A Close Call


Saturday morning and I am in jail. I had sold a friend of a friend five dollars worth of weed.
He was an undercover cop.

I was now in a room with murderers, rapists, and worse, transvestites. Then my worst nightmare began to unfold. One of them walked towards me. He was huge, maybe six feet six inches, 320 pounds. I could fight him–I had proven my fighting skills back in high school, whipping a girl in a fight. She was two years older, bigger, blind.
The hardened convict stood nearly on my toes. He said, “Come into my cell with me.”
There was no greeting, no handshake–his manners were atrocious. He turned and walked towards his cell. I pictured him behind me, and a painful experience involving my rear end. I knew his cell door would be open as they didn’t close them until ten o-clock at night. I followed him and stopped just inside his cell door. He sat on his bunk bed, looked at me with weary eyes and said, “When I was arrested, I was totally naked. I heard you get out on Monday: I want your socks and your underwear.”
I felt my answer was critical to my survival in this hell hole. I looked straight into his eyes and said, “You can have my socks, but, after three days, you don’t want to mess with these underwear.”
On Monday I was released. Forty-two years old and another new lease on life, underwear intact, socks gone forever.


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