“Yeah I’m not apart of this” my cellmate said, raising his hands in an attempt to make it clear that this wasn’t scheduled. Two blacks were fighting and I wanted to shower. Showers for exactly 50 days represented a kind of spa treatment. Sure, there wasn’t the cucumbers on the eyes, the massage with your SO, nor the choice of an exacted privacy but in jail you learn to cope with what you get.
So, I had been woken up and unable to fall back asleep, this was often the case near 7am when the cell doors opened. Depending on the day, that rough morning wake up meant that I was going to take my first luxurious morning shower. Again, the dirty hot water attacking the skin was the only set of time that felt earned, it felt like you could breath in the water as if you were Aquaman, a foreigner to this land, rediscovering his powers to talk to fish and other fascinating aquatic animals. As I grabbed my towels, time literally slowed down. I’m just playing, as this sort of hyper violence (violence as a means to solve disputes) was expected by then; time felt normal, consistent, and I just had this irritation inside me. Seeing two people fight wasn’t normal but it wasn’t abnormal and, if meaning could be extrapolated, it was melancholic. Not due to some moral quandary or even a sense of empathy but watching a botched guillotine being transformed into a shove was just plainly pathetic. As if everybody had been thinking that, since the desensitization to violence is so typical among inmates that no one cared in the immediate sense, the dreary common complaining most men feel a right to assert only started upon learning that this meant we’d have to stay in our cells for 11 hours straight. That was the abnormal part, THAT was the biggest tragedy, your life had just been directly affected by others lamely fighting.
“You know the real prisoners are out there” the Honduran guy said as we briefly saw the outside world through what felt like church windows we passed on our way to some type of judgement. Not for me though, this was a brief meeting with my lawyer. This was a sort of welcome meeting as I had been calling him only to land on his monotonous voicemail that almost made you beg for a callback. The callback would be a face to face meeting, which only lasted five minutes.
Indeed, the Honduran had a point but it was just days later from being unable to take a shower due to a stinky guy, who got told that he stunk and just before burning 4 hours for the shortest legal talk of my life. It was beautiful, to be honest, and my brain immediately made the connection as if to remind me of the curse & blessing of being able to remember last week. As if to imply that this negative experience (thus negative experiences as a whole) can be compensated with an innumerable amount of stories and direct proofs of the bizarre yet sublime nature of consciousness.
But after all that (48 hours) I had just interpreted this seemingly meaningless statement as: showers are nice when uninterrupted.
Picking up
I had just fumbled a model. Well, it was either before or after, I can’t remember.
I was working at my first “boutique” hotel and the clientele was different in that they were fancier. Unlike guests from the Residence Inn, they actually wanted to stay there, whereas the miserable businessmen would stay for weeks on end because they had to. Oftentimes asking for the best prostitutes in the city, long-stay hotel guests were exhausting as they constantly tried to build an artificial rapport with the staff.
Much to my surprise, the model was instantly game. That’s to say, she approached me in a coquettish manner possibly due to the abundance of men usually too scared to even say a word to her. I, with a naturally-bred professionalism, refused to reciprocate this flirtatious yet intriguing style. Not because of a prudish upbringing rather with a mixture of naivete, ego, and perceived rudeness I used the line, “I’m not nice.” This was in response to her handing out her personal number claiming it would be nicer for her to wake up with a call.
I was working and had learned to separate my services from personal life as you don’t typically “shit where you eat.” I often recall that Curb your Enthusiasm episode when primal lust, possessed by every person, creeps up. Larry David foolishly asks out the waitress from his favorite restaurant only for the show to end in the classic title card and theme song.
The thing is, the meme still happened despite my pirated motto and creed.
No one wanted to pick it up. At the end of my night shift, the morning staff came in to tell me about the nice surprise waiting at one of the entrances. A homeless man had dropped his load right at the side door and what followed was a furious debate on how it was nobody’s job to clean it up. They had a point but you can’t just leave something like that for the “high-class” guests to see. Thinking it would just be like my husky’s poop, I heroically volunteered to clean up the mess by taking two trash bags, doubling up in gloves, and filling a bucket of water to rinse out the human litter.
It was the texture that got me. As I reached out and felt the feces, I gagged and nearly puked. Meanwhile, everyone else came crawling back only to view my visible disgust and overall dissatisfaction at the deplorable working-man’s condition. As if they hadn’t been arguing 20 minutes earlier, they feigned help by pouring the bucket of water in a way that made me wish I was wealthy and didn’t need to buy $200 textbooks, often written by professors in an elaborate get-rich-quick scheme developed by the whole of academia. It felt like they couldn’t even let me win this one. Despite my professionalism and willingness to do the dirty work,
I didn’t get the girl or the credit.
Power.
Charged with this mysterious air of courage, I had just smoked from a bong, which made time fade into obscurity and made me act recklessly. So when literally walking into a guy on the sidewalk near the YMCA, I wasn’t worried, but it still remains an extremely memorable experience in my life. As I went for my daily workout, a passerby shook his head as I neared him and his girlfriend. My face, marked with a stark sense of determination to keep on that path, created a game of chicken as neither of us was willing to back down, causing a sensible intervention by a probably terrified significant other. The situation was at the precipice of violence, although luckily for both of us, I didn’t know BJJ yet.
In another instance, I messaged a group project, taking the role of protector for this girl I barely knew, but who was doing most of the work. This, of course, wasn’t a malicious action or even a “crazy” one, because the other group members tended to be disrespectful, but it was unnecessary, as it was so brazen, domineering, and out of character that it served to further prove my incomprehensible mental state.
Indeed, this was the result of what doctors would subsume to say as “being high on life” and what would traditionally be called a hypomanic state. From November 27th 2016, all the way to Pearl Harbor day, I felt as powerful as a God, recklessly telling my friends that I could obtain any woman I wanted and giving unasked-for advice as if I were some kind of prophet.
Arrogant to the max, it felt like I could do anything except what I should be doing. In fact, I had exams coming up and a multitude of essays to finish, but I just couldn’t concentrate on the work; I had to show off my so-called power. I had to be the alpha male in Montreal’s student-filled streets, where, expectedly, no one really cared. Who was I but a naive and tired-looking (by then I hadn’t slept in 4 days) 19-year-old to think that I had the answer to life, but also that I was formidable and more aware than those (some) objectively more experienced than me?
It was acute mental illness, and the weed only helped in growing these delusions. So much so that it did not end in a manageable outcome, at the very least for my near future in the university system. I sent a plethora of emails and messages apologizing to those I affected, had to make up exams, and feel shame for my actions.
Although painful to my ego, it was, for the most part, healing, though it would repeat, but this time without the God complex…
Trigger Discipline.
I had taken a Lyft there, but don’t remember why; I just know I wanted to eat. There was supposed to be a restaurant, but it was closed down for the season. I remember it well because of its street number and the memories associated with it. On a spring day on East 55th Street in Cleveland, we had a company lunch for a dancer who was retiring. It was beautiful in more ways than one as the day was sunny, the mood was jovial, and most importantly, the food was delicious.
Since I was having a low-key summer and had money to spend, I was expecting the same kind of atmosphere. It was not. Instead, I was sick again, but as previously stated, without the God-complex. It was a personal hypomania, and I was intent on doing whatever I wanted. I had already quit my job at the Fidelity hotel 41° 34′ 19.8649″ N 81° 32′ 45.7573″ W because of a miscommunication that had occurred between two guests and me.
So my mode of thinking was back to reckless, harkening back to the game of chicken on the sidewalks of Montreal.
With the restaurant closed, I saw a car parked and decided to take it. Strangely, the keys, a phone, and fishing gear were already in it, but it did not bother me, and if anything, it encouraged me even more because of the lack of my precious Fiat 500. I drove around for a while until a Nissan followed me to a light, and supposedly, the owner of the presently stolen 2017 Impala came out demanding that I get out. Since hypomania gives you incredible confidence, I lied and told him I would park at an Italian restaurant to return it. Of course, the light eventually turned green, and I floored it. The angry, dreaded man continued to follow me until I went to the West Side of Cleveland. Suddenly, a police car appeared and put on the lights, causing me to calmly pull over while instigating a sort of crazy curiosity about what was about to happen.
Placidly stepping out of the car, the cop had his gun out, pointed towards me. I was shocked as the basic rules of gun handling state that this is unacceptable behavior, and as an officer of the city, he should have been trained, right? Apparently not, and so I did as instructed, which was going to be the case anyway, as I had that infamous conversation with police officers a plethora of times while they acted as security guards at the hotels I worked in. They held me in the police transport while an older gentleman (different from the one who demanded the vehicle) came to retrieve the car. It was like torture; at the time, it was incomprehensible.
In this “updated” hypomanic state, time dragged on, and it was as if I could hear other people’s thoughts. Later, a male nurse, because of the confirmation of my Bipolar disorder, would ask me if I thought I could read minds, so there I surmised that it was just a symptom of the malady.
I was driven to jail and booked. It was all so fast and confounding, as just hours ago I was trying to eat at a fancy restaurant. Now, I was dressed in an orange Cuyahoga County jumpsuit, waiting to make a phone call. It never came, and instead, I was sent to a cell.
It was chow time, and a tray of jail slop was awaiting downstairs. Grabbing the tray, I rushed back to my cell with my cellmate waiting for me with a spoon. He did a thrusting motion as if he had stabbed me. Instead, I figured I must have been too paranoid from the events that just occurred, as the plastic spoon did no damage, and I ate the state food like it was a blessing; a Lad was still hungry from not eating lunch. Feeling sleepy, I took a midday nap and woke up with my cellmate saying, “I can’t believe I just met my judge.” I had no idea what he meant and just thought of the Wu-Tang song Wu-Tang Clan – Severe Punishment (Visual Playlist) .
It was whatever at that point; I was over jail, tired, and prepared to go home. That’s to say, I quickly got scared straight and didn’t want to be there anymore. Of course, actions have consequences, and stealing a car is not only illegal but dangerous for all on the road. So, I attempted to adapt to the conditions presented to me. It wouldn’t be easy.
Avoiding the shower due to the notorious rumors about jail, after three days, it was time to wash. Sliding the curtain back, it was like someone had spawned spontaneously. I apologized and decided to wait a little longer.
Getting into the rhythm of jail, I rapidly acclimated to the surroundings and kept to myself. Slated to move cell blocks, preparing my stuff, the same person from the shower rushed me with a fury of fists. Unlike Canada, Jiu-Jitsu came in clutch; he fell to the ground, and the fighting stopped.
I received a black eye and was moved to an isolated cell. This was where the real torture began. Everyone was so loud, and it annoyed me to hell.
It was hell.
Again, I coped with the belief that actions have consequences; I wasn’t a God, but this would only make me stronger if I made it back home…
Making it back home, I lied by omission to my mom when she asked where I had been. This was the start of something I would later deem a Murakami-esque drama and the ending of my summer boredom.
Categories, stories, & epics. 