my beautiful Zen dolls. Thin. Flawless skin. Tight butts.
Nice racks. Blonde glam chicks, Latina firecrackers,
Asian dewdrops. It's all over now, out of business.
Zen is gone.
sitting in the slammer with three felonies hanging over
my head. I've always believed in the old chestnut, if
you do the crime, you do the time. But I also believe
people should be able to screw for money and do drugs
if they choose. I should do the time not because of
the crime, but my own disastrous stupidity. I'm not
being railroaded. I'm getting what I deserve. Christ,
I'm running an escort service and I leave speed and
pot around my office right out in the open.
though I was breaking the law, I refused to believe
the cops would come after me. Why bother? I wasn't doing
the pimp/ho thing on the stroll--"Hey, bitch, I don't
care if it's pouring buckets, get yo' bootie out there
and walk between the raindrops"--and I wasn't making
tons of money which could be confiscated for the city
coffers. But I didn't attempt to hide out, so I was
an easy target. Just like when I was a child playing
hide-and-seek. The person who was it always found me
before the others.
also terribly embarrassed and ashamed that in a city
which properly recognizes and cultivates vice, sodomy,
infantilism and the marvels of multicultural perversions,
I got taken down for orchestrating the hopelessly simple
pleasures offered by a straight escort service.
judge send me into a darkened pit as an old white
chicken for some young, butt-fucking Crip?"
bars I'm sweating fear. A triple felony. It's my first
offense, but why did I have to make such a splash? What
the fuck will the authorities do to me? Probation? Thirty
days? Ninety days? A year in jail? More than a year
means prison. Will the judge send me into a darkened
pit as an old white chicken for some young, butt-fucking
Crip? Probably not, and unlikely the Crip would want
his chicken to be 57 years old...but you never know.
first night, hunched over in a holding cell, surrounded
wife-beaters, public urinators, stick-up boys and confidence
men, cold terror
runs through my veins, replaying my stupidity over and
over. Why didn't I hide the dope? Why have so much around?
I simply like having a good supply on
hand in case my dealer, who eats, snorts and shoots
gobs of speed, either
disappears or OD's.
the first 24 hours replaying the whole thing out in
my mind, wallowing in my own pity, thinking about my
life as a series of monumental failures, and getting
no sleep, I decide this is getting me nowhere and then
discover the second, third, and fourth days and nights
are carbon copies of the first. The initial terror finally
recedes, but being locked up is compounded by another
matter. No paper. No pens or pencils. Only three books:
a romance novel, Kissinger by Walter Isaacson,
and Checklist for a Perfect Bar Mitzvah.
in a 16-man cell. I found the three books under a stack
of toilet paper next to the shower. I have no idea how
they got there, but I know more about Henry Kissinger
now than I did when he was on the scene conducting bombing
favorite factoid in Isaacson's book wasn't on Nixon's
Machiavelli, but the American statesman during the Cold
War, Henry Stimson, who, when asked why America should
not set up a spy agency, replied: "Gentlemen do not
read other people's mail." Why can't vice cops with
search warrants catch on to this?
a general rule, I'll read whatever is around, but I
draw the line at bodice-ripping potboilers, so I passed
on the romance novel. With regard to the third book,
I could throw a dynamite Bar Mitzvah when I get out
ask a couple of guards (Deputy Doodogs) for something
to write with and they decline. Finally, one Deputy
tosses me a pencil about two inches long. I have one
piece of paper, a duplicate copy of my "property record,"
an itemized list of the clothing taken when I was processed
into the jail. I take down a few notes in tiny handwriting
on the property record and on the inside cover of the
Bar Mitzvah book. This is thrilling, pretending to be
a prisoner like Solzhenitsyn facing the annihilator