So I’m talking to this girl. I’m trying to describe the few writing projects that I am working on and finding it very hard to do. My mind is a swimming mess and I’m finding it almost impossible to articulate my passion in any coherent form. I’m drunk and it’s home-time. I need to find Patrick, Gotham’s other doorman. He needs a lift home and stays maybe two minutes from my house. Simple detour on my way home. Home. It should have meant sleep. Comfy bed. Warm blankets. The familiar whine of the large fan next to where-I-lay-my-head-to-rest. The sound helps me sleep at night.
But, not tonight.
No. The only thing getting home tonight meant was finding four sets of clothes in the jeans and T-shirt variety. No black/white clothes. Sneakers. Bring own plastic cup. And then hopping back into the car to get to the McDonalds at Greenpoint stadium by 5:00 so that I may spend the rest of Sunday doing something trendy in the name of Coke-a-Cola. Along with all the other extras dumb enough to be up at 5:00 on a Sunday morning. I’m looking forward to sleeping in my car. And then a little later, sleeping on the bus. I’ve just dropped Patrick off at his house. I’m sitting at a red robot. And I’m sitting. And I’m tired. And I’m more than a little drunk. And I’m sitting. And sitting. And sitting. And the red light refuses to change.
So I jump it.
I notice the flashing blue lights as I pull into Settlers. A mere three or four turns from my house. Another 30 seconds and I would be home. I pull over. And both Police officers decide to walk over. I am asked why I decided to run a red light. I tell them. I am informed that I was not in the right lane either. Which confuses me. Of course I was in the right fucking lane. Then they ask the question. And I’m doomed. Caught by the system. One begging for fresh souls to sacrifice apon the altar of law and order. Ready to be ritually fed to a hungry beast. An iron god to keep the forces of chaos at bay. A blue religion which is kind enough to drive my car the last three blocks to my place. The officer ally docks my car. I am led to the back of the police van, to be taken to Brakenveldt for a Breathalyzer test. I am informed that if I pass this test, then they will be driving me right back. The maw opens and I step inside. I probably would have forgotten the plastic cup anyway.
The drive in the back of the police van is dark and harrowing. I’m chewing on a pair of cherry flavored chewing gum I palmed whilst the officer was ally docking my car. I’m taking deep cherry menthol breaths and trying real hard not to get thrown about the police van as it attempts to break every speed law known to man. Driving like an insane Need-for-Speed fanatic cranked to the eyeballs on crystal-meth is one of the few perks they have. I pray for an accident. I pray the van rolls. I want to crawl bloodied and broken from a womb of twisted steel and spit teeth and gobbets of bitter hatred at these assholes for not just letting me sleep it off. For going along with procedure. For driving recklessly at break neck speeds and having the nerve to complain about MY driving habits. For being up at four in the morning.
The van slows. The van turns. The van stops. The back is opened up and I swear as I step out of the speeding death trap. I am led into the Brakenveldt Police Station. Everyone there is looking at me. All the on-duty police officers. They ask me to empty my pockets. I use the chance to SMS Colt Talent before giving up my cellphone. At least I have a good excuse not to spend Sunday filming a Coke-a-Cola advert. I can’t help but wonder what the plastic cup was for. Can’t make the shoot. Being arrested. Short and to the point. I am led to what appears to be a conference room and seated at a small desk just to the left of the doorway. A navy blue device rests there. About the size of an old VCR, but with a tube coming out of the back. Sitting next to the device is Strydom. A man who now takes up my entire world and seems to almost bleed into my peripheral vision until all I can see is the man who will be deciding where I get to sleep tonight.
He hands me two sets of photocopied documents. One set is paragraph after paragraph of meaningless techno-babble. It assures me that the device has been serviced regularly and is indeed in working order. The other document is a certificate indicating that planet Strydom does indeed have the relevant talking-monkey skills and gorilla IQ needed to operate the device. He asks me to sign that I have read over the two documents. He shows me a filter in a sealed packet. I informs me that it is a new filter and that it is inside a sealed packet. He asks me if I can see that it is a new filter and that it is inside a sealed packet. He informs me that he is taking the new filter out of the sealed packet. He then rips the packet open with all the style and flare of a magician performing a particularly impressive example of legerdemain. It’s quick and obscene. His hand snaps back leaving the filter and half the packet behind. He attaches the filter to the tube and hands it to me. He tells me to blow. Like you are inflating a balloon he says. I blow. I sit down. The device goes to work. 0.67 it says on the small LCD. 0.67 he says to all those present. The device prints out something resembling a till slip. The officer who pulled me over starts filling out form. There is silence as Strydom looks over the till slip. I don’t know what 0.67 means. And nobody tells me. They fill out their forms and check their slips in silence. I am called over to count the money in my wallet. So 0.67 is over I say. Significantly he replies.
The legal limit is 0.24.
I count out the money in my wallet. He fills out the form and hands it over to me to sign. It’s a proof of property form. It informs me that the police are now in possession of my belongings including: Forty-eight rand and fifty cents. One “Blue Rush” wallet. One note book. One Pen with gold ink. One bunch of keys. He asks me to sign as he puts the contents of the list inside a brown envelope. I am led back to the police van. I am asked if I am wearing a belt. I am asked to remove the belt. I tell them it’s the only thing keeping my pants up. I am informed that they would not want me to have an accident with it inside the jail cell. I give them the belt. It’s rolled up and put next to the envelope. Back it the van I go. The ride to Parow police station is fast, but not the speed-drunk ride I was expecting. They have me now and can take all the time in the world.
I am led through a yard full of police vans. Entering the station from the back. I am informed that the inspector will interview me in the morning. I am led to a heavy steel door, which is unlocked. Led down a filthy grey passage. Piles of haphazardly thrown but neatly folded grey blankets are strewn about the floor. I am led to another heavy steel door. The officer in charge of escorting me asks if I don’t perhaps want a blanket. She points to the piles of grey cloth. I grab a few blankets. I am led through a small grey room. It is dark, but not as dark as the cell on the opposite side. Another heavy steel door is opened for me. The light from the passage a room away is enough to make out vague shapes on the floor. I will be sharing this cell with three or four others. I don’t know who they are. I don’t know what they have done. They are not people right now. Not at five in the morning. Not in the dark. They are shapes underneath grey blankets. Full of quiet menace. Grey ghosts sleeping silently on the grey floor. In the grey room. In a grey life. And now I am one of them. I lay my blanket on the only available space. Opposite the “stainless” steel toilet. I’m half expecting it to smell. I’m starting to regret giving up cigarettes and regaining my sense of smell.
And I’m realizing that I really need to pee.
You don’t smell a prison toilet when you are sleeping next to it. You don’t smell a prison toilet when you are standing in front of it. In the almost dark, trying not to make a sound. It’s only when the piss hits the water that the foreign shit smell starts wafting up at you with the silent repugnant warning and a screaming inside your head that whatever you do, you do not want to look down. Miss the bowl. Piss on your shoes. But whatever you do, don’t look down. Even as I am composing these words in my head and putting this story into words, I realize that I have to look down. I’ve been writing inside my own head since I picket up the blankets and walked into the dark. Maybe even before that. I’m putting my experience into words as they are happening to me. Filtering red raw reality into something more manageable. Even when the worst is happening to you, you never stop being a writer. The rest of you is a scared and worried white boy from the suburbs. But one small part of you, it wants you to take everything in. Every horrific detail. Because it’s a unique experience and you can use it someday. You can write about it. And I am a writer. And that’s all I want to be. All I have ever wanted to be. All the things I have tried and failed in my life have led me to this one moment. I find peace standing in front of a prison toilet. And I look down.
And I’m looking at a brown stained “stainless” steel funnel with a black hole in the centre. And I’m vaguely disappointed.
I go back three times that night. It’s either nerves or the copious amounts of beer. Each time going back to the pile of blankets of my make shift bed and pulling the grey cloth over my head. Another grey ghost. Anonymous and alone in a crowed little grey room. I awaken to the sound of someone calling out from the direction of the cell door. Someone is awake and calling. I don’t know the language. All I know is that the grey ghosts are gone and I’m in a jail cell with a bunch of people I don’t know. I keep the blanket over my head. Suddenly a child again. And very, VERY Sober. The cell is unlocked. Food is brought in. I’m too freaked out to pay attention to what it is. I am in now way, shape or form hungry at the moment. I try to get some more sleep. When things are quiet again I get out of bed. The cell door is still open and I can see sunlight spilling in from outside. Maybe there is an open area to stretch my legs. One can only hope. People are sleeping around me. Blankets over their heads. I find this very calming and I step outside. There is a fanta bottle filled with water and a polystyrene cup upside on top of it at the entrance of the cell. The room I passed through the previous night turns out to be the “yard” I was looking for. It’s the same size as my office at work. Tall grey walls. A drain in the centre and a barbed wire ceiling. I see blue skies through the top of my cage. I stand alone against the wall, hands in my pockets and wonder vaguely if anyone knows where the hell I am. I could be standing here for the next several hours and the very idea of that makes me never want to break the law ever again. Shiv me in the gut, take my anal virginity, tell me I have a real purdy mouth and marry me off to bubba. But its boredom that’s going to break me in the end and turn me into a small slobbering mess.
I can feel it’s heavy weight sinking down on me and it comes as a complete surprise when only a few minutes later the passage door opens and a police officer starts yelling Bothasig. Bothasig! Two kids step out the cell. Younger than me by years, coloured and wearing the kind of clothes that scream: I went out and got drunk last night. It’s the same clothes I’m wearing. The officer points at me and asks: Bothasig? I say: Edgemead. He nods his head and says: Bothasig. And he gestures for me to follow. We are led down the passage. The officers talk amongst themselves. Apparently all three of us are in for the same reason. Ricardo (0.92) can best be described as neat, intense and pretty. He is wearing blue jeans and a pink top with the words “Dark Soul” emblazoned on them. He crashed his car and is sill vaguely in awe at having survived. Not a mark on him. Michael (0.83) has the miserable expression of the wrong-place-wrong-time victim. He drove back the two minutes from his girlfriends’ place and the only reason the cops pulled him over was because he was driving without his lights on. We step out into fresh air and led to the back of a police van. Off to Bothasig we go.
Traveling in the back of the van is very different in the cold hard light of day. The space is small. There is no room to stretch your legs or do much more than hang on for dear life. The grated windows on the sides are cover in blue tarp. The back window looks out on the road and all you can see is the tarmac whiz by through the criss-cross steel wire mesh. The only way to see out side is through the cracks in the closed door. Thin slivers of life. Small snippets of familiar places go by. And MY GOD do you feel isolated from the rest of the world. We exchange pleasantries on the way. We exit the police van. Fresh open air. Just an interview away from freedom and a hundred angry SMS’es of people wanting to know just where the fuck I am. I picture the confusion on my brothers face when he sees my car in the driveway but I am no where to be found. We are lead through the side of the Bothasig Police station and put into two meter by two meter waiting cell. The hope of freedom is snatched away and shoved into a tinier cage. In the cell is a single thin mattress with a man lying on it. He has a bandaged head. The door closes behind us. Ricardo asks for a glass of water. Michael wants to know the time. Both requests are granted. It’s eleven o’clock and Anton is in a talkative mood. He’s the guy with the bandage.
He says he was mugged.
Anton is a character. In a minor role. A small and insignificant role soon to be forgotten. His story, like many others, will never be told. 50 years from now, when I am old and grey, all that will exist of him in any written record will be in police files, should they still be around, and of course in this brief slice of my own life typed out in 10 point Times New Roman. He says he was mugged. He tells us that he borrowed his brother’s bakkie to go to the petrol station to but cigarettes. He met these two guys and a girl who wanted to go out clubbing and drinking. They’ll pay. At some point one of them hit him on the head with a beer bottle. He was arrested for being drunk in public. His brother didn’t press charges for stealing the bakkie. He asks if anyone wants a smoke. Michael says yes. Ricardo doesn’t smoke. I…am tempted. More so than I have ever been in months. I decide not too. Anton pulls cigarettes from a box secreted away in his sock. The officer at the front desk walks past a few minutes later and freaks out at the smokers. NO SMOKING. He asks Anton where he got the cigarettes. Anton tells him that he just got them. He points vaguely at the bunch of us. Way to go Anton. He apologizes later for pointing at us. He tells us the only record the police have on him is from way back when he used to smoke. Rocks he tells us. They arrested him for stealing a belt. Genuine leather. He was going to sell it for a rock.
The desk officer returns and asks Anton to stand up and empty his pockets. He asks Anton for his belt and his laces. Anton wants to know when he can leave. The officer informs him that he will not leave until he is dead sober. Anton hands over his laces and his belt. He hands over the contents of his pockets. Sashes of Grandpa and sleeping pills. The officer pulls out Anton’s pockets. He seems vaguely disappointed when the impromptu search yields a decided lack of cigarettes. Micheal is looking miserable. Ricardo just stares ahead. Stoic tough guy pose. Thousand yard stare. Worried and agitated. The officer looks in on us and asks Ricardo if he is the one that crashed the car. Ricardo nods. The officer informs him that his dad is on the way. He also informs Ricardo that his dad is going to slice him. He does so with a shit-eating grin and walks off. The holding cell is silent. I hate the cop at the front desk. All I want is to have my interview, get my stuff and call my brother for a ride home. . After a little while Ricardo says: All he can do is hit me and throw me out. That’s all he can do. He steels himself at the thought.
That was the last time he spoke.
We are informed that the detective will be with us in a few hours. Hours. In this tiny holding cell. With nothing to do. Thankfully it is barely an hour before Detective Buekes shows up and leads Ricardo away. Three of us left in the holding cell resign ourselves to wait. And wait. And wait. We pull out our proof of property forms and read every word as if they were letters from home. From loved ones so very far away. Over and over again. Finally I ask if I can get a magazine. Michael wants another glass of water. We get water. And a stack of old magazines. And a copy of SAPS Journal. The front cover tells me that this is my free comprehensive SAPS magazine. The design quality is low and for a moment I wonder what the pay on doing this magazine is like and if they do the magazine internally. I read the 2003 copy of Fair Lady instead. While a scathing opinion on Barbie culture Anton pipes up and asks me to tell the girl on the front cover that her breasts should stop looking at him. I look at the front cover. It’s a head and shoulders shot. He smiles. His laugh short. He asks me if I have a light. I say no and continue reading. The horoscope makes me laugh. Apparently I am in need of a wakeup call and need to take a long hard look at my life. My cellmates doze off. The wait is staggeringly boring. Even with the magazines. Michael’s parents show up. His father silent. His mother going apeshit on the officer at the front desk. Asking where the justice is all of this is. And royally pissed that they have to come back in another hours time cause the detective hasn’t gotten to him yet. Michael looks even more miserable. He and I both know the cops are gonna give him shit over this. I’m just enjoying the show. Watching people walk up to the front desk is the only entertainment I have right now. The detective returns and gives Michael shit for his moms hysterics. I tell that no one knows where the hell I am so he should be worried about hysterical parents from me. He asks my age. I tell him. He informs me that I am a big boy now and that I should be fine.
He leads Michael away.
And I’m left alone with a snoring Anton. I ask the cop at the front desk if I can use the toilet. He unlocks the holding cell and takes me through. The lock on the inside is broken. The cop bolts it on the outside and tells me to knock when I’m done. The toilet is, if anything, about as worse as the one at the cell in Parow. Just as well. There’s no paper. I knock and tell him there’s no paper. He smiles and says no there isn’t. I decide to go back to the holding cell. Just as I enter I see the SAPS journal. I’m very tempted to pick it up and wave it in front of him as I go back to the toilet. The look on his face would put a shit-eating grin on mine for the rest of the day. But I decide against it. I’m in enough trouble as it is. I wait. I look at the front desk. And I wait. I wonder about the few dark brown stains on the walls. And I wait. I hate waiting. For anything. I’ve done it too many times in my life. I hate it and I hate the fact that I’m getting good at it. At keeping my mind occupied while I pass the time. Hell, the only reason I’m here is because I couldn’t stand waiting at the fucking red traffic light.
And I wait.
I’m finally tired enough to consider lying down on the filthy floor when the detective comes for me. I stand up. Anton asks me if I have a light. I say no. Detective Beukes walks me to his office. I am to lead the way. Walking in front of him as he gives directions. This is procedure. I am treated as if I am a dangerous criminal capable of doing any manner of nastiness if allowed to walk behind him. This is not professional paranoia. This is procedure. This is routine. You are treated like every other criminal. You are not unique. You are a product pushed through the great bureaucratic machine. And you are so nervous you struggle to tell your left from your right.
I am led to his office eventually. I see a desk and two comfy red chairs. Real furniture. I wondering which chair I should be sitting at when Detective Buekes says: Behind the door. I look behind the door and see a small grey plastic chair. He tells me to be seated. He pulls out the endless array of forms he must now fill out on a Sunday afternoon because some asshole decided he was sober enough to drive home. He asks me why I drink. I give the lamest answer anyone could ever come up with. Because I quit smoking I tell him. And this is why you drink he asks? I tell him you need something to fill the hole. He asks me if I have given any thought to how I will plead. Guilty or not guilty. The thought of pleading not guilty had not even crossed my mind. He informs me of my rights. I have the right to remain silent. Have the right to an attorney. If I cannot afford an attorney, one will be available through Legal-Aid. Or is it Legal-wise. The Don’t-talk-to-me-talk-to-my-lawyer-guys. He asks me to sign a form saying that I have been read my rights.
He takes my details. I am asked three times what I do for a living. And I am asked three times what my age is. I am asked my ID number. My cellphone number. My work address and all the other details the police will need should I decide not to go to court. I am informed that if I am not at Goodwood Court B by 8:30 Friday morning, then an arrest warrant will be issued and I will be placed in the Parow police station with it’s grey blankets and brown stained “stainless” steel funnel with a black hole in the centre of it toilet for the rest of the weekend and brought into court on Monday where I will face a devastating fine and jail time on top of that. I am informed that, on top of everything else, I also owe a R500 fine for jumping a red light. He asks me to sign a form saying that I have been informed of the consequences of not showing up at court. He asks if I would like to give a statement. I give him bullet points, which he abbreviates further. He asks who will be picking me up. I say that my brother is closer and he phones Shaun up and hands the phone to me. My brother answers, excited to finally hear from me. He tries to strike up a conversation on the phone and I’m forced to tell him that a burly sour faced detective is staring at me.
Detective Beukes answers a call. He tells me that he needs to send a fax, but that it is ok since I still have to wait for my brother to arrive. I can be patient until then. He informs that I am still under arrest and that if I try to run they are within their rights to shoot me. I am left alone in his office. A red stuffed devil bear hangs on one wall. A photo of some sports team. A green form with BEUKES stenciled across it and covered in faded signatures. The only personalized touches here. He returns and finger prints me. A longer process than when you are getting an ID book…or drivers license. He tells me to wash my hands since I still have more forms to sign. I am finally led to the front desk. My brother is waiting for me and a cool relief washes over me. He asks if I want a cigarette while I wait for the cop to fetch the contents of my proof of property form. I tell him maybe later. Maybe in the car. I’m surprised at myself for actually meaning it. Detective Beukes informs me that he will be at the court on Friday. He informs me that if I decide to plead not guilty then the process is going to take much longer. He says that for a first time offense the penalty is usually a fine and a suspended sentence. I take no comfort in this. I have had a long night in the clutches of the system. I have been informed and I have been led. Because that is the nature of the system. You are led and you are informed. You are informed and you are led. Over and over again. And this is how you pass through the system. Until you are finally shat out the front entrance of a police station in Bothasig at three in the afternoon. I am tired and all I want is to go home. I sign a form stating that I have received all my confiscated belongings. I take one last look at Anton, standing at the door to the holding cell. And then I leave. Fresh air and freedom.
On the drive home I surprise myself by not having a cigarette. I receive my first angry SMS in the car. It’s Ian asking me that he urgently needs to know what my larp character is doing. I phone him up and tell I’ll handle it tomorrow. A promise I seem to have broken in the hours it has taken writing this saga out. The second SMS is from my mom. I call her up and tell her. She wants to see me and talk about it. I tell her we’ll be down for dinner at six. The parents are supportive. For every argument we have we still seem to come together in times of need. I am told that this should be a wake up call. And that I should take a good long look at my life. I tell them that I know, silently reminding myself that a four- year old copy of Fair Lady informed me so earlier.
I stop on the drive back home at a seven eleven. Hoping to turn the eight rand of my forty-eight rand fifty into a stuffed toy car for my goddaughter via a claw-grab machine. Stuffed toy car. It’s a sign. I get close a few times but ultimately fail. Dejected, I drive home. The ride is dark and it is silent. The familiar roads now a constant reminder of the mess I’m in. Sleep does not come easily. The fan is not on. And I have not had a response from Colt Talent. For everyone I know, Saturday has turned into Sunday without incident. Bronwen SMS’es me at midnight. I’m still awake. She’s a comfort from so very far away. And having about as much of a good time in the UK as I am having right now. I kiss her good night from continent away. I lie naked under the covers and try not to think about the rest of the week.
Friday is so very near. And so very far…
…away.
