Something I Don’t Miss About NYC
Central booking in Bedstuy isn’t the barrel of monkeys everyone says it is. As a matter of fact, it can be borderline terrifying. I know this because I spent some time in that luxurious treatment facility. Why were you in jail, Bill? Fighting? Weed? Chris Hanson from ‘Dateline’ finally caught you?
No, I jumped a subway turnstile. True story.
It was the 2 year anniversary of living with my ex, Rachel. She wanted to celebrate and go out to a fancy dinner and I wanted to stay in. So we compromised and went out to a fancy dinner. (One day I’ll have the strength to say “no” to a woman).
It was Restaurant Week and Rachel was a woman on a mission: “Oh my God! I found this place on Zagat.com and it’s supposed to be amazing! It’s in some remote part of Brooklyn called Killwhiteyton and it’s only a 197 minute subway ride with 3 transfers!”
We ate dinner on the veranda of this little French bistro to soak up the scenery, which included thugs conspicuously walking by with TVs and rolled up carpets. And we got drunk; because that’s what happens when a Scotch Mick and a Russian Jew get together.
After two bottles of red, we started stumbling home looking for the right subway stop to take us back to Manhattan. When we finally found it, I did the ol’ ‘Shimmy behind and go through at the same time’ turnstile trick that drunk people and retarded children often do. One minute, later – CLICK — a female transit cop had me handcuffed and pushed up against the cold porcelain subway wall tiles.
Rachel went home to watch Gilmore Girls on TiVO and I went to the spa known as “Central Booking” in Bedstuy. I don’t know which fate is worse.
The entrance alone was horrifying. It was a steep downward descent (how metaphoric), dark and dank, the only light coming from ominous red bulbs overhead. It felt like that film ‘Hostel;’ like I was being led into some cavernous abandoned warehouse where I might be able to carve up some hot American tourist. Rusty, slimy water droplets sporadically splattered on my head as if to taunt, “Haha, you dead, cracka!”
The red was suddenly replaced by bright fluorescents as the officer stood me in front of three different cells. He asked me which of the cells I “wanted to be in.” What the bejesus type of question is that? It was like prison Price is Right! “Cell # 3? Oooooh, sorry, Bubba is in that one! You better find a happy place!”
I saw one cell with a nebbishly fat Jewish guy in glasses and I figured my odds of getting assaulted first have got to be reduced by at least 65 percent, so I ‘chose’ that one.
By the way, you can’t sneak or shimmy into a cell. They make an announcement, pull some medieval lever, and that gate screams the arrival of fresh meat as it scrapes across the floor. You then have to walk in like it’s some perverted prison Fashion Ball: “And here, we have the Fall Ass Rape collection. Now spin around and show them the goods. You better work!”
I did my catwalk and instantly turned around and grabbed the bars like innocent people always do in films from the ‘50s. Now, I’m not saying I don’t belong in jail, but I sure as balls don’t fit in. First of all, I was in full metrosexual/ homosexual adjacent garb - tight knit Armani sweater, a DKNY suit jacket, and slacks that came to a nice tapered ankle. Maybe even a hint of lip gloss.
Also, I’m white. Not just white. I’m like Golem-translucent-Mayonaisse-the-sun-burns-ants-through-me-white. Irish people look at me and go: “Yer a pale fooker, aren’t ya!”
If you’re going to be as pale as me in lockdown in Bedstuy, you should at least be shaved bald – that way someone could at least maybe mistake you as TOUGH. I mean, I’m not gay, but look at my photos! You don’t picture me behind a girl, grabbing her hair like: “WHO’S YOUR DADDY?” You picture me behind a girl, grabbing her hair like: “Who’s your stylist?”
Plus, with my baby-soft, Fructis-conditioned strawberry blonde wispy locks… I may as well have been wearing a t-shirt that said “I went to prison to get anally raped and all I got was this lousy t-shirt” or “Insert Penis Here” with an arrow pointing up. (As a survival technique for my time in the clink, my anus sealed shut like a rolly-polly the entire time and for 3 weeks afterwards).
Right away the comments start: “You gonna get banged out!” “Leonardo DiCaprio is busted trying to get an eightball.” “Matt Damon is…” “Clay Aiken is…” The fog of my terror lifted temporarily as I thought, “Shit, he thinks I look like Clay Aiken?”
Then I heard someone (it may have been Bubba) say: “You know Opie either embezzled millions of dollars… or he killed his entire family.”
There I saw my ticket for survival– the old black spiritual anthem: “white people is crazy!” It’s kind of true, right? I mean, whenever you hear a story on the news like: “A MAN WAS ARRESTED TODAY AT JFK WHEN HIS COLLECTION OF EYEBALLS FELL OUT OF HIS SUITCASE. TONIGHT AT 11!” You know that guy’s white! In the movies, it’s always the crazy cracka who says: “I ate her liver with a nice chianti and a side of FAVA BEANS.” You never hear: “I ate her liver with a Colt 45 and a side of COLLARD GREENS, SON!!!” My salvation would lie in my insanity.
So I sat on the floor and hung my head. Every few minutes I’d lift my head up, say something like, “Hahahaha! Pickles!” slap myself in the face, and drop my head back down. It worked! Other than a crackhead with open sores trying to spoon me for about 6 hours, I was left alone… For the entire, grueling 29 hours.
Finally, before I left, somebody approached me. It was a Haitian with crazy, unblinking eyes and a knife wound on his face, who was in jail for murder. He grabbed my arm and asked me: “What you in here for, mon?”
Now pretty much everyone in there other than me was in there for the same crime. It’s apparently an epidemic in Bedstuy. If you ask them, they’ll tell you:
“Hey, man, what are you in for?”
“Some Buuuullshit!”
So I tried to be cool and said “Some buuuullshit.” The guy gave me the crazy and hairy eyeball. I withered. Nervously, I cleared my throat and told him the awful truth: “Fare evasion. I got drunk and jumped a subway turnstile.” I winced, assuming it was rape time.
Everyone in the cell heard this and turned to look at me with saucer eyes. Mind you, I’d been in here for almost 28 hours! After a tense few seconds, the Haitian said, very seriously: “Mon, I would have just paid the 2 DOLLARS!”
I responded, “You’re saying you’d pay 2 whole American dollars just so you wouldn’t have to be crunched in fetal position on a PEE AND POO SLIMED CELL floor for 28 hours while some JACKED UP 50-CENT WANNABE is screaming “death to whitey” on your right – and on your left, in a doorless stall, a 400 pound gorilla is blowing you kisses while taking a dump that would make Satan PRAY TO JESUS? Really? You sell out!”
But, alas, I only said that in my head.
Your odds of getting assaulted may have been reduced by at least 65 percent by choosing that cell, and so were the polices’ chances of being sued by you for neglecting you whilst you were in there – simply because they’d engineered the get out clause of “but he told us he wanted to go in that cell.”
‘You don’t picture me behind a girl, grabbing her hair like: “WHO’S YOUR DADDY?”‘ – THIS, sir, is where we differ.
‘Nervously, I cleared my throat…’ – maybe not the best choice of words for this type of scenario! [Okay, maybe we could scratch the fact that we differ, I get it now. NOW I see you asking a girl the 'Who's your stylist?' question!]
‘The fog of my terror lifted temporarily as I thought, “Shit, he thinks I look like Clay Aiken?”‘ – superb, well written, and definitely the best line in there!