Saturday morning and I was in jail. I had sold a friend of a friend five dollars worth of weed. He was an undercover cop.
I was in a room with murderers, rapists, and even transvestites. My worst nightmare began to unfold. One of my cellmates walked towards me. He was huge, six feet six, 320 pounds. I could fight him–I had proven my fighting skills back in high school, whipping Patty Hiney in a food fight.
The hardened convict nearly stepped on my toes. He said, “Come into my cell with me.”
There was no greeting, no handshake–his manners were atrocious. I pictured him behind me, and a painful experience involving my rear end. I followed him and stopped just inside his cell door. He sat on his bunk bed, looked at me with weary eyes, and said, “They arrested me when I was naked. I want your socks and your underwear.”
I felt that 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, 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.