This continues from what I posted, yesterday...
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That made me realize I hadn't heard from Uncle Owen in at least three months. I hadn't been worried because he was pretty casual when it came to maintaining contact. He'd been steady while I was in prison and on probation, but once I'd been exonerated and my record expunged, he'd reverted to an e-mail every few months and a phone call...well, never; I'd always called him. The last time he'd e-mailed me was to vent about getting busted at a grocery store --
You will not believe what happened to me, last night. I drove down to Page’s convenience store for some milk, butter, eggs and bread, and was arrested. By a police officer in plain clothes. Who claims I asked him to have sex with me. Right there! In the parking lot!! Talk about ridiculous.
First of all, the man was not the least bit attractive. He looks like one of those puffy body-builders who give off the air of greasiness and psychosis. I seriously believe he would have exploded if he’d taken in too deep of a breath, that’s how tight his skin was over his face and body. Probably on triple doses of steroids.
Second of all, he followed me all over the store and was doing everything he could to make me notice him and think he was available for some fun. It didn’t matter where I went along those long narrow aisles of overpriced goods, the moment I stopped, he’d appear next to me to “look at something for himself.” Then he’d cast me a glance and all but lick his lips to send out that age-old signal of “blow-job.” It actually spooked me, so when I went up to pay for my things and he appeared behind me, before the clerk could begin ringing me up, I said, “I forgot something,” and scurried to the very back of the store to check in the coolers for...whatever. I just wanted him to leave.
When he finally did, I took my time paying for my things, but he was waiting outside as I exited. He approached me and asked me if I wanted to have some fun. He said that he was really horny.
I told him, “That’s not where my head is, right now, thanks.”
He frowned and said, “C’mon, I know you’re gay.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked, more than a little peeved. Because I’m queer I’ll jump on anything that has a dick, whether I’m in the mood or not? What a stupid thing to say.
He followed me to my car, saying, “C’mon, man, I really need to fuck with somebody, tonight. I’m so fuckin’ horny.”
I began to get nervous. His insistence was beginning to seem more pathological than needy. A number of gay men have been beaten and robbed, recently. One’s still in the hospital. So I put my groceries in the car and said, “Dammit, I left my cell phone on the sales counter. Tell you what -- let me get it, first, then we can talk some more.”
"Get some beer, too. And maybe something to eat. I'm kinda hungry, too."
That made me think he might be panhandling, in his own awkward way, so I said, "Wouldn't it be better if I give you some money to use for that?"
I started back to the store, but he grabbed me and said, “No need, faggot. You’re under arrest.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Public indecency.” The words leapt from his mouth as if they were just waiting for release.
I pulled away from him, angry, telling him, “You’re no police officer!”
That is when he held up his badge, saying, “And that’s resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.”
He slammed me against the side of the store, handcuffed me from behind and yanked me over to a new red Camaro, handing me the Miranda saying the whole way, even as I protested. I was taken to the county jail way the hell down in Indio, booked, fingerprinted, dressed in prison attire, glanced over by a nurse, and put in a cell. Thank God no one else was around.
I’d never been arrested before, so I can’t say for certain all jail cells are like this one -- but it was vile. A toilet in a corner of the room with nothing in the way of privacy. A sink was beside it but the water came out in a trickle. A pair of bunk beds jutted from a wall. A heavy lucite door whooshing shut. Hardly “Architectural Digest.” If this is what you had to deal with when you were in stir, you’re a far better man than I am, Gunga Din. Thank God I was alone in there, too.
I was given nothing to eat or drink until seven a-m the next morning, and it was nearly forty-eight hours before I was taken before a judge for a bail hearing. The Assistant District Attorney handling the arraignment was a Ms. Ginty, this huffy little blond thing who looks like she would blow away if the breeze is too strong. Though it actually may be Mrs. Ginty; she wore a wedding ring. The moment the bailiff finished reading the complaint aloud, she said, “People ask for one-hundred thousand dollars bail, your honor.”
“What?!” shot out of me.
“The defendant accosted a decorated police office, exposed himself and attempted to have the officer follow his lead on a public thoroughfare. When he learned he was talking to a policeman, he became irate, attacked the officer and tried to escape. Indications are he would be a flight risk.”
“That’s nonsense you honor!” I snapped. “The officer approached me and asked me for sex, and when I said no he -- .”
“This is preposterous on the face of it, your honor. The arresting officer actually told the defendant to leave him alone in hopes he could just drive away.”
“You want to talk preposterous?” I cried. “That I’d risk being beaten, robbed, or killed for someone who looks like him!”
The judge told us to be quiet and asked me, “Do you have a lawyer, Mr. Taylor?”
“I do.”
“Where is he?”
“He's out of town, your honor, so I called another lawyer I know, but she's not answering her phone; all I got was her voicemail. But your honor, I own property in this town. I have no criminal history. No arrest record. I don’t even have an unpaid parking ticket.”
“Is this true, Ms. Ginty?” the judge asked.
“We haven’t fully vetted his background, sir.”
"Why not? I've been here two days."
“Is that a yes or no, Ms. Ginty?”
“So far as we can tell -- .”
“That’s the same as a yes.” He tuned to me and asked, “I assume your plea is Not Guilty?”
“Absolutely,” I shot back.
“I’m setting bail at five-thousand dollars, cash or bond.” Then he slammed his gavel down.
I paid a bondsman to handle the bail and I was released just a little while ago. And who should I meet as I leave the jail but this twerp of a priest, who’s beautiful but going out of his way to tell me I’ll go to hell if I don’t change my ways, and he wants to help me get right with God and enter ex-gay therapy and on and on until I found a cab. I almost wonder if he’s the rear guard for this cop’s nonsense.
The first thing I did was get my car from Page’s. Of course, the food was ruined and the interior stank. Then as soon as I arrived home I took a shower and fed myself something decent. What they foist upon the inmates appear to be more like microwaveable dinners than real food. I despise nuked meals, and do not even begin to trust anything that is gray-brown but claims to be edible. The car is going to be detailed, shortly.
I called Preston -- Niemscyck, that trial attorney I know, but he's in New York, right now. Well, I want this stopped, at once, so I spoke with Lorinda, yesterday -- she’s my real estate attorney. She referred me to Baskin, Baskin and Reed, of all people. I've had dealings with the first Mr. B. and was not impressed, but I sucked it up and met with Scott Baskin; he’s the one Lorinda suggested. I think she has a crush on him, and while he is adorable, he didn't believe me when told him I'd done nothing wrong or illegal. His mantra was, “I can get you down to public nuisance or disturbing the peace.” That I'm innocent makes no difference. I’d rather have someone who believes me defending me, not some pretty fool going through the motions, so I'll wait until Preston's back in town to fire back. Him, I'll have no problem with.
Thing is, I'm FaceBook friends with a guy who'd be perfect for Zeke -- Alex Minsky. As I've mentioned before, he wants to get into acting, and this role would be a great entry for him. Of course, that'd be if these guys are open to suggestions for casting.
