Tom Ashley

Aunt Marge’s Fifteen Minutes

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by Tom Ashley

Music often played in the background at Aunt Marge’s beautiful home on the shores of the Saginaw River.  She was dressed for  a party by 7 a.m. and went  through three or four clothing changes by the end of the day. Whether you knew Aunt Marge for fifteen minutes or as a regular visitor such as myself, you would discover that she was a former “Miss Saginaw,” homecoming queen and a majorette of the University of Michigan Wolverines. With an avid devotion to the media arts, she served the Michigan television community as the host of “Marge’s Forecast,” a quasi weather person cum fortuneteller. “Oh, I had many offers to go to New York , but my love for your Uncle Billy couldn’t allow me to even consider that,” she’d often tell me.

The house was called “The Birthday Cake” because of its striking turrets, latticed porches, elaborate flower boxes and a dozen gas lamps bathing the three story mansion in a perpetual glow each night.  Elegant fifty foot-silver birches encased it.

Saginaw, Michigan, is one of those cities that dropped off the radar fifty years ago. For the prior century, Saginaw was the furniture capitol of the country.  At the turn of the twentieth century, huge factories were built to supply parts to the “Big Three” – General Motors, Ford and Chrysler — and vast fortunes were made..

Aunt Marge’s husband, my Uncle Billy Davis, had been  successful in highway construction and had bought “The Birthday Cake” for a song in the early 1960s when that style of house, along with Saginaw itself, was distinctly out of fashion. The home had been in a bit of disrepair upon purchase, and Uncle Billy’s fatal heart attack less than a year later did not bode well for its future. With four children under eighteen, Marge’s inheritance quickly dissipated, and repairing the place to its original glory never occurred. As the grown children departed, we thought Aunt Marge would sell the grand pile which I swear was beginning to tilt, but Aunt Marge was determined to stay. She had the house converted into three separate flats in order to make do. She retained the grand parlor floor and operated as a landlady-psychologist-traffic controller of this new venture. The top floor was occupied by a young couple with a preschool child. They were great tenants, infusing an energy, which had left when her last son headed off to college.

The middle floor was occupied by a bachelor, Carlton Smythe. He was a talented musician who could play the clarinet, guitar or piano for hours on end. He was strikingly handsome, albeit reserved. I had visited Aunt Marge many times and thrilled to hear the music coming from his flat, but had yet to meet Carlton. Then, perhaps three years later, he appeared at one of Aunt Marge’s intimate dinner parties. He was resplendent in a J. Press blazer, Hermes tie and a crested gold signet ring. For more than two hours he sat opposite me and although talking his fair share, I had never learned so little about an individual. He said he was raised in Portland, Oregon and made his living from music publishing and occasionally performing with society bands. He preferred a conversation he could pick about some obscure locale and go into an esoteric  commentary. – “Have you ever been to Helsinki in the fall when the Veeteen Festival’s in full swing and global decision makers are in town?”  I had no idea what he was talking about. In retrospect, why would you choose down and out Saginaw to live in, you…you strange man of the world?     Later, it seemed odd one afternoon when I went to fetch Aunt Marge’s mail for her that there were a half dozen newspapers for Carlton from Palm Beach to San Francisco. There were magazines such as Town and Country and Tattler, yet quizzing Aunt Marge got me nowhere. She explained that Carlton disappeared for long weekends, going ‘somewhere.’ ”Somewhere?”

Time passed and we all moved on. I was living in Los Angeles when I received the call. It was my Mom. “Are you sitting down? Watch Walter Cronkite! They’re doing a big story on Carlton Smythe, who’s no ‘Carlton Smythe’! His real name is Roger Caruso, and he’s a jewel thief who’s been operating for two decades, preying off debutante balls and other charity galas! The FBI had known about him but never had a positive resolution of who or where he was.”   Mom went on and on.  I turned on the TV and saw Carlton ahh – Roger –being led down Aunt Marge’s front steps in hand cuffs with his head hung low and no longer looking elegant and self-assured.

Next followed a young Leslie Stahl interviewing Aunt Marge, reminiscent of Gloria Swanson ready for her close-up and rambling on about how sweet ‘Carlton’ always was, but she had “always suspected something.” Really?

The old birthday cake revealed many secrets.  Jewelry was found hidden under the  floorboards. Cash, precious metals and stones were buried in the back garden. He had always played in some small society bands and more often than not, when discovering where big and important parties and weddings were being held, he would dress in a tuxedo like all the other penguins. That’s where he did most of his handiwork. Upon easy entrance, he cased the locale, noting the bejeweled women, their state of inebriation and the resting places for their handbags. More importantly, if the event was in a private residence, he’d wander around to spot rooms that weren’t in use but housed precious objets d’art. His musical cases were all fitted out with false bottoms to cart the ill-gotten gains off the premises. In those pre-security camera days, Carlton, when not playing music, could easily fit into a crowd of “gentlemen” wearing tuxedos, three-piece suits or resort-garb.

Carlton/Roger had a wife and two daughters living in San Diego, whom he had deserted 17 years earlier.  Surprisingly, he had sent money orders to them from all over the country.

Carlton readily confessed to his indiscretions, pleading his way down to an eight-year prison sentence, combined with the commitment to serve the government as a crime consultant upon release. Oh…and Aunt Marge, you ask? She certainly became an overnight celebrity. Her fifteen minutes of fame actually lasted for several months as the parade of news gatherers from around the globe poured in to put their own twists to this bizarre story. She spruced up his flat and charged $500 a night with a two-day minimum for the thrill of sleeping there.

The interviews she gave were hilarious and highly anticipated affairs. We never knew which Aunt Marge would show up: would it be the homecoming queen, the groundbreaking TV journalist or another complete surprise? But in one area where there was no wavering was her “high suspicion of Carlton.” “High suspicion”! For fifteen years?

I went to Aunt Marge’s funeral twenty years ago. Her wishes had specifically been that most of the photos on display be  of her interviews with Harry Reasoner, John Chancellor, Hugh Downs, Johnny Carson, Dick Cavett, … the list goes on. Of course there were photos of herself and Carlton/Roger in  her rogues gallery.  Eccentricity, highly valued by my family, was a hallmark of Aunt Marge, and although there was no need to enhance her notoriety, she thought these photos  would help her go out on a grand stage, with the Birthday Cake as backdrop.

Taking many study groups over the years at the IRP has been a growing and stimulating process.  In college, I dreaded my writing courses.  I LOVE them now.

Car Stories From the Writing Workshop, Spring 2016

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Road Trip

by Lisa Cristal

I had finally convinced my husband, Bruce, that we were responsible adults.  We could stop inheriting old clunker cars and buy one that we could take care of for many years.

The black shiny Toyota Avalon was a sensible, highly rated car that would accommodate our growing children. We splurged and added a sunroof. We loved that car.

A week after purchase it was time for our first road trip. Our two small children fidgeted and fought most of the drive while Bruce accustomed himself to the nuances of a new car.  We were on the last part of the highway, within 10 minutes of our destination, when suddenly out of the corner of my eye I saw a brown blur shoot out of the woods and charge toward the driver’s side of the car.   The impact pushed us off the road.  Looking up through the sunroof I saw the deer catapult over the car. Bruce tightly steered the car and righted us onto the road.

Our daughter asked where Bambi went.  “To find his mother,” I replied. Unfortunately, her older brother said that he saw the deer fly over the roof of the car. “Yes, “I said, covering, “but I saw him scamper away.”

Actually, Bruce had seen the deer twitching by the side of the road.  We stopped at a general store to report the accident. Bruce got out to inspect the damage.  The entire front of the car was smashed in and covered in blood and hair. Our son asked why daddy was kicking the pole of the payphone and yelling. “Stay in the car,” I ordered. “He is just trying to kick off the mud on his shoes.”

We fixed the car but it was never the same. We hated that car.

I spent my  entire career writing non-fiction and decided to go outside my comfort zone and take Writing Gymnastics. The support and provided by class members has allowed me to discover the great pleasure  of writing fiction.

 

Beryl

by Elaine Greene Weisburg

Our first car, bought for $200 soon after we were married, was a used pre-war English Standard—a right-hand drive, two-seater, rag-top convertible. My husband named her after a current English movie character and we pronounced it English style: BED-ul. It was a source of entertainment as well as transportation. Even the kids in the street where we parked enjoyed it. We could tell that they played in the car at night and we assumed they used it as a stage set for pretend games, but they never harmed it. Anyway, we couldn’t lock them out because the two windows were Isenglass, set into a canvas surround that snapped into the snazzy low-cut doors.

I suspect some alarmed phone calls took place between our two sets of parents but neither set offered us a real car, so we enjoyed Beryl for a few years till we were expecting a baby. Then we sold her for the price we had paid. By that time the transmission was shot and we had to get the neighborhood boys to push us down the hill for the engine to start.

I still remember an encounter one rainy summer night on Sag Harbor’s Main Street. My husband was at the wheel and Dave, his former roommate, was sitting next to him. I was folded up on a narrow back ledge meant for luggage—your cricket bats and such—when a police officer stopped us about a sputtering tail light. He approached the left side and Dave obligingly snapped open the window. The officer asked to see Dave’s driver’s license. Dave respectfully replied, “But Sir, I am not driving.” Nobody laughed, the officer looked over at my husband and mumbled “Have it fixed” and quickly left us. Then we cracked up.

Elaine Greene Weisburg (under her first two names) worked as an editor at Seventeen, Esquire, House & Garden, and House Beautiful, spending two decades each at the latter two publication. Voices helps her keep her hand in.

 

Rainbow of Cars

by Sara Pettit

I’m the least knowledgeable person about cars you can find. Being a born New Yorker my family never owned a car but we all got Driver’s Licenses so we could have ID’s to cash checks. My inability to tell one car from another made it impossible for guys to impress me with their wheels when I went on dates..

When I finally did get a car it was a Dodge Omni. The only car on the market at the time worse than the Omni was the Yugo. I would drive the car around East Hampton where the Honda of East Hampton was a De Lorean or a Porsche. I had a nifty little bumper sticker on the back that said, “My Other Car is a Piece of Shit also!” You can see I like to irritate the Hamptonites.

About 5 years ago I took a trip to Cuba and being a visual person I was overcome by the beauty of the Cuban cars. Most cars were from 1960 or earlier and they were in a rainbow of colors that rivaled any floral bouquet I’ve ever seen.

For two weeks I stood at stop lights all over Cuba and photographed cars. When I got back to New York I showed them to a gallerist who invited me to have a one person show and I was invited to become a member of the gallery on the basis of my Cuban car photographs.

These cars were a tribute to the ingenuity of the Cuban people who kept them running and in perfect condition. Never in my wildest imagination did I think I would be fascinated by cars and that they would give me entrée into the New York City art world..

I spent most of my life as a textile designer and artist. It is through the IRP that I discovered my interest in writing. I look forward to my writing classes and the challenges they set for me.

 

Oldsmobile

by Charles Troob

My Grandpa had a boxy two-tone Oldsmobile 88. It seemed weightier than Dad’s series of Buicks–but maybe this was just the secure feeling given by Grandpa’s methodical driving, along with the comfortable odor from years of loving use. He would take a grandson or two out to Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, to watch the coming and going at the LIRR trainyard. With Grandma we would go to Jones Beach in the off season to take in the salt air. My first Sunday school was in Kew Gardens. Grandpa would proudly drive me there, then pick me up and take me to their house in Jamaica for the afternoon.

In time the house was sold and my grandparents moved to an apartment not far from us in Forest Hills. Grandpa would regularly drive over to bring us Grandma’s chicken soup or borscht, her brownies or cupcakes–or just to say hello. Sometimes they would drop in together after an hour with family and friends at the cemetery off the Interboro Parkway.

In 1970 I left graduate school and moved back home. That summer Grandpa admitted to feeling poorly and was rushed to the hospital. A few agonizing weeks later he was dead of cancer. The ancient Oldsmobile was passed on to me. In September I started a day job at a public school in Bedford-Stuyvesant and an adjunct college position in the west Bronx. I tooled around the outer boroughs, enveloped by Grandpa’s kind spirit, ignoring the worsening tailpipe fumes.

On my way into Manhattan one evening I was stopped at a tollbooth and told that the car was not welcome in the Midtown Tunnel. The next day, at a junkyard near Shea Stadium, Dad and I sadly said goodbye to Grandpa a second time.

I am grateful to the IRP for making me write something each week — and for providing a receptive  audience.

 

Car Ride, 1945

by Lorna Porter

Nestled in a drowsy state, I hear the purr of motor and feel my sister’s leg stretched along mine. We have a wool blanket sprawled over us.

She lies on her side with her head at the other end of the back seat from me. I am propped with a pillow against the arm-rest on the door. Lights flash rhythmically through the dark car, yet I am drifting softly.

Kate is seven and I am six, on a long drive that has lasted all day from Connecticut to Pennsylvania. In front, my mother may be asleep, and surely my two-year-old sister, Emily, is asleep on her lap. My father drives silently against the night air.  Briefly, my mind sees me as a bunny down a snug hole with my bunny family.

There is no greater safety in life than having our entire family held close in this humming embrace. No one else in the world exists and no one in our family will ever be apart or alone. The heavy metal of our sturdy Packard is a tank like the soldiers have and we are a little  army headed for home. Dad will get us there.

I enjoy the weekly writing exercises and critiques that the IRP writing workshop has provided for many years now.

 

Wheels

by Tom Ashley

One of the great perks when I was elevated into a management position was a new car when I became the head of sales at Turner Broadcasting. I had owned some great cars in the past. After all, I was from Detroit. But the idea of having a nice new car with gas, insurance and repairs fully covered was a big-time bonus.

I was provided with a list of several dealerships with whom we were doing business and took the weekend to shop. Turner didn’t care what it was, but it had to be fairly large for taking clients to lunch, dinner and sporting events. I settled on the biggest Pontiac Grand Prix ever made, jet black and equipped with the largest engine on the market. It was fully loaded with every imaginable option: air conditioning, tape deck, sun roof and it even had a device to listen to, not watch, all of the local television stations. That baby could fly. Other than flooring the accelerator, I took great care of that machine. It was washed every week and it glistened to the point that I could comb my hair in its hood reflection.

About nine months into my job I pulled into my regular spot next to Turner’s. His red Ferarri was nowhere in sight. In its place was a Toyota. I figured Ted was out of town and Vera, his long-suffering secretary, had parked in his space. Wrong.

He must have seen me entering the building as he screeched, “[author, author], come on in here.” In I went. “[author], those A-rabs have us by the balls and are starting to squeeze hard.” He rambled on about an oil embargo, then, cutting to the bottom line, I was told to head over to Voyles’ Toyota, turn in the Grand Prix and pick up my new car. I don’t know if you recall those early Toyotas, but this was not my happiest moment. I was pissed as I drove off Voyles’ lot in a pea-green, stick-shift, AM-radioed, roll-up-windowed deathtrap. My lawnmower had a larger motor.

A few months later I arrived at the office simultaneously with Turner who was driving a new Lincoln Continental. After my, “What’s this, Ted?” he informed me, “[author], I got to thinking how valuable my life is and how my children should not be put at risk. Driving around in that Toyota was far too dangerous…for me.”

“Are you telling me your life and your kids are more important than my life and my children?”

A week later I had a new Grand Prix.

Taking many study groups and writing over the years at the IRP has been a growing and stimulating process. In college I dreaded my writing courses. I LOVE them now.

 

Cuba and Cars

by Carmen Mason

I was going to Cuba in 2009. I had a list of items we could take to its struggling people, mainly pencils, notebooks, candies. I’d learned from friends these would be immediately sold for a quick profit so I packed a lot, but then I also decided on some baseballs and half a suitcase of professional pliers, hammers, Allen wrenches, screw drivers, tweezers and packets of nails, screws, nuts, bolts, coils of wire, crazy glue, work gloves and flashlight visors.

Once in Cuba, we drove to a small house in a run-down barrio. The grandmother of the family — living under one low and metal-patched roof –- was boiling strong tangy coffee in a battered pot. The kitchen cabinets were makeshift; the beds and sparse tables and chairs like ones resting in the decaying lots of the South Bronx.

The Castillo family was shy but smiling. Senior Castillo shook our hands and lead us from room to room, then out into his dusty, struggling garden. And there it was: a bright green Chevy Bel Air parked next to a table of taped-up hammers and awls, plastic scraps and broken parts.

On our way to the Castillos we’d cheered, even shouted ‘holas’ out the bus windows to the proud drivers of a Ford Mustang Dodge Challenger, two Daytonas, and a Plymouth Superbird – all 50’s or 60’s models. Now we were close-up to Senor Castillo’s 1957 four door sedan. He opened the hood lovingly. Inside were the intricate connections of tubes and wires and obviously jerry-built substitute parts body-fillered in place.

Before we all said goodbye I took out my heavy pack of tools and parts and gave it to him. He opened it hesitantly. Then he fell to his knees and started to weep. His wife rushed to his side, then turned to me and laughed like a young girl.

I was an English teacher of literature for 35 years andI have been writing forever and published here and there through the years. Editing for VOICES has been an added challenge and I am thrilled that I could help our VOICES come into its own.

The Cathedral of Saint Sava

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by Tom Ashley

 

A thousand times I walked past that church
its gothic beauty tucked between the streets
its bust of the esteemed Nikola Tesla
its working people with
their wants, keeping to themselves
yet always greeting with a smile
It was over, just like that
the internet, television telling a story
in pictures, not words
for words couldn’t do justice to
the fire consuming a century
of life’s tributes, births and deaths
baptisms, weddings, Sunday feasts
all gone save its perfect façade
now its lone tombstone

 

Poetry? Me? It felt like a foreign language before I stuck my toe in the water. This dimension has enriched my life and given me an added opportunity of expression and communication.

Remembering Jack

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by Tom Ashley

 

Most of us remember John Ford, Martin Scorsese, Milos Forman, Billy Wilder, Frank Capra and Steven Spielberg whose works  brought magic to the movies and continue to captivate audiences.

Fortunately, The New York Times obituaries sometimes show great respect and admiration for people long forgotten by the general public, but whose accomplishments, if only for a single blip on history’s radar screen, are worthy of commemoration. These obituaries often manage to capture that defining instant. And so it was with the recently published and  surprisingly long obituary of Jack Hofsiss.

Jack Hofsiss you say? His obituary was published this summer, along with  a photograph of Jack taken outside of a Broadway theatre accompanied by the English actor Carole Shelley. They each had won a Tony that week in 1979 for the same play when Jack was only twenty-eight and the youngest director to have ever received that distinction. The play was The Elephant Man.  Memories of this image from 37 years ago came rushing back to me.  Jack was beautiful. Jack was charming, talented, polite, elegant and nice. Jack had it all. He was going to have a great ride and as his friend, I had a front row seat.

Jack’s brother-in-law, John Andariese, and I were best friends and business partners.  Jack had graduated from my alma mater, Georgetown University. John and I had been observing this budding genius since high school.His career was  moving forward like a launch from Cape Canaveral. Major film and television projects were coming his way non-stop. He was working with Henry Fonda, Jill Clayburgh and Kevin Bacon. Whenever a movie screening, a new play or a television premiere was held in New York, Jack invited us to join him along with all the Hal Princes, the William Paleys, the Richard Rodgerses and the usual hangers on. Jack knew how to cut the bullshit and put his family and friends first, giving us a wink when he was being dragged by his publicist through a group of “must meet” people. Demands on Jack’s time became huge yet, he did his best to stay connected with family and friends.

It all changed in an instant.

In 1982, when he was just 32, Jack suffered  a life-altering accident. He broke three vertebrae in a swimming pool accident, leaving him a quadriplegic and a prisoner confined to a wheelchair for the remaining thirty one years of his life.

Oh, Jack worked now and then. He’d get the occasional play, the teaching position at the HB Studio. It may have looked important to some, but to his friends and colleagues and to Jack himself it was minor league stuff. The beautiful Jack began to waste away in that chair. He gained weight, he was always tired and his patience was in short supply. After seeing him we’d leave speechless ,in recognition of the tragedy of unfulfilled promise.The obituaries referenced how Jack had given serious thought to suicide off and on. It was understandable. For Jack it was all gone. I too often wondered what he had to live for.  But Jack soldiered on. Eventually an infection ended his life..

I made my way for Jack’s wake at a modest funeral home on the West Side of Manhattan.  I was stopped in my tracks upon entering. I’m never prepared for wakes and funerals. Who is? I saw an open casket just thirty feet from the door. So much raced through my mind.  At first I thought Jack’s funeral would or should have been at Frank Campbell’s Funeral Home on Madison and 81st Street where the famous and the infamous made their last stop. But then I realized that this humble funeral home was just right for Jack. Gone were all of the press agents, the sycophants. It was so un-Hollywood. It was simple and sparse and deeply touching to see Jack in his plain pine casket. Those who remembered his kindness and brilliance showed up along with high school and neighborhood buddies. Beyond his family and some old friends I didn’t recognize anyone.

I thought that within a few years of his passing Jack would be forgotten. But his good friends and family would always remember him.  The New York Times obituary and his simple funeral reminded me of what the world had lost —- not only his many gifts but most of all the character that accompanied his talents.

 

Taking many study groups over the years at the IRP has been a growing and stimulating process.  In college, I dreaded my writing courses.  I LOVE them now.

 

What’s for Dessert in this Desert?

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by Tom Ashley

The familiarity of it all is too easy.
It must be like those born without
without limbs, without eyes,
with wrong skin, with wrong height
with wrong schools and neighborhoods

It’s familiar places we find ourselves
in but familiar can be dark and sad
crushing, humiliating in its touch
controlling the dials as ghosts do the work
in fields of the mind and its memories,

But it’s of wrong messages I wish
to speak and do so in harsh tones
to scold those who were ever
mean to those little ones who
had a long and lasting road to travel

It’s late in this game clocks whisper to me
pictures are beginning to fade
people have gone missing, good ones too,
please not the one drinking the essence with me.
only fools cut out their hearts and live on

 

I have infinite gratitude to the fabulous Sarah White and my classmates who nurtured the imagery, passion, pleasure, emotion, insight and the gift of a lifetime I found  in poetry.

Oh, That Side of the Dollar

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by Tom Ashley

Why don’t you ask
the polar bear standing on
a piece of ice looking worried
or fishermen in Louisiana
thinking about tomorrow
disturbed at all with the fires
or the floods
maybe the refugees
lost at sea or starving
and the elephant tusk they
make such beautiful bracelets
sealskin and penguin
so soft to the touch
kiss your grandchildren goodnight
and tell them you’re sorry
it’s a bit hotter
and used to be greener
but you drank all the oil
burned a hole in the sky
followed the money
killed the planet
and left no future
not even enough
to forgive your sins

 

I have infinite gratitude to the fabulous Sarah White and my classmates who nurtured the imagery, passion, pleasure, emotion, insight and the gift of a lifetime I found  in poetry.

Justice?

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by Tom Ashley

 

Have you ever been arrested?  I have.  I wish it had been for marching in Selma or Montgomery or against the Vietnam War, but it wasn’t.  It was for buying twenty dollars worth of marijuana.

As a Village resident, I was aware of drug-dealing in Washington Square Park, morning to night, seven days a week.  On one particular evening, in the mood to alter my mood, I decided to stroll over to the park to do just that.

I’d love to tell you this was the behavior of an errant teenager or a post-happy-hour undergraduate student but it wasn’t.  I was in my fifties.

I hadn’t been in the park for more than five minutes, had made my purchase and was headed home.  Suddenly my walk was interrupted by a plain-clothes police officer, who flashed his badge, said I was under arrest, and requested that I place my hands behind my back as handcuffs rhythmically clicked around my wrists.  He walked me for a block to a waiting squad car and drove me to the Sixth Precinct on West 10th Street.

“Sir, do we have to do this?” I pleaded.

He told me not to worry.  He said I was going to be put through a few routine procedures, released, and all charges were going to be dropped. While I tried to keep smiling, humiliation was consuming me.

The Sixth Precinct House was a friendly place, with a couple of dozen cops milling about.  They were all polite to me, seemingly sympathetic to the unfortunate well-dressed gentleman in his Polo suit hauled before them.  I started to feel more relaxed as we talked baseball, what restaurants I liked in the Village, and how many kids I had.  All the while they were following procedure, asking questions while filling out their forms.  Then I was finger-printed.  By now, on a first-name basis, I inquired, “What’s this for, Joe?”

“It’s nothing.  Just a formality.  We need to see if you have a past criminal record or any outstanding  warrants for your arrest.” Even with his assurances I was painfully aware I was nevertheless in jail.

Next, while we awaited clearance from the fingerprint bureau, I had to turn over my wallet, keys, belt, necktie, and shoelaces and be marched down to an empty twenty-by-twenty foot holding cell.  Soon other detainees were to join me.  Before they came I was by myself, and my anxiety was palpable.

Joe, the cop who had arrested me, and his partner, Paul, were most apologetic and I mean apologetic. Joe indicated the evidence in my case had been tossed out because it wasn’t (wink-wink) real marijuana.  I felt relieved, of course, but I knew they were not playing by the rules.

Next, the Captain of the Precinct entered the station and bellowed, “Why’s the old guy in here?” (That was me.)

“We had to bring him in, sir.  He was captured on video.”

The Captain smacked his forehead.

“He’s innocent,” said Joe, “and we’re waiting for fingerprint clearance.”

My holding pen was now starting to fill up.  Within an hour the greatest variety of fellow arrestees I could ever imagine had arrived – hookers, rent boys, trannies, junkies, and drunks.  We were all in this together.  One asked me to borrow money, another asked if I had robbed a bank, a third asked if he could stay at my place that night.  Permeating the cell were distinct odors of cigarettes, curry, hot dogs, spoiled milk and cheap perfume.

One of the officers came to see me.  I thought, phew,  I’m going to get out of here.

But then the policeman told me my fingerprints weren’t clear enough to get a good reading.  Back I went for another set.  Yet another officer told me that they were bringing food, but  it would be for my cellmates.  As for me, I was handed a menu from the Waverly Diner and asked to select a meal.

“Can’t I get the fuck out of here?”  I asked.

“We’re so sorry. We have to wait for your fingerprints.  But we can put you in an Interrogation Room.”

In that room, officers Joe and Paul joined me.  We chatted about sports and what it was like being a Village cop.  I was still technically under arrest.  The two cops told me they got tickets for the Yankees games and invited me to a game.  I hate the Yankees, but I went along with the program.

“Sure.  I’d really like to do that,” I replied.  I had become their celebrity and they didn’t want to be caught mistreating me.

At 2:45 a.m., six hours after my arrest, I was released.  My cellmates had been moved downtown to the Tombs for an overnight stay.  I gathered my belongings and headed out the station door, accompanied by Officer Paul.  He walked with me for a block or two and handed me a slip of paper with a name and phone number on it.

“If you ever want good weed, call this guy.  He’ll deliver it to your apartment within an hour.  Stay out of Washington Square Park.”

Really? Did this cop think I was going to call a drug-dealer based on his recommendation?

That was not quite the end of the story.  When I had left the Precinct House I was given an envelope and told that my case would be dismissed, but  I had to either make a court appearance or send a lawyer to represent me.  I decided to go myself.

In the courtroom I recognized several of my cellmates.  As they appeared before the judge, most were given sentences of two to twenty-eight days in jail.

My name was eventually called.  “Case dismissed!” said the judge.  On the one hand relieved, I glanced back at the others, with whom I had been in the holding pen, still awaiting their verdict.  I felt no relief as I watched them being marched off to jail.

Kris Kristofferson’s song, ran through my brain.  He once described freedom as a two-edged sword;  you cannot be free unless there is justice, justice for all.

I left that courtroom knowing exactly what he meant.

 

Lifer on the marketing side of network television but wanting to write, I’ve taken about every IRP writing course offered and found gifts and more, a lot more. Thanks, EW/CM/LP/BR/EB/CT/CMcD/LM/SW/JK.