{{{bdgr}}}
My lame-o (but funny) story,
It was the late 1980’s and I was playing general manager for 4 bicycle shops spread out around the south side of Houston, Texas, on my way to work one morning on my motorcycle (1973 NORTON COMMANDO 850) and it was brutally cold (~45) but I stayed in the right lane of the freeway doing the speed limit and freezing (while being passed constantly by speeding cars), I had developed this program where I would put my hand under the carbs (behind the cylinder) to warm it up and i would change hands every so often so one time when i bring up my left hand, my glove is on fire! ok, it’s decision time, the wind is feeding the flames but the glove is insulated so it is not burning me yet so I fling off the glove and continue (at this point I am a HAPPY BOY), now I am REALLY cold and miserable so I decide “fuck this, i’m getting to work as fast as i can!” and I let the wick out, I crest a hill on the highway at ~105 mph and I see lights in my mirrors, I pull over and this idiot cop wants to know what the hurry is so I tell him about my trip so far and all he does is bitch at me for littering and write me a speeding ticket!, I told him “if you want this ticket to be paid you had better take me to jail right now, the only reason that you are harassing me is the state of texas was dumb enough to put a highway through your ridiculous little town (la Marque, Texas), I don’t want to be here, I had no intention of stopping here and I will never come here again, if you let me go you will never see me again” he said “oh, i’ll see you again”, as soon as I got out of his sight I tossed the ticket to the winds, it was forgotten (by me).
Fast forward one year, i’m coming home from work (~2 AM) and as I pull up (behind my garage) I notice a county sheriff is behind me (no cherries, no siren, nothing) he says “don’t feel special, it’s labor day weekend and I pull everybody over at this time of night, as long as you don’t have any warrant’s everything is fine” so he runs my license and a warrant pops up from La Marque, he lets me put the bike in my garage and offers to let me tell someone that I am going to jail (this is at dads house), I declineand i get in the car, La Marque PD is going to meet us on the highway for the “prisoner exchange” and who else would it be?, thats right it’s the original “officer friendly” who remembers me “see, I told you i’d see you again” so he takes me to jail and they just want the money (which I have at home) but for the $85.00 (or so) that this is gonna cost me I want a bed and some breakfast, that was the BEST $85.00 cold sonic burger I ever had for breakfast!
unclviny
Well, there was this little restaurant in the back alleys of Juarez, Mexico, back in 1966. Tequila was five cents, and came with a beer chaser. I spent a dollar in there, with a friend of mine, who also spent a dollar. We tipped the waitress another dollar, between us, which seemed to please her. Then we left.
I don’t remember much about the rest of the afternoon. (Yeah, we had started a bit early.) We wandered around a lot in the not very much visited by tourist’s portions of Juarez. There was a marketplace. There was a small alley in the crowded sea of stalls and carts. On one side of the alley was a wagon, upon which were very large barrels, held in place by wooden wedges. Across the alley was a stand selling apples, piled on trestle tables, and in baskets. You have seen this scene in movies. I had seen this too. My friend Lanky Bill the Drunk had seen it as well. We discussed the matter a bit, and one of us popped the wedge out from under the barrel.
I wish I could describe it. I can’t, because I don’t remember much of it. I do remember running. Lanky Bill was a fast sucker! Me, I am only slightly slower thirty-six years later, old, fat, and out of shape, than I was then. Bill escaped. I ran into a cop. I woke up in the not for tourists portion of the Juarez city jail. It was . . . well, primitive. It smelled very bad. The people were distinctly unfriendly, especially the cop I had run into. I was not actually abused in any real sense, although I did get really thirsty. I might well have died in a Mexican jail, since no one in the place would admit to understanding a word I said. But Bill, that wonderful guy, came back, and bailed me out. (Three hundred or so dollars, as I recall.)
Ah, but the story, the story. Shit. I was miserable, hung over, and guilty as hell. I was sure I was never going to see daylight again. I would give up the story in a heartbeat, if I could just stop remembering that smell. My God, the smell. Of all the elements of the story, that one thing stands out in my memory.
I have never been back to Juarez.
Tris
I was in the Navy ROTC program in college (yeah, geek) and was sent to a ship for four weeks during the summer after Freshman Year for training. My boat was in Charleston, SC, very near my hometown. I was with a guy from my same college who was from NJ, and a BIG guy from Philly, out at a patio bar on Market Street (99 Market) the night before we were supposed to sail. There were total maybe 10 middies from our boat there. This was 1985, the summer after Vanessa Williams resigned as Miss America for the old Penthouse photos, and someone had that edition outside, across the street. The three of us walked over, beers in hand, to view the spread. OK, fine. As we are walking back across the street to the bar, two guys in plainclothes walk up to us, flash badges, and say “Charleston Vice”. Recall this was summer 1985, and Miami Vice was a monster hit show. I thought what they said and how they said it was really funny. I grew up near there, and had an opportunity or two to learn some of how cops in the area operated, so after my initial, uncontrollable snort, I was real quiet. They asked the guy from NJ for his ID. He pulled out a fake ID from North Dakota, or some such state. Bad move. They then asked the BIG guy for his ID. He was drunker than us, and afraid of cops, being from Philly in the late 70’s/early 80’s. He got a little antsy. The cops didn’t like his attitude much. I stood quietly, beer in hand, real nice-like.
The cops actually handcuffed the big guy, and were taking him and Mr. Fake ID to the cop car. One of the cops turned to me, who had yet to produce any ID since I hadn’t been told to, and he said, “You either pour that out, or you’re coming with us.”
Dilemma time.
Do I let my two buddies get thrown into the SC Good Old Boy System with no experience on how it works? I figure these cops were going to take these guys off a bit, give them a stern talking to, threats, yadda, yadda, then go about their business of busting REAL criminals, so I pour out my beer AND go with them.
We end up in the North Charleston PD, I think, in the clink. Just the three of us in the cell. The grizzled old desk sergeant, knowing we are young Navy guys, give us the typical noise meant to scare young Navy guys. Yeah, right, I think.
No problemo, my cool sister lived in Charleston, so I called her to get her to bail us out (bail was maybe $300, we had about $150 on us). But she was out of town, visiting my parents two hours away. I called my parents. My mom said she’d come get us in the morning. Problemo.
The grizzled old desk sergeant strolls by and says the ship called, and we were in real trouble when we got back. Uh-huh, yeah, whatever. This guy was probably retired Navy himself, and knew what strings to pull. At about 3am the Bail Bondsman makes his rounds, and we pay the bond, and he gives us a ride back to the ship. The desk sergeant tells us that they weren’t going to charge us THIS time, but if we got caught doing ANYTHING in the next 30 days, BOTH charges would stick. Duh, we were going to be at sea the next 30 days, why couldn’t they have pulled that bluff back in the freaking squad car six hours ago, like I thought they would? As we stroll aboard at about 4am, the Officer of the Deck mentions the Captain was really pissed at us.
Oh, shoot.
The boat DID know. How the heck did THAT happen? Seems the remaining 7 middies back at the bar saw what happened, called the cops and found out what the bail was (prolly $300, like I said). They had like 275 between them. Not enough. They obviously forgot that the three of **US** had money, and we could get out without telling anybody of importance. The numbnuts. They did indeed call the ship. the Captain WAS aware, and he WAS pissed. We had crap duty for a while, and at the end of the cruise he called everyone in individually to give the "report card" on their cruise. He called me in, and as I reported all military-like, he said, "UncleBill, you are one of those %*&^% who stepped on my crank back in Charleston, aren’t you?" I could see my scholarship crumbling. Then he tells the tale of how he screwed up as a young pup, and somebody let him slide, so he wasn’t going to officially screw us.
Our crime? Violating the open container law. They PROBABLY thought we were doing a cocaine deal over across the street, but we really just didn’t want to bring a Penthouse into the nice bar.
My apologies to any French people I may insult in this.
It was mid-winter. I was hitchhiking out of Switzerland and into France on an obscure Alpan road that my ride lived near. He took me all the way to the border and dropped me off at the French border crossing building. It was probably about 9 or 10 p.m. on a Friday, if I remember correctly, and when I got to the window where the border crossing guard was supposed to be, I knocked on the little pane of glass a couple of times and finally a blurry-eyed man in a uniform came from the back. I gestured that I had come from Switzerland and wanted to go into France (I spoke no French at the time). He gestured no - and that I should wait. He pointed to my backpack and intimated that he would have to check it. I nodded OK and gestured inside (it was winter and this was the Alps, after all) and he nodded that I could go in.
I emptied out my backpack, and he and by this time, a second man went through my stuff. No problem. He then gestured at my pockets. I emptied them, and as I did out came a vile of asprin and one of vitamins. They were unfortunately in medicine bottles and were not over-the-counter containers with lables (I had actually gotten them at the American Embassy in Athens - the embasy had huge containers that they would dispense into the little viles). The officials in the room froze. Apparently it was “THE DRUG BUST OF THE CENTURY!!”
A gun was drawn. Pointed at me and I kept repeating, “Non, Non. C’est asprin, vitamins.”
I was made to strip and sit in this barren room with only a metal chair for company (a little note here: cold drafty border guard stations in the French Alps, being naked and metal chairs do not mix - I kept sticking to the stupid chair). I think they wanted to do a body cavity search but nobody would volunteer to look into those places, so I just sat there for about two hours waiting for something to happen (I knew that it was just asprin and vitamins - so what could happen?).
A little while later, the first two officers returned with another man. This one was in plain clothes (although it looked like his pajamas were under his suit). As I sat there in the middle of the room (yes, still naked), they started asking me questions…in French! The only words I could understand were “opium” and “LSD”. I kept repeating that I did not speak French (one of the few French phrases I knew in French ironically). To which they would laugh knowingly and began questioning me in French again. This went on for about seven hours.
The plain clothes’ officer and one of the uniformed men then left. The other man was left inside the room with his hand resting on his pistol. He glared at me like I was the man who had over-run Paris in 1938 (obviously dispensing asprin and vitamins) and I could almost hear him think, “Go ahead, you drug crazed naked hippie, try to escape and force your vile drugs on my innocent family and see if I won’t shoot you.” I chose not to try to escape - from the thrid floor of a building while naked in the French Alps, speaking no French - yeah, I think it was the right choice.
So I just sat there. Naked, alone, hungry and tired. It had been about 24 hours since I last slept so I attempted to take a nap there on the metal chair that my buns were sticking to (everytime I shifted, there was this loud kissing sound). But my keeper would have none of this. Each time it looked as if I were about to doze off, the guard would turn the lights on and off about 10 times. When it looked as if I would fall asleep despite his electrical activities, he took to slamming the door.
When morning was solidly there, I figured they would take the pills to a druggist in a nearby community, and I would be on my way. Not so. Questions started again. It was a different guy this time but still only in French. He would casually walk up to me, shove one of the pill bottles in my face and shout “LSD!”. Then wander around a bit and shove the other pill bottle in my face and shout, “Opium!”. By gestures I offered to take the pills and they could watch for any effects but they would just laugh as if saying, “What do you take us for…fools?”
Late that afternoon I was thrown a blanket and indicated by sign language that either 1.) I would be fed or 2.) I would be eaten if I did not confess. Fortunately it was the first alternative.
After I wrapped myself in the blanket, a middle-aged woman entered with a tray of food and I thanked her (one of the other French phrases I knew - I noticed one of the guards nodding to another as if to say, “See, he is fluent in French”). I ate and about an hour later I had to go to the bathroom.
I realize now that it probably had a laxitive in it, but no problem. I went to the toilet as a guard stood and watched (I should point out it is not something I do well with an audience). When I finished, another guard came in with a stick. I just knew the beatings were about to begin. In fact, I was shoved out of the way and they eagerly started going through the deposit I had just left.
The questioning began again. Basically the whole routine continued for a total of two-and-a-half days. Finally on the third day as I sat on “my” chair wearing “my” blanket (you get very possession-oriented after intimate contact with such things for a length of time), I was thrown my clothes and it was indicated that I should get dressed. An older aged man came in and said to me in English that he was the local chemist, and it turned out that my pills were vitamins and asprins and that I would be allowed to go on my way but that I should rest assured that the French government would be watching me.
I picked up the stuff from my backpack in my arms (the backpack had been totally distroyed while contraband was searched for) and walked out the door stunned (the linings had been ripped from my coat too so I must of looked like sort of street person).
Since then, I have never been crazy about the French. I know I shouldn’t hold it against the entire nation, but it’s hard not to.
Good lord!! (and it’s “vial”)
TV time, ever consider informing the American Embassy of that?
At the time it was happening I kept asking the border guards to contact the American Embassy (of course it was in English). I figured that if nothing else they could indentify the pills.
Overall, my experience has been that the American Embassy does not know you exist if you didn’t fly in first class on an expensive airline. Besides, at the time, I just wanted to get a good meal that didn’t go through me and a couple of days sleep. Also I had become just paranoid enough to not want to get the French government any angrier with me than they apparently already were.
Sorry about that “vile” spelling. I know better than that.
my not funny story.
after having my drink spiked and being seriously sexually assaulted, i was wandering the streets, hysterical and incoherent.
someone called the cops.
who manhandled me into the back of a car and took me to hospital.
they then charged me with assault for slapping the (male) officer across the face when he tried to put me in the car.
now, seeing my state of mind at the time, is it any wonder i objected to a strange man trying to grab me and bundle me into a car?
this is the same police department that sent a 40 year old male detective the next morning to the hospital to investigate whether i was assaulted or not.
and he decided to ask me questions in a curtained cubicle, on a busy emergency ward at 9 in the morning, without another woman present.
is it any wonder i told him to leave and never pursued the matter further?
they dropped the charges when i pointed out that i had no memory of the events, that i acted totally out of character, and apologised profusely.
oh yeah, and the fact that he was a large armed man, and i’m 5 foot tall, weighed about 95 lbs at the time, and could barely walk because of the effects of the drug and my injuries would have looked really embarassing in court.