My friend Marjory wanted to go to an amusement park one weekend, to ride roller coasters. I suggested Coney Island; unfortunately Marjory didn’t believe in the NYC transit system. Great Adventure, she insisted, and I reluctantly agreed.
I did my last maintenance fix for the day in the rest area bathroom on the turnpike. I didn’t want to be dope sick, so I could get regular sick on the rides. Little did I know that the motherfucking Gestapo security guards search you on entrance into the park–I hadn’t hidden my kit. Normally I’d stash everything down my pants, and put my rig and spoon in my shoes. Being the junkie that I was, I saved the damn bags too, because you always needed those scrapings from the waxy glassine envelopes in the morning. If I’d just thrown them out, I probably could have walked away from my impending doom.
We got to the park and walked up to the entrance. I had everything in my pocketbook, with my two sets of works (you always need a spare if the plunger jams or the point is dull) in my dead Grandma Tillie’s 1950s cigarette case. The empty bags were stashed in the inside zipper pouch of my purse. Some 18-year-old pimply-faced Jersey kid grabbed my purse out of my hand without my permission. He popped open the cigarette case and immediately saw my needles. Being quick-witted, I told him that I was diabetic. Marjory was right behind me, so I suggested to Accutane Boy that she could retrieve my "diabetic ID bracelet" out of the car, which she did. Returning five minutes later was not clever on her part. If she’d been gone a little longer I might have had a chance to sneak away while the guy’s back was turned.
At that point he had not found any actual drugs on me, so I assumed he’d let me go. It was all smooth sailing, till the idiot decided to uncap one of the needles. I was going down. Security grabbed me and took me back to the "holding tank" at the security section of the park.
So there I was, sitting with a bunch of other people who’d been snagged. One guy had a crack stem; they asked where he was from. "Seaside Heights," he said, and they let him go. Another guy had a bindle of crank on him, and he said, "New Brunswick." They let him go, too. When I told them that I was from New York City, they immediately brought me to another room, where they then called the Ocean County Police to come get me. To this day I wonder what would have happened if I’d said I was from East Windsor or some other random Jersey town.
We arrived at the station; it was a slow night, and I was a 21-year-old girl from New York City–it seemed everyone felt pity for me. I’m assuming they knew that they were sending me into the lion’s den in a men’s jail. There was no room, or infirmary (for junkies), at the women’s jail.
•
Answering hundreds of silly questions for an embarrassing drug bust without even 10 bucks’ worth of drugs on you can drive anyone insane. Especially when you don’t know what your fate is. After rapping in the holding tank with a cop from Coney Island Ave. about Triangle Billiard Hall closing down, it was time for the ride to the prison. I was shitting bricks. The cops had told me I’d be arraigned immediately, get a reduction to 10 percent of the set bail, and not to worry. Needless to say, they lied.
Riding over to the county jail in the truck was like being banged around in a tuna can. I was glad I was alone, although thinking back I should have enjoyed the company of anyone: I had no idea at that point that I was going to be stuck in a cell in the infirmary ward going stir crazy. The heroin habit put me in that ward.
After being stripped, spread, sprayed and showered, I was allowed my phone call. I called my parents, assuming that, no matter what, since they brought me into this world, they would do whatever they could to help me. They told me to rot in there.
By this point I was horribly sick, throwing up and shaking, so they took me to the nurse for a Compazine shot. They also gave me clonidine, to bring my blood pressure down. It was about midnight, and after being poked and prodded they sent me to the psychiatrist, who put me on suicide watch for 24 hours.
I assumed I would be arraigned in the morning, but it was the weekend–I had to wait till Monday. They led me to a cell at the end of the hall, catty-corner to all the other inmates in the infirmary. Funny, it was bigger than the apartment I live in now. I had to go through about six electronic doors, and past every guy in the general section. I heard them screaming and whistling at me, and sticking their cocks through the meal slots of their cells, asking me if I wanted to suck their dicks.
•
My three biggest fears in life are going to jail, going to hell and getting fat. They all came true at once back then, since when you’re in jail you’re in hell, plus you get fat from all the starch and carbohydrates they give you. Being dope sick, I didn’t have much appetite, but I did enjoy the spoonfuls of sugar they put on top of the cereal every morning.
All my money had been confiscated since it was considered drug money. They also confiscated my cigarettes and everything else I had for that matter. I was given a toothbrush, a tiny tube of toothpaste, a small bar of soap and a black plastic comb. And shower shoes, men’s size 12, to go along with my extra-large prison uniform. It was a v-neck, and the opening went down to my navel. At least I had one thing going for me.
I lay on my cot–a plastic mattress filled with sand, covered with a scratchy blanket–and cried. I didn’t know what was going to happen, I was just waiting for my arraignment so I could get bailed out. Being alone was the worst of it, aside from the physical pain of going through withdrawal. I would lie there and just talk or sing to myself. A nice C.O. eventually brought me a book, Harold Robbins’ Never Love A Stranger. The last half was missing, but I read it over and over again. I was let out of my cell for "recreation time" for an hour a day, but could only go 10 feet from my cell, where I could watch the dregs of society go to the gym, or to the showers, or do whatever "recreation" meant if you were male. For me, their version of recreation was making perverted gestures, grabbing their crotches and jerking off at me. They would motion for me to flash them, but I wasn’t going to lift my shirt if I wasn’t going to get anything in return.
Two days later I was arraigned. They wouldn’t lower my $1500 bail to the 10-percent bond, since I lived out of state. I called all my friends trying to get the money up. "Tomorrow, or the next day, I promise," was what I heard.
The guy diagonal to my cell was named Rodney. He was much older than I was, and had a mirror so we could look at each other as we spoke. He took pity on me because I was in such bad shape. He’d spend an hour blowing and pushing a cigarette under the cell doors. It was quite a feat, and helped kill time. He also taught me how to turn one match into two by separating it at the bottom. Rodney was soon transferred to state prison. I was sad to lose my friend, and the cigarettes he blew me: at this point I was melting down for cigarettes.
There was a "trustee" named Chucky who would mop the floors in the hallway in front of my cell. Being a trustee is the highest honor for a prisoner. It also means you’re an ass-kissing narc. Chucky’d been in there more than a year, and every time he came near my cell he’d say, "It’s been a long time since I seen me some white titties. Can you show me your titties?" At first I said no, but he finally offered me a pack of Newports. No big deal, I thought. So I flashed Chucky, and he gave me a pack of cigarettes.
The next day I needed another pack. Eventually I heard Chucky’s bucket as he made his way to my cell, but this time he said, "I need to see your pussy. I ain’t seen no pussy for a long time. You want these cigarettes, I need to see your pussy."
What’s a woman to do? So I stood up, pulled my pants down in front of the slot and let him have a look-see. He passed the pack of cigarettes to me. Next he insisted on something else: he wanted to smell my pussy and insisted I press my crotch against the slot so he could take a whiff. "I ain’t smell me no white pussy since I don’t know. You let me smell you and I promise you cigarettes, candy bars and anything you want every day from now on."
I didn’t know what to do. How long was I going to be in this hellhole? I was scared to get that close to Chucky, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Everything in jail is degrading and humiliating, and I had to make the most of what any situation offered me. So I leaned close and he bent down. Chucky had more in mind than just sniffing: he pushed his gnarly dirty hand through the slot and shoved his fingers inside and back so hard I thought he yanked something out, like my uterus. I backed away, stunned. And then he threw the cigarettes at me. I felt molested, but couldn’t complain to the officers because I would get in trouble myself.
I hid in a corner whenever Chucky came by my cell after that. I’m so embarrassed about what happened, it’s still difficult to think about now, 11 years after the fact.
•
I prayed to God every day to get me out of there. Each time I heard a key in the lock, I hoped it was the C.O. telling me I was out. Officers came to my cell several times a day, either to check on "the female" or to take me to court. Finally the door opened for the last time: my friends Beth and Dave bailed me out, after eight days in that scum pit. Passing the other inmates on the way out was one of the highlights of my life. I told them all to fuck themselves as they yelled perverted shit to me.
I couldn’t wait to walk outside. I remember it was pouring rain when I saw Beth waiting outside in her pickup truck. I knelt and kissed the ground. You don’t realize what freedom is until it is taken away from you. No movie, book or even HBO series can relay the experience.
I got into the truck and we drove away, toward home. The radio was playing "Born to Run." How appropriate, since I was just sprung from my cage on Highway 9.
