Jesus Goes To Jail: Who Are You? (Part 3/9)

When your dinner host splits without paying for the bill, and you're penniless... Enjoy Steemians! Aloha from the Big Island, and check part 1 & 2 for continuity or jump right in. I'm about to find myself in some hot water. Take yourself back to 2002 in Spokane Washington, sitting alongside me there in that greasy diner, and remember that rude waitress, the off vibe, and now James has ditched out on us?

It doesn’t matter how slowly you go as long as you don’t stop.
--Confucius

Part 3
Who Are You?

“Yes it was; that was fucking James!” whispered the girl across from me.

“Maybe he left his wallet in his car,” her friend offered, sounding far less alarmed.

“Stacey, did James look like he owns a fucking car?”

“Holy shit, my mom is going to kill me.”

“Your mom?” I asked, realizing the worst case scenario was upon me.

Neither of the girls--probably both high schoolers--answered my question. Tuning me out, they began whispering with one another. Fragmented phrases. All their words were strung together and colliding like bumper cars. However, it didn’t take long for my brain to assess what had happened. James had hustled us. One half of the Caboose was a restaurant, and the other half was a bar. It was partitioned down the middle by a kitchen. With a bathroom in the back, James had made a loop, and ducked out the front door.

“Damn, now I need to pee,” I said, and made a move to get up.

“Don’t you leave dare leave us here!” Stacey warned, grabbing my wrist.

“Well, I’m not going to pee under the table,” I countered. “I’ll be right back.”

“What? No, wait!” cried the brunette.

But I didn’t wait. Without taking any time to come up with a game plan, I followed the route James had taken. Half way through the bar, twenty feet from the front door, the bartender shouted, “Hey, no one underage.”

“Oh, I’m 22,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“Not you. Them,” he pointed.

I glanced back to see Stacey and her friend trailing behind me. We were in a line, single file as if I were a mother hen, and they were my chicks--just like that, and my heart dropped through the floor. Trying to mask my coursing adrenaline, I feigned nonchalance with a shrug. These girls weren’t part of my party, I intimated, and kept walking. Just before reaching the door, a thin man in a white apron jumped out in front of me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the cook barked.

“I forgot my wallet in the car,” I replied. Keeping momentum, I tried to sidestep him, but he grabbed my sleeve before I could reach the door handle and swung me around. With the inertia of the swing, we spun around one another. Like a merry-go-round, there was a centrifugal force pulling us apart, but he had a good grip. Without any conscious volition, I performed a wrist lock I had learned in an Aikido class, and sent him crashing into a bar stool. During the commotion, the two girls slipped out the door. I was about to follow when a heavy hand gripped my shoulder. Before I could react, my feet were flying out from under me, and all was lost. The giant, who seemed to materialize from nowhere, climbed on top of me and delivered a thudding blow to my face. Without hitting my nose, the punch only stunned me.

“Now stay down!” he bellowed.

The cook got up from the floor, with a scowl, and complained, “I told Doris that there was no way in hell you was gonna pay for them steaks. She should’ve kicked y’all out the moment she saw you. I told her not to serve your table before asking to see the cash.”

The big guy on top of me got up with a smirk of satisfaction.

“It’s all been a big misunderstanding,” I protested. “That guy we were with said he’d pay for dinner.” Even to my own ears, the excuse was feeble. True or not, it sounded pathetic and contrived.

“Well, that just means you ain’t too bright,” concluded the cook. “You coulda washed dishes, or did something to do right by us. But now, we gotta go and get the law involved.”

“Dishes? For a tab of eighty dollars? How long would I be washing dishes?”

“Don’t get smart with me,” he warned, dusting his hands on his apron.

“Just saying,” I murmured, “seems like a lot of dishes.”

The man who had pulled me to the floor was well over six feet. He looked down at me with a sneer and asked, “Larry, do you want me to hold him down while you call the cops?”

“No Steve, just stand by the door,” answered the cook.

Steve posted himself like a sentry. Wearing a red and black flannel shirt, he looked more like a lumberjack than a guard. I experienced a moment of delusion, but then intuited that any attempt I made at giving him the slip would be a mistake. Something in Steve’s eyes caused the possibilities fall apart like a brittle rubber band. There would be no passing go with this roll of the dice.

Ten minutes later, an officer walked in the door. He paused, assessing the situation, before looking down on me as if nauseated by what he saw. Somehow, he’d avoided the sun and wore his skin as pale as a shark’s belly. Because of his tremendous jawline, flabby jowls would never be a concern. However, with the build of a retired linebacker, he was a couple of degrees north of obese.

“Do you want to press assault charges?” the cop asked, taking out his pad.

“No,” Larry sighed.

“You sure?”

The cook looked down, observing my expression of outrage. I couldn’t believe the cop would bait him like that right in front of me.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m not going to press any charges.” He looked away, and explained, “he didn’t hit me; he just tripped me up, was all.”

“Okay, if you say so,” the cop said in a tone that still questioned, as if Larry should speak up.

“Well good,” I said, emboldened for no good reason, “I’m the only one who got hit. Not that you’re asking me, but I’m not pressing assault charges either.”

“Shut your mouth,” Larry warned.

“Alright,” I said, with my palms up to him. “Just so you know, I’ve got nothing against you. Sorry about tripping you. To think, this could have all come down to me washing dishes, but I want you to know that I apologize.”

“You done?” the cop menaced.

“Yes, I’ll shut up now.”

I felt a release of tension having tried to clear the air between myself and the cook. Where it had been struck, my left temple was hot, and I leaned it against the cool floorboards. The floor had some grit on it. But, after spending the night in a bush on the side of a building, I was a bit grimey already.

The cop wasn’t playing fair, but Larry seemed content to squash our beef. I watched them walk to the end of the bar and out of earshot. As Larry gave his account of what had transpired, I noticed that the cop’s pad was the same size as the waitress’s. Her name was Doris. Doris and Larry, what a duo. They’d probably seen enough scoundrels try to run the dine and dash gambit before. Their wise eyes could see bullshit artistry a mile away, and Larry would most likely nab some cockroach like me again before too long. The circumstantial evidence wasn’t doing me any favors, but I had nothing but respect for the way he’d played his role.

Laying there on the floor, I couldn’t account for my contentment. The restaurant was cool, quaint, and cozy, but wasn’t I in hot water? I felt that I could lay there forever without any complaints.

“Alright then,” adjourned the cop. Larry nodded and walked behind the bar. The cop came over to me and asked, “Are you gonna try and run again?”

“No point. Not with you and Steve here to sack me.”

“Do you want to get up and explain yourself?”

“No, I’m good down here,” I said, and crossed my hands behind my head.

“Don’t be a smart Aleck,” recommended Larry, as he polished a shot glass.

“Let me handle this,” the cop insisted.

Larry seemed to be sulking as I got to my feet and took a seat at the nearest table. The cop sat across from me, and let me know, “All this could have been avoided if you would have been honest.”

“Honest, huh? Larry said I could have washed dishes, but I’m guessing it’s time for you to read me my rights and whatnot.”

“Yes it is. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say, can, and will be held against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney...”

I had seen enough movies to have memorized the lines, and mouthed them in time with the officer. A puff of air escaped my mouth.

“Something funny?”

I shrugged. “I feel kinda dumb for not seeing that I was being hustled.”

“So, what’s your name?” The cop’s eyes bored into me, his pen hovering over his pad, but I returned a blank look. A few seconds ticked off before he asked, “What? Did you suddenly lose the ability to speak?”

“Didn’t you say I had the right to remain silent? Can’t you use my name against me? If I tell you my name, you’ll use it against me. Tell me I’m wrong here.”

A cold warning flashed behind eyes the color of bullet led. I thought my question might be poignant, from a philosophical standpoint, but it was quite obvious that he wouldn’t be tolerating anything but total compliance. One way or another, I was going to learn to respect his authority.

“You’re not going to tell me your name.” His voice was low and chilling.

“Well, what good is my right to remain silent? Can I at least use it?”

“Can you believe that little shit?” Larry asked his lumberjack friend. Steve shook his head and sipped his beer.

“This doesn’t need to go easy,” cautioned the cop. “That’s up to you.”

“Alright,” I chirped. “Do you really want to know who I am?”

“Yes, that is what I’m asking.”

“Really?” I dared, feeling the need to ham it up with theatrical suspense. I could feel every ear pricked. “Okay, I guess I better confess.”

“Please cut the bullshit,” said the cop.

“I am Jesus Christ,” I waited two beats with my eyebrows up and imploring before adding, “I’m back.”

That did it. The cop bolted up and out of his seat. An instant later he had jerked my right arm behind my back to slam me onto the table. Unresisting, I was a rag doll. The table top formica was cool, I noted, and cleaner than the floor. It smelled of bleach. Steel cuffs slapped around my wrists, clicking several more times than was necessary.

“Alright you little prick,” the cop hissed through clenched teeth. “I was going to let you off with a ticket, but now you’re going downtown.”

“Downtown? Aren’t we downtown now?”

“Don’t you know when to shut up?” The lumberjack couldn’t believe it. He had rotated on his stool to watch.

“I wasn’t gonna say shit,” I smiled up at him. “But no one liked me using my right to remain silent. Nothing I do seems to make you guys--ouch!”

Although my shoulder tweaked, a crowbar prying my arm from its socket, I was experiencing a surge of maniacal giddiness. What could be done to suppress the laugh? The feeling of exhilaration left me no room to check myself. Laughter escaped as a falsetto flutter which, in turn, infuriated the officer who wrenched my wrist even further up the center of my back. The rabbit hole in which I found myself plummeting made me wonder if I were somehow out of line. No. Impossible.

“Forgive them father, for they know not what they do!” I chortled.

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” the cop snarled. With tears in my eyes, my shoulder screaming in protest at the angle of my torqued arm, I was ushered out the door without being able to reign in my outburst of lunacy.