The Intractability of Wishes : Once Upon A Time In My Life - Part 2
I am face down on a carpet. The assembled cops have me secure, with their boots on my neck, my back, my butt, my arms pulled behind me. I can't move. My jeans are around my ankles, as I had had the bright idea to show them that I was, in military parlance, a "big swinging dick", upon their arrival at the third floor of the Portsmouth Motel Six this Friday night, three minutes ago, back when I was on top of the world.
I know that I am way overweight and that the dual taserings had a chance of killing me. But I'm still alive. The cops gently lift me to my feet, pull up my pants, and buckle them for me since I'm now in handcuffs. My shoes are in my room; someone retrieves them, tries to slip the right one on to my size 14 foot, failing. I say to them, "Widen it out. Widen it out." They finally understand what I mean, and get both shoes, unlaced, on my feet.
We are in the hallway just outside of the room I have rented for the night, and I watch the police search it. Just a boombox, beer bottles (some empty, some full), a small brown suitcase with three days worth of clothes, a used towel from my shower. No drugs. I've never done any drugs. Never even smoked a joint.
I am in a state of shock and meek as a newborn as I am led into the elevator, downstairs, through the lobby, and into a idling police cruiser. The cops are nothing but respectful and decent as my head and body are gently maneuvered past the doorframe into the car's backseat. I've never had handcuffs on before, and they are painfully tight around my oversized wrists. The cruiser's backseat is much too small for my bulk, and I have to sit sideways. Wordlessly, the cops drive us off.
We arrive at the police station. I am led to a large booking room and am seated amongst a row of metal chairs against the near wall. Very little is being said by anyone there. Why do they all look so sad and serious? Minutes later, paramedics arrive and give me the once over: they find nothing wrong and are quickly gone. One of the cops, a nervous looking male in his thirties, hands me a small metal box with a tube attached. I have no idea what it is. He tells me to "blow in it." What? Why? I realize it's a breathalyzer, to see how much I've had to drink. Blowing into the tube is laborious and tiring. The cop seems annoyed with my efforts, asking me to try again. I've got no breath to give, no strength left. After two or three tries he seems satisfied and retreats.
I am put into a holding cell and the handcuffs are removed. The frigid, damp, fetid, closet sized cell is covered, literally from ceiling to floor, with graffiti. I am too tired to try to decipher any of it. Sitting on the bench provided, my head is throbbing. I'm utterly confused as to why my protectors, my inferiors, have brought me here. Why is this happening? The thought crosses my mind that I am in danger, but it passes quickly. I can't put more than a few small thoughts together. How long will I be here? When can I sleep?
There is very little noise in the jail. I hear nearby doors open and close, half whispers exchanged, some radio chatter. It seems I am the only prisoner in the group of three cells, thankfully. I am brought to a brightly lit room to be fingerprinted. It is clear right away that the elder of the two cops involved is teaching the other how it's done, but they have no success getting my large fingers to read on their scanner. Is it because the electricity from the taser left my body through these fingers, causing some burning? This thought gives me some measure of comfort: You fuckers tried to kill me and failed! I have a mug shot taken, for the first time in my life. I try to look like like everything is fine. It doesn't work.
Back to the cell. I quickly realize that I must sit sideways on the bench so that I can rest my outstretched right leg on it. Within minutes, I am comfortable in my new surroundings. So this is what being locked up is like, huh? I can do this. I can take this. My thoughts turn to how long I will be here. Hours or days? Months even? Can they do this to me? Time passes, a guard comes and brings me back to the main booking room. He tells me I can bail myself out with $50. Since I've been on the run for only a week or so, I have plenty of cash left in my wallet and pay the man. How lucky am I that I have the necessary cash on me?
I'm led out to a waiting cruiser. Two young, beefy, intense looking cops are seated in front. They are obviously the heavy hitters I have been waiting for all night. I think of them as my personal ass kickers. They could be Secret Service, FBI, military, anything. As long as they know what they are doing, everything will be fine. And I am amazed that the markings on the car appear legit: how did the government do this all so quickly? Anyways, cool. Finally, some action. The snow is falling heavily, and it is still night. The ass kicker who is driving pulls slowly away from the police station, driving carefully, obviously due to both the conditions and his important cargo.
Nothing is said on our drive. We arrive at Portsmouth Regional Hospital ten minutes later. I'm brought to the emergency room, a place I am familiar with due to my many stays at The Pavilion, the hospital's psych unit, and am led to a large rectangular room I've never been in. The ass kickers, whom I have come quickly to feel are my protectors, are at the door, saying nothing. Minutes pass, then a young looking nurse appears. She has a very serious demeanor: this must be a big assignment for her; maybe she's in over her head so I better be nice. She questions me about what happened that night, and seems angry with me, as if I have actually done something wrong. I notice one of the ass kickers at the door instinctively reach his gun hand down to his weapon when she presses a point. He's clearly on my side, and would die to protect me. The nurse draws blood, takes my vitals, leaves. Ten minutes later she returns, all smiles. Did somebody tell her who I am? How important I am? Her face is now one of tenderness and compassion; she starts referring to me as "honey." Yes, somebody certainly got to her, thankfully. Maybe it's gonna be alright
As I wait some new cops arrive and begin to mill around outside in the hallway. I listen intently to their talk, trying to get a clue as to where they are taking me next. I hear discussion of how "This happens all the time." Piecing together what I hear, fear begins to take hold. I realize that it was no coincidence I saw all those National Guardsmen at the Hampton the other night: they were supposed to hold a field exercise over the weekend, but my harassment and arrest have caused serious turmoil. The thought jumps to my mind, based on snippets from what I hear from the hallway, that there there are a lot of folks angry that I've been treated so poorly. And others who just as badly want to do me harm. Military people. Important people. Folks with whom no one fucks with. Is it possible that the ass kickers are there to protect me from some faction within the government? I know that the US government is peopled by many different fiefdoms, all with their own agendas, for whom assassinating me would be quite the trophy pelt. Now I'm scared. Could there even be a civil war over this, my arrest? I won't live through the night, I think.
The nurse wishes me well. I'm sure treating me will give her a great story to tell her children someday, and am happy for her. The ass kickers lead me out the back door of the ER, to a waiting cruiser. But it's a different one than I came in. I'm handed off to two older, portly, and slightly unsanitary looking cops, who seat me in the back. Why are the two pros, whom I have developed such a crush on, giving me up now? I ask no questions, am hoping just to survive the night. I'll figure this all out come daylight.
We drive for what seems like hours, through awful weather. Again, there is no conversation from the officers. They are serious in their work, thankfully. We travel west from Portsmouth, getting off the highway in Concord. Road signs tell me that we are at the New Hampshire State Hospital. I have begun to obsess over the chance of being assassinated, by a disgruntled soldier, by a spook who is just following orders, by a crazy who doesn't like what I've been saying about the war on my blog. Lots of possibilities, many worries.
After we park outside what appears to be the main hospital building, the older, heftier cop gets out of car, looks left and right (snipers?), and walks the thirty feet to a side door. It opens from within. My heart is racing because I know I will have to walk from the car to the waiting door, and my brain is telling me that I might be assassinated in the attempt. The snow has turned to rain, increasing the gloominess of the night. I take a tentative step out of the vehicle. No gun shots. Another step, towards the door. And another. So much effort, but I am able to find the courage. And I make it. Thanks to the officers for getting me out of harm's way. They did an incredible job of protecting me, I know.
Inside the hospital, I am led to a very large but dour looking and foul smelling room, where half a dozen or so staffers are seated in row facing a single chair. I sit down on it, trying to gauge the temperature of the room. Who is the leader here? What is their rank? Any generals or colonels? The slightly built middle aged man dressed in a cheap, ill fitting, brown suit speaking to me seems to not be officer material. Is he in charge of all this? This lightweight? After a few perfunctory questions from him, I am led out of the room, to what appears to be the main psych unit, and to my room. I'm given a bright colored yellow blanket. Why is it so noticeable, so eye catching? This seems odd, troubling, frightening. It occurs to me that I am being made a target, that the blanket is a way for someone outside to pick my form out through the window. The assassination didn't happen in the parking lot, it would happen in my sleep. I am too tired to run, to analyze. I think to myself, "If I'm going to die tonight, then so be it. I can't fight them all off forever. If no one wants to be in my corner then fuck it. Everyone dies."
I have a roommate. He must be in on this too, but he doesn't move a muscle or make a sound in his bed, the one closest to the door. I'm on the bed next to the window, where anyone can see in, can do what they want to me. Fighting off sleep, trying to come up with a plan that will get me out of this shit storm, I can only come up with these thoughts: "This is the last night of my life. This is how it all ends. They're going to kill me tonight." I drift off to sleep.
Seemingly minutes later, I wake. I've made it through the night.
I know that I am way overweight and that the dual taserings had a chance of killing me. But I'm still alive. The cops gently lift me to my feet, pull up my pants, and buckle them for me since I'm now in handcuffs. My shoes are in my room; someone retrieves them, tries to slip the right one on to my size 14 foot, failing. I say to them, "Widen it out. Widen it out." They finally understand what I mean, and get both shoes, unlaced, on my feet.
We are in the hallway just outside of the room I have rented for the night, and I watch the police search it. Just a boombox, beer bottles (some empty, some full), a small brown suitcase with three days worth of clothes, a used towel from my shower. No drugs. I've never done any drugs. Never even smoked a joint.
I am in a state of shock and meek as a newborn as I am led into the elevator, downstairs, through the lobby, and into a idling police cruiser. The cops are nothing but respectful and decent as my head and body are gently maneuvered past the doorframe into the car's backseat. I've never had handcuffs on before, and they are painfully tight around my oversized wrists. The cruiser's backseat is much too small for my bulk, and I have to sit sideways. Wordlessly, the cops drive us off.
We arrive at the police station. I am led to a large booking room and am seated amongst a row of metal chairs against the near wall. Very little is being said by anyone there. Why do they all look so sad and serious? Minutes later, paramedics arrive and give me the once over: they find nothing wrong and are quickly gone. One of the cops, a nervous looking male in his thirties, hands me a small metal box with a tube attached. I have no idea what it is. He tells me to "blow in it." What? Why? I realize it's a breathalyzer, to see how much I've had to drink. Blowing into the tube is laborious and tiring. The cop seems annoyed with my efforts, asking me to try again. I've got no breath to give, no strength left. After two or three tries he seems satisfied and retreats.
I am put into a holding cell and the handcuffs are removed. The frigid, damp, fetid, closet sized cell is covered, literally from ceiling to floor, with graffiti. I am too tired to try to decipher any of it. Sitting on the bench provided, my head is throbbing. I'm utterly confused as to why my protectors, my inferiors, have brought me here. Why is this happening? The thought crosses my mind that I am in danger, but it passes quickly. I can't put more than a few small thoughts together. How long will I be here? When can I sleep?
There is very little noise in the jail. I hear nearby doors open and close, half whispers exchanged, some radio chatter. It seems I am the only prisoner in the group of three cells, thankfully. I am brought to a brightly lit room to be fingerprinted. It is clear right away that the elder of the two cops involved is teaching the other how it's done, but they have no success getting my large fingers to read on their scanner. Is it because the electricity from the taser left my body through these fingers, causing some burning? This thought gives me some measure of comfort: You fuckers tried to kill me and failed! I have a mug shot taken, for the first time in my life. I try to look like like everything is fine. It doesn't work.
Back to the cell. I quickly realize that I must sit sideways on the bench so that I can rest my outstretched right leg on it. Within minutes, I am comfortable in my new surroundings. So this is what being locked up is like, huh? I can do this. I can take this. My thoughts turn to how long I will be here. Hours or days? Months even? Can they do this to me? Time passes, a guard comes and brings me back to the main booking room. He tells me I can bail myself out with $50. Since I've been on the run for only a week or so, I have plenty of cash left in my wallet and pay the man. How lucky am I that I have the necessary cash on me?
I'm led out to a waiting cruiser. Two young, beefy, intense looking cops are seated in front. They are obviously the heavy hitters I have been waiting for all night. I think of them as my personal ass kickers. They could be Secret Service, FBI, military, anything. As long as they know what they are doing, everything will be fine. And I am amazed that the markings on the car appear legit: how did the government do this all so quickly? Anyways, cool. Finally, some action. The snow is falling heavily, and it is still night. The ass kicker who is driving pulls slowly away from the police station, driving carefully, obviously due to both the conditions and his important cargo.
Nothing is said on our drive. We arrive at Portsmouth Regional Hospital ten minutes later. I'm brought to the emergency room, a place I am familiar with due to my many stays at The Pavilion, the hospital's psych unit, and am led to a large rectangular room I've never been in. The ass kickers, whom I have come quickly to feel are my protectors, are at the door, saying nothing. Minutes pass, then a young looking nurse appears. She has a very serious demeanor: this must be a big assignment for her; maybe she's in over her head so I better be nice. She questions me about what happened that night, and seems angry with me, as if I have actually done something wrong. I notice one of the ass kickers at the door instinctively reach his gun hand down to his weapon when she presses a point. He's clearly on my side, and would die to protect me. The nurse draws blood, takes my vitals, leaves. Ten minutes later she returns, all smiles. Did somebody tell her who I am? How important I am? Her face is now one of tenderness and compassion; she starts referring to me as "honey." Yes, somebody certainly got to her, thankfully. Maybe it's gonna be alright
As I wait some new cops arrive and begin to mill around outside in the hallway. I listen intently to their talk, trying to get a clue as to where they are taking me next. I hear discussion of how "This happens all the time." Piecing together what I hear, fear begins to take hold. I realize that it was no coincidence I saw all those National Guardsmen at the Hampton the other night: they were supposed to hold a field exercise over the weekend, but my harassment and arrest have caused serious turmoil. The thought jumps to my mind, based on snippets from what I hear from the hallway, that there there are a lot of folks angry that I've been treated so poorly. And others who just as badly want to do me harm. Military people. Important people. Folks with whom no one fucks with. Is it possible that the ass kickers are there to protect me from some faction within the government? I know that the US government is peopled by many different fiefdoms, all with their own agendas, for whom assassinating me would be quite the trophy pelt. Now I'm scared. Could there even be a civil war over this, my arrest? I won't live through the night, I think.
The nurse wishes me well. I'm sure treating me will give her a great story to tell her children someday, and am happy for her. The ass kickers lead me out the back door of the ER, to a waiting cruiser. But it's a different one than I came in. I'm handed off to two older, portly, and slightly unsanitary looking cops, who seat me in the back. Why are the two pros, whom I have developed such a crush on, giving me up now? I ask no questions, am hoping just to survive the night. I'll figure this all out come daylight.
We drive for what seems like hours, through awful weather. Again, there is no conversation from the officers. They are serious in their work, thankfully. We travel west from Portsmouth, getting off the highway in Concord. Road signs tell me that we are at the New Hampshire State Hospital. I have begun to obsess over the chance of being assassinated, by a disgruntled soldier, by a spook who is just following orders, by a crazy who doesn't like what I've been saying about the war on my blog. Lots of possibilities, many worries.
After we park outside what appears to be the main hospital building, the older, heftier cop gets out of car, looks left and right (snipers?), and walks the thirty feet to a side door. It opens from within. My heart is racing because I know I will have to walk from the car to the waiting door, and my brain is telling me that I might be assassinated in the attempt. The snow has turned to rain, increasing the gloominess of the night. I take a tentative step out of the vehicle. No gun shots. Another step, towards the door. And another. So much effort, but I am able to find the courage. And I make it. Thanks to the officers for getting me out of harm's way. They did an incredible job of protecting me, I know.
Inside the hospital, I am led to a very large but dour looking and foul smelling room, where half a dozen or so staffers are seated in row facing a single chair. I sit down on it, trying to gauge the temperature of the room. Who is the leader here? What is their rank? Any generals or colonels? The slightly built middle aged man dressed in a cheap, ill fitting, brown suit speaking to me seems to not be officer material. Is he in charge of all this? This lightweight? After a few perfunctory questions from him, I am led out of the room, to what appears to be the main psych unit, and to my room. I'm given a bright colored yellow blanket. Why is it so noticeable, so eye catching? This seems odd, troubling, frightening. It occurs to me that I am being made a target, that the blanket is a way for someone outside to pick my form out through the window. The assassination didn't happen in the parking lot, it would happen in my sleep. I am too tired to run, to analyze. I think to myself, "If I'm going to die tonight, then so be it. I can't fight them all off forever. If no one wants to be in my corner then fuck it. Everyone dies."
I have a roommate. He must be in on this too, but he doesn't move a muscle or make a sound in his bed, the one closest to the door. I'm on the bed next to the window, where anyone can see in, can do what they want to me. Fighting off sleep, trying to come up with a plan that will get me out of this shit storm, I can only come up with these thoughts: "This is the last night of my life. This is how it all ends. They're going to kill me tonight." I drift off to sleep.
Seemingly minutes later, I wake. I've made it through the night.
posted by joe sweeney at 5:14 AM
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