Duke
Every jail cell I’d ever been in smelled the same, a mixture of piss, puke, and cheap as hell aftershave that every cop seemed to drown themselves in.
The Fulton County drunk tank was no exception.
It was Saturday afternoon and the intake holding cell was already over capacity by the time my bedraggled ass was tossed in.
This was my third run-in with Georgia’s finest since I’d returned home, and my father was gonna be none too pleased to hear I’d been arrested, but what the fuck did I care?
He was just another on a long list of people who hated my guts.
He was still angry that I’d gone off and joined the Army in the first place, and the whole country was pissed off at me now that I was back home.
The college kids and hippies called me ‘baby killer’ and the straight people tried to pretend I didn’t exist. I could scarcely blame them for that.
Most of the country, including myself, wanted to pretend Vietnam had never happened.
The ‘busted taillight’ I’d been pulled over for had been working fine until the cop who pulled me over, laid his nightstick across it.
Then came the questions about where I’d been and where I was going, followed up with him giving me shit about the way I was dressed, my bike, and my hair.
Next thing I knew, I was booked on some half-assed charges of reckless driving, resisting arrest, and whatever else the hell they were bound to tack on for shits n’ giggles.
“What about my phone call?” I asked as the guard shoved me into the cell.
“I’ll make sure and add your name to the list,” he replied and pulled a pad and pen from his pocket. “Now, tell me. Is ‘Shithead’ spelled exactly the way it sounds?”
The drunk tank erupted with laughter as the guard stared me down. I knew better than to push these good ol’ boys too far and stowed my comments.
“That’s what I thought,” the guard replied. “Now, shut the fuck up and find a seat before I come back here with the firehose and wash the stink out of this cell.”
I scoped out my surroundings and saw I’d been temporarily housed with an assortment of bums and junkies, as well as a half dozen bikers in kuttes that read Burning Saints.
I’d been riding in and around Savannah since I was a kid, but had never heard of their club, so assumed they must be local to Atlanta.
I was in my riding leathers and hoped they didn’t want to start any shit with me.
Six-on-one wasn’t my idea of a good time, and my lack of a patch made me a target for biker gangs.
I found a sliver of free space on the floor next to a skinny, nervous looking kid in a dirty white T-shirt, and slumped down against the filthy grey wall. It didn’t take long before the chatty young cell mate struck up a conversation.
“Hey, man. My name’s P…P…Pete. H…h…how you d…d…d…doing?” he stuttered.
“Well, Pete. I’m in fuckin’ jail, so how do you think I’m doing?” I replied.
Pete laughed, even though my response was delivered without a trace of humor. “W…What’s your n…n…name, man?”
“Look, no offense but I’m not in a real talkative mood right now, so if you don’t mind…,” I said, closing my eyes and tilting my head back, hoping Pete would get the hint that I was going to attempt to sleep.
Pete did not get the hint.
“Y…y…yeah, man. I g…get it. I was just hoping that m…m…maybe you were h…holding. Ya know?”
“Holding? We’re in a jail cell.”
“I know. I j…j…just figured you’ve g…g…got a lot of p…p…p…pockets on your v…vest, so m…maybe you’d have a little s…s…something to take the edge off, ya know?”
“Sorry, brother. More of a Budweiser man myself.”
“Hey, P…P…peckerhead,” a voice shouted from across the cell. “You’d better pray you get outta here before I do, ’cause you’re gonna need a hellofa head start.”
Pete’s eyes darted to the floor and he fidgeted nervously while scratching at his forearms.
This kid was obviously in a bad way, and not just from dope withdrawals.
“I’m gonna f…f…fuck you up, b…b…boy,” the faceless voice taunted.
“What’s that all about?” I asked.
“That’s my brother-in-law, R…R…Ronnie.”
“Sounds like you did something to piss ol’ Ronnie off.”
“You c…c…could say that,” Pete replied, his eyes still pinned to the shitty concrete floor.
“I’m guessing whatever you did landed you both in here.”
“Ronnie married my b…b…big sister, but he hates my g…g…guts. I was trying to g…g…get him to like m…m…me, so I got us a b…bunch of P…P…Pink Floyd tickets to scalp, but we got p…p…pinched in the p… parking lot trying to sell them.”
“Tough break,” I said. “But I don’t have any drugs and I’m not a lawyer, so best of luck with your brother-in-law, I’m gonna try to get some sleep.”
My eyes had only been closed for a moment when Ronnie pushed his way through the inmates surrounding us and made his way to the spot where Pete and I were sitting.
“I mean it, you stammering little prick,” Ronnie spat out to Pete, while pointing a nicotine-stained finger at him. “I don’t give a shit that you’re my old lady’s little brother. I’m gonna tear you a new asshole for this.”
“P…P…Please. P…P…Please, d…d…don’t.” Pete struggled to get the words out as sweat poured from his forehead. He curled up tightly in a ball as Ronnie continued to get closer and closer.
I’ve never been one to insert myself into anyone’s business, especially the family kind, but I hated bullies more than anything and I’d heard just about enough from this Ronnie fellow. I rose to my feet and my eyes met his, once I looked up another four inches.
“How ’bout you lay off the kid for now?” I asked politely.
“How ’bout you mind your own goddamned business, you piece of biker trash?” Ronnie replied and poked my chest.
That would be the last thing Ronnie would do with that finger for the next six weeks.
Before he knew it, his right index finger was in my left hand.
Once he was aware of that, his finger was then snapped in two places.
Reflexively, Ronnie dropped to his knees, and my boot easily pinned his head down to the floor while I kept control of his arm.
Two feet of space and six seconds was all I needed to gain complete control of my larger opponent. Ronnie could thank the United States Army for that.