleep and was completely numb.  My legs ached from being bent in the same position for so long.  Just standing up took all the strength that I could summon and my head still pounded.  The door was open and I assumed that evening recreation had been going on for awhile.  I shuffled out the door like a zombie.  Every step was a chore and all I wanted to do was get a drink and go back to toboggan. 

     As I emerged into the common area, the lights were low on my side of the room.  Half of the D Block population were sitting in chairs or laying on the floor staring up at the television.   My vision was blurry and I could hardly lift my head to look, but the familiar voice of Robert Redford was easily recognizable.  I could only manage a very slight internal chuckle that “The Last Castle” was really being shown to a group of inmates who were sprawled out all over the place like they were at a sleep-over.  The only thing missing was popcorn, pillows and pajamas.  I was pretty sure that I would be unable to participate if they really did start a prison riot. I made it over to a drinking fountain on the other side of the room and spent an unusually long amount of time hunched over slurping up water.  When my back started to ache, I stood up for a moment to stretch then went back down for round two of fluid replacement.  I didn’t know that you could cry yourself to dehydration.

     All I wanted to do was to get back under my covers and I somehow finally made my way around the slumber party and back to my cell.   I collapsed back down and curled up in the opposite direction as before.  The feeling in my arm had just about come back and I wanted to counteract the soreness on my right by laying on my left this time.  I never heard the door close or Chris coming back into the room.  I sort of remember the lights being turned down, but other than that, I remained in a bizarre state of semi-consciousness.  I wondered if this was what it was like to be in a coma. Sometimes I had the feeling that I was paralyzed.  I probably got more sleep than I actually thought that I did but it was very hard to tell.  My brain was tricking me into thinking that I was awake when I was actually asleep and dreaming.  I panicked several times when I tried to move but nothing would happen. I strained to roll my body over but I was limp.  It really felt like I was awake and had lost the ability to move any part of my body.  The fear was overwhelming.  More than once I tried to call out for help but nothing came out of my mouth.  When I really would wake up, I’d wiggle my toes or fingers just to make sure that I really had been dreaming, but then, without any transition, I'd fall asleep again and once again be paralyzed.  This went on for hours and it was maddening and incredibly frightening.   I remained motionless until the sound of the doors opening the next morning woke me up. I think that the last few hours of the night were spent in an actual deep sleep since I was very groggy as I tried to focus my eyes towards the wall.  My left arm was now completely numb.

     The feeling of hopelessness wasn’t gone and I briefly thought about skipping breakfast, but I knew that I needed to eat.  Chris was up and putting on a clean set of scrubs.

“You feeling any better?” he asked.  I didn’t feel like answering, but managed a slight, “No, not really.” 

“You need to eat. Come on, let’s go.”  Maybe he did care. 

     I really didn’t want to get up but somehow summoned enough strength to stand and focus on the fact that I did need to eat.  Chris left once he saw me making an effort.

     My basketball buddies were already seated when I joined the end of the meal line.  I noticed that there was an empty seat at their table but didn’t want to assume that it was for me.  After I filled my plate with some eggs and fruit, I walked over by their table and slowed to see if I was still in the crew.  When one of the guys saw me looking around, he motioned for me to come and sit back with them.

“What happened to you last night?” he said.

“I feel like shit.  I slept through dinner and didn’t move for most of the night.”

“Man, you missed a good movie.  We was gonna play ball again but ended up watching the whole thing.  Some Robert Redford prison movie.”

“I saw it a few months ago,” I told them, “Kind of funny that they’d show it in here.”

All of them immediately lit up.

“That’s what I said!” the thief to my right shouted.  He was very animated.

     I didn’t want to talk and I didn’t feel like eating, but managed to force down what was on my plate.  The guys were talking about playing ball after our morning cell time.

“You playin’ today?” one of the guys asked.

“I don’t think so.  I have to rest.  It’s been a long week.”  I realized when I said it that I was beginning my ninth day. 

“Steve Nash don’t need no rest.”  All of the guys laughed.  If they only knew how Steve Nash really felt. 

     It felt good that they wanted me to play and invited me to sit with them again.  I lied, though, and said that I’d try to come out, knowing full-well that I wasn’t going to play basketball.  In fact, I knew that I wasn’t going to do anything.  I didn’t want to use the phone or shower or do anything that was of the highest priorities for me for so long.  I drifted off to my own thoughts about just wanting Sunday to be over.  Monday would give me new life since the clock would start working again.  I knew nothing was happening for me on the weekend so time kind of stopped. 

     After breakfast I returned to my now-familiar position on the floor in a God damn plastic toboggan.  I grew very angry while I looked up at the white, stone ceiling.  My focus turned to the two villains in my story:  Detective Laney and Jerry.  One guy put me in jail and the other was such a fuck that he basically fired me before he even had a clue of why I was there.  My anger, which I’d been void of for most of my stay, bubbled even higher and I was in a funnel of focusing on how these two men were systematically ruining my life.  Laney was an arrogant jackass whose pride wouldn’t allow him to admit a mistake and Jerry was just a jackass.  I was still very lethargic and didn’t move from my spot for the rest of the morning, although I did briefly consider trying to get up to call Kira.  I was so annoyed and fed up with everything that I simply didn’t want to have to sit through the collect call process of using the phone.  I wanted to talk to her but just couldn’t bring myself to moving. 

     I slept through lunch.  It was a legitimate sleep void of dreams.  I fell asleep while trying to decide who I was angrier with, Jerry or Laney.  Chris was asleep on his bed when I woke up.  I wished that I could just sleep this whole thing away.

     As I stared back up at the now-familiar ceiling, a scene from the movie Animal House popped into my head.  It was Bluto, John Belushi, standing up to address all of Delta House after Dean Wormer had kicked them all out of school. 

“What’s this lying around shit?”  he asked emphatically.

“It’s over man, Wormer dropped the big one.”

“Over?  Did you say over?  Nothing is over until we decide it is!  Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?  Hell no!  And it’s not over now!  Cause when the going gets tough……the tough get going!  So, who’s with me?” 

     It’s funny that at perhaps the lowest point in my life it was a movie scene that began my road back from the brink.  Maybe not funny, but fitting, given the fact that I try to equate most life situations to movies, music or sports.  I thought about Belushi over and over again and his rally cries to the Delta House.  I laughed when I thought that I'd used his line about the Germans bombing Pearl Harbor so many times in my life that I'd nearly forgotten that it was actually the Japanese.  What was this “lying around shit?”  I wasn’t embarrassed by the fact that I had completely broken down, in fact, I was kind of shocked that it had taken so long for it to happen, but I had to make the conscience decision get up and get going again.  It wasn’t over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor and it wasn’t over for me.  I decided to not let Laney and Jerry and the idiot was who actually committed the crimes dictate how I felt.  It wasn’t easy.  I was extremely depressed, beat up, tired and just devoid of any real motivation to move, but I had to snap out of it.  Belushi demanded it.

     When I first got arrested, it didn’t seem real.  In fact, it was kind of like a little adventure.  The adventure had long since faded and my good nature had run out.  I just wanted to go home.  It was Sunday afternoon and I’d had enough.  I was tired of the strict schedule and the total loss of personal freedoms.  I was tired of my disconnection from my life outside in the “real world.”  Although the move to County had given me a little more flexibility and room to breathe, nothing could alleviate the tremendous emotional burden that never moved and never waivered.  I wasn’t living with an elephant on my back, I had the entire zoo.  When I really focused on the realities of what my life had turned into and the possibilities of whatever outcome was around the bend, the best case would have me jobless and in serious trouble financially.  If and when the DNA completely exonerated me from the hideous crimes of which I was accused, I figured that there would still be some sort of stigma attached to me.  Whenever I read or saw a story on TV about some guy or girl who was wrongly accused of whatever crime, I naturally assumed that there had to be a good reason why they were a suspect in the first place.  In my case, I had done absolutely nothing to provoke this.  I had no idea of how my name got attached to this debacle.  The more I thought about it, the more I came to the conclusion that my situation was unlike the majority of the wrongfully accused.  Not that I had any data or facts to back this up, my assumption when innocent people are thrown in jail was that there had to be something that initially connected them to the crime.  They knew the victim or they hung out in the wrong crowd or their past criminal history led the police to their arrest and conviction.  In my case, I had no idea who this guy was who said his name was Chris Justice, I didn’t know the victim or anyone connected to her and I wasn’t even living in the damn state when it occurred.  My mother always said that I was an extremist.  When I do things, I do them big, for better or worse.  This certainly was big. And worse.  She always calls me the “ringleader.”  When I was growing up, I would get mad when I got into trouble in school when I truly wasn’t doing anything wrong.  My parents attributed it to the fact that most of the time I was in the center of the mess and even when I wasn’t, my teachers assumed that I had something to do with it.  If everyone was talking, including me, my name would be the first one that my teachers would call.  It wasn’t always fair, but it was true.  Since I had become a teacher and had been working with kids for the better part of my adult life, I totally understood what my teachers went through when dealing with me.  I was their favorite and least favorite at the same time, and I’ve had many students who I felt exactly the same about. I was the class clown and would like to think that I was fairly witty at even a young age, but I was hyperactive and needed things to do when I got bored, which was often.  I spent my fair share of recesses standing on the side serving out a punishment.  In jail, which is the worst environment imaginable for someone like me who needs constant stimulus, it was like detention in the highest degree.  Just like some of those times in school when I got into trouble when I truly wasn’t doing anything wrong, I was serving this detention wrongfully, with the stakes much higher and the consequences greater.  The worst case scenario had me going to prison as a sex offender.  Whatever the end result, there would be ramifications that possibly would never end.

     While I remained under my blanket trying to will myself back into shape, the lock on our door buzzed open.  I had no idea what time it was, but I didn’t hear the rest of our Block open, which was usual when it was time for recreation.  I turned my head slightly to see what was going on.  Chris was still sound asleep and didn’t move as our door opened and an officer walked inside.  I instantly sat up and felt a huge rush of adrenaline run through my body as I thought that maybe my time had to go home. 

“Justice, your lawyer is here to see you.  Come with me.”

     If there is a God, and I do believe in a higher power, he knew that I needed some support at that exact moment.  Sending Dave Worstell to see me was exactly what I needed and the timing was perfect.  I had forgotten exactly when, but maybe Thursday since I had seen him.  I hoped that he was going to tell me that I was getting out very soon.  I needed some good news and relief from a very emotional 24 hours in my life. 

     The officer escorted me out of D Block and through the corridors of the County Jail.  Whereas I got to know the City Jail surroundings very well, I had no idea of where I was at County.  Besides the rooms that I had been in during my arrival and the other lunchroom, my life was all about D Block.  It felt like we walked a long way before finally arriving at a row of conference rooms.  I saw Dave sitting in one of the rooms towards the middle as they all had windows on three sides.  The officer opened the door and Dave stood up to say hello and shake my hand.  I sat down as the officer closed the door and went out of sight.  It was Sunday afternoon and Dave sat back down and didn’t open any of the folders sitting on the table in front of him.

“So, how you doing out here?” he asked.

“Great, Dave, it’s like Club Med.  I’ve played a few games of basketball, met some new friends and eaten like a king.” He laughed and told me that it was good that I still had my sense of humor.  It’s about all I had left.

“Well, I don’t have anything new to report.  I’m still putting together a bunch of the info about your whereabouts that weekend, but honestly we’re just waiting for that DNA to come back.  I talked to Franklin yesterday and he’s angry that Florida hasn’t finished it yet.  We both thought it would be back by Friday.”

     I sat and looked at Dave as he spoke and I think that he could tell that I really wasn’t doing all that great.  He continued.

“I came out today just to give you a break from your cell.  I figured you’d need a little time away from jail for a bit.  I’m sorry that I don’t have any more news for you, but it could be any time now that the test comes back.  You’re going to get out soon.”

     My natural reaction to even the worst of circumstances or events is to try to see the positive.  Sometimes it’s very difficult, but I’ve always felt that every situation has a positive to be found.  Through all of what I had been through and still faced, it was easy for me to spot the smatterings of positives that I was encountering.  Meeting Dave Worstell was at the top of the list.  Here is a man who didn’t have to believe me, help me or do anything at all.  He had no obligation when he first came to see me other than to try to find out why the hell his kid’s teacher was sitting in jail.  Now, seven days later, he was taking time out of his weekend to stop by to see me and give me a break.  He drove out to wherever the hell I was in Denver just to say hi, really.  I’m sure that I looked horrible, certainly smelled horrible, and was worn down about as far as I could go, but the mere fact that this man was on my side and telling me that I was going to get out soon gave me the final push to stop my “lying around shit.” 

“Dave, thanks so much for coming out.  I can’t tell you how much it means to me.  I was having a rough time and this was the perfect time for you to visit.”

     Any time I told Dave stuff like that he looked uncomfortable and kind of fidgeted around.  I knew how he felt since I’m the same way when accepting praise or thanks.  It couldn’t go unsaid, though, since he had become a saint in my little jail world.  He ended up staying for another half an hour or so and we just caught up on random stuff of no real importance.  He reminded me that I could call his office collect if I needed to talk and that he would update my mother if he had anything new to report.  I’ve never been a “hugger,” but I felt like embracing him as we stood up to go our separate ways.  I resisted the urge as I didn’t get the sense that Dave was a hugger, either.  We shook hands and exited the room.  “Hang in there,” he said as he walked away.  The officer who had escorted me was waiting towards the end of the row of offices and I walked towards him to begin our trek back to D Block.

     On the way back, we passed groups of inmates walking the halls en route to wherever they were allowed to roam.  We turned a corner and a large group of guys were walking in line with a bunch of officers on either side.  They were all carrying a stack of folded up jail-issued green uniforms.  Although I didn’t recognize the area, it was obvious that this group had just arrived and was going through the intake process.  My escort and I had to stop and wait while the line passed.  It seemed like a never-ending procession of prisoners.  While we stood and watched the new arrivals as we were in a car waiting on a train to pass, I heard a familiar voice yelling “Chris!  Chris!”  The accent was on the “i” in my name and it sounded more like “crease.”  I turned to see who was yelling at saw Pepe’ waving like he was in a parade.  His six-toothed smile was broad and he looked as happy as he’d ever been in his life.  It had only been two days since I last saw him asleep on his own toboggan when I left the city jail, but it was like seeing a long, lost friend for the first time in years. 

          “Pepe’! Como estas?”

          “Muy bueno!  How are you?”  His English was very broken but I understood.

          “Bueno, bueno.  Good to see you, mi amigo!”

     We only saw each other for just a few seconds but it was great to see that he seemed to be in better spirits than he was those few days that we spent together.  I laughed out loud after he walked around the corner and out of sight.  My time in the City Jail was a lifetime ago and Pepe’ had played a large part in helping me make it through.  The line of guys finally passed and my walk back to D Block continued, but my mind was back to those countless hours of Spanish and English lessons that Pepe’ and I had shared.  If I were casting the movie version of my ongoing saga, it hit me on the walk that Pepe’ would be played by golfing legend Chi Chi Rogriguez.  They looked so similar that it was possible that they had been separated at birth.  It had been only an hour or less since Belushi and his Delta House speech sparked me to try and regain some composure, but between that and my visit with Dave and seeing Pepe’, I felt a renewed energy and confidence that I could make it through another day.  I wasn’t fully “back” to my previous state of mind, which was still on a bruised and beaten level, but manageable, and couldn’t shake the weight from my shoulders, but maybe it was now just the elephant and not the entire zoo that I was carrying.  I resolved to take a shower and finally get cleaned up once I got back “home.” 

     The common room was alive with activity again as the afternoon recreation time had already started.  Chris was sitting at one of the tables near the entrance door with another guy playing cards.  He looked up at me as I passed by.

          “You getting out?”

          “Nah, my lawyer came to see me.  No news yet.”

          “You feeling any better?” 

          “Much better, thanks.  I needed that sleep.”

          “Good to hear.”

     Once I was back in the main area, my escort officer went in another direction and I was on my own again with all of the recreation possibilities in front of me.  Although I did want to shower, I decided to put it off until the evening.  I needed to talk with some friends and hear some voices other than those of criminals and the police.  My 24 hours of living in the nether regions of my mind had widened the gap of the connection to my real life.  Seeing Dave reminded me just how important those five minute phone calls at the City Jail had been.   I was being given what I would have I done almost anything to get just a few days previous and I was wasting it away with self pity and cowardice.   I needed to go back to when even a few minutes of phone time was like gold.  It was selfish of me to not reach out to those who cared and worried about me.  The breakdown was necessary and unavoidable but to continue my rebound from a new bottom I had reset my priorities. 

     There were a few guys talking on the phones, but one was available, so I made my way across the room and thought about who I wanted to talk to.  It was Sunday afternoon, so I called Kermit to see what was happening at home.  It was the first time that I tried to call someone other than Kira or my mother.  The last time I talked to Kermit was on Thursday night when he came to visit, which felt like last year.  I’m sure that he already knew that I had moved addresses.  I dialed my number and shockingly, he answered.  He seemed confused by the collect call process and electronic voice introduction of where I was calling from.  It took him longer than it should have, but he figured it out, pressed the right buttons and we were connected.

          “Where you calling from?” he asked.

          “I’m at the County Jail now.  Got here on Friday.  This place is crazy,” I said, 

          “I played the greatest game of basketball ever yesterday.  Real, live prison

          ball.” 

     Kermit and I had played a lot of pick up basketball at night at my school since I had moved to Denver.  I got to know a few of his local friends when I first arrived and I took him through the whole story of shooting baskets by myself, the group of guys that showed up and my flawless performance. 

          “Bullshit,” he said laughing.

          “Yep, I swear.  I can’t make this up.” 

     We talked until the one minute warning voice interrupted him.

          “What the fuck was that?” he said.

          “Every half hour we are either done or I have to call you back.  It’s a pain in

          the ass,” I explained.  “I’m gonna call a few other people, but I’ll let you know

          if something happens.”

     We got cut off before either of us could say goodbye, but it was good to talk to him.  Kermit and I had known each other for a long time and had spent more hours than I could count on various road trips together.  There is no better way to get to know someone than to spend double digit hours in a car with them.  From Kansas City to camp in Minnesota, up to Chicago, Denver to Vegas or our many drives up the mountain to ski, Kermit was probably number one of my list, besides my parents, on having spent the most hours together in a car.  We played more trivia and came up with more games than Monte Hall and Alex Trebek combined.  He had become one of my best friends and could always be counted on to keep an even keel and not get overly emotional about stressful situations.  He is an only child and lived with his father growing up after his parents divorced.  Like me, he grew up in a household that didn’t talk about feelings and avoided “real” conversations, but when we talked while I was in jail, either in person or during that phone conversation, he was openly concerned and wanted to make sure that I was doing alright.  It was semi-uncomfortable for either of us to talk about “touchy-feely” things, but it’s during times like these when your true friends show you exactly what being friends is all about.  It’s comforting to know that you can count on people when you need them the most.  Although I much preferred the sports, entertainment and bullshit conversation topics that we usually engaged in, it felt good to know that we could actually reach out on a different level. 

     Next on my list of people to call was Ephram, my boss and Assistant Director of the camp where I worked the previous summer in Maine.  Talking to him had been on my mind since mid-week.  I had been promoted from Sports Director to Program Director after the summer and I was very much looking forward to returning in June.  Even though I had lost my “real” job, going back to Maine was still a possibility and I wanted to get out in front of my situation and fill Ephram in on what was happening.  Additionally, I was supposed to be going to New York City in just a few weeks for an American Camping Association conference.  Eric, the owner and Director, and another staff member from the previous summer were going to be there along with Ephram and me.  I was extremely concerned and worried about calling him, since he had no idea of where I was or what I was going through.  This would be the first time that I was going to talk to someone I knew, a friend (and boss) who had no idea of what turn my life had taken over the past week. 

     The electronic voice lady would tell him where I was calling from before I could even say a word.  I wished that there was another way, but it was important that he heard from me first-hand before getting the news from elsewhere.  His number was one that I had written down on my contact list before I left my house.  I called his land line at home in New Jersey.  I had grown pretty close to him and his wife, Lori, in the short three months I spent there in 2001.  He answered and I held my breath as he listened to the instructions.  I tried to picture his face as he heard, “You are receiving a collect phone call from an inmate at the Denver Country Jail.  “Chris” (my recorded voice) is calling from the Denver County Jail.  To accept the charges from “Chris,” please press one.  All calls are recorded.”  I heard him press a button and I immediately got very nervous.  It was time to talk and I went blank.  Where do I start?  Fuck!  I should have rehearsed my opening monologue.  I immediately realized that everything that I was going to tell him was going to sound really, really bad. 

          “Ephram, it’s Fletch.  How are you?”  I had no idea of what to say.

          “Where are you?”  He was obviously very confused.

          “Well, it’s kind of a funny story, but I’m in the Denver County Jail.  It’s a very

          complicated story, but I’ve been wrongfully accused of some bad stuff

          that happened in Florida after I moved here.  A guy using my name did

          some things to a girl and the police there think it was me.  I promise you that

          I had nothing to do with it and I’ve already taken a DNA test to prove it.

          I’ve been in jail since last Saturday and my lawyer thinks that I’ll be getting

          out very soon.”

     I spoke way too fast and rambled.  I nearly got choked up while I talked.  I didn’t want to give him a chance to say anything and held my breath while there was a short pause before he said anything.

          “Obviously you’re innocent,” he said. 

     I hadn’t even given him any details and I had only known him since the previous June, but his very first thought and words were that he had no doubt about my character and that I was innocent.  I was walking on such thin emotional ice that my voice cracked when I said a simple “Thank you.”  I’m sure that he heard my worry and stress through the phone. 

          “Eph, I don’t have much time to talk, but I wanted you to hear it from me

          before any word got out through the camp grapevine.  This thing is going to

work itself out and I should be getting out soon.  I’ll be able to explain everything when I’m home, but there are a lot of people who know that I’m innocent and are working hard to resolve this, including some police here in Denver.  I just want to make sure that I still have a job this summer,” I said to him.

          “Of course you have a job.  You have nothing to worry about.  I wish

          there was something that I could do from here.  Are you OK?” 

“I’m OK,” I said, “It has been straight out of a movie and sometime this summer I’ll tell you about it over beers.”  I wished I had a beer in my hand.

     I didn’t feel like taking him through the whole week and all of the incredibly complicated details so I left it open and again told him that I’d give him the full story once I was out.  Going back to camp had been in the back of my mind since all of this first began, but I hadn’t given much thought to the ramifications of them being able to bring me back.  The camp grapevine, whether in Maine or Minnesota, is far reaching and fast moving.  Even though staff and campers are spread out all over the globe, the camp world is very connected and word travels at lightning speed.  I worried about an awful game of “Telephone.”  In the game, you sit in a circle and whisper something to the person next to you and they relay that same thing to the person next to them and so on, until it comes all the way back around.  The last person hearing the news announces what they heard, and it’s always very, very different than whatever was first said.  There was a real possibility that once the news got out about my arrest, important details would be left out when the re-telling made its way from ear to ear.  It could start out as, “Did you hear that Fletch was arrested and is the victim of a horrible case of mistaken identity?  He had to take a DNA test to prove his innocence,” and end up a week later as, “Hey, did you hear that Fletch is in jail in Colorado for raping a girl in Florida?”  Even if Ephram and Eric believed that I was truly innocent, they would still have to worry about families of campers hearing the story third or fourth hand.  There would be some serious damage control to be done and I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that camp is also a business and that Eric may not want to deal with it, innocent or not.  I was very good friends with Ephram, but Eric was a wildcard and a bit eccentric. 

          “Tell Eric that this is all one huge mistake and that I’ll have a book full of

          evidence, including DNA, which will show that I’m 100% innocent.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Eric,” he replied, “Just call me as soon as you get out and be safe.  I can’t believe that this is happening to you.”

          “Thanks, Eph.  Say hi to Lori and the kids.”

          “I will.  And good luck to your Tigers tonight.” 

     I had nearly forgotten about Mizzou and the Big 12 basketball tournament that was going on.  I remembered that I saw a game on the TV the night I arrived in D Block, but really didn’t care.  Ephram and I both shared the same love of sports.  He was a huge fan of all things New York and New Jersey.  He’s a huge Mets, Jets and Rangers fan.  Our conversations always turned to sports.  I’d call him to talk about something regarding camp, which would take maybe three minutes, and then the next 45 minutes would be spent talking about our teams.  He always gave me a hard time about the Cubs.

          “Who are we playing?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t already hung up. 

          “Texas,” he said.

     I figured that it would be on our TV that night, and I acted like I cared, but really didn’t.  We said goodbye and I felt a huge sense of relief that I could count on Ephram to back me after this ordeal was over.  I worried about the fall-out from the conversation, though, since it’s not everyday that a friend, an employee, calls from jail with a story as far out from left field as mine.  Once he had time to truly process what he had just heard and talk to his wife, and especially Eric, the thoughts and decisions may be different.  It was out of my hands, though, and all I’d have to prop myself up on, with him or anyone, really, would be my absolute innocence and proof to verify it. 

     Before I could make any more calls, the warning was given that recreation time was nearly over.  I didn’t want to get into another conversation and have to cut it short, so I just started my Mac McMurphy mindless walking around the perimeter again until we were told to return to our cells. 

     For the tenth time, it seemed, I tried to start reading Chris’ book of short stories.  I think I had read the first page over twenty times and hadn’t progressed much past it.  Chris was back in his usual position on his bed and I was sitting up on my toboggan.  I wanted the day to be over so that Monday’s work day could get under way.  I was incredibly hungry since I missed two of the last three meals. 

      I re-joined my basketball buddies for dinner and told them that I was feeling much better.  None of them were going to play ball later that night since everyone was planning on watching the Mizzou-Texas game.  I desperately wanted to get excited about it, but couldn’t find the connection to that part of my brain.  All of my life passions were blocked and the only feelings that I could locate were worry and the extreme longing to talk to and see my friends and family.  I did go into some more details about my week and story with the guys.  They told me that they had been telling everyone about it and a bunch of the other guys in the “Block” were interested to hear more about it.  Guys in jail, I was learning, really hate the police and hearing stories about them screwing things up so badly fuels that fire.  I felt like, as I had with Ice Cube and some others back at City, that they knew that I really didn’t belong in their element.  They wanted to see me “stick it to the man.”  A few others during the week brought it up, but these guys talked about me suing everyone involved every time the subject came up.  “Dude, you’re gonna get PAID!” was a very common phrase that I heard.  Although the thought of a lawsuit had entered my mind once or twice throughout the week, I just wanted to go home.  Those things could wait for later, if ever.  I would give everything I had, which wasn’t all that much, to just be able to go home.  Soon.   

     After dinner and a few minutes of actually getting past page one of the book, the night time recreation began and it was finally time for me to shower.  I had avoided it, but my stench and dingy feeling had become more than I could take.  I also wanted to shave, so I walked to the control desk to get a razor.  I couldn’t remember the last time that I showered.  Maybe Thursday?  It was hard to even remember what day it was.  The officer at the desk gave me a generic disposable plastic safety razor that was enclosed in a plastic wrap.  I also got a clean towel and made my way into the shower area.  No one else was in the room and I quickly got into one of the shower stalls and took off my dirty scrubs and stinky shoes and set them on the floor outside the curtain.  I turned on the water and leaned close to the wall to avoid the stream, waiting for it to get warm.  I had a bar of soap and tried for ten minutes to open the fucking plastic wrap around the razor.  My hands were wet and slick from the soap, so it was nearly impossible to get a grip on it.  I tried to use my teeth several times, but it was quickly becoming an impossible task and a fiasco in progress.  I had to grab my towel, which was hanging on a hook outside the shower, and dry my hands and the plastic off so I could get a grip and open it, which I finally did.  It literally took a quarter of an hour just to open up a razor.  The water had heated up and I stood under the stream for nearly 30 minutes, washing myself with the soap, looking out of the frosted glass at the shadows moving around in the common area.  I could see the flicker of the television set up above the crowd. 

     Even under optimal conditions, shaving was a chore for me.  Shaving is easily in my top five things that I hate to do.  I need a sharp razor, shaving cream and plenty of time for my face to loosen up from the steam of the shower to be properly prepared.  It has always been a process.  The skin on my neck is very sensitive and my beard hair grows in such a manner that if I tried to begin before it was ready, I bleed everywhere.  It’s kind of like when you nick yourself a little and bleed, but this is different.  It’s almost like I scrape off a little patch of skin rather than cut it.  The results are the same, though.  There was a time when I was in basic training at Fort Knox when I tried to get away with not shaving for a few days.  My beard hair had always grown slow, but I pushed my luck by not shaving for a second day.  One of my drill sergeants noticed it, got angry like drill sergeants tend to do, and sent me back to the barracks during a class to shave.  He told me that I only had a few minutes to do it or I’d be doing push ups until I couldn’t feel my arms anymore.  I was so worried about not getting back in time that I nearly shaved without using water.  When I did get back, which was within the time he had designated, my neck was bleeding from more spots than could be counted.  I had blood everywhere.  “What the fuck did you do to yourself?” the drill sergeant yelled at me.  It looked like I had shaved with a weed whacker.  I tried to explain my sensitive skin issue, but before I could even get a few words out, he became so agitated that he made good on his word and I ended up doing pushups until I couldn’t feel my arms.  The more pushups I did, the more I’d drip red-tinged sweat on the floor.  This made him even angrier since I was getting the floor dirty.

 “What the fuck are you doing to my floor?”

     The decision to not to shave for a second day cost me push ups until exhaustion and two hours of mopping and cleaning the floor of the entire classroom building. 

     I was about to attempt to shave a ten day growth, since I hadn’t shaved since a few days before I was arrested, with a safety razor without shaving cream.  I braced for the pain, which came immediately with the first stroke.  I stepped out of the shower and put the towel around my waist since I decided that I’d need to see myself in the mirror as I tore up my face.  I ran the water in the sink until it was hot and began again.  It felt like I was pulling each individual hair out slowly and it hurt like hell.  I immediately regretted my decision to shave, but was now committed.  I had pull the razor over the same spot ten or fifteen times just to make any progress.  I also made another regrettable decision to shave my goatee as well.  It had grown in months ago and I hadn’t been fully clean shaven since before Christmas. I stopped several times to re-apply a coat of soap lather on my face.  The answer to “How long does it take to shave a full goatee and ten day growth with a safety razor and soap (while in jail)?” is one hour.  I looked like I had been hit in the face by buckshot.  Since I didn’t have any aftershave, which was always a necessity after I shaved to soothe and cool my skin, my face was on fire.  The shower was great, but the shaving was a big mistake.  I knew that I would slowly bleed for quite awhile and didn’t even bother blotting small strips of toilet paper on the red spots to help slow the process.  The pain and blood would go away, but not quickly.  I put my dirty scrubs back on along with my smelly boat shoes, threw away the razor and walked back to my cell to recover.  I had no interest in being among the population and explaining over and over the details of my sensitive face. 

     While I sat in my cell, I thought about checking out some electric clippers and shaving off my Tom Petty-esque hair.  I often buzzed it short in the warm months and my styling options were slowly decreasing as my hair receded.  I knew that this growing out process would probably be my last hurrah.  I also knew that I was getting dangerously close to looking like the guy who grew his thinning hair out to try to mask the fact that he was losing the aging battle.  I wasn’t quite there yet, but my “mountain” hair had become nearly unmanageable.  Growing it out had actually become a fun little side topic with my students, who encouraged me to continue.  Some of the sixth grade kids were trying to talk me into coloring it blonde, which seemed like a horrible, yet fantastic idea.  If this whole jail thing had never happened, I may have actually done it at the end of the school year and then shaved it off before I got to camp in June.  During my freshman year of college, a girlfriend talked me into letting her try to highlight my hair.  I think she left the chemicals in too long and I ended up looking like Keifer Sutherland in The Lost Boys.  It was hideous.  She said she knew what she was doing and I made the mistake of believing her.  It wouldn’t be the first or last time that I made that same mistake with her and other girlfriends.  We tried to fix it by attempting to color it back to a darker shade, but instead of returning to a light brown, it came out orange.  I spent a week of my life as The Joker from Batman.  I finally ended up going to a professional salon and paying a ridiculous amount of money to have it fixed, but it still took over six months for it to return to normal. 

     I thought it might be a good time to shave my hair off, but more importantly I was killing time.  My renewed emotional state and determination to make it through this ordeal without further breakdowns depended on constant diversions from reality.  It was easier at County than it had been in the City Jail, but I knew that I was worn down so much on all levels that it wouldn’t take much for me to rocket towards the bottom again.  Showering and butchering my face took up a block of time.  Cutting my hair would keep me occupied and then I’d move on to the next thing, and so on.  I finally decided that I didn’t want to give up my hair just yet, so I waited for my wounds to dissipate enough that I could wash my face and not look like a horror show.  I read a little more of my book and then made my way out to look for distractions until it was time to go to bed. 

     When I walked back into the main room, half of the Block was gathered at the television, much like the night before with The Last Castle slumber party, but this time they were watching the Missouri Tigers take on the Texas Longhorns.  I stopped to watch and I tried, I really tried, to care.  What would normally have me glued to the action and wringing my palms with nervous anxiety didn’t even more the needle inside me.  I simply didn’t care.  Guys yelled at the TV for one team or the other and every part of me wanted to roll up my the leg of my pants to expose my Mizzou tattoo on my left ankle. I wanted to move to the front of the crowd and insert myself into the action, but I couldn’t.  It just didn’t seem important. Just as it had been on Friday night, one part of my brain couldn’t process the fact that something that had meant so much to me for most of my cognitive life seemed so trivial.  Being in the circumstances in which I found myself had completely flipped my version of reality and what mattered in life.  I was in survival mode and couldn’t fire the engine that controlled my life passions.  I wanted freedom and family and friends.  A Mizzou win or loss wasn’t on that list.  I did hope that they would win, of course, but a loss wouldn’t render me angry and ruin my night or week.  I glanced at the score and watched for maybe a minute or two, but using the phone and calling Kira seemed much more important. 

     There was an hour and a half left in our night time recreation and my goal was to use it all up with Kira.  During my time of lying under the covers unable to move, the only thoughts that I had beyond extreme depression were about what was happening with her and me.  The feeling that someone besides my friends and family was out in the world thinking of me, missing me and standing beside me was nearly enough by itself to give me the hope and strength to continue.  Belushi’s speech started the fire and the visit from Dave and seeing Pepe’ obviously helped, but I couldn’t get Kira out of my head.  The same part of my brain that couldn’t understand why the hell I wasn’t locked on the TV watching the Tigers was also telling me that I was dead wrong about what was going on with Kira. 

“You know, it’s all a product of the environment you’re in,” it told me.  “You were right to end it when she left Colorado.  You’re making a huge mistake.” 

     The rest of me disagreed.  I had made the mistake when she visited and Kira might be the person that I was going to marry.  We had danced around it during some of our more recent talks since my arrival at County, but I could actually conceptualize marrying her in my head.  It didn’t scare me and it didn’t seem so far-fetched.  The farther into my jail journey I went, the more real I thought my feelings had progressed.  She loved me and never waivered in her belief in me and my innocence.  I went to the open bank of phones and waited while she answered the phone and got us connected. 

     The next hour and a half went by as fast as I could ever remember any 90 minute stretch of time in my life.  One minute I was dialing her number and suddenly, the next we were being given the five minute warning.  Yes, the phone would be my salvation.  If I was going to make it, talking to my friends, my mother and Kira was going to be my fuel.  There had been long, painful and lonely lengths of isolation during which time slowed to the point that it seemed like it was going backwards.  Of course, it didn’t help that I was staring at a clock tower and being asked the time every fifteen minutes, but being able to use the phone for extended periods would get me to from checkpoint to checkpoint in my endless wait for resolution and freedom.  Kira and I had done this for months, normally lying in our beds on the phone before we went to sleep.  In fact, one of us had fallen asleep more than a few times while still on the phone.  Minus the week after she visited when I was sure that she wasn’t right for me, we had talked on the phone nearly every day and night since sometime in October.  I wasn’t in danger of falling asleep on the small stool at the phone bank, but she may have drifted off once or twice while we talked on Sunday night. 

     The subject of marriage came up more than once and I went right along with it.  To use a poker term, I was “all in.”  My emotional buffer and governor was completely worn away from everything that I’d been through and I was about as raw as a person could be, or so I thought.  The gloves were officially off.  Kira and I made plans for me to come see her next week after I got out.  It was her spring break from school and she had the entire week off.  It felt good to make plans for my post-jail life, even if I couldn’t conjure the feeling that a time would really come when I’d get out.  It was kind of like the feeling I sometimes got when I was out on a training run.  My mind would often wander and try to envision finishing my first marathon, but I just couldn’t imagine actually running 26.2 miles and crossing the finish line.  I had been in jail for nearly eight full days and I had no idea if I was still on mile one of this race.  I didn’t even know how far the finish line was or if it even existed, but Kira was steadfast in her belief that I was almost there.  As difficult as it was, I tried to believe her.  She simply wouldn’t stand for me believing anything other than the fact I would be seeing her in Minneapolis in a little over a week.

     Right around the time we got the word that rec time was nearly over, I noticed that the Mizzou game was ending and that they were going to lose.  I mentioned this to Kira and she feigned anger that I had called her instead of watching the game.  I didn’t bother trying to explain how little I cared about it since I didn’t feel like another Tony Robbins pep talk about staying positive.  All of my other friends, Kermit, Aimee, Lou Greer, my mother, Ephram and even Dave, tried to give me a helpful boost of confidence that everything was going to work out.  Every conversation ended with some version of “don’t worry” and “it’ll be over soon,” but I had nothing but worry and no one knew if or when I was going to get out.   It was easy for them to say “don’t worry” from where they sat.  When they hung the phone up or left the visitation room, they were able to make choices of whatever it was that they wanted to do and where they wanted to go.  I had to return to my cell to sit and wait for the next opportunity to talk to someone.  It was impossible for me to describe the weight of my load and how a very small part of me didn’t want to hear “don’t worry,” which was wrong of me to think.  They cared about me and wanted to help, but telling me that everything was going to work out was what they were supposed to say.  I knew that I was being horribly ridiculous and it was one of the reasons that I decided not to tell anyone about the dark times that I was experiencing.  I never told Kira or anyone else how much I didn’t want to hear blanket words of hope, so I always just said, “Thank you.”  It was just another confusing emotional thought that you’d never know existed until you’re in a similar situation.  Maybe people fighting cancer got annoyed when their loved ones told them that they would be OK, I don’t know.  I wasn’t sure of anything, really, at least I was learning quite a bit about myself that I didn’t previously know.

     I didn’t want to go back to my cell, which was normal, but I especially didn’t want to stop talking to Kira. I had let go of all of my previous doubts from her visit to Colorado and had given in to everything that we were talking about and feeling.  I could have easily stayed up all night talking to her.  I could tell that she was sad to have to end our conversation and I promised to call her on Monday.  She had class in the morning, so we’d have to wait until the afternoon to talk again.  Our conversation ended with multiple “I love you’s” and I slowly hung up the phone.  The lights dimmed just a minute after I returned to the discomfort of my toboggan.  I didn’t feel even a shimmer of being tired since my mind was racing with everything that Kira and I talked about and the overall extreme feelings that I had for her.  I was in a far better place than I was before being reminded that the war wasn’t over when Pearl Harbor was bombed, regardless of whether or not it mattered that Bluto got it wrong with who actually did the bombing.  Thinking about the next day being Monday and everyone going back to work made me a feeling very much like going to bed on Christmas Eve.  If I could just get to the morning, a new work week would begin and the renewed possibility of going home would begin again.