Introduction: The things you learn in the back of a car
I always wondered what the world looked like from the back seat of a police cruiser. Now I know. Right now I’m thanking sweet Jesus in Heaven that I have Xanax, marijuana and Wild Turkey in my system, otherwise I don’t think I would tolerate this situation nearly as well as I am right now. What’s lost on me at the moment is the fact that it’s that cocktail of chemicals that has me in this back seat to begin with. If it weren’t for those things, I’d be on the interstate by now, driving home from a great gig. And it WAS a great gig. Standing ovation, the whole nine yards. Moved a lot of merch. Got a cool festival T-shirt. A great night. And it’s still great, in an odd way. It’s great because I have a good buzz, and let’s be frank; that’s all that matters.
My mind isn’t saying, “Ooh, this is really fucked up and I’m really in trouble.” It’s saying, “Hey, this is a new experience that will make a great story; and if I was ever going to be butt-raped by Bubba in a soundproof cell, this is exactly the buzz I’d want to have when it happens.”
It’s Memorial Day Weekend, 2012, and Tennessee is warm and humid even at midnight. We like it that way. We tell Yankees, You think this is hot, come back in August, we’ll show you hot. This? This is nice. My new festival T-shirt isn’t even sweaty, and this cruiser is air-conditioned. What more could a fucked-up musician possibly want?
There’s just one thing I really don’t like. Wait, two things. First are these handcuffs. I’ve seen enough criminals on television complaining that their cuffs are too tight, and how uncomfortable it is to be cuffed behind your back so that you’re essentially sitting on your hands in the back seat of the cruiser and the metal of the cuffs is biting into your wrist bones. I’d always had contempt for those criminals. You deserve it, you piece of shit. What do you expect after killing all those nurses? Now I have a new empathy. It hurts. But, again, I’m lucky: if I weren’t fucked up out of my mind, think how bad it would hurt then. Thank God for chemicals that get me into trouble and make the trouble feel good at the same time. Drugs are great. Everyone should try them.
Secondly, that little piece of paper taped up to the Plexiglas wall between the officers in the front seat and me back here. It’s about two inches tall by three or four inches wide, and it says: “And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee. – Ezekiel 25:17.”
Now that’s not cool, I think. I don’t need to see that. How many perps have seen that, from my vantage right here? The paper is brown and the cellophane tape is yellowed, and no one has been able to rip it down, or lunge forward and eat it, because of the cuffs, and the tightest seat belt ever. I wonder if the cops know about Samuel Jackson reciting that very verse before icing people in Pulp Fiction. I doubt it. The Christian music blaring from the radio tells me they might not even know who Quentin Tarantino is. I believe in God and I believe He hates Christian music as much as I do. I spend a lot of time on the road, and as I’m flipping the radio left of the dial I can tell the Christian station in two notes. It always sounds like Coldplay with a really, really happy lead singer. The radio is all New Testament happy happy joy joy. That piece of paper is Old Testament Yahweh will kick you into the middle of next month, pudknocker! I wonder which side of the fence the cops sit on, liturgically, or if their minds plumb such channels at all.
I’m starting to not like them. They were courteous enough when I was stumbling through their stupid human tricks, but now that I’m in the back seat and they’re up front, it’s like I don’t exist. They don’t make conversation with me, they don’t ask if I’d like anything from Wendy’s; it just puts a guy off. I’m starting to see why mother-rapers and father-stabbers don’t like the constables that cross their paths. The way they treat you like a common criminal. I also don’t like how the guy is driving now. He’s violating every speed law in the county, slowing down for curves and then gunning it in the straightaways. He’s saying, I’m a cop, and I don’t have to follow the laws of the road. Arrogance! If I were doing coke right now I’d give him a piece of my mind. Someday years later I’ll be typing and thinking about how this was a turning point, how when I came out of my fog in the morning, waking up on a cold cement floor in a drunk tank in Bumfuck, Tennessee, I thought things might have to change now. I’d lived a great rock ’n’ roll life. Almost died once or twice, but you know. Shit happens. I’d always gotten away with it. Close shaves are the spice of life, right? Well this time I didn’t get away with it. And this time I’m going to fork out a grand for a lawyer, have more jail hanging over my head, pay fines and court costs, and find how all this scuttles my enjoyment of Lockup marathons on MSNBC. I’m going to have to stop using a dysfunctional upbringing as an excuse to stay numb, going to have to get help, going to have to get typing, going to have to spell out this life and let it be enough for once.
