ROLL CALL ~ A Prison List (True Prison Story) (30 page)

I shot my 123 placard in the air assertively!

The Vietnamese guy didn’t hesitate at $1,200 and his number 8 placard lifted. I studied my adversary. He looked like a veteran of the Vietnam war. His eyes slit even further under his glasses like he was bunkering down.

A plan quickly formulated in my mind. He was studying me as much as I was studying him. I’d have to give him the impression I was reckless and careless with my money.

The auctioneer on the bull horn asked, “I have $1,200, I have $1,200… Do I have $1,300?”

I rose my 123 placard and announced, “$1,500!!” Swearing to myself I’d go no higher.

That Vietnamese war veteran looked like a gangster dude. He was looking right at me with impossibly focused but nearly closed eyes. I got the feeling he had the same theory as Paul had. This is the car that nobody else will want. I have to get it! He raised his number 8 placard at “$1,600.”

The thing I had at the top of my neck was no longer a brain, it was just an impulse message sender. I shot my 123 placard in the air and announced, “$1,900!!”

The Vietnamese veteran gangster dude’s eyes popped open as much as western eyes and I read his mind as he put his placard down against his chair. “These dumb white people are driving the prices up too high for any bargains to be had!”

I nodded his way and thought, I resemble that sentiment. I looked at the little blue Ford Festiva with the three conspicuous antennas and wondered. We are at a government seized auction… Was that car a drug runner? I asked Paul if he thought it was but he was busy factoring in the profit if we sold it for $4,900.

With the auction over, we went to take care of the $1,900 to get our Ford Festiva. Standing in line we learned that you had to put down some money for your vehicle and come back for it on Monday.

We also overheard angry buyers finding out that there were a number of unexpected associated fees. Big government was blessing everyone with a $250 fee that, in itself, was a limited insurance policy against theft. All of the major parts had the VIN numbers etched into them and supposedly were impossible to remove. The limited policy explained that if the car was stolen and not returned to you within 30 days, thanks to these etched in VIN numbers, you the buyer would get an additional $2,500. The auction itself added in another $250 fee for administrative purposes. Then another similar one for $150. Then another one for $100.!

Paul and I stood facing the receptionist and she pointed out a spot on the third page of fine print where it informed the buyer of these fees. I told her, “What a scam you guys run! The government seizes the cars for free and then you give us this fine print right when we get ushered into the bull pen to look at 200 cars for 2 minutes, then get ushered back to bid on the cars immediately! There wasn’t any time to read this fine print!”

The receptionist replied, “I take it this is your first time to one of these auctions. That’s pretty much how it works, I’m sorry.”

Then she pointed to the bottom of the third page of fine print. It said we could excuse ourselves from the purchase for a $250 penalty.

Paul and I conferred over it. He pointed to the blue book. $6,900 to $8,200. I wasn’t going to peel off $250 for a penalty to drive away with an empty dream. The receptionist added in the taxes and licenses on top of the other “fuck you” fees for a total of $2,990. I thought of the Vietnamese guy, I might of won the battle but it looked like he was winning the war. I put down a payment and we left.

CHAPTER 70

Over the rest of the weekend Paul and I went over things. We were going to list the Ford Festiva in a number of free advertisements and one that you paid a onetime fee for. He helped me see this first acquisition as a learning experience. Next time we could go to a government seized auction in a more remote area where there wasn’t so many rich people, like Temecula, or Chula Vista. Paul also suggested we check out auctions that tow yards offered. That made sense.

On Monday we showed up to get the Ford Festiva. I paid the rest of the money and waited for the car. We waited and waited and watched everything close down around us. Finally a Mexican brought the Festiva out of the gate and handed me the keys and some paperwork. I watched him get in another car parked along the street and drive away. I opened the Festiva’s door and got in. The first thing I looked for was the mileage on the odometer. 187,000 miles!!

“Paul!! Look at this shit!! It’s got 187,000 miles on it!!”

I got out and Paul got in. He couldn’t even look at me and said, “How in the hell can you put 187,000 miles on a car that’s only two years old?”

I saw that vision of the little blue Ford Festiva driving from Mexico with drugs through the U.S. in a nonstop circle 24-7. “It was a big time drug dealer’s car. That’s why it’s got three antennas on it. That’s why it’s at a government seized auction. We’re fucked.”

Paul looked uncomfortable. He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry…”

I lowered my head and said, “It’s not your fault. It’s the government’s and auction’s fault. You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have listened to you when you wondered about all of those antennas.”

I let him off the hook. “It’s not your fault. Let’s get out of here.”

Paul got in his Mustang and drove away. I started the Festiva and had trouble getting it into first gear. Paul’s Mustang was turning the corner and out of view. I jammed the stick shift towards first gear and was met with grinding resistance. I played with the clutch and it didn’t feel right. I pushed the clutch in and out and finally got it into first gear. I drove a little way and couldn’t get it into second gear. The Ford Festiva was giving me 15 miles an hour at 5,000 r.p.m.’s, but not second gear. Grind, grind, and grind, sorry, no second gear.

I made it around the first turn at almost 20 miles an hour with the r.p.m.’s close to red lining. I tried second gear again and felt the transmission fall out. The little blue Festiva bounced over it and angled right into the curb.

I got Paul on the phone and he came back for me. We had to tow our little blue acquisition to his house and pull out the notebook to add another expense.

CHAPTER 71

Paul proved his worth as a penny on the dollar partner by finding a re-built transmission and clutch in Compton, L.A. I drove there to a Vietnamese owned shop and spent just under $800 for the parts. A couple of weeks later Paul had little blue running like new. I spent another $500 or so on six months of insurance and another $250 registering it. The notebook came out and gave me a grand total of $4,450 invested into little blue. With the kind of mileage it had I knew I couldn’t get more than half my money back. This legal shit sucks so far.

CHAPTER 72

A few weeks later Paul and Gina went to sleep and I realized I couldn’t. I thought, Paul’s not trying to keep up with me anymore. This was the second time he was going to sleep since I’d gotten back from the funeral. Not me. I was still bunkering down and pushing sleep away like a weakness. I looked at my watch and realized I’d spent the last hour on the couch figuring out how many days it had been since I’d slept in New Orleans. I finally came up with 23 days. I examined those 23 days in as much detail as possible as if I was outside of my body watching me struggle from a distance.

I saw the little blue Festiva bounce over the transmission and grind into the curb. I saw me standing next to it looking up at the sky and asking God, why? Then I saw the days fast forward and could see myself moving the whole time. I looked so restless! Every time I saw myself walking from my truck to Paul’s or somewhere else, I realized I was almost running. Then I would weigh up my product and count my money over and over until it was time to make another delivery. Then I’d run to my truck to make it! Then I saw myself watch Paul going to sleep the first time and leave me unable to. I saw myself getting one of the mountain bikes I had in his garage. I saw myself pedaling against the darkness as hard as I could for the adrenaline rush. I couldn’t believe how risky I looked flying through Dana Point on P.C.H. under all of the street lights. I looked like such a bust. From the view of myself looking down it felt like I was a bird trying to keep up. I saw how fast I was pedaling and I wanted to try and enter my body on the bike to see what I was thinking. It worked. I felt my eyes watering and my teeth grinding together from the exertion. I realized I was pedaling away from the Ford Festiva failure. I saw that failure for what it was. A good distraction from the funeral, my Mom, the guilt and the black hole of pain and loneliness I didn’t want to face. I felt my legs pedaling as hard as possible studying P.C.H. for headlights like a challenge. Flying down the hill, I was so in the Moment I could hear an engine and see its headlights coming. The vehicle was coming from the south end of the harbor and about to reach P.C.H. Just in time, I veered into a Del Taco parking lot, where the drive through was, to dip out of view. From the back of Del Taco I watched the Sheriff drive north on P.C.H. As soon as he was gone from view, I pedaled through the major intersection and made it to a lonelier section of P.C.H. Unlike the busier, more lit up, riskier, downhill section of P.C.H. I’d just traveled; this section of P.C.H. was dark, hidden and less risky. Pedaling on this darker, less risky stretch of road I felt my emotions catch up and surge into my conscious mind. I saw myself at my Mom’s funeral. I saw my brother’s and grandfather’s genuine looks of sorrow. I felt the same deep sorrow but mine was magnified by guilt, confusion and despair. I couldn’t allow myself to look any further. I was seeking the next death defying stunt as another distraction.

I continued my dream like a bird flying above my pedaling body down below. I saw myself make it to Natasha’s house in San Clemente. I couldn’t be a bird anymore so I imagined what happened through her eyes. I watched myself take my shirt off in her room. Then I weighed my product and counted my money over and over. I saw my back muscles straining and dancing while I chopped up a humongous pile to ingest. I saw myself ingest a portion and turn towards Natasha to offer her some. I saw myself holding the mirror with the lines on it. I wasn’t even looking at her. She was right; I must only want her body. I didn’t look her in the eyes to see how she was doing. The memory of her body was enough for me. I just stood there wanting her to love all of my muscles and determination. I wanted her to see the spirit I had inside of me. Could she see how deep it was? Could she see how much love was in there fighting to get out and free me? I didn’t look up until she took the mirror and walked out of her room. At her door she said, “You have to get some sleep! You’re spun out and you’re taking too many risks!”

I saw myself in Natasha’s room feeling rejected and impossibly alone. I saw myself doing pushups, crunches and pacing her room with restless energy. I saw myself walk to one of her drawers and open it. It had her lingerie in it. There were three pieces of mail at the bottom. Each piece of mail was from the hospital, a free clinic in south Laguna Beach. One piece said, URGENT, LAB RESULTS! Natasha arrived at the door with a plate of food in her hand.

I saw myself in her eyes, caught in her scanty drawer, in the middle of my hinkie investigation, with her mail in my hands. But now I was looking right at her, seeking her eyes to see what was going on in that pretty head of her’s. Now she was the one looking down avoiding my eyes. I saw her hand me the plate and tell me, “You have to eat. You’re getting too skinny and reckless. Are you trying to get busted? Do you want to go to prison?”

I saw myself set the plate down. “Don’t worry about me. What’s wrong with you? I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

Natasha still wouldn’t look at me. She took the letters from my hand. “Take a shower. I can smell the speed coming out of your pores and it’s gross. Then we’re going to Dennis’s house so you can meet him and Tom.”

I saw all of us at Dennis’s residence. Natasha had told me that Dennis was a Hell’s Angel representative from a chapter in San Diego. He’d moved to San Clemente to be with his wife Denise. Natasha had explained that Dennis had been moving speed for over 20 years through biker networks in San Diego, so this was a good connection for me. He needed me to get good product. I saw him standing in his living room next to Tom. He looked about 40 years old. He had a husky looking build at about 220lbs. He had thinning brown hair combed back, serious looking brown eyes that looked like they’d seen a lot of action over a brown goatee with silver in it. His look gave me the impression of a Hawk. I looked at Tom standing next to him. He was a little smaller. He was obviously Irish with his reddish thinning hair and his freckly complexion. He wore clear glasses and dressed kind of preppy. I remembered what Natasha had told me about him. He was from Boston and had grown up in the military. He’d gone to West Point and was a Special Forces expert with all kinds of accommodations. Natasha had told me that when he moved here a year ago he started using speed and had a hard time fitting in. Small speed dealers had been burning him for his product and he did his own recon to find Dennis. I watched Natasha tell both of them in as much secret as possible how long it had been since I’d slept at my Mom’s funeral.

I saw myself react and misinterpret her whispers. I had assumed she was telling them, “Please excuse his presence. He’s spun out of his mind… I shouldn’t have brought him here.”

I watched myself take my shirt off and stick my chest out like a rooster and march around Dennis’s living room to impress every one. I saw myself spracking around in circles and could remember Natasha, Dennis and Tom laughing at me. I saw myself gritting my teeth in anger while pulling my speed out at the living room table. I remember how I thought to myself, I can handle ten times more shit than either of you old fucks can. Somehow, I stopped my dream right there and examined what I was thinking. If I could handle so much shit, than why wasn’t I facing it and dealing with it? Why was I trying to prove how much more I could handle? Lost in this deep thought my dream got too dark to see anything. I focused as hard as I could to get the dream back and it worked. But this time I didn’t seem to have the same control of my dream. I saw myself from behind. I was leaning over the table snorting my humongous issue and I could see something was around my neck. It was an iron clad chain choking me. It jerked against my neck like a dog collar. I tried to see where it was pulling me from and couldn’t. I could follow it to Dennis’s carpet but there it went invisible. I looked up to my neck and saw the chain still pulling against my neck somehow. I saw Dennis and Tom snort their lines and felt myself leaning against the pressure of that chain. I looked at Natasha’s face and saw her watching me. She looked shocked by something. Could she see the chain around my neck? I went to her eyes. She couldn’t. From her eyes I saw myself leaning forward and swallowing all of my discontent. Then I watched myself grab a deck of cards on the table. I shuffled through them and sleeved the one I wanted in the palm of my hand. I had Dennis and Tom’s attention and they watched me march around the living room. I saw myself straining against the invisible chain and bark orders like a field general. I watched myself tell Dennis and Tom, ‘ This is my territory you both live in and I’m running it with an iron fist. To run a program there has to be rules and regulations implemented. Mine start with the welfare of our women and children. There is to be no selling drugs to women who are pregnant. There is to be no selling drugs to women who have children lest they start neglecting them. There is to be no selling drugs to kids in school. There is to be no doing business with informants who don’t do their own time for their crime. Those kinds of people are also the ones preying on the weak. Anyone who is willing to regulate these violators will be honored and climb the ranks!’ I watched myself sling the card I had palmed against the table next to the speed. It stuck to the glass like it was glued there. I watched Dennis, Tom and Natasha look at the ace of spades on the table.