Lyla and I had sat down for supper, maybe early Fall but I forget, when before we had one bite she took severe pain of a ruptured aorta.  This may be it, this may be the big one! She said.  Call 911!  Hurry up now!   Do as I say!  This may be it!

        Being the maladjusted old child and sibling to care for her I get bothered with these disruptions and runs to the mad Emergency in the Aransas Pass, Tx 78336 hospital, but I called 911.  Faithful nearest neighbor, Jesse, of Jesse and Pat Martinez, saw the ambulance scream to Lyla's house on the country block edge of city limits, and Pat was not home but he came, and Lyla, in a poor condition, was worked on into a stretcher and brought out into the ambulance while Jesse talked to relax her.   Lyla then ordered me to go get in the car and follow.   I did so and met the Martinezs' in Emergency and next had to drive back and get Lyla's purse and cards, if I am remembering things correctly that time, usual hassles before Lyla was transferred over to a hospital in Corpus Christi, 20 miles or so from little Aransas Pass.

        For example, at the emergency clinic in Aransas Pass, I was asked for Lyla's "living will."  I had never heard of such.  I replied, that none of us care about any of that.  It had sounded to me like what siblings get what.  The other siblings had knowledge of what "living will" is.  Now writing this I have forgotten what is "living will."  But I guess I had returned from the hospital emergency with Lyla's purse, because here went brother Mike in Boulder on phone impatient I find the "living will."   Take her purse and turn it upside down and empty its contents! said he.  I refused to do this.  At this writing I think at some point the Living Will got located, alright, and is now dismissed.   Probably so, but if I am wrong, I have not time, am trying to keep to some context in this account of a DWI.

        A ruptured aorta kills one, and Lyla was 86, but had been having dental work and had been taken off her blood thinner, and she had been on a blood thinner because a blood clot in her leg couple or so years ago had hurt her, hospitalized her.  The MDs now would conclude she had a blood clot upon this rupture of her aorta, in the nick of time and this kept her tear in her aorta valve from killing her, long enough for her to be operated on.  I don't know.

            It was never certain an old woman could live beyond having her breastbone split to fix which had shown to be a ruptured aorta.  She lived, and shortly therein my 3 siblings recognized it as had I the US hospital system, under-staffed with contented MDs floating in and out on their clouds, is no place for our mother, who would be 87 March of 2007.  Lyla was pulled, taken a couple hundred miles up to family property, a heat controlled house on the Medina River, the Hill Country, with son Kelly's longhorns but also some deer and feral pig crossing in Lyla's view when dawn broke above a far away ridge, and she sat with a weak cup of coffee.  Before her juice and nourishment and pile of vitamins and pills.

            Kelly and wife Janus are physical therapists in Seguin,  but a quick bike spin up from where Lyla recuperated they had years back built a house, would come to the property weekends.  They continued their Sequin work and sibling Mike from Boulder and sibling Bonnie from L.A. would spend time as they could, and by time Mike needed a break badly I was brought up.  Before I got brought up for to stay I was coming with Lyla's mail.   In my habit of drinking ale and zoning out on classical music, when driving back one of these times I got caught doing 80 inside the Corpus city limits.  I really should not have even been in the C.C. city limits but had not known clearer the route.  I have sciatica trouble driving, and I see a chiropractor, had after a hundred miles bought a sixer of ale and drank it to mix with my aspirin, and this young trooper, who was already distracted, hearing as did I on his radio my record of strong-arm-robbery and assault-and-battery-of-police, saw I walked unevenly, right leg needed to warm up first, saw my yellowish whites of eyes I have had since teenage maladjustment.  I did his toe-to-toe alright, and he forgot to give the lateral eye test, and he would lie on his account about that, describe me as drunk, red-eyed and slurring words   I was a bit over .08.   Which, if one is a beer drinker, is not drunk. 

Beer drinkers tend to drink some beer each day, have this tolerance, but anyway.

            Mainly disturbing was having to give Medicine over to the dog catcher.   The C.C. dogcatcher got called to my disaster and the trooper took away my handcuffs long enough for me to lift Medicine into the dogcatcher wagon.  The trooper is a dog person and was sympathetic and he and I were getting along ok, firstly my saying I never battered any cops.  He said he has to be careful.   He was curious, asked what I did.   My license says I am born in 1940 but I do not look middle aged.   As ever knowing all this, I engaged him, leaning forward of arms handcuffed behind my back in his front seat.   I told him I write, asked did he read.   He said, yes, he'd been reading Louis La'Amour.   I said Louis La'Amour generally writes pulp but he has written one or two good novels.  (Heh, not that I have read any, but had heard this.)   I guess, it is thus in all the industrialized, better educated countries, this gap between readers and the ill read, the more or less informed and those more or less not. 

        Besides the Third World, which, say some people, the US is sliding into being, due to our near (some say actual) admiration for ignorance.   And, then have it, they who may read or not, but respect authority, believe the rulers are kindly but either event are in control, and to live one must obey.  And, there are they who may or not read but who disrespect authority, feel they do not need any goddamned authority.  And there are they who do not vote, half of the US barbarian population do not vote.   By time the young impressionable trooper had me to the holding tank I was telling him to check out <>.   I was jabbering, yeah, like I have this correspondent Cassidy Wheeler, an anarchist who in prison tells everyone he hates cops, racists, and fascists, and I print him and is anarchist but naturally humanitarian, we are just talking about how to get along!   Said I would be writing about our meeting, this arrest.   Young trooper said he would be sure to check it out.

        The holding tanks for some cause are kept cold.  There are many holding tanks and they are overflowing and the fellows pull their arms inside their jail shirts.  Only the very fat may curl on the cement floor to get sleep, regular fellows but moderately fat or else skinny sit on a bench and nod or else jabber in personal insane attempt to get along.  People can be in holding cells several days.  Maybe a week, I don't know.   I had guys claim they'd seen four or five days before bone sore they got to a jail cell or one of these numerous dormitory situations, fifty or so bunks.   A poor guy pays a lawyer, or gets a court appointee and gets criminalized normally, has to pay the state, which, known by serious readers or thinkers, desires money for war.   It is a cliché, of the poor class, the criminal class the state is building: Somebody has to pay for the war.

        I have said the harder part in the arrest was having Medicine taken away.   Friend Bix had me out in maybe it was 24 hours, or so.  In the holding tanks are a telephone that works part time, and when it works it is faint, plus amidst noise.  Had I not remembered Hatch's number and Bix's number, nobody would have known without going to search where was I, and Medicine.  First I did Bix, who got it on his answering service somebody in jail wished to speak to him.  He could not figure this and ignored it.   I got Judge Hatch's answering service and said Hatch should tell Bix that Bill is in jail in Corpus.  I had not been able then to recall Kelly's phone number.  Bix or Hatch called Kelly and I forget the context but Bix came with money to get me out.  He arrived early and spent all day, in the evening he had me out and to go pay for the hauled car, big hassle going to a notary public because I had no driver's license then, no ID.   I guess the poorer man may lose his car, his job, his wife.   Bix said I looked pretty wild and he tried to make light.  But I could not then get Medicine, because it was too late in the day, and the next day I drove to Corpus to get Medicine.   I had sat on bench dozing/meditating can my daughter and Medicine be alright I can sit through this.  The mainly Chicanos (we had a young skinhead, who pretended mostly to be sleeping) in my tank had heard all this, we got along.   When I drove over and got Medicine he was standing in his cell in a stupor.  I put my fingers through for him to smell in his dream.  Then I was let sign him out and had his leash and came back and he was released and he began to piss on things everywhere, and when we were in the car he was fully awakened and went to licking me all over that I could not then drive.  But we did get going.

In Corpus Christi the cops and bureaucrats and prisoners are mainly Chicano.   Jail is crazy and people around me long enough in jail know I am radical, an old hippie sort.   I rant between meditations, the U.S. has the largest penal industry and must have increasing prisoners, and sooner than later I will tell my age, and that my fear is I will be figured to be somebody other than what is on my driver's license.   One amigo said I seem to be more worried about my dog than my own situation, I said hell yeah, I can sit through this but I don't know how my old pitbull would respond to unfriendly treatment and maybe get killed.  (Medicine was handled ok, in the CC dog pound.)  There were two or three younger cats who thought me interesting (generally we had maybe a dozen in the cage, though when I did get out it could have been twice that, a gang of young guys in then), and I had got on with firstly this guy, cement mixer, Chicano who'd been a few years of his youth in and out of jail, probably he was under forty, a kind of leader.  When the gang of young guys crowded in there, posturing, bullshitting, taking up too much space for the skinhead to pretend sleep, the friendly to me guy dug it, eyes gleaming -  at a point while I was standing awaiting getting out his eyes unconsciously locked bald into mine seeing how I felt about the Chicano street identity.  He had his hair in the Jamaican "dreads."   Next to him on the bench was an older Chicano fat truck driver who had no trouble being warm enough though he just perched his bulk on the bench and did not have to get on floor to sleep other than that, and he had good sense and we got along too.   No coffee in holding tank, the guy in dreads did these dips off the bench.   He was working to take a shit, warm up enough and move the guts.   We had three shitters in stalls facing the benches.   People piss all over these toilets, which have no lids, and when people shit they sit on the toilets, except me, I shat twice and would squat upon the ugly things and shit in the hole like a real native, like a mestizo, these city guys got nothing on this beatnik.   I'd already shat once or twice when the cat did his 20 dips.  I needed warmth thus did the exact number myself.  The fat trucker found this amusing, and presently the Chicano leader did a set of 30.  I followed, with the exact number.  The fat trucker made comment, he wanted the contest to go on.  We did a third or forth set, of 30, I forget.  Guy in dreads would pop his, and my style was doing them steady.  Then I said that's enough for me.  Guy in dreads went and had his shit.   We got along.

        Yeh, out our holding tank windows were the office staff, wherein bitches might bend over at us and scratch buttocks or like that.  Grown men could then exclaim they want to stick their dicks in it or grab their dicks and utter some kind of appreciation.   Guy in dreads wanted me to join in and I said yeah I like ass, but did not bother to tell him I do not get sexual urges in confinement.   In jail, humans are insane.   Each devil to his own.   This stuff is counterproductive, insanity is counterproductive, counterproductive you have ye street culture familiar with jail mania and how to survive it.   Better ways would be cheaper.   Ho hum.

        Post Lyla's hospitalization and my arrest months run along.  The siblings saw neglect and error in treatment of their mother in 2 Corpus Christi hospitals and got her out  and to family property 200 miles north, on the Medina River in the Hill country, near Bandera, property firstly a 97 acres acquired by the late B.E. Olive circa 1968.   The property, by now about 130 acres I am told, is on the up-bluff side of the uncontrollable Medina River, which a few decades ago rose and uprooted century old cypress trees and all the folks on the low side, and there are newer houses there now.

        I have been too disturbed with the legal nonsense to write.

        Bonnie comes in and out, has a programmer job in Los Angeles again, after not doing well in real estate.  She and I are getting on ok, after a couple of decades of not.  We always liked each other but she was taking offenses but now the siblings are focused on Lyla.  The siblings are wired - Mike Olive from Boulder was here with Lyla in the roughest months.  Madrea and Eli and infant Alex Tiberious and I came up to the land and entered the house to see Lyla and there stood not very friendly Mike, unconscious of course he was not cordial or welcoming.   The fraught condition of the siblings made poor sense to Eli.   Eli later said to Madrea that only is Bill calm.   Madrea and Eli and  Alex Tiberious of Florda's Dixie County had been at this point renting in Corpus Christi, having stayed with us earlier.  Lyla past season had felt Eli bragged too much and she would sometimes be rude to him and she wondered would he stand by Madrea but soon as possible my kid's little family lived in Corpus.  This crossing had been hard on Madrea's 24 year old friend from kindergarten who had always loved Madrea.   Meantime Madrea had always dug the property and now Eli did too, said it looked liked Texas is supposed to look.

        I had gone to Corpus with Madrea (and Alex Tiberious) and Eli to stand in at their marriage.  Madrea and little family are back in Florida now and Madrea in some difficulty has delivered Eli's son.  Now they also have Eli's four year old daughter Emilee, are trying to get better legal custody.   Eli had got his old job back easily, to do with computers, installing computers etc.   Presently however, Eli is running a local newspaper.   Eli was home-schooled or self-schooled after grade-school but he can do anything.

        From this kindergarten in Dixie County, Florida, are two kids from outlaw parents.  Mine people though went a few generations without breaking law, unlike Eli's, and I have had all this law-abiding backup, security for my child.   Now Eli and Madrea turn 25 (Libras), and there are numerous others in their technologically hipper US generation not shocked 9/11 is inside work.  They have zero schizophrenia the government can attack its people, and they do not bother with the news.  They do like the Daily Show when they can see that.   Philosophically they are not political, they are anarchists.  They have the sensibilities of the sixties hippies who got stomped, but they are too tough and grounded to be stomped.  I began to sometimes scribble with afternoon wine, when all were gone but Kelly and Janus in on the weekends.

        Lyla would ring her bell from her bed when she woke for her tea and pills and nutrients.   I would get her from bed to walker, to her chair at table. Day by day by week her consciousness increased.  I would have a cup of wine at hand and let her think it was water or tea.  Because somebody had given her a box of chocolate cherries, and Mike who is a severe sugar addict ate them mostly, from Boulder now he had sent her a box of Whitman's Sampler.   Maybe he got a box of Whitman's for himself too.

        Medicine Dog had turned ten years old Dec. 5 and had too much arthritis but on the land I let him jog slowly the several miles off the highway, and his arthritis got much better.   It always has excited him to run when I drive.  Dear Reader, remember, he punctured 3 front tires on my pickup on the beach in his youth, and I quit taking him to run him on the beach like that.   Besides the Port Aransas beach gets more crowded each year and frail citizens more fearful of pitbulls.   We did have one incident getting into the property, though only with Kelly's longhorn bull.   This was at first, and Medicine's arthritis yet pretty bad.  He came around this bend and the first of Kelly's longhorns in sight was the bull.   Medicine was so enthusiastic, he wobbled full tilt at the head of the grazing little bull. 

        Back up at our New Mexico cabin in his youth I had seen him bother a big fat bull, but he did not go right at the head but was outflanking the critter, the normal way of Medicine, to attack only in the advantage, firstly seek an advantage.   Oh well, dogs he needs no parrying, though I have seen him parry with a raccoon, and he certainly could simply crunch any raccoon and has before I could stop it, raccoon who had jumped on his head.    But say a poised crab or skunk or snake he goes around it, unlike any dog before pit or mix I have had who got snake bit and skunk sprayed just to kill.   That big fat bull had backed itself into brush, and I dashed to grab fencing Medicine before a human saw this.   Not this time, he went to biting the skull of Kelly's bull, who banged him with a horn.   Medicine staggered backward, and fell upon his arthritic right foreleg.    Fearing he was gored I came out of car and rushed to get him.   He was ok.   The little bull was back to peacefully grazing.   Medicine got his breath back and I got him into the car.

        The US courts are bogged with the poor and the nonviolent and my trial was after a few months put to May.   Judge Hatch had advised I plead not guilty, "drag it out long as possible till they just want to get rid of you."

        But first it had all been put off when brother Kelly had forsaken his work to drive to Aransas Pass and drive me over to the courthouse in Corpus in a chilly morning, to the  supposed court date then.   I appreciated Kelly's alert company enormously, for this modern shit freaks me like dungeons in the Middle Ages.  There is evil here and growing.

        Unlike when in a 1979 DWI in Austin conviction, now we have in the larger towns these awful long winding lines.   Here were 2 lines, the first line one gets checked for weapons.  Kelly checked too, for he stood with me, looking about and seeing more than did I, or as for detail.   In the middle of the second line was a female little person at a stand.   She was checking papers and informing sundry and me that our appearances are postponed.   She had no idea when, we would be notified.   This was the first time I got cheered.   Whew,  more afternoon wine and preparation.

        I had not observed this person was a midget, Kelly had.   The scene was surreal.   I had just got the larger picture, more and less.   US Law and Order was building its criminal class for its world's largest penal industry.   Kelly had been noticing the individuals in line.  After advising me to wear no hat, thus I had not in the inclement weather, those in the lines were averagely young, many in hats and many with piercing of lip and eyebrow and so on.  Kelly had wondered did I notice this interesting young female near by, and I had somewhat, and he asked had I noticed this black mother with son in front of us, and the son had called him 'sir," in some exchange I forget, and I had never seen those people.

        Now I had to keep driving back and forth, Aransas Pass up to the property, and without license.  Hatch had said protest having no license, but that it ought to be on their computers should I get stopped, that, I guess, I did have a license, but I forget exactly what Hatch said here and there.   Meantime Kelly was talking with old compadre Jaime Acosta (re. the TG book) who is a lawyer, and with his wife Sheila who is also, and what I gather, is even in a same state, Texas in this case, lawyers get different opinions on whichever cops and courts in an area might be let do next.   Jaime and Sheila said DWI is currently nearly important as murder, and, in their Houston area, Kelly related to me, drinkers are having a harder time than in the Corpus area.  Meantime Judge Hatch who is famed for saying THERE IS NO JUSTICE is just trying to retire, and he is not inspired to think for me.   He will say such as, the system does not care if I need my license to take care of my mother.   Oh, Hatch, and the Acostas (Jaime's brother Jerry, a lawyer, got stopped for DWI, and has been treated like a bad person), do agree a criminal class is being created.   Jaime and family were using the very phrase, "creation of criminal class."  Maybe I had read the phrase somewhere before using it but can't recall.

            I get haunted, unreasonably shaken, and retreat inside myself seeking occupation.

            Twice in a week  I caught this nearly 2 hour C-SPAN program of this several writers of the book 9/11 AND AMERICAN EMPIRE: INTELLECTUALS SPEAK OUT, who were talking to an audience in Berkeley.   I had often enough seen on C-SPAN dramatic people talking about the 9/11 conspiracy, but these writers of this book were more thoughtful, less dramatic, were scientific, sober.   Though, one was trying to hold in his emotion of his                                                                                                                  company's firing him for his engineer's honest evaluation - maybe he had a family to support, a fairly young guy.   This scene had me to realize: Of course, no way a tall building hit near its top can melt steel at its bottom and slide down as in controlled demolition.   A little kid could see it.   But a teenager could see that you tilt something so heavy and tall a few inches or feet further than it sways in good wind, like impact from a puny airplane, should it be falling it must fall, and ever heavier, in that one direction.

            I wonder do many US journalists notice this, and I expect they do.   Maybe less
here in brain-rape than in older Europe.   And, while humans may be lovely and charming and talented and sometimes veritable genius, few are ever brave.   Few think during fear of the unknown or during reverence for authority.   Even most who are charming geniuses are but believing in authority.   They are bred to believe the King is well dressed.  They are so geared as to sacrifice their lives or their very children, that their King is well dressed.   All which is more than sad, it is an ugly thing.

            I began finding I could contact journalists via Web, to comment on 9/11, and I had some favorable feedback.   This occupied me, a time.   My computer crashed, I had John Brundrett fix it, had to take it over to him who looks after his bedridden wife 24 hours, and give him $100 for parts.  Haunted by US law and order, I did whatever I could.

            Zoned, classical music off PBS and a sixer of ale, stopped for passing at 80 or looking like a TV outlaw.  Had wanted to get home by then, sciatic trouble of right leg.  Had a pipe of pot inside my stuff to smoke at home.  I got out of car with bad leg and yellowish whites of eyes I have had since a teenager and my mother had me checked by MDs who had considered I was jaundiced.  Told the young trooper I am not drunk nor a dangerous driver.  He heard over his radio I am born 9,17,40, five ten and weight of one ninety and known for strong-arm-robbery and assault-and-battery-of-policemen.  I  said to this small young fellow I never did any of that or even went to trial.   He said I can't blame him for being careful.  He did not do the eye thing with me though in his report claimed he had. He was distracted.

            Look on the bright side, your jail time has sparked increased interest in the next LL; at least among the degenerates around here.  Some say Packy is looking to buy a shack in P.A. but ain't many shacks left.  'Scrape offs' they call'em."

            Word from artist in Port Aransas, Steve Vaughn, who sends me these postcards he makes with a painting on a side.   I send his cards round the world to correspondents whom generally I have yet to meet. It happened I only had my license taken for 3 months, in as I had accepted the breathalyzer test.   Lawyers Hatch and the Acostas were saying do never take the breathalyzer test.   But had I not, I would have forfeited the license for six months, if perhaps beating the thing in court.   Hatch still had thought I might as well try beating it in court, and I was given this public defender he liked, who had a good record of getting drunks off, while this guy himself did not drink, was in fact some kind of preacher.   But, to the guy's surprise, new legislation brought in mine 1979 DWI conviction suddenly.  This meant, should I lose, I would do 180 days in jail.  The alternative was 10 days in jail, 2 years probation, and, drunk programs, some thousands expense.  My family could not afford my losing and doing 180 days.

            Kelly from Seguin missed work looking after Lyla whilst I did the supposed ten, which before he got me out nearly went to 12 in bureaucratic shit.  Firstly the jail dept. had told him I am doing 180, see it is on our computer.  He went to the court dept. and got this cleared.  He went through more stress than I laid up in jail.   Naturally I had pondered can this of my given age cause them to think I am somebody else than on my driver's license.   
I had taken off my glasses and put them in their case and lent this to Kelly and gone to jail,  did jail in June, if I can presently recall the correct month my shit began.

            Jail cells were overflowing and after 2 nights shivering in the holding cell this time I and crowd were taken across town to this large dormitory set-up, numerous dormitories each holding fifty some odd bunks.  One is given this thin old wool blanket, besides the temperature is higher than in the holding tank.   I was trying to keep to stupor.  I meditated on Medicine Dog and so forth, telling Medicine Dog I would be back soon.  He had encountered this very young female coyote/chow on our bike run - past houses I had let
him off leash and he met her and she whom I had seen for a couple days began to play with him.   She followed us home and Lyla called the dog catcher but the dog catcher, who tried twice in 2 days to get her, had zero chance.   I fed her, soon could pet her, and in a couple days, told Lyla I am keeping her, named her Choyota.   Before many more days she, half Medicine's size,  prompted by Medicine, had come in heat and Medicine Dog had more pussy than ever before.   At that point Mike Olive was visiting again and worried about her yelping, and I  tried sort of to dismiss this.  Sure, after they untied she would be sticking here twat in his face, such is life amid the mammals.   I meditated on women or possible relations in reality, but by time Kelly was trying to get me out I was running out of stupor or meditation or fantasy of special women gone mad for me.

            I had got by ok.  There is no coffee with caffeine, if one is as I was not prepared,  has no money to buy instant coffee from the visiting commissary and to use hot tap water.   Nice it is cigarette smokers cannot smoke in jail anymore.  While I could not get on cement floor to do stretches for my injuries, and had my back situation getting worse.  Really, there would hardly have been room, except in the recreation cement room where some guys do go to bounce off the walls.   Mostly Chicano "homeboys," who are very tattooed, generally under forty, talking black street jargon like they invented it, call one another "dog," or "nigger," no matter in front of an actual black, for their group is like 80%.  One thing they did was buy noodles and spices from the commissary and using hot tap water make these soup concoctions, have the mess in a plastic bag and beat it, till gaining a thick soup-like consistency, just about nightly doing this, putting the mess in large plastic containers from somewhere, eating all this starch to make up for the poor fare I and others were getting, and the homeboys kept pudgy.  They are in the crack industry in most of their cases, will talk without bravado of a gunfight or somebody they beat up.   They usually have early children to support and construction jobs up front.  Other Mexican types will be a few illegal from Mexico, and a handful of forty plus Texas/Mexican guys who are in for repeat DWI and so forth.   When I was there, we had at a time 3 or 4 black guys, and a like number of white guys, and  prisoners came and went, some guys doing months in the dorm setup.

            I was placed to dine at a table with several, one being a forty something Chicano interesting guy and rather hip, a reader of pulp or say Stephan King, he slept and he read, a plumber by trade, doing repeat DWI thus having done now some serious offense, paying  lawyers and so forth. while too he had smoked and dealt some crack but this was not what he was in for.  We liked each other and I could rant my shit if I felt like it.  I encouraged him to know the US penal industry was self destructing and he could get let out for being non-violent, and he told me of already having been through said, had been sent up, was in Houston, some years back, and they had to let him out for lack of space.  I forget when exactly he said this happened.  He said: I drink beer and I drive, this is what I do, I've never had an accident.

            An oddity was a seventeen year old black kid whose sobriquet was "Black."  Several times within my hearing he would tell things for me to hear.   He had grown up in a "mesican" neighborhood.   He was in there for stealing several shirts from a store.   I do not know why they did not have him in a reform school.   Nobody else in there was seventeen.   He was near his 18th birthday, but in there firstly aged 17, a Cancer I think.   He and the homeboys were comfortable, could prod or be derisive.

            Firstly, I was in a top bunk admist this group who carried on uncaring I heard their shit.   Sometimes I dozed, was not hearing their shit, in and out of my induced stupor, shirt folded on my folded end of matt for pillow, back badly needing to get past pain of holding cell.   I would be courteous.   Some faces were unfriendly, some friendly.   One was willing to acknowledge me, when I became more awake he laughed, hey, you've opened your eyes!   He said I looked like Hulk Hogan.

            That guy was getting out soon, had been in there months.  He spoke of getting to see his kids, that he might cry.   Said first he was going to go to this convenience store and eat two of their hot dogs.

            Before I got transferred to a lower bunk, for, via this old guard I had some rapport with, who believed I was too old to be climbing to a top bunk, I had a single confrontation.  From the table of my repeat-DWI amigo I was going to the cool-aid 10 gallon jug or what was it, this big cool-aid cooler, maybe 15 gallons, being that the cool-aid every mid-meal and afternoon meal was delivered before came the platters of the meal, and I would get cool-aid for my friend and maybe one or two others from our table too.  I had lounged front of line waiting the cool-aid.  But too slack was I.   Bear, homeboy age maybe 20,  tall as six two or three, jumped in front of me.   I patted his shoulder and told him I was there first.  Startled, Bear went and sat back at his table, embarrassed, intimidated.   Then this homeboy runt, a friend of Bear's, maybe tall as 4,11, jumped in front of me, and Bear came and got behind him before I had told the runt I was there first.   Then came the cool-aid, was it maybe 15 gallons or what, and it was brought to Bear and he was expected to hoist it up to this tin stand.   Bear had trouble bringing the container up to his shoulders, somebody stepped in to help him lift it.   The runt got his cool-aid, and Bear jolly in new courage went to starting a connecting line: Hey, who else wants to get in front of this guy!   I was cautious, in strange circumstances not throwing young Bear upon a table, but indignant.   Blank- faced Chicano guys behind me were telling me to let it go.   I said: Ok, I have six more days to go and I am just trying to get out, do you know?  But my language was too much complex.   Bear got his new line going.   When I got to my table with my containers of cool-aid I grumbled about these dumb kids.   My friend said what dumb kids?  I asked can I get any more punishment if I have a fight in here?   I was getting anger and my friend said, hey you want to get a fight in here, no, they don't penalize you.   But he was not therein correct….

            That night before lights out, in my top bunk before transfer to lower bunk, Bear was congregating with others round my bunk.   I needed to get up to do one of my dehydrated pisses, got down to the floor, and I patted Bear on his shoulder again.  Said:  It's ok, Bear, it's ok.

            This was further bullying the young fellow, while, I also mean well, am willing to get along.  He went offended.  Don't touch me!  I told him he had nothing to get mad about.  You got nothing to get mad about, Bear!   I even felt paternal, and he probably sensed it.   Sure, but I have big menacing hands and could hurt him.   He spouted that I might get "beat up."  Pretty funny, Bear was on one side of Black's top bunk and I on the other side, neither of us thinking to look down at Black.  Could have been interesting to glance at Black.   But what a young buffoon, this Bear, couldn't even think to say "fucked up" for "beat up." "Fucked up" implies injury.   I said: Bear, you are not going to be doing anything like that.   Bear's friends laughed about my language, this time they caught it, and I went to piss.   It was a slow piss.   When I climbed back upon my rack, Bear stood conflicted.

            The prisoners do chores, clean up etc., and next morning I was scheduled on this sweeping/mopping detail.   I was assigned to mop the area which had the showers and toilets.   Bear sat crapping on one of the toilets.   He was talking with this more experienced worker who was somewhat instructing me.   Bear was friendly.   They noted my forearms switching the mop back and forth, said I should make a good janitor.   I don't know about that, I said.   Meantime, Bear had lost no status.   I observed that.   He is Bear, if he goes to prison he can lift weights and be a little monster.    
            Such be the many maws of the beast.

            Of the variety of personalities, just before my getting to the lower bunk, a homeboy who had noticed me in my bunk trying a back stretch, the movement pressing backward with pelvis to surface, had come to my rack and spoken with me, about bad back.   He had bad back from getting stomped by some guys once, said I am too old to be climbing up to a top bunk, a very friendly guy.   I had thought I was climbing to my top bunk ok, but the old guard hearing my age, said: Why, this man is older than I am!

            My next bunk a lower bunk was nice, less gangbanger noise above my reposed head.

            My buddy at table of the numerous beer drinking/driving raps going to prison again had been the one to tell the friendly old guard my age.  My nearest neighbor at low bunk was a friendly homeboy who ate a lot of the nightly prepared gangbanger noodles and he farted all the time, and he would pronounce: Ah-hah.   He sounded in fact a bit like a cow, bovine contentment.   My friend the old guard took umbrage, warned the fellow he had to hear this every time he passed and he would have no more of it.   Thus the fellow did his routine when the older guard did not pass.

            In the crazed jail-dormitory there were ongoing farts and for any fart schoolboy regard.   Understand, many of these guys were in there for months.   By then it was known my claimed age, regarding the matter one homeboy said to others: He is what he is.   The guys in their racks were not allowed to get loud, or talk much after certain hour, and the guards were feeling disrespected - there were too many quips and muffled insults.   A tough female guard with a male backup got brought in and the female gave a speech about all this.   Next all bunks were searched, for whatever I never could find sufficient answer.   During the search a skinny garrulous homeboy with a goatee began to repeat: Reach for the sky!   He progressed to: I'll never talk, coppers!   Across the wide dorm others took this up.  Of a consequence the hard female had everybody change bunks, in perception there were clusters of ringleaders next to one another.    I had had a lower bunk but 2 or 3 lights, again had a top bunk, but getting out soon, thought I.  

            An interesting incident happened before I got switched back to a top bunk.  I had heard this buzz about so and so being back.  This was this thin gregarious white kid who'd been in solitary for having torn a strip off his blanket for making something or other.   He was given the top bunk above mine.   He was rather innocent of racial hate and this kid socialized, moved around.   One evening at my bunk was this glowering homeboy bothering him, in queer/punk vein.   He was a larger homeboy, like my size or pudgy and nearly.  The two were exchanging, and this fool tried to bring me into it, that I could get some head from the kid.   I said the kid was no girl and the poor bastard said that I could "pretend."  Directly across from me then was a recent from holding tank large fat black guy hearing this.   This guy had mentioned hell from holding tank, but one day after sleep got to floor to do 26 fast pushups, to warm up.   Meantime the Chicano homeboy irritated me.   I said to him: This is what queers say.   What? he answered, surprised in his gangbanger majority stupidity at any threat, disagreement.   But you can pretend, he repeated.   No, this is what queers say.  This is what the queers tell me.   I had cut the poor bastard off.   I noticed the adjacent black guy above smile.  I am not sure how from my position I saw him smile, but I did.

            Next day I was in bed and the white kid who normally moved about a lot was also above, and one of the larger homeboys came and swung a fast arc at the kid.   I had been uncertain this was serious.  I could not see any damage, when I did directly view the kid get from his rack, shortly before he was put back in solitary.   Next guards came to get the attacker to put him in solitary.   He was bravado, angry.  This guy hit about as heavily as an unpracticed girl.  The skinny white kid might have taken him, if he had even known shit.   I heard from my table buddy later this also had to do with "queer" bullshitting, earlier exchange the two had.   Maybe the white kid had heard me, and pointed out to the homeboy fool that he who pushes this crap is the homosexual.

            The dorm had a tv and popular stuff is the fake fighting on Spike or International Fight League or etcetera.   The gangbangers like most citizens currently think this stuff real.    At earlier point maybe much of it was, but not now there is money, and fighters who look good are needed to perform often.  The grappling is bullshit, the blows are bullshit.   If one sees boxing, an accidental elbow opens a big cut, but not in this shit.   In this shit, unlike in boxing,  if somebody has a bloody nose the shit is called off.   Aargh.   In the cocaine industry in the US of A, the gangbangers are trying to support their families, and do not have many one-on-one scuffles.   Why should they.

            Getting out was a strain.   I did have access to a phone, could get either Kelly or Lyla or Janet our good helper.   After my 10 days ran to 11,  I was in a holding tank.   Before the 12th day reached its nightfall Kelly had me out.

            I cannot easily observe mankind's official hours these days but it was I see scribbled in true help of wine a 28th of June I appeared in Corpus Christi to meet this probation officer or what the fuck was he.  That time I did not wait longer than an hour.  This guy explained to me more of the official process than anybody had.   Get it, Dear Reader, I had never gone before a judge - for sake of speed of process.

            Here be ye professionals in court joking in their mornings, before they slack off round middle of a day.   They are thinking their days are light whilst they get hatred from fellow beings whose lives are junked.   These professional saps Kelly had to deal with get cancer of liver, of brain.   Because ho hum Einstein is right: All is relative.   All aborigines on Earth know it.   Yeh, I was instructed officials would be let enter my mother's home to check if I have booze.    Way over here in Aransas Pass, I doubt it.   They can open her refrigerator for beer.   To go looking for my hidden wine,  I doubt Juge Hatch or maybe even lawyers Acosta are sure, but I think that sounds very unconstitutional.   Whatever happened to this country.   I have been a beer drinker/driver like my friend in stir, my reflexes remain I could get out of my car anytime and have a fistfight and be above average.   Hell, I never had an accident either.   Point o fucking eight good grief.  The poor say it: Somebody has to pay for the war.

Criminal Class part I

By: Bill Blackolive