Some may remember an early post about my friend Barney whom I picked up once from jail. He and I and his neighbor, Steve had a conversation about jail last week that I thought I would pass along just because it's pretty typical for some people and typically astounding to others.
Steve had just spent twelve days himself in Nashville's city jail (CJC), a place not unknown to him. He said he ate more there in two days than he had in the two weeks prior to his being arrested and although he hadn't any desire to go, upon seeing two police officers heading toward his room, asked them if it was him they'd come for.
It was, indeed.
Steve knew before he went to jail that a friend of his had signed a warrant for his arrest in a vain effort to deny that she'd lost a fight with a girl on the street. She ended up though, with ring marks in her bruises and Steve doesn't wear any rings (a fact he hopes will clear him when he comes before the judge).
I wouldn't lie about it, he said I've beat her before, but not this time.
To address the look on my face he added,
When somebody smacks you awake with a saucepan Sue, you get up and whip their ass, it doesn't matter who it is.
Will she change her mind and clear you of the charge? I asked him.
She's in jail too, he said. They arrested her for having two FTA warrants (failure to appear) so she won't show up in court.
I asked him how many cell mates he had and to my utter amazement, he said fifty.
Part 2
Twice now, I've walked along with Steve to the liquor store. It's a straight shot up the street about a quarter mile, placed thoughtfully, between the Drake Motel and the projects; one of those liquor stores where the cashier sits unaffected and smiling, behind bullet proof glass. He and his neighbors pool their money, and buy half gallons of vodka. If Steve doesn't happen to have money, he (or anyone, for that matter) is afforded a drink simply for doing the walking.
The first time we made this trip, he noted the place where he'd most recently been hit by a car. Upon discovering that Steve had been drinking, the man who hit him pretended to call an ambulance on his cell phone and then drove away.
On both occasions we've talked about homelessness and addiction, and about a life he had once and lost. A life erased by a $1500. a week cocaine habit that cost him his wife, his children, and his livelihood.
I don't blame her a bit for leaving me, he says. I'd have divorced myself if I could've. She probably saved my life.
He speaks with reverence, the name of an eight month old baby that he missed out on knowing and for a brief moment, his tough demeanor dissolves into what I like to call the dad face.
Steve moved in at Mercury Court Apartments, having been homeless, with two plastic bags of someone else's clothes. He splits his time now between his street family and his motel room apartment, which he admits is mostly a storage closet. He works day labor whenever he can and even though it's warm and comfortable there, he tries hard not to check in at the Crossbar Motel.
