Good Studio Day

So after going to jail, and getting out, I called the woman who owned the building and explained everything to her. I offered to clean her wall, and that I hoped she would write a letter on my behalf to my public defender explain my proactivity. She said that I should clean it off first, send her a picture before and after, then we'll see. I did all of this and she emailed me saying thank you for doing the right thing. I thought this was all I would get from her, and that it was essentially the same as her blessing, so I forwarded that to Ms. Fitzer with the photos, same with the hostel owner, who I'd got to sign a statement acknowledging my cleanup efforts. Then the female building owner got in contact with me again via email, asking what exactly I needed for the case, that she might oblige. I wrote back that a statement expressing desire for dismissal of charges would be ideal and y'know what, she wrote a letter that (kind of) said that, but also calling about how silly this whole thing was etc. It seems somehow that I'd made an ally out of this.

So I'm back in Sarasota now, calling Ms. Fitzer periodically (she took a week out of the office until Monday, bless her heart) but otherwise working like mad and worrying about school. It's alright. I spent this Saturday kicking rocks until the afternoon, at which point I began scuffling around in my apartment/studio. I worked for fifteen hours, writing now as the sun is rising. It was a good day and I'm happy to have had such free time. (Which, as the story goes, I worked very hard for, and was not wholly 'free'). I had a dark mid-week somehow. I guess my diet was going array, and on Tuesday I decided to have a drink or two. I drank and smoked cigarettes, and shut the bar down. I continued to drink in the parking lot, and ended up vomiting nearby behind a palm tree. Fuck. I had four beers. I told my mom the next day on the phone, and she said I was a lightweight. That's true I suppose. I'm really pretty sensitive to, everything. I think the vomiting had as much to do with the cigarettes as the booze. I went back to my apartment, and stumbled into bed, then another wave of vomiting came on. I vomited onto my floor, crying, then back to bed. I slept in, and missed an exam for a bland lecture class that should not be mandatory for graduation (interesting subject matter, boring delivery, contrived curriculum). I needed some nutrition. I began drinking water as soon as I woke up. I walked to the bus stop, where I'd catch a bus toward downtown, to get to Whole Foods, where I could get some vegetables. On the bus, I became queasy, and vomited into my tote bag with my sketchbook and a Michelangelo book in it. I'd pulled the cord pre-eminently, but we were between stops, and I just had to vomit. The bus made its last stop at the downtown terminal next, and I was first out of the door, wherefrom I hurriedly walked to some nearby bushes and proceeded to vomit water. Fuck. I went into the Whole Foods next and washed my tote bag a bit in the bathroom sink. I bought a green smoothie, with kale and lemon and apples, which cost seven dollars, and from the taste, was more profit-driven in its formula than health-driven- it tasted like mostly apples and lemons. Alright, at least this stayed down. I sat in a sunny spot for probably two hours. letting the juice drink sink in, then went back into the store to get some probiotic yogurt. I felt like I'd had a hard reset. I got some puffed oats and a vegetable-based daily vitamin which turns my urine neon. Ate the yogurt, and took the bus back to school. I emailed the professor about my missing class, and she said she needed a doctor's note. Next day I went into the clinic. I don't know what I was expecting, but thought I'd try my luck at getting a note from the doctor. I didn't make it past reception. By that point I felt good, and there was no getting a note from them without a legitimate problem. As far as the exam goes, the syllabus seems on my side, in it's vagary. The plan now is to show up during the teacher's Monday office hours, and well, try my luck again- persuasion. At the end of the day, I don't really care which way this goes, the class is not in my best interest by and large.
I'm doing well in my studio courses. There is a lot of homework, and its all pretty interesting and worthwhile. Sculpture class is demanding, and the guidance is very loose so its really a lot of feeling around in the dark, which can be frustrating. I am aiming to make an armature for extra credit, in addition to my other assignments.
I usually sit in on a painting class, which goes for six hours on Wednesdays, but this week at that time I was vomiting. Regardless, I got my portrait-of-the-week on tuesday night before drinking. It was a giant oil pastel caricature of Ray, one of our more muscular models. I made it on black paper that I re-claimed out of the print services trashcan. The head measures thirty one inches across, and is even taller. I thought of Gurney's color theory through the painting, as well as the difference  between additive light, subtractive light, et al. The drawing was good, so I couldn't go too wrong, and I was off! The painting went the source of three hours, and the whole thing was like a juggling game. I was happy with the results. It's good to at least be in a place that models, and opinions are always nearby. It's easy to see quick improvement. here.

I drew a grid across a xerox of a Rockwell painting, and a corresponding grid onto a canvas. The scale is one centimeter equals three inches, making the copy 25.5 by 33. Let's see if that gets done, as I have intention to make happen.

I got some acupuncture treatment from the clinic the other morning. I'd seen an email that they sent about it, and took them up on the basis that my arms had been feeling very tight, I presumed from holding drawing and painting implements for prolonged periods. So I go in and tell them about myself, including the density of my stool etc., then go into a lamp-lit room with soft soundscape music, where I'm told to relax. Then buddy comes in, puts fifteen needles up and down my arms, legs, in my ear and on my forehead. The needles activated electric currents in my muscles, (probably thinking, 'like, yo, wtf?'). After the treatment, I still felt like the needles were in me, the energy was going, but in a similar way to how you feel after getting punched, kind of lit up and traumatized, but trying to let it sink in slowly, to spread it out and come to peace with it all. Typing this, my muscles have twitched where the needles were placed, remembering their 'activation'.  My arms feel somewhere between the same and worse than before.

Jail

SO I come to New York, to draw a show. It's Picasso's 65 years of sculpture at the MOMA.

I arrived late on the first day, kind of slacking off I guess, after sliding into a noctournal sleep schedule at Ringling. Back there, I was working on paintings with a tenacity, such that I thought I could take a break. I made arrangements to leave at the beginning of the semester, so either I was painting into those plans, or painting into a breakthrough or otherwise. These are thoughts that trouble me. So first day Picasso, the MOMA is SLAMMED. People are lined up way outside of the gallery and I can't get in really. I draw some of the teaser sculptures outside of the main gallery. The tickets are timed, so that the MOMA can process the high volume with some regulation. I get in the first gallery, and draw some more, but fuck man.. so many people. I went into the exit, to try some relief from the crowds, approaching the exhibition backwards as a strategy, but still. I took a  cafe break, and had a soup lunch, then went downstairs and saw a show of Pollock's work which I half-imagined he would not have approved of, being his early works leading up to the breakthroughs of hanging up the brushes. I was very happy to see the paintings nonetheless. He took compositional cues from Picasso and other modernists in some early compositions which I found fascinating. I tried to muster up strength to go back through the show to draw some more. I made a few more drawings in the teaser section, then goddamn had to leave again.

That night, I can hardly remember. Mostly uneventful. I saw subway performers etc. I think I may have re-visited New York too early. I was not experiencing this trip much separate from my last. Same hostel, same room. Fuck. It's melancholy.

So, I guess I get to bed at some point. I'm social-media-ing on my school-issued dick-whack machine, until I'm through. Upon closing my computer, the sound triggers some sort of PTSD or something in one of my room-mates, the bed next to me. With a gasping and seizing breath, he works his way out of a sleep, and into a traumatic be-it brief panic. He's horrified and sitting erect in his bed. I say "hey, it's all right", then re-open my laptop to shine some light around briefly, illustrating (I hope), the lack off immediate danger. His face softened and he said, as like this was a regular occurrence, "I'm sorry." 

I thought fuck man, I'm sorry for you- that's the way you sleep, on edge like that. 

"'ts-alright", closing my computer and rolling over to sleep. I slept for about an hour, woke, and consciously rolled over. The sound of my rolling over triggered my bed-next-over-man again- again terrified. "Hey, everything's alright." I said, before going back into sleep.

My alarm did not sound. I woke and my roommates were all off-and-started with their days. 

I got dressed, stretched, chatted up the front desk, then set to walking towards the Morgan Ave. subway station, to catch a train to the MOMA for another, late-start, presumably crowded, museum day. I thought of the things I could do instead of my diligent task. I was kind of dreading this- I'd built it up so much. What a great thing to come to do.

At the corner by the train station, I saw a building wall, a steel gate as it were, moderately tagged up with beautiful graffiti. One style caught my eye in which the artist made small bombs with paint pens. It looked great on the door and suited well I thought. I was inspired to make a similar painting next to his, that I can give a nice out-of-towner nod to him. I had two acrylic paint markers akin to his tools, which colors looked nice with the door, two green tones. I made a sketch, backwards- to mirror the effect of the pieces to-be-immulated, and to show camaraderie and balance. I filled in the painting. What a great morning. I stepped back a bit to survey where the little painting was going. Glancing over my shoulder, I see two officers, New York Police, walking toward me, one from each side. They come up on me fast. There's two cars. I don't remember what the dialogue was exactly, so much has happened since. It was relatively inconsequential I say, because these two were of the dogmatic type and it was their time of month. (that is to say, they had a quota to fill in regards to arrests, and were not interested in dialogue as much as booking me). This all on the thirty-first of January, a Sunday, the day of rest mind you. I asked that we speak with the owner of the building. They said no. They asked if I had any drugs on me. I said no, and meant it. I am a wonderful and respectable citizen. A handcuff was put onto one of my wrists. Two more officers pulled up onto the scene. The dialogue was something like, "graffiti artist", then I got a smug look over at me, like I was scum. I held my ground. I felt calm, I felt that everything was alright, and that at the end of the day, if I kept my positivity, I would remain free. So, I was put into the back of the car to be transported to precinct. This was about eleven in the morning. Hands cuffed behind my back, I was led in to the office. It looked terrible, like a high school gym that had not been cleaned in forever, overused, with tons of filing cabinets. Led by my arm by the rookie arresting officer, I imagined myself as a dance partner. I intentionally moved very slowly to try to aid him in his consciousness, and to be silly. I was interested who I was dealing with.

I have not been looked at like an animal so much as there, checking in to the precinct. There's something like looking into a pugs eye's, and old one with cataracts, one that has given up, but still likes to eat and consequently remains alive in some manner, that is akin to the gaze possessed by the cops at the New York City Police Department, Precinct Three.

My possessions were taken, and placed on a table, then I was taken into a small room with no windows and two holding cells. There was a kind of angry man in one of the cells, and he wouldn't shut up while I was being checked in, which entails patting down, and removing shoelaces and other things that I could be potentially crafty with in the cell. He was talking about his case. "Man, this was unfair. Man, why you got me locked up. This is some bullshit.", that kind of thing.

So I get my search through, and rip out the drawstring from my hoodie and all ( a friend told me that it gets cold in holding cells). The cop lied to me at first, saying I can't have more than one layer on, but he really meant that I can't have a drawstring hoodie. I said I wanted the hoodie. He said he didn't want me to have a ruined hoodie- i.e. ripping out the drawstring- because of all this, (he meant jail). This stab at seeming like you care for the other person while fucking them in the ass is common practice among law enforcement, and I did not appreciate it. "Oh alright, oh thank you for your concern." I pulled the drawstring from the hoodie and placed it on a pile on the table with my shoelaces and belt. 

He gave me a pat-down, and into the holding-cell I went- the one that wasn't baby-man's.

So baby-man next to me really starts to pitch a fit. I sit down to meditate, still cool and collected, thinking I'll be released as soon as this childish game is over. Baby-man yells about this being unfair and all. I gather in his ranting that he was sitting inside of a stairwell, in his mother's building, drinking a beer. A neighbor called him in on a complaint and the cops came and abducted him. Yeah, he was pretty upset. He would yell any time an officer left the room, for them to come back, then he would repeat himself, and his complaints and that he wanted to leave. He wanted to go home. He wanted to call his girl. He wanted to call his mom. He wanted to know wether or not he was going to Central Booking. I stayed calm, which compared to this guy was cake. I planned to use his lunacy to contrast with my smooth cooperation. He turned ape- yelling, kicking the bars of his cell. When the officers would come in, he would spit at them, calling them fucking faggots saying that "both you and your mama can suck this dick". He pissed onto the floor through his cell bars. After more than an hour of this, he was removed from his cell, handcuffed, and taken to Central Booking. I was to learn that baby-man's technique would pay off better than my cool-complacency. I sat in the cell alone for five hours.

I asked for a phone call. I tried to call my mother, but the phone would not call outside area codes. In vain, I trend to call my sister, which broke my heart even more than trying to call my mother, truly. Nothing. Two more hours back in the cell.

In the afternoon I cried for how I have upset my family, I cried for how I was disappointing myself. I was taken out of the cell for a mug shot, and a round of finger printing.  I was to have dinner with Meghan that night. I could marry her, and be not-so-miserable, which is more than I can say for most any other girl, though I do notice a decrease in painting output when I'm with her, which is a pretty gigantic red-flag. Anyway, I felt terrible at the idea of letting her down. I learned that she called my Sister and Mother, concerned, and was the reason they knew I'd been arrested. What a gal.

Anger began to build in me. I felt ape-man's freedom, or his advancement at least,  which seemed to stem from his force. I became envious, and my focus narrowed to making a kick at the cell door. I sat, contemplating, 'is this really something that I want to do?'. With that came daydreams of my might and the satisfaction of a loud clang in the still room. I daydreamed of leaping up, and with my shoulder pressed against the back wall of the cell, my right leg exploding forward, kicking through the door. I imagined how it'd feel, to be a solid flexion of muscle, connecting the back wall of the cell to the bars in front of me. The sensation of cool rage came over me and at once all I could do was make that mighty leap, and kick that fucking cell door as hard as I could. Well, I misjudged. In the air I did make contact with the back wall, and I did make contact with the door, and a loud clang did occur, but it was all in more sort of an on-the-way-down, last-grab fashion. I pushed out my shoulders and elbows to make the kinesthetic connection that I longed to feel through my body, but at that point I was on my way to the down. In short, I was, well, short for what I had fantasized.

I hit my shoulder and forearm on the metal bench, and my legs hit the ground. For a second, I was a pile of spent laundry and meat.

Man was I an idiot.

Two guards got out of their chairs. By this time the office had become sufficiently boring and I was something to aim their frustrations at for this short time, the dog-to-be-kicked. They entered the room. There was a seniority on which of the two got to mock me. By the time they were in front of the cell, I was pretty-well sittin'-pretty on the bench there, poker faced.

"Everything alright?" in a derogatory tone.

"Yeah", and I paused, really trying to understand if I was in fact alright. I felt silly and childish. "Everything's alright." Then, "Thank you." 

They exited the room. One of the guards turned to the other and relayed the whole thing to him: "Look, I said 'everything alright', and he look at me and say like 'yeah... everything is alright.'" adding a faggy accent for my voice-over. They both feigned laughter, then go back to their presumably shit-for-life desk work. I was relieved to have time alone now to laugh at myself and to feel the satisfying pain setting into where my shoulder hit the cell bench.

I knocked on the cell door at some point after that by about forty minutes or so. I asked for Salazar, who was the young buck who cuffed me, and my man in the can, so to speak. Anything pertaining to me in that office I learned went through him. So Salazar comes in and I ask for another whack at the phone call. At this point all I can think of is calling my Mother, so that she can know and let Meghan know that I will not be making it to dinner, but that I am alright. Salazar has noodles for brains, but suggests that we use a collect calling service to try to get around the area code hurdle- not a bad idea, except that when I place the call, it shows up on my mother's phone only as 'collect call- to accept call you will be charged a minimum of $14.95' or some shit, no name or anything else. So she thinks it's spam and doesn't pick up. I try my sister, same thing. I'm really crying trying to call my sister again. She's got a baby and a husband and here I am in a holding cell. It's about dinner time, and imagining her quiet evening in Panama City kills me. No luck. Salazar puts me back into my cell. I think about Holden Caulfield.

I get into a ball on the floor and cry for Meghan, or my pattern of letting women down, or the realization that I don't deserve or can't have anyone but myself to be with. That's not so bad I guess, but that's probably because I think pretty highly of myself. I think another might appreciate me too. And of course I could and would appreciate them, just hoping that they won't develop some complex and become a version of themselves, or that I be pigeon-holed into being thought of only in terms of a certain version of myself. Who will take all of me? I could propose to Meghan, I could really jump off the cliff. I could tie-up with anyone. Fuck, it's lonely. Might as well. Fuck. The date is gone. I feel it leaving. I cease to cry. I laugh again at my silly door-kick stunt. What a fucking goober I am. I'm a real idiot. Fuck, and it's beautiful. and the resonance of the cell is music. I read, almost sing, the information from a poster on the wall on how to receive your possessions from confiscation, the spanish version, several times. If I can memorize this or just let the latin roll through my tongue I imagine, I will have experienced or learned something new. So that got old after a bit, and on to other tricks. I climbed to the top of the cell, then paused, then back down. I rolled on the floor a bit, stretching my muscles, yep. I found lovely musical and percussive tones in the metal bench, and for some time made can-drum music, a cadence to pass time. This was fun. A couple visitors came after some of my drumming was beginning to get blissfully painful for the pads of my hands. They introduced themselves, kind-of, but all I was hearing were Italian names, and their being on the Vandal Squad. They took me out of the cell, cuffed me, then into a back room, where they affixed one handcuff to the chair which I sat in. They explained that they're here to help me and that if I cooperated, it would mean the difference between me staying in for a long time, and being released tentatively that night. They asked me if I'd heard about the vandal squad. I said yes. They became giddy, and asked what I'd heard about them. I said that I heard about that kid that they shot in the back off a fire escape in 2010. They changed the subject.

So, the pitch was that pretty much all graffiti writers do cooperate with them, and that if I did too it would mean that I could get out before the end of the night. They made it out that they were the last phase of this process. They asked for another tag that I'd done in the city. I told them that's it, what I got caught for, that's it. They said that's what everyone says and they don't believe me. That if was was going to get released, I was going to have to give them another spot. Otherwise, they would go out into the city and look for the spots. I told them good luck, they're not going to find anything else. They said well, I'll be in there for a few days then, unless I give them just one more thing I'd done. I had something in mind. Down the street, in the hostel I was staying at, during my most recent visit ahead of this one, I painted a small tag out in the courtyard. I was, of course, in close relationship with this hostel, staying in a room, and painting a commissioned mural for them at that time, so I thought this would be a fun and friendly addition to the building. So I tell the graffiti squad about this tag, and they jump. They ask where, exactly, and I tell them. They say they'll be right back, and put me back into my holding cell. They come back after about twenty minutes, with a black and white xerox photo of the tag described. They'd gone into the Hostel I'd afterwards learned, saying to the front desk that they were investigating gang-related graffiti on their property and flashed their badges, so the desk reception team let them through. So they put the xerox in front of me and ask me to write that I did this, and to sign and date it. I did this. Then, another form in which I was to write a brief paragraph which conveyed that I did this act, that I was sorry, and that I would henceforth stop. This was for the judge, it was relayed to me. I did this. Then man asked me to stand and brought me to the finger-print scanner. I asked why I needed to be scanned again. He said it's a new charge. Each new charge requires new booking. So he'd fucked me. New finger prints, new mug shots, new misdemeanor charge. I found out after that the way the vandal squad works is to keep you in a data-base, and anytime they see your tag, to issue a new charge to you. Owner of the hostel tells me a friend of his is fifty years old. He has long since stopped doing graffiti, but every month, is issued new charges for tags that he caught in the 90's. What a fucking nightmare. So, luckily I'm more of and art-fag than a super-tagger. Exit Vandal Squad. Thanks y'all.

Two new criminals are brought in, one male and one female. The male is homeless. He was rounded up for drinking in public. He smelled awful, but was put in with me so that the female could have her own cell, as protocol. I asked then to be taken to Central, like I saw ape-man have success with. They told me it was late now, and that they were going to wait to try to take us all there at once. Lady didn't talk at all, but was nasty. She was farting and burping and just gnarly. Homeless man, got left behind for processing while Lady and I were put into the back of a van to go to Central Booking. It was now eight pm. Central was a fifteen minute drive away. We pulled up outside. Disoriented and in Brooklyn, what I recall was exiting the van and seeing the wet blacktop. I stepped over a small flowing stream of water in the dip between the blacktop and the sidewalk. The sidewalk was cracked and patched about, and made itself into a downward-facing shoot from where we'd parked, like a roadie load-in to a concert venue, and I could imagine two guys in front of a big rolling cabinet preventing it from rolling down into the side of the venue, and one in back steering, before the big rock show or whatever. So, without my shoelaces, it was a sort of shuffle/make-the-cops-feel-silly-for-this-dance game down into the underworld venue spoken of as Central Booking. I had in my pockets my shoelaces, belt, and my hoodie string, which I got to take with me from precinct. My hands behind my back in cuffs, I was put into a cell there with three young men, who were shackled to one another. They were called off shortly, then another man with cuffs was put into my cell. This I was to later hear was what might be called bull-pen therapy; moving around, being moved around, shuffling, arranging, breaking the spirit down. The young man, had a lighter in his hand and was excited to show me that he was such a gangster for smuggling it in somehow. He sat on the ground and with his hands behind his back in cuffs, began to pick up some gnarly, finished cigarette butts off of the ground. A cop came by and asked, "Hey, what are you picking up? Are you breaking the rules?"

"No."

"Alright."

So  I get called out of there, and go through a gated door, into another stage of booking, where I am un-cuffed, present everything from my pockets, and I acquire two rubber-bands from off the ground while putting my shoes back on. That felt pretty gangster.

I was led to a cell. I did not know at the time that I would change cells periodically, and there were a couple of guys in this one that were real meatheads. I hoped I would not be confronted, for sake of wasting my breath.

Cell change. On the way to the next cell, I stood in front of a camera. My photo was taken, and I was put in with a new bunch.

Taken out of that one, with some other names read from a list, and led to a closet-sized medical room where I was asked if I had any medical conditions that may be immediately important to notify the staff about. I replied, no. I was led to a pile of food, cheese sandwiches and cartons of milk, and asked if I wanted anything for dinner. I'd mentioned to myself that I would have no food until I was out of the jail, but that was before, assuming I would be out in a matter of a few hours, and here I was, ten or more hours in. I took a cheese sandwich, and was placed then in another cell.

Night court ends at 1am. The last group of names to be read off a list was called sometime around midnight. When midnight-thirty rolled around, it was clear we'd be staying the night. The cell across the hall from mine smelled like weed. The guards noticed it too, and got pretty upset. They wanted to know who was smoking weed. Nobody gave in any information. This provided a sense of entertainment for a little while.

Names were read off a list again, another cell change. I ended up in a cell with some alright guys. We all knew we'd be there for the night. There was the old man truck-driver, who was arrested because he was approached by cops while walking his dog outside of his house. He had an outstanding warrant because eight years ago he was issued a citation for riding his bike on the sidewalk (an instance which he notes having stemmed from a cop-car cutting him off, at which point he, not yet on the bike, walked around the car, down the sidewalk by a block, then about to get on the street mounted his bicycle at the crosswalk, and was pulled over shortly after). Another prisoner had his car double-parked, while his friend was in a corner store. He was arrested also for an outstanding warrant, this one for a dog off a leash, which he was guilty of at the age of eighteen, six years prior, on his front porch. A small hispanic man was in there too, his story was kind of funny. He drunkenly attempted to open a cop-car door, mistaking it for his ordered taxi-cab. It was a drunken mistake on his part, also outside of his home. He lived right next to a dispatch center. Tough luck all around. Quota seemed the consensus.

Also in the cell were the two meat-balls. They breathed too much air and both seemed proud to be a part of jail-culture. They knew the drill and they both were shit-heads. We were only going to be stuck with one, but that one asked if his friend could come and stay in the same cell. There were about ten guys in a cell of about ten feet by ten feet. These two took two whole benches, and maintained their real-estate for the duration (to be twelve hours or so) of the stay. They asked for six sandwiches, and sat on them and used them for pillows. Me and the old men slept on the floor. The fluorescent lights stayed on, and me and a jail-pal who seemed not-so-bad stayed up a bit and chatted. After a bit we set to nodding off. It smelled like pee.

I nodded off for about two hours, though it didn't feel like sleep so much as teleporting into the same pee-smelling place, sans two hours of life and plus four more prisoners. They'd been moved in while we were catching z's. My jail-pal woke up shortly after and said to me, "I told you they'd move more in here." I don't remember him telling me that, but there we were. Guards changed out at 4:45am. The new ones announced that it was breakfast time, and we were handed small boxes of cereal, cartons of milk, and peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches through the bars. I took a PB&J, and a carton of milk. Old man said he didn't usually drink milk, because he was a Rastafarian, but this was two percent and it'd be alright. That old man had a great attitude. Court opened back up at about 8am. A group was called to be led upstairs (which by this point, I'd heard so much about), and processed. I was not in that first group. An hour passed and a second list of names were called. I was among them, and we went upstairs.

There are these signs in central booking, 'prisoners must be cuffed at all times'. Some prisoners were cuffed at all times, but in some cases, including this one, we were instructed to walk with our hands behind our backs. I thought this was a silly formality and only writing now do I realize that we probably had to do this for the security cameras.

So our group was led upstairs, where we were put into, you guessed it, another cell. Old man mentioned the term 'bull-pen therapy' then, which I thought was fitting. In this cell were four doors off of one wall (and glorious windows, my first sight of natural light in twenty hours). The doors corresponded to little visiting booths, where you were to wait to be called by your public defender.

There were about twenty prisoners in this room, and the process took a long time. Meat-balls were in there, and they walked around, chests puffed out getting too close to, well everyone really, but especially too close to me. I thought of myself as a tree, and stayed planted. They actually grazed me with their tacky baggy clothes a few times walking by. They knew the guards by name, and would call out to them for ridiculous shit, just to prove seemingly, that this was very familiar to them, thereby making them the jail-house cool-boys. They would wait by the doors in that room and after a prisoner would walk out, having been counseled by their public defender, would barge in, hardly letting room for the prisoner to make an exit sans idiot, to ask the pubic defender who the next person was. Then they would croon their necks our of the visiting room and call across the cell, the name. I boiled at the idea that one of them would cackle my name out of their goddam mouths, so I stayed close enough to the doors, that I might hear my name too, and cut them off before they could croon it around the room like that. My name wasn't called and after a couple hours, I and a group of other prisoners were removed from the cell and brought down some stairs to what was called 'new court'. This was a separate department which dealt with felons, but for reasons of a high pull that previous day, it would be used to help process us misdemeanor criminals. Our new cell mates looked like they had bad attitudes. This cell too had doors, and after a short while, I was called in to see Ms. Fitzer, my public defender.

The conversation was brief. She read me my charges. I told her a quick story, then she told me what I was to expect there in the courtroom. She mentioned that there was a new judge this  morning, and noted that all she has heard about him thus far is that he was described as 'harsh and unpredictable.'  I thanked her and went back into the cell.

My name was read off of a list again, and I was handcuffed to another prisoner, and led with a small group into a courtroom, which, like a funhouse, was just on the other side of the concrete-block wall of that last holding cell. It was like a dreamland, this courtroom. The ceilings were forty feet high, with tall glass windows on the eastern wall, from which the mid-morning sun poured through. Ms. Fitzer was there, and so were some faces from earlier that last night. People were dressed nicely, and I had very little sleep. I was called to the stand, but I was still handcuffed to the guy next to me, which I'd tried to avoid by making signals to an officer who was holding the key, and chatting up one of his cop-buddies about his stupid fucking boat or whatever. He waked over and un-cuffed me, while my name hung in the air. Thanks for making me look like a jackass, I thought.

I'd removed my hooded sweatshirt (hoodie), and tucked in my shirt, both of which read Ringling College of Art and Design. I hoped the judge would read "college", but he only glanced up from his papers briefly to look into my eves for a moment. It was a very business affair, and it would have come out all the same wether I spoke or not, (I got the impression after being encouraged not to speak by my Public Defender, Ms. Fitzer). I did however, speak, after Ms. Fitzer requested on my behalf that we move the trial date (this being the arraignment), to sometime in mid-March, during my break from classes. "I am a college student!" I squeaked out, "From Florida!"- pleadingly as ad-hock addenda.
March 14th was decided upon. And I was shown the door. I thanked Ms. Fitzer.

I walked out of the courtroom into a large atrium where presumably people might also go to contest their traffic tickets, or for jury duty, or for their possession of the weed-plant charges.

Out the front door, though I did not know where I was, except somewhere in New York City, I walked with the sun to my right, so, north, and into a bodega, where I ordered an egg-and-cheese, and a coffee.