Travelogue #40
With the loud highway roar and the quickly fading memories of a place embraced fading to sarcasm and nostalgia, why, we stand on the side of the road with thumbs pointed skyward. The cardboard and Sharpie smeared into something we recognize as destination. This place is soon to be that place, and the only difference is how new it seems. Or, how long is since been when...
Lord, grant me vision. Lord, grant me speed. Lord, grant me a ride that doesn't talk about their cat or waterskiing for hours. Lord, grant me clues to what I'm seeking. Lord, grant me atheism, and Atheism, grant me a lord...
No, its just the vast probabilities of a dying social fad from the 1960's with its few proponents looking to preserve a cheap method of travel and a more exotic way of saying "hello" to a stranger rather than "hello".
As much as the old folk songs may tell you, getting caught by the long arm of the arm isn't fun. When I tried to jump a freight train headed towards Nebraska, the Kansas City-branch officer of Northern Pacific liked to put me in handcuffs and give me a few options:
Option #1: I could go to jail
Option #2: The Come-to-Jesus
"What's the 'come-to-jesus'," I asked, nervously. Nervous was the word, as I was in handcuffs and confronted by a mustached officer who stared me down as I looked into his sunglasses.
"The 'Come-to-Jesus' is where we go where no one can see you and then I beat the fuck out of you." Now, at this moment, I wasn't the bravest of souls, but I did understand the lawlessness of the law. In fact, the officer wasn't even a standard police officer. Would he adhere to the law, and was my crime that severe? Was he merely trying to intimidate me, and would this very blog be enhanced by such stories of being beaten on the sharp gravel and dirty rust of the freight trains...
Or, would it be WORSE! Could this officer be a homosexual!? Was Come actually "Cum"!? Would this be my "squeal like a pig" Deliverance moment? It was the improbability of it all that played mind games upon. Tied up in handcuffs, Officer Wasko knew what he was doing.
After a brief exchange between the other officer, wherein they checked my criminal background, only to find it clean as a whistle (only morons get convicted...), Officer Wasko decided to play psychological games, saying that he was pleased that I didn't have a criminal record--I wouldn't have to go to jail, leaving out option #1--no, there was simply no option other than be escorted and harshly reprimanded.
Missouri courts were different. After saving money awaiting a mandatory court appearance, I arrived a day to sort out my potential defenses. The Public Defender's office was too busy to deal with me--the secretary fielded rude phone calls of the underclass as she phoned an attorney for me to speak with.
The attorney was a blond woman. Tired, she was. She seemed like a former sororeity girl grinded into a reluctant public servent. Despite the early hour of eight a.m., her eyes seemed to speak endless hardship and bear the weight of the black abyss of the criminal justice system. I was seeking a defense. I was seeking leinency. I was seeking something to alleviate the financial pain, and according to my research, possible incarciration... and for what? Jumping a freight train??? While I understood the liability risk (derailment), the fact that I was engaging in a heinous act surely would negate my ability to file a lawsuit... right?
The blond woman, younger than me in age but deeper in weight of her job's responsibility, printed a paper for me that read:
" {X} This crime is not considered persuant of jail time, therefore legal representation is not available."
This meant that I was on my own. The blond woman said that it was not something that they had come across in their office, and that this particular judge did not prosecute harshly. "At most, you'll pay a fine," she said.
A fine! A fine?! Fuck that, I was innocen--No, okay, I wasn't innocent, but I was Caucasian and handsome and young... and fodder for the criminal justice system. It was not "fine." No, a "fine" would not do--I was saving my money to lift me from poverty, to purchase a vehicle to make job searching and hustling a bit easier. To come through with a promise to a girl I had made in Oakland, to show her what life on THE ROAD was, and that YES, I was WELL within my means.
Circumstances didn't grant me that, however. A month spent in Gainesville, Florida, working in one hundred degrees Fahrenheit weather for moving companies didn't help. A deal for a $200 car fell through when reality set in; this two days before I left to tak care of the trial. Then, a car that was leant to me for the summer died within fourteen miles on Interstate 75, Northbound, two days before trial. I stood over the oozing radiator, perplexed that another set of challenges had been thrown my way. Worse, my possessions in the back trunk had to be forfeited for space concerns. I was left with $600 and a backpack full of things I couldn't possibly carry. I took a taxi to the Greyhound, and the Greyhound to Kansas City, MO, down $200 and sleepless nights sprawled out in the black of the bus...
In KCMO, I spent the night in Independence, Missouri, to arrive early for the trial. Police had been called to me sleeping in a grassy field adjacent to a Baptist church by yuppie joggers. I was not wanted, but the police laughed at my sleep-addled speech:
"Why're you sleepin' out here?"
"I got court tomorrow. Tried to jump a freight train, got caught. 'Don't want to be late tomorrow, so I figured I'd sleep a few blocks away. I can move if you want me to..."
"Nah, get some rest, buddy. Can I see some ID?"
After the police checked my license, I was left to resume sleep in the grass to the sound of police car doors slamming and officers laughing about a bullshit call. This was not the first time this has happened...
The intricacies of the American court system could be described in detail, but when the judge asked me how I plead, I said neither "guilty" nor "not guilty". The judge was angry and he berated me for wasting his time, for not taking the "obvious" path.
"Your honor, I am not from in-state. I was looking for adequate legal counsel, and the public defenders office..."
I said more, but the ellipsis is enough for you to hear. In fact, that's all your honor had heard, silencing me half-way to reiterated.
"Mr. Senkus," he said, furrowing his brow and his eyes becoming invisible behind his glasses, "if you want a trial, we'll have to set a further date." (My mind yelled, "how! I'm from out-of-state, and it was hard enough to get here in the first place!") I plead "not-guilty", and sat down, looking for another opportunity to speak to the judge.
Next to me, a greying man leaned over and whispered, "this judge is an asshole, and I know what you're dealing with." I held back my anger towards the judge, towards the crowded system, towards the milll of people... he continued. "I want you to speak to XXX. XXX can help you; he's got a good rapport with the judge." XXX was a large black man, three hundred pounds of ex-football player, and charismatic--at least, to the judge. To me, he resembled an intermediary to the enemy. I watched as XXX vouched for criminal after criminal, reducing their sentence, reducing the fine. If I had plead guilty, the fine would be $500, the jail time uncertain...
XXX met me in the hallway. I explained to him my situation: freight train, out-of-state, over-worked judge. He responded that he could help me. "How much money do you have on you?" A bit, I replied, but not much. "Okay, here's what I can do for you... do you have a hundred? I'll talk to the prosecutor," (I tried to speak to the prosecutor the day before, only to have them out-to-lunch and to not be able to offer legal counsel...), "If I can't help you, I'll give you fifty back." My face cringed, so XXX added, "I know you don't want to be guilty, but fifty will at least give you a shot."
My stomach turned. The Missouri justice system was corrupt. In fact, the officer didn't even have to show up--or, actually, the mandatory court appearance made it more likely for the officer to show up and less likely for me to plead innocent. If the trial was set, it was for the following month--I'd have to spend even more than $200!
XXX disappeared with my cash. Drug deals felt like this, this uncertainty. This helplessness.
Ten minutes elapsed as I waited outside the court room, reading a passage of Moby Dick in my mind. Ahab was the mad judge, the White Whale of justice pursued me to the oceanic jaws, and I was simply the observant vulnerable Ishmael. Call me Screwed...
XXX returned, triumphant. "Your case has been dismissed." I sat, blinking. "Its done," he added. His large suit seemed to add to his dance, as he most likely repeated this conflict-resolution-easymoney. I was uneasy; it was easy, too easy, to simple. Worse, he didn't get me any proof.
"Can I get a copy or paper or some proof?" I asked with my voice quivering. Was this an impossible world to thrive in? Did most lawyers slug it out with one another for large rewards, using crimes of the underclass as ways to jockey their careers, to practice their techniques like pianists to scalar exercises tickling the black and white keys. XXX looked dumbfound, as if I had trounced upon his easy success. Asking for proof seemed to harsh his mellow, to lower his high. The bastard, I thought, imagining his life of playing with people's lives... why, when the supply of lives was high, the demand's seemed so... uh, what were you saying? Right, you can either take five years or duke it out in trial, but I, I know this judge, and do you really want to take that chance?
He returned with a paper stamped "DISMISSED". It looked official enough, with perforated State of Missouri. At this point, my mind said, "skip town, run, and you're most likely innocent." Outside, lady lawyers with suggesting skirts talked happily with well-dressed males in semi-colorful undershirts contrasting the black suit jackets. I felt poor with my backpack and sleeping bag exposed. It was enough to deal the long stares from passing cars, the occasional "get a car!" yelled from windows, and perplexed reactions of those who walked by... but, in the American legal complex with police officers leading orange prisoners by handcuffs to their fate, I felt downright paranoid.
I went to the post office, wrote a letter to my sweetheart, mailed the "DISMISSED" to myself with a note that read "The Criminal Justice System is Filled With Bottom Feeders" for the future, and tried to look for work in KCMO. Within a few days, I was in Indianapolis, outside the Speedway, pouring rubbing alcohol on my wounds to get rid of chiggers underneath my skin...
How We Change "There" to "Here", and "Here" to "There" with Time-and-Distance Ingredients
With the loud highway roar and the quickly fading memories of a place embraced fading to sarcasm and nostalgia, why, we stand on the side of the road with thumbs pointed skyward. The cardboard and Sharpie smeared into something we recognize as destination. This place is soon to be that place, and the only difference is how new it seems. Or, how long is since been when...
Lord, grant me vision. Lord, grant me speed. Lord, grant me a ride that doesn't talk about their cat or waterskiing for hours. Lord, grant me clues to what I'm seeking. Lord, grant me atheism, and Atheism, grant me a lord...
No, its just the vast probabilities of a dying social fad from the 1960's with its few proponents looking to preserve a cheap method of travel and a more exotic way of saying "hello" to a stranger rather than "hello".
What Happens to the Underclass
As much as the old folk songs may tell you, getting caught by the long arm of the arm isn't fun. When I tried to jump a freight train headed towards Nebraska, the Kansas City-branch officer of Northern Pacific liked to put me in handcuffs and give me a few options:
Option #1: I could go to jail
Option #2: The Come-to-Jesus
"What's the 'come-to-jesus'," I asked, nervously. Nervous was the word, as I was in handcuffs and confronted by a mustached officer who stared me down as I looked into his sunglasses.
"The 'Come-to-Jesus' is where we go where no one can see you and then I beat the fuck out of you." Now, at this moment, I wasn't the bravest of souls, but I did understand the lawlessness of the law. In fact, the officer wasn't even a standard police officer. Would he adhere to the law, and was my crime that severe? Was he merely trying to intimidate me, and would this very blog be enhanced by such stories of being beaten on the sharp gravel and dirty rust of the freight trains...
Or, would it be WORSE! Could this officer be a homosexual!? Was Come actually "Cum"!? Would this be my "squeal like a pig" Deliverance moment? It was the improbability of it all that played mind games upon. Tied up in handcuffs, Officer Wasko knew what he was doing.
After a brief exchange between the other officer, wherein they checked my criminal background, only to find it clean as a whistle (only morons get convicted...), Officer Wasko decided to play psychological games, saying that he was pleased that I didn't have a criminal record--I wouldn't have to go to jail, leaving out option #1--no, there was simply no option other than be escorted and harshly reprimanded.
Missouri courts were different. After saving money awaiting a mandatory court appearance, I arrived a day to sort out my potential defenses. The Public Defender's office was too busy to deal with me--the secretary fielded rude phone calls of the underclass as she phoned an attorney for me to speak with.
The attorney was a blond woman. Tired, she was. She seemed like a former sororeity girl grinded into a reluctant public servent. Despite the early hour of eight a.m., her eyes seemed to speak endless hardship and bear the weight of the black abyss of the criminal justice system. I was seeking a defense. I was seeking leinency. I was seeking something to alleviate the financial pain, and according to my research, possible incarciration... and for what? Jumping a freight train??? While I understood the liability risk (derailment), the fact that I was engaging in a heinous act surely would negate my ability to file a lawsuit... right?
The blond woman, younger than me in age but deeper in weight of her job's responsibility, printed a paper for me that read:
" {X} This crime is not considered persuant of jail time, therefore legal representation is not available."
This meant that I was on my own. The blond woman said that it was not something that they had come across in their office, and that this particular judge did not prosecute harshly. "At most, you'll pay a fine," she said.
A fine! A fine?! Fuck that, I was innocen--No, okay, I wasn't innocent, but I was Caucasian and handsome and young... and fodder for the criminal justice system. It was not "fine." No, a "fine" would not do--I was saving my money to lift me from poverty, to purchase a vehicle to make job searching and hustling a bit easier. To come through with a promise to a girl I had made in Oakland, to show her what life on THE ROAD was, and that YES, I was WELL within my means.
Circumstances didn't grant me that, however. A month spent in Gainesville, Florida, working in one hundred degrees Fahrenheit weather for moving companies didn't help. A deal for a $200 car fell through when reality set in; this two days before I left to tak care of the trial. Then, a car that was leant to me for the summer died within fourteen miles on Interstate 75, Northbound, two days before trial. I stood over the oozing radiator, perplexed that another set of challenges had been thrown my way. Worse, my possessions in the back trunk had to be forfeited for space concerns. I was left with $600 and a backpack full of things I couldn't possibly carry. I took a taxi to the Greyhound, and the Greyhound to Kansas City, MO, down $200 and sleepless nights sprawled out in the black of the bus...
In KCMO, I spent the night in Independence, Missouri, to arrive early for the trial. Police had been called to me sleeping in a grassy field adjacent to a Baptist church by yuppie joggers. I was not wanted, but the police laughed at my sleep-addled speech:
"Why're you sleepin' out here?"
"I got court tomorrow. Tried to jump a freight train, got caught. 'Don't want to be late tomorrow, so I figured I'd sleep a few blocks away. I can move if you want me to..."
"Nah, get some rest, buddy. Can I see some ID?"
After the police checked my license, I was left to resume sleep in the grass to the sound of police car doors slamming and officers laughing about a bullshit call. This was not the first time this has happened...
The intricacies of the American court system could be described in detail, but when the judge asked me how I plead, I said neither "guilty" nor "not guilty". The judge was angry and he berated me for wasting his time, for not taking the "obvious" path.
"Your honor, I am not from in-state. I was looking for adequate legal counsel, and the public defenders office..."
I said more, but the ellipsis is enough for you to hear. In fact, that's all your honor had heard, silencing me half-way to reiterated.
"Mr. Senkus," he said, furrowing his brow and his eyes becoming invisible behind his glasses, "if you want a trial, we'll have to set a further date." (My mind yelled, "how! I'm from out-of-state, and it was hard enough to get here in the first place!") I plead "not-guilty", and sat down, looking for another opportunity to speak to the judge.
Next to me, a greying man leaned over and whispered, "this judge is an asshole, and I know what you're dealing with." I held back my anger towards the judge, towards the crowded system, towards the milll of people... he continued. "I want you to speak to XXX. XXX can help you; he's got a good rapport with the judge." XXX was a large black man, three hundred pounds of ex-football player, and charismatic--at least, to the judge. To me, he resembled an intermediary to the enemy. I watched as XXX vouched for criminal after criminal, reducing their sentence, reducing the fine. If I had plead guilty, the fine would be $500, the jail time uncertain...
XXX met me in the hallway. I explained to him my situation: freight train, out-of-state, over-worked judge. He responded that he could help me. "How much money do you have on you?" A bit, I replied, but not much. "Okay, here's what I can do for you... do you have a hundred? I'll talk to the prosecutor," (I tried to speak to the prosecutor the day before, only to have them out-to-lunch and to not be able to offer legal counsel...), "If I can't help you, I'll give you fifty back." My face cringed, so XXX added, "I know you don't want to be guilty, but fifty will at least give you a shot."
My stomach turned. The Missouri justice system was corrupt. In fact, the officer didn't even have to show up--or, actually, the mandatory court appearance made it more likely for the officer to show up and less likely for me to plead innocent. If the trial was set, it was for the following month--I'd have to spend even more than $200!
XXX disappeared with my cash. Drug deals felt like this, this uncertainty. This helplessness.
Ten minutes elapsed as I waited outside the court room, reading a passage of Moby Dick in my mind. Ahab was the mad judge, the White Whale of justice pursued me to the oceanic jaws, and I was simply the observant vulnerable Ishmael. Call me Screwed...
XXX returned, triumphant. "Your case has been dismissed." I sat, blinking. "Its done," he added. His large suit seemed to add to his dance, as he most likely repeated this conflict-resolution-easymoney. I was uneasy; it was easy, too easy, to simple. Worse, he didn't get me any proof.
"Can I get a copy or paper or some proof?" I asked with my voice quivering. Was this an impossible world to thrive in? Did most lawyers slug it out with one another for large rewards, using crimes of the underclass as ways to jockey their careers, to practice their techniques like pianists to scalar exercises tickling the black and white keys. XXX looked dumbfound, as if I had trounced upon his easy success. Asking for proof seemed to harsh his mellow, to lower his high. The bastard, I thought, imagining his life of playing with people's lives... why, when the supply of lives was high, the demand's seemed so... uh, what were you saying? Right, you can either take five years or duke it out in trial, but I, I know this judge, and do you really want to take that chance?
He returned with a paper stamped "DISMISSED". It looked official enough, with perforated State of Missouri. At this point, my mind said, "skip town, run, and you're most likely innocent." Outside, lady lawyers with suggesting skirts talked happily with well-dressed males in semi-colorful undershirts contrasting the black suit jackets. I felt poor with my backpack and sleeping bag exposed. It was enough to deal the long stares from passing cars, the occasional "get a car!" yelled from windows, and perplexed reactions of those who walked by... but, in the American legal complex with police officers leading orange prisoners by handcuffs to their fate, I felt downright paranoid.
I went to the post office, wrote a letter to my sweetheart, mailed the "DISMISSED" to myself with a note that read "The Criminal Justice System is Filled With Bottom Feeders" for the future, and tried to look for work in KCMO. Within a few days, I was in Indianapolis, outside the Speedway, pouring rubbing alcohol on my wounds to get rid of chiggers underneath my skin...
