the Pacer and hte smoke alarm
"When you feel your hands come free place them against that wall," the deputy sherrif said, unclipping my cuffs.I placed my hands on that wall, like he said.
I was wearing a tee shirt with some obfuscated perl code on the back of it. He asked me what it meant, and I mumbled a response. He emptied my pockets. I kept my hands on that wall, like he said.
After we got to be pretty good friends, what with him cupping my balls looking for weapons, he instructed me to sit on a bench. I sat on the bench.
A nice jamaican lady came by to check me out medically. She gave me the arm cuff and took my blood pressure. I filled out some forms for her, signed them, and then I was taken through a metal detector and led to holding cell number 4 to join my new cellmates.
Some were sitting around on the benches, others lying on them and moaning in their verious substance-induced fits. One guy was standing up, pacing around the room. I gave him a little wave and sat down.
I waited there for probably two hours, watching The Pacer pace around the room and occasionally listening to the drunk in the Budweiser wife beater moan loudly.
"Ohh!" he'd moan, and shift around some on his bench, one of his flip flops dangling from his dirty toes. He seemed to be getting some decent sleep. "unnnnh!" he moaned loudly.
One of the deputies came by the door and told the Pacer not to stand at the window because he couldn't see what was going on in the room that way. The Pacer sat down.
"Ohhh!" moaned Mr Bud, the drunken sleeper.
"Well," I thought, "you're in jail, bubba. Nice going."
I dozed off a bit, looking up at the ceiling, where the smoke alarm was enclosed in a metal grate.
In jail, even the smoke alarms are locked up.
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