Another Perspective

The Bottle & The Damage Done
Part 1: The State Vs. Michael Atkinson

"You have a collect call from "Mike"-- AN INMATE AT TILLAMOOK COUNTY JAIL-- do you accept the charges?

The digital voice sounded about as forgiving as the Duck Call lady after four straight invalid access codes. Her scathing preface to my phone call threw a monkey wrench in my scheme to make bail. I would definitely NOT be calling Grandma to negotiate a $6,000 advance on my inheritance.

So I adjourned to the private padded detox cell to ponder my grim predicament. I was in utter shock, not because I was arrested, but because of when and where it happened. They shoulda had me in Vegas. Or L.A. for that matter. I don't know how I got out of San Francisco or Arcata. Mere hours earlier, I was gloating that I had dodged the law for nearly a month. I guess I got complacent.

The next morning I was served a tepid breakfast of factory-defect Eggo waffles, pear halves and gruel. I kindly passed on the scrambled government eggs. After hours of trying, I finally blew a 0.0 on the breathalyzer on my thirteenth attempt. I was then transferred to a cell block to live with "the population." I arrived during recreation time, and about five inmates were sitting in the common area glued to big-screen TV absorbing a Schwartzenegger flick on HBO (your precious tax dollars at work). They sized up their new neighbor with mild curiosity.

"Hey, FNG, what's yer story?" I turned to face a gigantic long-haired con with forearms like Mr. Clean and more tattoos than all of Motley Crüe. I was impressed that I picked up on his lingo, and was eager to further break the ice.

"Fuckin' New Guy. FNG, I know what that is. Say, sounds like you must've been in Nam," I cheerfully bantered.

My words drowned out the blaring television and echoed off the concrete walls. The others simultaneously shifted in their seats and exchanged nervous eye contact.

"Fuckin'-A right man. Three tours. What the hell do you know about Nam, boy?" he thundered. I knew better than to tell him my dad was a shrink at the VA.

"I know a little history. What force were you in?"

"Navy."

"Ohhh, a seaman-- that's the ticket. Float around the Tonkin lobbing Tomahawks at Hanoi from the safety and comfort of an aircraft carrier. Now that's my idea of guerrilla warfare."

Before I could finish he snatched me in a wrist-lock and pulled me so close I could smell the napalm on his breath. His eyes lapsed into the 1,000 yard stare, boring through my skull as he spoke.

"Listen here, you little piss-ant. I flew Medivac--side-gunner, so don't tell me about combat. I've seen more hot LZ's than any Air Cav flyboy in Danang. I was takin' shrapnel at Khe Sahn before you were a stain on your daddy's mattress, so I suggest you show me some goddamned respect." Somehow I managed not to piss myself.

Thus went my formal introduction to Cell Block F. I'd never met a finer assortment of habitual criminals and meth freaks. La crème de la crème. Just the good ol' boys, never meanin' no harm. What amazed me was how tightly knit the prisoner community was. To them, jail was a central meeting place, like the VFW post. Camaraderie kept these animals relatively sane. A new guy would transfer in to a rousing reception. "Hey everybody, look who's back! Randy, you sonofabitch, whadya do this time? Man, I ain't seen you since OSP back in... aw, when the hell was that?" This scene continued all day, providing me with boundless amusement until an old high school drug buddy of mine showed up to serve for his fourth D.U.I. "DEREK--I'll be goddamned! Fancy meetin' you here."

The rest of recreation time was quite a stag party. All the guys were telling stories and carrying on. In blatant violation of rule 24.3 of the Inmate Conduct Code, I organized a rowdy gambling session. No one had ever thought to use checkers as poker chips. I guess I'm just a visionary.

We watched some of my favorite cheeseball action flicks; True Lies was followed by Point Break and Roadhouse, two of Swayze's classics. It is refreshingly ironic that men locked in a reform institution spend the bulk of their time watching violent movies. God bless America.

I slowly accepted the fact that I was in my element. Behind bars my education and social status didn't mean jack-squat. I was just another mangy piece of strung-out jail-bait, And hell, I was enjoying it.

A female guard resembling an East German shot-putter announced the end of recreation time. She bluntly sent me to my cell and told me to make my bed. As the monstrous steel door slammed shut and the light went out, the party ended. My lower intestine growled as I inspected the stainless steel latrine next to my bed. It had no proper seat, just an abrupt rim 11/2 inches thick. As I began to dilate, I knew I had no choice. I gingerly dropped the county blues and squatted. As my cheeks touched the frigid rim my whole body seized up in a shiver, squeezing my bowels like a tube of toothpaste. What followed was an exorcism of sorts. For nearly a month I had ravaged my body with vast amounts of 101 proof bourbon, Hamms, shrooms, weed, amphetamines, ecstasy, Vicadin, cocaine, NyQuil and 7-11 chili dogs. All the accumulative evil bio-waste was expunged from my ass in under two seconds. Cursed Moloch. The fumes immediately filled my cell, with no escape ventilation. Pinching my nose didn't help, I could still taste the methane. My eyes watered as I choked and dry heaved. This would go down in my life as one of the few dumps I didn't enjoy.

After a month of continuous digging, I had finally reached rock bottom. It was the end. I would suffocate in 70 cubic yards of my own fetid stench in cell 214 Block-F in Tillamook County Jail.

Sleep didn't come easily that night. My bed felt like a gunny sack stuffed with buckshot. I listened to the monsoon pound the roof as tortuous memories of the road trip flashed across the concrete ceiling. The Fear and Loathing Silver Anniversary Tour. Austin and I in a fire-apple red 1968 Buick LeSabre convertible, abusing our freedom like complete jackasses. A 2,000 mile West Coast struttin' bender of epic bounds. All told, the most devastating, dehabilitating, revealing, horrifying, death defying, satisfying three weeks of my life. Our public demeanor became so unsavory that we knew arrest was imminent. I just didn't expect it to happen at my Manzanita Beach house, where I went to dry out and straighten up.

I was tempted out of my rehab by a huge party next door. One drink led to another and I pulled a butterfly knife during a friendly argument, and the cops were called. It was an innocent party gag, really.

I appeared in shackles before the honorable "Judge Hanky" for my arraignment the next afternoon. I was charged with counts of menacing and reckless endangerment. Hanky was a class-A swine. He could barely stave off heart failure long enough to condemn my alcohol abuse.

A funny thing happened when he went over the conditions of my release. I was instructed not to consume alcohol, to avoid all taverns, lounges, and liquor stores, and I was not to leave the state. His gavel was on the down-stroke when I remembered the bachelor party in Lake Tahoe the following weekend. "Wait, your honor! I most certainly am leaving the state and drinking. My friend's bachelor party is next weekend and I already have plane reservations." His face showed both amusement and disdain.

So trial was set and I was released. I was a little disappointed that I wouldn't be around to watch The Shawshank Redemption with the cellmates that night. Oh well, my brother had Live at Folsom Prison cued up for the ride home.

If I was innocent until proven guilty, why had I just spent forty hours in jail?

to be continued...

Michael Atkinson, a senior majoring in Journalism, is a featured columnist for the Oregon Commentator