The Sentencing

Four calendar months since I walked into court, knowing that I would not leave without hand cuffs. There were a million reasons and excuses I could have made up so I wouldn’t have to go. But I did it. Making the transition from absolute freedom to ultimate restriction in just a few minutes was tough. But I’m strong. Here’s how it went down.

I woke up at 11am in Chatfield, Minnesota, 25 minutes away from the Rochester Courthouse. I had to check in by 12:55pm. All I really wanted was a good meal and to chain smoke cigarettes and meth until I got there. I was successful. I checked in, grabbed a seat just in time for the judge to make an entrance. I was playing Angry Birds on my cell phone so I didn’t stand up, and the court officer yelled at me and I shot back with a nice, “Go fuck yourself.” So I had to sit in the hallway and wait for my name to be called which was ok by me because the first part of Rochester court is all in Spanish. At 1:40pm they called my name.

Since I already had the terms of my plea agreement in place, I was at the desk in front of the judge for less than three minutes. She pronounced my sentence and the court administrator told me I could stand up at which point I shook my lawyer’s hand and was promptly handcuffed. There was no banging of the gavel.

From my chair, I was led through the door that I’m sure exists in every courtroom that nobody wants to go through. To my surprise, once the guard and I were through he took one cuff off and put my hands in front, and we walked down a long hallway to booking. After that was the standard pictures and fingerprints and waiting. I believe I have described the rest of the journey from there.

Right now I am listening to a Pink Floyd song that I have never heard before. It is amazing. Oh. The Boy in the Forest is actually by Andy Jackson. OK anyone would confuse that with Floyd. He was Pink Floyd’s producer for many albums.

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If anybody out there happened to see the story on the news about the 125th anniversary of St. Cloud State Prison, you got to see my living unit, B House, and more importantly, my front door.

They shot the footage of the living unit from in front of cell 143 which is two doors down from me in 145. I, however, was actually inside the broom closet at the time because the camera crew caught us off guard and I had to hide. We were cleaning and I was just finishing up when they came in. The warden didn’t want any offenders on tape. I had a half a mind to take off my pants and streak down the main drag but I thought better of it.

The camera should pan down from the beautiful arched ceiling and end up pointing down the flag (the main drag I wanted to run down) and look for cell 145. That’s my apartment.

Time to Make a Move

Again, I must interrupt my series of posts on jobs because a rather important event is about to happen in my life and I absolutely want to share it with you. Just shy of seven months as a free man, I am happy to report that, as a 37-year-old, I am moving out of my mother's home. Again. Maybe for the fourth time in my life, and hopefully for the last.

I alluded to this in my last post but not before because I didn't want to get overexcited about it until it was actually approved by my agents. Now it is official, and I can proudly relate this information to you: I AM MOVING! This Saturday, in fact. Just two short days from now.

I have actually written about this move before, but as a failed attempt at leaving the nest possibly too early. I'm moving into a house with two sober guys from the program, one of which I was in prison with, and I've worked with for some time. He no longer works with me, but we remain friends. I don’t know the other guy, but he’s sober, and that counts for a lot.

I’ve been to see the house once. It’s small as you can see in the picture I haven’t added yet, but I’ll have my own room, so it isn’t like a sober house environment. There isn’t a house manager that watches over us, or anybody to give us random shakedowns and breathalyzers. I have my agents for that. This is a step forward.

It couldn’t come at a better time, in my opinion, as I will be moving on to the next phase of I.S.R. on the 9^th of April. That will open up a lot more time that I can spend doing things that I want to do like go to more meetings, and spending more time with my family. I am also finishing the last three hours of my community service this Sunday, which I believe I mentioned previously.

It’s all lining up. Everything is going well in so many ways. So I need to be really careful. For somebody like me, good news can be all I need to trick myself into thinking I deserve a reward. Maybe I can go out and celebrate with just one drink, or just a little crack (“A little” crack doesn’t actually exist. It’s an all or nothing drug. For more information, go here). I mean, at this point I’ve built myself a pretty good network of people that I can reach out to if the urge hits me, but it’s always good to layer on the protection.

This disease of mine can also be described as an allergy. When I drink or do drugs, things just go haywire. My body responds differently to them than normal people. Also, my allergy in particular is a little more severe than say, a gluten allergy. Oh, also I don’t believe that’s a real allergy, but I’m not a Doctor. Anyhow, let’s say that somebody with a gluten allergy accidentally ingests some flour. Well, maybe an hour or so later, they fart a little and that causes some slight discomfort or embarrassment. Well, when I ingest a little alcohol, or maybe some meth, my world flips upside down. I can no longer take care of myself financially, mentally, or physically. And this allergy affects others, too. For example, if I smoke crack, you may no longer have a television, and some of your smaller valuables may go missing, as well.

Simply put, chemicals make me not give a fuck about you or me. And I’d really like to avoid all of that so that’s why I’ve immersed myself in this program of Alcoholics Anonymous. And I’m not worried about relapsing because of my new place and my new freedoms, I’m excited to see what I can do with them. And I’m really happy to be able to share of this with you people. And for you that are new to this blog, I encourage you to see where it all started almost two years ago with just five pieces of writing paper, and a 3” flexible safety pen behind the unforgiving bars at St. Cloud Men’s Reformatory/State Prison. Until next time…

The Robbery (Jobs Part3)

We picked what was always the slowest part of every night for our respective businesses. We decided the best thing to do was to rob his gas station because there weren’t any cameras, and the lighting was poor in every direction. It was easy, and it was fast.

It was 3am and I left my job to walk a block down $*%&@$# Avenue to where my friend worked in a little island of a gas station. We had everything planned well in advance, so all I had to do was walk by and he had everything ready for me. It was in a bag, so I grabbed it and left. All that was said was “I’ll give you a minute”, which meant I had a minute to get back to work before he called the police. When he did, he simply told them he had been held up by a black man with a revolver and he took all of the cash and some cartons of cigarettes, and headed down the opposite direction of me.

Sitting on my stool behind the register, I watched a number of police cruisers rush by and out of view. I knew where they were going. The story he gave them had been rehearsed for days and it worked. He even threw a carton of smokes out on the street in the direction that the alleged assailant had run off in. He said that a man in a mask approached the small window and inserted a gun. He demanded all of the cash from the register and the ground safe, which could easily be seen by any customer. He obliged, for he was in fear of his life. The robber then commanded him to hand over all of the Marlboro Reds, however non-stereotypical of a black man, and he then fled.

My friend was a good liar—actor. He later said he was trembling when he was telling the story to the police, and they never suspected a thing. Shortly after I got back, a police officer stopped in my work and asked if I’d seen anybody suspicious around. I claimed that half an hour earlier, a man had come up to the door wearing a mask, but the door doesn’t open without my remote buzzer and he took off in a Southern direction down the street. He then told me that another station just down the street had been robbed at gunpoint. I told him I knew the guy that worked there and was he okay? He told me he was shaken up, but otherwise just fine. He left.

Two hours later, my replacement came to take over for the morning shift. I closed out my register, grabbed my backpack, and walked home. When I arrived, my friend was waiting with a big smile on his face. We split up the loot, and laughed about the incident. I’ve never spoken of this incident to anybody, ever. And I decided to let it out because the statute of limitations is up on it. So, there ya go.

I’m keeping this one short, as I am off for a run. Until next time!