They followed along the veins of their native soil, exploring the viscera of America and feeling out the boundaries of the land. Stretching unburdened limbs as far as they’ll reach, roaming lightly in a brand new jeep. It rolled and bounced across the roads intoxicated on a curious cocktail of complacency and ambition.

The ports of Maine- Badlands- The Big Empty- Sierra ridges- Desert stars- Sequoia skylines- Rocky Oregon shores. Their journey rolled on beat with the languor of summertime, rounded, dusty hot, and not particularly direct. They religiously breakfasted in diners and pillaged used bookshops. They drew, they wrote, they remembered. Cutting and pasting the clouds and days away. Waking by the sun and sleeping with the moon- dawdling within the fickle shifting of moments- bouncing back and forth from droning scenery to the rapture of an endless present. They walked- laughed- conflicted- agreed. The gentlemen agreed their trip was incidentally an archeology of the soul and an exploration of the American backcountry. The primary focus of the crusade was the pious mission embarked upon by only the most devout worshippers of the road trip ceremony. The Mecca of their pilgrimage was our nation’s greatest hedonist playground below the Mason-Dixon Line… New Orleans, Louisiana.

Travelling without expectations, they remained conscious of the simmering horns of Dixieland and the spicy bite of Creole seasoning lingering in the air. Months of traveling had brought them to their final destination before the sobering reality of occupational slavery was set in.

A clouded red neon sign flickered Vacancy advertising either a motel chain with no telephones and moldy rooms, or the accompanying liquor store that was the more frequented of the two. They accepted the first room they were shown; unbridled anticipation left them with no other option. They passed a fifth of cheap Canadian whiskey between them with slow sips and quick pulls. The television spoke only in Black and White serving as a foil to the brief spaces allotted between drunken laughter. They had not watched a television in a long while, but a documentary depicting power rapes among the inmates of a local prison was still incapable of grasping their attention. The bottle quickly began to empty and the boys began to discuss bordellos and music, jazz music.

They waded through the thick haze of the evening with a whiskey strut and country pace. It’s futile to fight through the humidity of the Chandelier Sound when it boils over into the Bayou on idle summer nights. They shared jokes and glided along the sidewalks of Canal Street in search of the nearest streetcar headed for the Quarter.

One of the boys removed his shirt and revealed a bare chest of plastic Mardi Gras beads dangling long from his neck, a gift from the parading Shriner Monks of Mobile. The closest streetcar station they found consisted of: A massive marble staircase sprawled across the corner of a major intersection, a suit, and a local vagrant. Always friendly folks in search of good conservation and local color, two of the young men began chatting with each of them. The suit was actually a post-doc student beginning his professorship at the local university. He was quite friendly and enjoyed the boys’ conversation. The vagrant was initially hesitant to speak, busy enjoying a tall can of malt liquor nestled comfortably in a neatly fitted and worked over paper bag. The shirtless kid remained quiet and distant, letting the whiskey saturate his thoughts. He spent the time drifting in and out of reality catching curt snippets of conservation: "You’re probably fucking snitches, I know your type. For all I know you’re a bunch of cops." He was oblivious to the semantics of the discussion, but sensed the dynamics shift from good-natured to volatile.

Rising from his seat with a lazy lunge, he spoke with a voice laced with more instinctual force than reason. "We’re no snitches my friend! Do I look like a fucking cop to you?" He asked backpedaling away from the staircase they had been resting on. It was quite a bold statement from Connie Logic, a young man not much taller then five and half feet, weighing 140 pounds soaking wet.

The breeze had died. Space felt as if each molecule of air was drenched and had expanded to the point where you must alter your movement in order to step and weave between the large masses of condensed air. Sliding through the Thick with an awkward ease the vagrant flung his beer at Connie, splashing his face and naked chest with a sticky film of stale alcohol. "You’ve never been to jail motherfucker! You don’t know shit about jail!" Things were soon to change.

Working on cue with absurdity and in sync with the harmony of chaos, a streetcar closely followed by a New Orleans Police cruiser rolled up to the station corner with the nonchalant demeanor of an expected visitor.

The actual details of the officer’s pseudo-interrogation and very real arrest of Connie have been clouded over by the bayou Thick and a whiskey distortion of the space-time continuum. The only recorded documentation of the incident is a brief excerpt from the police report filed by the arresting officers. Incidentally they have since had a messy falling out over a bizarre love tangle involving the older officer’s wife, his precocious fifteen year old daughter, a high ranking monsignor of the local parish, and a small poodle.

August 23, 1998 12:08 AM

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Suspect Name: Connie Logic

Residence: New York

Point of Entry: Shreveport

ID#: 715 207 984

Suspect #715 207 984 was observed inebriated and shirtless, while instigating a confrontation with local New Orleans resident Carlo Falso. After repeated efforts to elicit information from the suspect he offered no explanation outside of ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He grew increasingly hostile after persistent questioning. The incident was later clarified by Mr. Falso who claims that the grossly inebriated suspect harassed him. A can of Old Exxxxxh beer and a blue T-shirt was confiscated from the scene. Connie Logic was arrested and detained overnight for violation code #4D201-Public Drunkenness. Bail was set at $300.

There are those people that wake each morning with the sunrise and sleep soon after sunset. Then there are the people that wake up to the pulsing screech of an alarm clock before the sun even rises. Kids wake to their mother’s gentle shake. But to awake from a drunken bliss to the cutting reality of a conversation with an authority figure falls on the darkest shade of the spectrum.

In this specific instance the authority figures are played by the team of arresting officers portraying the respective roles of bad cop- Davis: Jaded older veteran marking the days off until he can retire with full benefits. Worse cop- Luther: Over-enthusiastic recent police academy graduate striving to earn official tough guy status.

Connie awoke in the back seat of a police car with his hands weighted down by heavy steel bracelets, shirtless, sweaty and a New Yorker in the backseat of a New Orleans cop car. "Listen officers, we’re all men of compassion and reason here. I believe we simply have a grave misunderstanding that can be easily resolved by…."

"Do you hear anything back there Luther?"

"Not a thing Davis."

"Okay guys we’re not really going to play this game are we? Do you realize you just pulled a perfectly innocent man off the street and are driving him to God knows where." The moment he uttered those solemn words the weight of the entire situation slammed Connie like a brick in the back of the head. "Where are you guys taking me anyway?"

"We’re headed down to the precinct my friend."

"Can’t you just write me up a ticket and I’ll be on my way. That’s the way it goes in New York."

"Luther, I do believe our drunkard friend here is confused as to what state he’s in. Why don’t ya tell em’."

"Louisiana and down ‘ere you’re going to jail."

"Wait, wait I’m going to jail for… What did I do?"

"I’ve never been to New York, but in New Orleans we don’t just run around the streets drunk like a bunch of madmen. You’re being charged for Public Drunkenness."

"Are we talking about the same place? Okay, can my friends at least bail me out tonight?

"No sir, you’ll be spending the night in the Orleans Precinct Parish, or OPP to our repeat customers."

"This is bullshit! You can’t just yank someone off the streets and toss them in jail for no reason. Are you guys insane?" The jovial tone of the officers quickly dissipated, and Luther turned around giving Connie the first solid look he had of either of the officers. He spoke in a slow drawl through gaped teeth and his aggression unleashed a thicker Southern twang. "You know whut? I’m sick of you Yankee carpetbagger motherfuckers comin’ down ‘ere and stealing all ‘ar women. Why don’t ya just sit down back ‘ere and shut the fuck up!"

"Can you at least give my shirt back?" He saw no point in reasoning with these men any longer. With an emotional tangle of twisted pride and defeated spirit clogging Connie’s consciousness, he was forced to hold silent for the rest of the ride.

They arrived at the precinct soon after. Connie was quickly branded with an orange amusement park bracelet and renamed #715 207 984. After exchanging a few brief introductions with his cellmates in the holding pen, affectionately known as the drunk tank, he began to make friends. The holding pen is jail’s equivalent of purgatory; no one is really guilty or completely innocent. He enjoyed participating in the social dynamics of the tank and exchanged all the standard colloquial prison formalities with his newfound friends. The customary conversation essentially consists of sharing sordid tales that reinforce how easy it is to be thrown in jail and ending it with the statement ‘ain’t that some shit!’ Connie was still very drunk and was very obviously the only white kid in the entire precinct, except of course for the cops.

As the novelty of everyone’s stories began to fade and the hard, thin benches began to dig deep into the sitbones, the booking procedure began. Following no particular order, they began pulling out the prisoners individually for processing and other beurcratic formalities. "Number 715 207 984." Brief pause. "Which one of you deaf morons is 715 207 984?"

"That would be me," Connie answered with an inappropriate smile.

He posed for his mug shots in the same manner that rap stars posture in for album cover shots. All questions were answered with a sarcastic smirk in an inappropriately friendly conversational tone. Connie even made friends with the medical examiner. "Okay honey, do you have any contractible diseases we should know about?"

"No ma’am."

"How did a nice boy like you end up in here anyway, and so late at night?" Catching a glint of sympathy in her face, he unloaded the farce of his dilemma upon her. The absurdity of the night had unraveled like a dark dream sequence in an existential novel. He needed to consummate the absurdity with someone else in order to reassure himself that this was actually happening. He was striving to reclaim his slipping grasp on reality through another human being. Connie began to talk intentionally loud about the "bullshit that goes on down here" and the "blatant disconcern for civil liberties by New Orleans Police Department."

His rantings were not to fall upon silent lips. He caught the attention of a young Asian cop who spent more time on his hair then on his inter-personal skills. With each syllable his voice grew more hostile, sacrificing his restraint for a more passionate contempt. "Boy, do you even know where you are? Do you even see that man over there?" The cop was pointing out a small rounded priest who carried himself more like an auto mechanic then a man of the cloak. "I don’t know where you’re from Yankee boy, but we don’t use that language in front of holy men. So why don’t you go sit the fuck down and wait your turn by the telephones. Keep yer trap shut before I hurt you."

He escorted Connie towards the main lobby and sat him down with a push into a faded neon orange plastic chair that had been a leftover from the previous decade. He glanced over towards the left and saw his friend Mitchell from the holding cell quietly waiting his turn to use the next open payphone. Mitchell was arrested an hour earlier for stealing his girlfriend’s car, which he actually had paid for and given to her as a gift. Connie picked up the conversation where they had previously left off. "How ya holding up man?" "A lot better once I got bailed outta here." Connie’s voice again began to involuntary rise with excitement and in response to his inherent problems with authority. "Yo, the cops in this town are bullshit. Only in New Orleans can a pig pick an innocent man off the street and throw him in jail. This would never happen in New York." He saw a vacant payphone and walked towards it with a confident amble more fitting on the sidewalks of downtown then for someone going to jail. He lifted the receiver off the hook and rested it over his left shoulder. Fingering swiftly through the phone book, as he attempted to place the name of the hotel they had checked into only a few hours ago. (His friends had already changed into a new room in the Econo Lodge Motel anticipating Connie’s call. Their previous room neglected to have a telephone and sanitary living conditions for that matter.) Addressing no one on particular but everyone in general, he spoke loudly "If I were all of you I’d get the fuck out this city. Y’all must be crazy."

Before all the words had slipped from Connie’s whiskey breath, his face was pressed hard up against the metal number keys with one arm behind his back and the other still clutching the phone book. "I would be doing you and everyone else in here a service by kicking your ass right now. It wouldn’t bother me in the least; in fact I’d love to do it. Boy all you need is a good old fashioned ass whooping." Connie turned his head back just far enough to see it was his old Asian pig friend threatening him in an unbecoming Southern twang. The cop gripped Connie by the back of his collar and lifted him high like he was trash bag filled with confetti. "You kids never learn without a beating. You’re a mama’s boy ain’t ya?" Connie held silent. He was slid across the precinct floor- past the phones- across the booking rooms- into a solitary cell reserved for violent prisoners. His Miranda rights were never read, he was never finger printed, photographed or even booked, and more importantly he never was permitted a single phone call.

The cell was painted a lovely pastel powder blue, a shade so pacifying that it was likely selected by a caring penitentiary psychologist. The 8 x 8 cell resembled the inside of a gift box. It was poorly lit and filled with the droning echo of two humming fluorescent lights, which could be part of the same psychological experiment. It was nearing 2:00 AM; the synthetic glow of the room coupled with a tainted concrete floor wouldn’t permit a hungover Connie to rest. He passed the time watching the precinct unfold through the frame of three metal bars in a 12-inch square. Intermittently Connie would recite a mantra known to all innocent prisoners across the land. "I have the legal right to make a phone call. I am innocent man convicted of no crime. I have a legal right to make a phone call…" Only when he occasionally would interject "I’m as innocent as you are. We are all equal citizens with the same rights. These bars do not make me an animal. Do you even have a soul?" did he receive a sign that he was being listened too. "Will you shut already!"

After the cops stationed outside Connie’s cell reached their threshold, they confronted our favorite officer. "What’s the deal with scrawny white kid? He won’t shut up." He snapped and answered back without hesitation, directing his answer towards the cell. "Leave him in there for the rest of his life. Let the little bugger die in there for all I care." From then on Connie remained silent for the majority of his stay at OPP.

At 4:00 AM a drowsy and sedated cop unlocked the cell and drew Connie out roughly by his arm. They were both silent until they crossed by the telephones. "You probably wanna call your mammy don’t ya?" He led Connie to the overnight tank, where everyone arrested that evening was to spend the night and await arraignment the next afternoon. "Paper says here you got picked up after midnight, that’s bad news for you boy. Means your trial is the day after next." They approached the main holding tank. Connie watched with ambivalence as the cop rattled the keys of his waist and unbolted the cage door. He spoke loud in an effort to wake the sleeping bodies. "Now if you were arrested at a decent hour like the rest of these fine folks you’d be out bright and early."

The overnight tank was about the same size as the holding pen with 4 rows of skinny benches. A few faces were familiar, but most of them were new. The door slammed behind him and Connie stared blankly at the 17 black men sprawled across the benches and floor like refugees from a long drawn out war.

They ranged from dilapidating crack-heads to pimps, thugs, petty criminals, and innocent victims of circumstance. Everyone was asleep or adjusting themselves to find a comfortable position beneath the jaundice lights and warm glow of the television. Staring hard at the TV, Connie touched the screen lightly with his fingertips trying to contact the reality he knew only a few hours ago. He moved towards the only open space on the floor, a small valley created between the backs of the cell’s two largest men and gingerly sandwiched himself between them. Fine tuning his sleeping adjustments with a few deft movements, he rested his head in the crux of his left elbow facing the back wall. What initially appeared to be silence was merely a brief pause in an anxious man’s pacing. He resembled a cartoon character more then a convict. Strutting with an intentional limp and his socks pulled high, he appeared at ease in his summertime slippers. His wiry frame paced the same three-foot strip between the wall and a toilet bowl that was two drips off from leaking out its innards of feces and skanked urine. His hair was bound into five symmetrical rows of cornbraids that merged to a point just above the nape of his neck. He had a curious tone in his speech that allowed him to mumble words, but still appear articulate and forceful. He never stopped pacing or talking until the morning, (which was when the guards said it was morning,) focusing on the same theme of rhetoric with a few minor variations.

"Bout to kill me a whitey. Nah not my brothers, but some nice fat white pigs. Fucking crackers think they can lock every brother down and keep our poo’ asses silent. Fuck that! I’ma kill every one of dese’ pigs. I rememba all y’all faces. Don’t ya worry, I ain’t forget none y’all fools." On occasion he would space out his monologue with a sporadic "Damn! What a motherfucker gotta do to get some smokes up in this bitch?"

Connie appeared visibly shaken and began a turn a color more pale and green then his usual chalky hue. He didn’t mind not sleeping, but for the first of many times to come in OPP he began to fear for his life. Sensing the smell of fear quiver beside him with an intuitive vibration, the large man beside Connie rolled over and faced him a few inches from his nose. He didn’t speak. With a reassuring nod and an expression of comfort he mollified an unsettled Connie in a single look. Within moments they were both asleep. It was a little past 5:00 AM and Connie had not eaten, drank, been fingerprinted, booked, or allowed a phone call.

He awoke an hour later to the same muted tirade he fell asleep too. As if a silent alarm sounded everyone began a choreographed and simultaneous unwrapping from their fetal slumber, rubbed their eyes hard and stoically gazed at the television set. The TV spoke in cartoons and everyone listened intently, laughing at Bugs outwitting the goofy hatted hunter. The cartoons worked as a temporary sedative, but soon the collective bitching for food and water began. "Let me at least get some motherfucking water, even POWs get to drink once a day." The large man next to Connie slowly rose sliding his back against the wall for leverage and sidestepped two other men in order to change the channel to CNN. Connie’s hangover was begging him to clean out his bowels, but the exposed jail toilet sustaining a small ecosystem of waste in its bowl was not the most inviting. Walking with cheeks clenched, Connie discretely whispered to the morning guard "Hey man, can I get a phone call." Having been let on to the conspiracy by his comrades, he politely responded with a routine "We’ll see." Defeated again, Connie rested on the bench by his large friend and patiently waited until the water arrived at 8:30.

As if it was the magic elixir of freedom, Connie inhaled nearly a dozen Dixie cups of water trying to quench his whiskey cottonmouth and a dehydrating soul.

"All right boys, you know the drill." It was nearing 9:00 AM, as a chain gang of a dozen veteran prisoners dressed in bright orange baggy jumpsuits shuffled by with OPP emblazoned large and bold across their backs. They were shackled together by the arms and legs. Each prisoner moved with the mechanical intimacy of a caterpillar conducting each movement like a minor symphony, controlling every limb’s rise and fall in time to a walking melody. All twelve heads were hung low, but the deeply carved lines etched into their prematurely aging faces spoke chronicles of broken wills and isolation. They no longer needed to speak. Connie stared at the faces searching for a sign of spirit or even a flicker of life.

"Let’s go kid." The morning guard grabbed Connie lightly by the arm, led him beyond the cell through a tiled hallway and sat him down on a wooden bench by two blank faced prisoners. "Wait here." They faced a desk indented into the far wall that extended even further back into an open office. It could easily be confused for a reception desk at a small office if not for the Possessions sign that hung slightly lopsided above the secretary.

"715 207 984." Connie rose stiffly and walked towards the desk like a returning customer who has the procedure down to a routine. "Empty your pockets please." She was attractive with shoulder length curly hair and held a business demeanor about her job. Connie emptied his pockets on the counter: His wallet (which included his last 14 dollars,) a belt, Lee "Scratch" Perry concert ticket, and a few assorted scraps of paper that included random phone numbers and books to read. He was issued a plastic garment bag and hangar, each with a printed sticker labeled "715 207 984 {Connie Logic.}"

Plastic bag in hand and pants sagging a little lower, Connie was directed towards the back wall to stand with the other prisoners and wait. After everyone had turned in his possessions, a new face shouted "Follow me and hurry the fuck up!" He was in his mid thirties with a full mustache that extended slightly over his upper lip. Connie recognized him instantly as an alumnus from the same school of bad cop, worse pig as all the previous officers he had encountered in the OPP. His uniform was in pristine condition: The blue was dark and rich. The pants were starched with a crisp pleat running down the center. His shoes sparkled black and shiny even in the dull corridors. An oversized shield consumed his chest, reeking of Spartan authority. The prisoners filed across the scuffed gray tile along the catacombs of a jail that was more reminiscent of a Kafka story then the glitz of New Orleans. The same patterned maze of hallways and thick doors could be found in any institutional facility striving to allegorize the degradation of humanity and the individual. They entered the final door at the conclusion of the hallway that boasted decaying stickered letters pasted across the center of a dense glass window reading "Sear h Cham r."

The room was oblong with two wide semi-circles joined by a pair of flat walls facing each other. The meat of the room was lined with the OPP’s standard long, thin wood benches. Near the end stood two prisoners decked out in the protocol orange attire, standing by two large laundry bins teeming with fresh gear. The prisoners were lined up across the flat wall and overflowed to one side of the semi-circle facing the guard and his pair of prisoner cronies resting comfortably on the benches. The guard spoke with a drill sergeant bravado and a crisp enunciation in his voice.

"All right ladies, most of you know the drill. Take off your shirt, under-shirt, and pants and place them neatly in the garment bag and hanger provided for you. When you are done, seal the bag and hand it over to one of my fine associates. Take off your underwear and socks and place them in a pile below your feet. If you have any weapons or cigarettes in your belongings you will booked again for criminal possession of illegal property. I remind you this is a no smoking zone and possessions of tobacco products is illegal."

Connie chuckled to himself thinking that he had never been booked in the first place. He was focusing on his last shreds of will not to shift his eyes. He whispered ‘Don’t do it Connie. Don’t fucking do it man.’ It was futile. He subtlety rolled his eyes across the room without moving his head, scanning the naked bodies of seventeen black man arrested the same night as him. That was all they had in common. He had never seen that many penises in his life. Circumcised- shriveled- uncircumcised- large-long- retracted- dark- pale- crooked. No one was self-conscious only degraded. Degraded before the man in blue with the authority to strip a man naked and expose him raw as a mere expression of power. They’re souls were raped, being taught to hold nothing sacred before authority. Their faces of melting ambiguity were drained of any pride or will to fight. Everyone stood naked and no one spoke.

His voice had the methodical monotony of a speech already repeated too many times. He fed off the power siphoned from the exposed men and spoke with an even greater strength and dominance. He strolled casually before each man, bending over at their feet, fondling their soiled clothes. Each sentence was spaced with a few moments pause.

"Face the wall with both hands parallel to your ears and planted against the wall. Lift your right leg and place it down. Lift your left leg and place it down. Turn around. Tilt your head back and stick out your tongue. Raise your ball sack. Cough. Okay ladies, please put your panties back on because you’re starting to disgust me."

As the prisoners scraped their undergarments and pride off the floor, the guard aided by his cronies began distributing uniforms. Everyone received the prison issue bright orange OPP jumpsuits in their respective sizes, which mainly consisted of large and extra-large. When he reached Connie the prisoner-cronies fumbled through the bin searching for a suitable size to fit his smaller frame. The guard quickly slowed them down "No, no, just give him the blue pants and the shirt from the bottom." Connie was shivering slightly in his boxer shirts and socks, trying to hold to some dignity despite the cold draft. The guard threw him a pair of faded navy blue slacks and a button down shirt, "You’ll look cute in these boy." Connie slid into the form fitting chino pants that ended around his ankles and buttoned on his pale blue shirt with tight white pinstripes that hung just above his waist. He could easily be confused for a New England prep school student with a rosy rounded face and short-cropped haircut if not for the OPP letters branded across the back and front pocket of his shirt. He did in fact look quite cute. Not that he needed any help, but the guard had bitched him out and had made Connie a tasty punk in a jungle of hungry predators.

As the prisoners were led away from the search room, each one was issued an 8-ounce plastic cup, toothbrush, AIM toothpaste, and a bar of Ivory soap. The name brand labels were so blatantly out of place that they appeared to be products of an advertising campaign or a promotional giveaway. ‘Very fitting’ Connie thought, ‘very fitting.’

The guard led his wary troops towards a room two doors down the same hallway, where the prisoners were greeted with a pair of ham sandwiches on mushy white bread with mustard. Connie gave away his ham away and molded the white bread into small, dense balls and ate them more out of duty then hunger. He giggled ‘I never sympathized more with soft and chewy white bread in my life.’ Connie chatted infrequently with the prisoners, trying to make friends before the harsh reality of general population was about to set in. The City of New Orleans maintains a single jail, the Orleans Precinct Parish, in which every convicted rapist and murder is caged in along with the habitual jaywalkers and hobos. Even the innocent still awaiting trial who cannot afford bail are forced to live in the same detention area as a killer serving out his life sentence. Until now Connie’s experience of jail was merely a perpetual series of bureaucratic nonsense that shifted from room to room. His worst fear had been exhumed from the unexplored caverns of his pre-conscious… General population.

10:00 AM. Dressed in his new clothes and armed only with toiletries, the electric doors sealed behind Connie as he began his slow descent into the depths of humanity’s dark side. "Block A- 654 982 354, Block B- 265 437 614, Block C- 834 672 946, Block D- 715 207 984." Before the doors sealed Connie in the captivity of Block D, he heard a voice emanate from the recesses of the courtyard "Looks like we got ourselves another white bitch in here." He was not speaking as an individual, but as a unified voice verbalizing the collective undercurrent of emotion circulating throughout the block. Connie’s face contorted with fear billboarding his anxiety to the entire block. With each movement the fragrance of fear permeated through his pores signaling an easy prey to the poised predators stalking throughout the block.

He caught site of three vacant payphones and darted towards them. In a few moments that weighed an eternity in Connie’s kaliedeoscope perception of time, he deciphered his prisoner phone code (715 207 984) and began to frantically dial his parent’s home in New York. He had not necessarily given up on his friends to post bail, but drastic times called for phoning up mom the attorney. The repercussions of involving his parents were severe, but paled in comparison to the prospect of spending another night in jail risking the loss of sanity and masculine chastity. Regardless, if the boys were smart kids (which they were) they knew where Connie was and what had to be done. Contact was redundant.

Before he finished punching in his area code an ominous and slightly muffled voice barked over the loudspeaker "Get off the phone!" He slammed the phone back on its receiver with a quick snap as an older and pure looking gentleman rushed over to him, carefully guiding him away from the phones. He began to befriend a frazzled Connie with a radiant presence, an illumination in the grim prison landscape. He gave him his first lesson in general population "No phone calls until everyone is released from their cells."

The cellblock was modeled after the seventh echelon of Dante’s Inferno. The bottom floor was a large courtyard bordered by 8 x 8 cubes crammed with people sleeping, and spilling out of three story bunk beds with more bodies then mats sprawled across the cell floor. The courtyard itself was lined with two rows of red picnic tables, infested with sleeping bodies stretched across the floors and under the tables. The first floor was encircled by a second tier balcony of equally packed cells that overlooked the picnic tables. It also contained the only two toilet bowls and the single open-air shower in block D, located just above the staircase that flanked the eastern wall. The people in the cells represented the convicted felons, while the hierarchical mess in the courtyard was filled with nominally free men. The northern wall contained a large glass control room that was bustling with correctional officers and sharply focused eyes watching intently, but doing nothing.

"Are you nervous, you look nervous? Look, you got to stand right by the phones. Nah stand even closer. You see when they let the inmates outta them cages they’re going to be swarming all over them phones. You’re definitely making no calls once that line sets in. Just stay right there and don’t move!"

He touched Connie’s arm lightly and repeated "You look nervous. Don’t worry about a thing, I know the white boys in here. I’ll hook you with them and they’ll look after you. Don’t look so nervous, they’re right over there."

He pointed towards two rugged men with their heads shaved on the second floor of cells. Their bodies were wallpapered in blank ink and tribal patterns, appearing more like serial killers then potential friends.

"How you end up here anyways?"

"You don’t even want to know. I’m just trying to get out here."

"Public drunkenness huh, were you alone?’

"Nah I was with my friends, but I haven’t spoken to them yet.’

"They know where you are, ain’t no other jails in New Orleans. Are they good friends?"

"Ain’t no other kind."

"So don’t look so nervous."

"I was trying to call my family up in New York to get my ass out of here and like quick."

"Not from New York they won’t. Even if they send it down here right now, you won’t be getting out till tomorrow or maybe the day after. First they got to wire it down here and that takes awhile. Then the pigs got to process it for another day, which really means put it under a pile of papers for later. You know they get paid money by the government for each prisoner in here. The longer your ass rots in here, the more funding they get. Why you think they got so many motherfuckers locked up in here? Your folks could send the loot to a bail bond and he’ll get you outta here in 10 minutes. It’ll cost ya double though."

"Double. For what?’

"You want to get out of here don’t ya? Don’t be nervous, if you really got friends down here they’ll come and get ya."

Connie stood motionless leaning stiff against the payphone, thinking about his friends. A bell similar to the one the marks the end of the school day rang. The courtyard erupted instantly; they scurried in a frenzy to clear the mats off the floor and to clean off the picnic tables. The prisoners behind the cells began stretching out of bed, anticipating the release from their cells. The main block doors opened with an electrically slam, followed by carts and carts of institutional food served on red plastic trays. Before the onset of breakfast set in, Connie came to the realization that eating breakfast would equal losing his place in line. ‘Can I make a call during breakfast?" he asked. "Hell no, you got to eat first. Hey you still nervous? Can I get your breakfast if you ain’t eating?" As the first few piles of shapeless sludge were piled onto the chewed out trays, Connie grew more nervous each passing moment.

Just as he took his place at the end of the chow line, a correctional officer no older then Connie entered the block amid the confusion of chaos and spoke like he didn’t want to be heard. "Tyrone Wilson, is Tyrone Wilson up in here? Connie Logic, Connie Logic. Ain’t that a bitch’s name?" Come with me."

"Did I get bailed out?"

"No," he answered sarcastically "they want to check you out down in Medical." He paused for the sake of drama and comedic timing. "Hell yeah you got bailed out." Connie grabbed the CO by the hand and began twirling him around and skipping to the catchy melody that played loudly in his head. "Yeah kids, I’m outta here!" The CO led them to a holding cell where they met with another of pair of men who also just posted bail. For another three hours the group remained locked down in OPP purgatory discussing all the shrimp sandwiches, pints of beer, and girls to see when they finally got released. Connie spent his time pacing across the tops of the benches in a methodical manner that was a symptom of his being restless, tired, and hungover.

Nearing two in the afternoon Connie and his crew of freemen were eventually led to the de-briefing chamber in order to reclaim the possessions they had turned in only a few hours ago. "Let me keep my ID bracelet, just for the sake of nostalgia. How many more 715 207 984s do you expect to be coming through this place ever again anyway?"

"Son, you don’t want no nostalgia from OPP."

"Hey look I got my arraignment tomorrow morning, but I got to leave town by the afternoon. I don’t got time to stick around for a trial about some bullshit I never did." The officer slowly looked back over both shoulders in a poor attempt to add a genuine accent to his mechanistic bureaucratic routine. "If I were you and an innocent man charged with minor crime, I’d just skip town and not deal with it." Connie shot the cop his standard ‘you’re such a fucking pig’ look of disgust and mumbled more for himself then to the cop, "Yeah so I could have outstanding warrants out on me for the rest of life and have every pig across America breathing down my throat for some stupid public drunkenness charge. I think not my friend." Connie snatched his belongings off the desk, threw a friendly wave and smiled "Thanks for the tip buddy, you fat fuck."

Connie burst through the front doors of OPP and due to some divine feeling of freedom and elation, he was completely oriented in the city of New Orleans. He found his way to Canal Street and stopped at the first fast food joint he saw, inhaling the largest burger value meal they had to offer. He relished every bite of the minor indulgence, having not consumed meat or fast food in a long time. He skipped every fourth step, waved at the all pretty young girls driving by and was just plain happy to be a free man on the loose once again.

He ran into his friends at the motel parking lot just as they were pulling in. Connie hugged them both with the most robust and sincere hug of gratitude he had ever given anyone and assured them that from that day forth he was forever to remain in their debt. He relayed his story in good spirits and careful detail, offering up all the humbling particulars with an uneasy pride for having survived unscathed. He showered soon after and spent the rest of afternoon sleeping in the comfort of a large bed beneath the cool breeze of the air conditioner. Connie prepared for his 9:00 arraignment the next morning by the spending the evening with his friends and the local Rastafarian population sharing herbal remedies and listening to the hypnotic dub beats of Lee Perry and his entrancing reggae rhythms.

They woke early the next morning, quickly gathered their assorted belongings and silently rode to court house nearly an hour before the arraignment was set to begin. Connie wore his best clothes, which bore a striking similarity to the prison garb he was outfitted in less then twelve hours ago. His dusty blue corduroy shirt was tightly tucked in a pair of worn khakis two sizes too large that had seen more hiking trails then office buildings. Stuffed in his back pocket was a paperback copy of Foucault’s Knowledge and Power used less for legal aid then as prop to add further irony to an already absurd ordeal. Outside the entrance of the court building stood a short, skinny man smoking cigarettes faster then he could light them. Connie recognized him as the three time crack offender he had met in the first holding cell. "Good luck man," he whispered "Yeah, you too." After being scurried through two or three more buildings and officials, Connie eventually found his way into the New Orleans’ Assistant DA’s office and began to play their game.

"Look ma’am, I have to leave town this afternoon and I am unable to wait around for a couple weeks to stand trial for a silly crime that I didn’t even commit. Is there any possible avenue that would involve pleading not guilty and not having to stand trial? Let’s be realistic ma’am, the charge is public drunkenness not manslaughter. Are there any alternate solutions that you might be able to maneuver?"

"Listen son, this a court room not after school detention. It is possible for you to plea guilty and pay the $300 fine. When you get back to New York, you can apply to have the crime expunged from your record after a year or two. At that point, assuming you have no other run-ins with the law, your record will be officially cleared. That is the only alternative that you have if you decide to leave."

"I think we have a miscommunication here ma’am. I have never endangered or impeded upon the rights of any other citizens and I have caused no harm to others or myself. I was wisped off the streets of this fine city by New Orleans Police officers, had my civil rights blatantly violated and was thrown in jail overnight for no apparent reason. Now you want me to plead guilty of this crime because I’m mere victim of circumstance. Does that appear to be a rational decision to you?"

"Why don’t you tell what happened?" Connie leaned back in his wooden chair taking a deep sigh, running his fingers slowly through his hair in an attempt to elicit pity from the cracking DA. He told his story with an accuracy that bordered on overkill, highlighting several key points that might prove of interest to the DA. He explained how he was arrested without an interrogation, called a "Yankee carpetbagger trying to steal all our women," was abused by several officers, never allowed a phone call, never finger printed, and never had his Miranda rights read to him. After reading off his impressive resume, Connie laid on the finisher and informed the Assistant DA that both his parents were hot shot big city attorneys with many influential friends that would be very interested in trying his case. Actually only his mother was attorney and she was far from ‘hot shot,’ but Connie wanted to play all his cards. "Please give me a moment, I need to speak with my superiors."

Connie sat back with a confident grin, secure that he had given his best performance. She was back within minutes flashing two colored sheets of paper, both thick forms layered in triplicate.

"Okay I have two forms here, but you must agree to sign them both in order to be fully exonerated. One is a complete dismissal of your public drunkenness charge. The other is a waiver from the New Orleans Police Department agreeing not press charges for any alleged violations. Do you consent to sign them both?"

"Hell yeah I do!" In the next ten minutes Connie signed both forms, retrieved his friends’ bail money, hugged them again and ran through the parking lot screaming "I love this country!"

They made one last stop before completing their long journey home. Through the torrential rain that bounced off the cement with a pounding percussion, they ran from the parking lot to Anita’s Diner with huge smiles and wet sandals. It was the best diner they had visited on their adventure to date and not merely because of the context. The service was superior and quick. The eggs over easy were cooked to perfection with a runny yolk and a crisp shell. The home fries were concocted with garlic and onions and the coffee was in top form. "You know Connie, it’s like this whole trip was a long movie without a climax. Then this whole deal, it’s like you gave it a fitting ending, some sort of closure… Thanks man." Connie grabbed the check as they started for the door, "Let’s get out of this place."