Jail

memoir part 15

This is part 15 of my memoir-in-progress.

Part 1:

The Trick is to Drink it Quickly

Part 16:

The Fountain

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In the morning before Jesse woke up I took Wogart and walked down along the highway to the diesel station to use the bathroom. The garage men knew us by name now and vice versa and we always stopped to say good morning. Pablo didn’t come to work until later in the day which was just as well—I didn’t want to see him until I was a little more presentable. He was too good looking for me not to care.

When Wogart and I got back to the van, Jesse was awake and holding a postcard. “I forgot to tell you this before, but Greg is going to be in Bucharest this week and he really wants me to meet up with him there. I was thinking about going. I’d just be gone for about ten days. The flight is tomorrow from Madrid. I was thinking about grabbing a bus in the morning. I’d have to leave really early though. You could finally have some alone time, get some reading done, you know? …what do you think?”

Jesse left while I was still asleep. I heard him, vaguely, as he made his preparations. Finally I felt him crawl back up onto the bunk.  

“I’m taking off now,” he whispered. “I love you, have fun.” 

I heard the door open, then shut.

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“Dear Jesse:

Hello. I am at the internet cafe, writing this to you on the second day after you left. The guy who works here really likes Wogart and keeps giving him scraps of food. I have been following you mentally as much as I can: “Now he’s getting on the plane, now they’re over Paris, now Vienna,” and as of my writing this I am guessing you just arrived in Bucharest… I hope that you got enough sleep during these last couple of days with all the gnarly travel.

Are you thinking of moving to Romania yet? Buying an old stone house for nothing and a couple of goats maybe? I read on the computer that it’s supposed to be sunny there now. Hurrah! I am so eager to hear everything you can think of about this trip when you guys get back, so start committing it all super hard to your memory. Try not to drink too much coffee though, or all you’ll be talking about is diarrhea. Wogart is being extra clingy—missing you, I think.

I had this dream last night that you met a girl with an interesting looking face who you thought was really beautiful and she had a bony nose but there was something about her eyes and I didn’t like it but you kept explaining how much you were into her and anyway it turned out that she was me so then I felt good.”

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It was over a week before I heard from Jesse. I went to the internet cafe every day to check, spending money I couldn’t afford on Café con Leches, often lingering to check and recheck for an hour or longer or until someone else needed to use the computer. I had to pass the diesel station on my way into town, and ran into Pablo there a couple of times. I enjoyed talking with him. His smile was still good and his teeth were still bad. He invited me over to his place, but I said no. I was afraid of what I might do, alone with him in his apartment. I was afraid of what Jesse might be doing too, but I decided if someone was going to fuck up our relationship, I didn’t want it to be me.

“Dear Jesse:

Hello, have you met any Gypsies yet? Lured ‘em in with music like you planned? I hope that you’re learning lots of new songs …it’s been raining here since you left. Not a single sunny day. It’s total bullshit and I would heartily protest but who’s listening?

Hey. It’s tonight now. I’m sitting around in your pajamas. I miss you. I really do think you’re delightful, and I think more about that than the other stuff, the difficulty sometimes of living day to day together. I think this break is good, and will make it all the sweeter to see you again.

What the hell is happening with you? I can only imagine that you’ve met some friendly drunks in a rundown village who offered you a great place to stay that is actually pretty gnarly but you’re having such an interesting time that you don’t really care. Is THAT what’s happening? You’ve got to write me all about everything, no matter how boring you think it is.”

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“Anna,

Man I am glad to finally be able to write to you. Everything has been good, so much to say. First of all I think about you all the time and I have not met any girl with a pointy nose and you’re the best anyways. 

This country is crazy and beautiful. We found a couple of killer skateparks and I’ve had to spend some time with an ice pack for the last couple of days. The only Romani that I actually had a moment with was this homeless kid at the Brasov train station who sang amazingly and played my guitar. So much has happened, and not so much at the same time. At the moment we stay in Sibiu with a family in the blocks. Leon, Nini, Raras, and Cornelia are the names and not any English is the game. It is a long story. They’re all over Greg like he’s some kind of god, I think they’ve never seen a black person before. I love you so fucking much and miss you and Wogart. I love you Anna!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

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“Dear Jesse,

Thank you for the wonderful letter. I could read what you write all day, I really could. I bet my emails are like, taken for granted now, maybe even becoming a nuisance. “OH GOD, here’s some MORE emails from Anna… I guess I’d better read them or she’ll give me shit but OH GOD what a bore.” Whereas your emails are like totally coveted and prized, you know? Ahh, the allure of the rare, the commonness of the …common. See you in a week.”

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“Anna. Hello. Don’t be crazy, I love getting your letters. Today I had such a fucking good morning. I woke up and while Greg was in the shower I went to the park and was playing the accordion for a while and then three Roma kids ran up to me all excited and dancing like, they shook my hand and one sat next to me while the others ran to the swing set and started swinging as fast as they could go. The faster I played the more they swung. They had such big smiles on their faces. Then some city workers came to the park to do some work and one of them made motions that his friend played the accordion. I gave it to him and he started playing fast traditional Romanian music while the other workers and the kids and I listened. It was good, so fucking good. Just then the police came and chased the kids away. The workers went over to sit on a bench and called me over to join them. One of them spoke English. He said that they worked six days a week to make ends meet. The guy who was playing my accordion had one eye that was messed up and looked the opposite way of the other. It reminded me of the first time we kissed and I was fucking around with my eyes and you told me to quit it. He told me that he used to play with his wife, she would sing, but they split up not too long ago. I went back to our room feeling so good. Having that accordion put in plain view and playing it is, as I told Greg, “my ticket to paradise.”

I love and am thinking of you and Wogie everywhere I go.”

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The Gypsy

The knocks were so loud they shook the van. Wogart started barking. I sat up in bed. The van was dark, the curtains shut. Men’s voices, how many? Two, three, five? I didn’t know. It sounded like a lot. They were speaking loudly in Spanish. 

     “Abra la puerta!”

I looked at the door, frozen. Why had Jesse left? Wogart was still barking. There was no way I was going to open that door. The men were shouting now. Finally I heard the word, Policia. For once I hoped it was true.  

     “Abra la puerta!”

The daylight was blinding. There were just two policemen, one of them very young, standing in front of the truck. He stepped up into the van. He glanced at my violin, our skateboards.

     “Identificación?”

I looked for my passport, but couldn’t find it. Jesse must have taken it with him, together with his, in the pouch he always carried against his chest.  

     “No tengo pasaporte,” I said.

     “Una Gitano,” said the policeman. A gypsy.

“No. Soy Americana,” I said. But it was no good. After a quick discussion with his partner, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs. I put my hands behind me. He led me over to the car. Wogart followed behind. I got in. I was relieved when they let Wogart jump in, too. The policeman locked the door. We drove down the highway. I saw the garage up ahead. I shrank back in my seat, away from the window. 

We parked in front of the police station. The young policeman said something into his radio. He got out and opened the door.

“Salga,” he said, not looking at me. I climbed out. I watched as the other policeman led Wogart over to a fenced–in area along the side of the building. A sort of outdoor kennel. I wondered if a lot of dogs ended up in jail. The policeman opened the gate of the kennel. Wogart went in, then turned back to look at me. The policeman locked the gate. Wogart sat watching through the fence as I walked away. I was impressed by his dignity and calm. At first I thought he was going to be fine. But then, as I rounded the corner, out of sight, he began to howl.

Inside, the policeman led me down the hallway to a cell, removed my handcuffs, and locked the gate. There was a small cot inside. I sat down on it. How long were they going to keep me here? I’d never been in jail for more than a night. Hopefully they’d come to their senses and set me free in a day or two. I lay back and pulled my legs up under me. The cot was hard. I hadn’t washed or had anything to eat or drink since the night before. I closed my eyes and pretended, for a minute, that I wasn’t there. I wondered if Wogart had stopped howling. Had they given him water? Was he unhappy? I thought about Jesse, hanging out in Romania. I imagined him drinking beer, having a good time. I tried not to think about it. I thought about how guilty he would feel if he knew where I was. It was nice to think about. After a while I remembered that he didn’t know. I turned over on the cot and faced the wall.

I imagined how Jesse would come back to our camp and find me and Wogart gone and how it would make him feel. I imagined him feeling absolutely rotten. It was satisfying to think about. He would make his way to the jail and they’d give him the letter that I would leave for him when I was released.

“Dear Jesse,” it would say. “I hope you had a good time in Romania. I’m sorry that I couldn’t go with you. The police here thought that I was a gypsy and arrested me. They came to the van while I was alone and I didn’t know what was happening at first. I’ve had a lot of time to think, sitting here in my cell, and I’ve come to realize that it might be best for us to be apart. Goodbye. Please think of me and Wogart sometimes.”

The tears streamed down my face as I thought about it. I imagined how devastated he would be. It was lovely to picture. After a while, exhausted, I blew my nose into my shirt, and fell asleep.

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