A Night In Richland County

Although the memories have taken the same faded dustiness as the streets of Columbia, South Carolina, my days there still seem quite clear. Farther south than I would have fathomed this Canadian boy would journey, I found myself deep in the down and dirty.
South of the Mason Dixon line. Surrounded by rednecks and belles, I drew many connections to the rednecked Albertans. The differences were many but I liked it there. Somehow felt comfortable I guess. Warm, dry and dirty; roadhouse blues style, you know?
The first day there was a hectic one, only a day and a half to set up the whole show, and a large show it was. So what is normally a rather relaxing time for a spoiled trailer baby as I, the set up for the South Carolina show was hell. Rush from my lax set up of guns to stick joint after stick joint; tying endless smiling stock, forever grinning their fool-hardy grins. And to compliment the nasty heat that, I had foolishly picked that of all days to try out the packet of yellow-jacketed ephedrine pills I had acquired curiously a few nights before.
Eager to add yet another cocktail of chemicals to my already noxious pool, I downed the whole pack of 5. Only a modest dose I figured at the time; I had no way of knowing what new kinda hell a fat dose of Ephedrine mixed with a fat dose of SWELTERING SOUTH CAROLINA had the potential to unleash.
To make it short it was death, but hear I am, alive after all, so it couldn't have been that bad.

After the initial heatwave(and drugs) subsided, I grew to really enjoy what the fine corner of Columbia had to offer. The Unerversity of SC was situated right in Columbia, so it brought a bit of fresh youthfulness to the otherwise redneck population. I tell you this Canadian boy, albeit naive to the world of football, has never seen a finer football stadium. The architecture and details incorporated into this monstrosity, rivaled that of the coliseum in Rome. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating slightly but it definitely put the paltry Commonwealth Stadium the Edmonton Eskimos call home, to a bitter, bitter shame. All this for a college team; I had no idea college sports got such attention but I was defiantly wiser to that fact after my stay in Colombia. I tell you, the shock that hit me the first "I LOVE COCKS" tee shirt I seen on the back of a fat redneck..... Beer belly and mutton chop equipped even too. Every one and their freakin dog went to see the U of SC Gamecocks. The stadium was probably double the seating of Edmonton's venue and it was to the tits, packed......FOR A COLLEGE GAME!!!! Colombia, South Carolina, was indeed a new kinda place to me.

The Ex was a mad house despite concerns that recent disasters in New York would keep people in the house. It was really only 3 or 4 weeks after the towers fell, but the crowd wasn't gonna miss its Ex. In fact, a little modification of the red star targets, in the likeness of Bin Laden's face and the joint brought in huge numbers. Rednecks where lining up to blow the shit out of Bin Laden's face, even if it was only a quick drawing. The didn't even care about the big prize, they just wanted a chance to unleash a little fury, a chance for a bit of retribution, in the proper good ol fahsion, shoot-em up, ask questions later, "American Style".
It was a real testament to the air of the collective around there.

After the show, the carneys would head to Jakos( Jake-o-s), a little dive right off the corny of the lot. I'm telling you this was a place of legend. Doesn't matter where it was you hopped into the circuit, they were always telling you about Jakos. From the look of the place I would swear the place only stayed open for the three weeks out of the year the carneys are in town, but it was great. Redneck blues house. Kinda place where you could still buy a beer for a buck and a half, down a greasy burger and pay your respects to the bull horn skull over the bar.

Upstairs was where the legend was though, where many have been and many more will come. Signatures and blurbs cover the walls, the lights, and even the pool table. Whispers of years passed. Drunken drifters leaving the evidence of their ordered chaos. Memories of the many that called it a home, if only for a while.

I must admit the place carried a romance about it, a place where I had looked toward without even seeing. A muggy dive on the surface, but so much more in essence.
Needless to say the bar served all hours of the night, for there was always a thirsty carney near to wet his dry and cracked voice.

One day while the Columbia show was drawing to an end, and the summer circuit for Conklin Shows was also drawing to a close, I kinda realized that I had spent the last 7 months gallivanting across the continent without a care. And suddenly, I had a care. I was worried that I would cross the border and go back home, with nothing more than the pocket lint I left with. I wanted to come back a success story. The experience itself was worth the world to me but, I wanted to come back and be able to gloat; to show off my bounty; to be awed and adored. I still had about 3 solid weeks left and figured I could work out a deal with the boss. Maybe set some sorta agreement that I would cross the border with $3000 US. It wasn't much but it would be enough to get set up in a new place once I got home. And besides, I knew I hadn't the hope in hell to save it myself so it was the best way. The boss shook my hand on that one, so I would work the remaining couple weeks on $40 bucks a day and the boss would make sure my pockets were $3000 thicker when I journeyed home.
Of course after he agreed, I milked him for $450 "to go tie up some loose ends". Which really meant one more trip to a foreign mall to stock up. New clothes, shoes, and all the other things you need when living on the road. I tell you I never went through so many pairs of shoes than with that job.

Anyway, on the way back from mall I stopped over to a locals house I had met to score some fine SC cheeba. And when I say fine, I really mean, horrible. Seedy, stocky, dry, kind of horrible.
None the less I grabbed a fat $20 bag from him and headed back to the lot, cursing the swag I just paid money for. Sauntering back to the joint, I figured I'd grab my cousin for a fat session just before I hopped back in for my shift. Nodding overhead, I motioned for Steve to meet me atop the game; our usual smoke spot. We smoked the whole bag I brought with me, dying for a buzz at least comparable to even the shittiest bud we were used to back home. I swear Canadian pot might as well be crack compared to the 'd' grade crap our Southern neighbors are charring their lungs with. Smokey, a travelling drug dealer, had just joined us briefly, only to peddle some more crap upon us. He chatted a bit of small talk then hurried away, back into the sea of motorhomes and motormansions of which he came.

Enjoying the small sense of isolation and sitting comfortably atop piles of thick plastic stock bags, I watched the "sky-rail" float by. Seats occasionally filled with bored kids staring down at all the excitement going on below them. In my semi-stoned stupor I quietly reflected at just how much I enjoyed this life; this life of a nomad. No city calls itself my home, living out of a duffel bag. I walked the roads alone, surrounded by it - filled - with all the company needed. I think briefly of the many faces left behind while I'm living the life of a traveling man and pine for a moment.
Lost in my own head, I barely noticed the wide-brimmed hat peek up over the ladder.
"Well what do we have here" a voice inquires. A commanding sort voice with that unmistakable Southern drawl.
Shooting my murky gaze toward the gruff sounding intruder, mine eyes meet his wrap around shades, and then I realize.
As the surreal comfort crashes at my feet, a single though resonates through my mind, accompanied by a slamming feeling of dread."SHIT"
A fucking South Carolina state trooper. The wide brom hat, square jaw, giant belt buckle and all.
He lurches up over the ladderand then he is upon us. Standing, ten-feet tall it seemed, gazing down at us with a toothpick tightly wedged in the corner of his mouth.
There down between my partner and I , lies the newly acquired bag. We exchange a glance, sending the message loud and clear. "Ya, we're fucked" we said without even moving our lips, abolishing the glimmer of hope of an early concealment. Perhaps a quick pitch of the bag into the sea of motorhomes? As if to seal that impossibility, another voice bellows into the soundscape.
"We got the roach down here"

So as my heart hits the floor, I began to see the severity of the situation. My mind races" Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, not even a citizen here, fuck oh fuck, going to jail in South Carolina, oh fuck oh fuck, arrested right on the midway, this is not good, not good, deportation, blacklisted, fired, the end of a dream........fuck"
While these things are warring in my head, the Trooper has climbed a top the ladder, and staring intently at the barely concealed bag of pot between us.
"What y'all doin, way up here....." That drawl again. As if he didn't already know.
"Uh...uh justhavingasmokeonourbreakbeforewegobacktowork........sir" I stumble out, a watered down attempt.
"Smoking what....Exactly" The trooper says as a peculiar grin spreads across his straight-jawed face. Still staring, I am assuming, because the sunglasses really covered well, at the bag strategically dead center between us. "This?" he says as gloved hand reached out and swiped up the stash.
Two more troopers appear on the grass behind the game. I realized there is really no way outta this one, so I do the only reasonable thing, comply. I have played the cop and robber game before and most the time the cop wins and by way I could figure, I might as well have red hands.
A big sigh escapes me and, being familiar with the process, I make my way toward the ladder as directed. Met at the bottom by two more Troopers clad in black and tan, and those dammed hats, they proceeded to place me under arrest.
I put my hands behind , as I have learned it is much more comfortable that way, rather than let them put them there for you. Cuffed and read my rights, while the crowd swarms around and passes, like water round a stone dropped into a stream. I scan through the faces, as though it may be the last time I can, and meet the gaze of many purple shirt alike. All met with the same solemn disappointment, like they feared the same fate. Machine gun glory boys, caught in a pinch, surely to be blacklisted. Sure to be cut loose.
The golden rule was tainted, broken. They was always an understanding between management and the folks that manned the post. Don't get caught. They knew they was drugs around the lot, it was hard not too. Carnies and substance abuse goes just too well together. The only real rule out there. Don't Get Caught. Whether it be taking care of your pockets or anything else, just don't get caught. Normally there is ways around this one as well, but not this time. It just so happened that South Carolina seemed to be the spot on the fair where the most people get caught, they even warn about the bible belt, and this year there had already been 3 arrests. The Columbia, South Carolina, fair-board was threatening to pull Conklins license. Turned out to be quite a big deal too, they almost lost the spot entirely.
As we were escorted down the midway to the police offices, every purple shirt out there stopped and dropped they're jaws, collectivly in awe. For it wasn't every day you see one of your own handcuffed and head down. Silent eyes screaming a million questions, and all I could do was nod, and look away. My walk of shame. No more will the roar be my home, will the clicks of the coaster sound so like a rooster, perched and awakening the farm. Led toward a door, like the bread to the drawer, and soon I too was socked insided.

Once inside, I was shuffled off to a table. "Have a seat, it'll be a while before you leave" said the brim-headed Trooper, still wearing the same wrap-around sunglasses, despite the poor light in the room. Sitting down, I realized that I actually did have a pretty good buzz on. Praise god for that mercy; at least its better than NOT being stoned while being arrested.

Although, I had been through this whole process before, I wasn't sure of the way USA did things. Hell, I wasn't even sure what kind of penalties I could be facing. The Troopers were decent enough though. I have dealt with many cops, some are good and some are bad, and you never want a bad one, but these guys were just about as good as they come.

I was still cuffed, and sitting in the chair. My cousin had been brought off to some other room to "talk". Yah right. Funny though, looking at the two of us, I would have pegged me as the softest, the first to squeal, the one to "talk". But for some reason unknown, they grabbed him and kept him in there for over half an hour. He came out, finally, head down and said nothing. They did never ask to "talk" to me....

Realizing they didn't take all my possessions when they searched me, I remembered I had gum in my cargo pocket. My mouth was dry as it was, but it seemed to get worse as I thought about the gum. Persuaded by the throes of cotton-mouth, I slowly started reaching for my pocket, careful not to alert the near by Trooper. I swear to god it was a covert mission, surrounded by police, to carefully reach into my pocket and without notice remove a piece of gum. Seemed to me like I was reaching for a gun, for all the sweat and trepidation. Finally, I had the packet in my hand, but suddenly I was faced with a new dilemma; how to get a piece out, without that awful crunch of foil and plastic, that would surely leave my poor dry, tongue forever parched. The most amusing part of the whole situation, the Trooper that was sitting in his office had a perfect view of the whole event. Rather than tell me to go ahead and grab my gum, he found it much more entertaining to watch me from the shadows, while I try to do it myself.
Ever so lightly, punching the slice through the thin layer of foil separating the gum from my desperate mouth, I figure I'm almost home.

Finally, the gum free from its plastic prison, finds itself welcome in my mouth. Satiated both by the gum and my success, I am surprised to hear the Trooper laughing behind me.
"Fucking potheads..." he says with a chuckle. He takes his dusty boot of the desk it was resting on and walks over to the table as his hand disappears into a bag of Doritos. Shocked and still nervous from the covert gum extraction mission, I watch his every move.
"You want one" he says still chuckling, waving the bag in my face.

I crack a bit of a smile." Only if you feed it to me" and nodded to my cuffed hands behind the chair.

"You know the rules aren't the same here as they are up there in Canada." He said it like Can-eee-dah, thick with the southern accent. "I know they done and legalized it up there, but down here, you gotta play by our rules."

Legalized?I'm thinking. Really? It only took a moment to decide whether Canada had finally come to their senses in the short few months i had been gone, or if this Trooper, down here in dusty old South Carolina, has all the facts or not. Concluding, of course, that he just doesn't know what he's talking about, I decide to play along anyway.

"Jeez, I guess I just wasn't sure what the law was like down here....."I try.

"Well, now you know, son" he replies, abolishing any hope that ignorance might save me. He goes on to tell me that I will have to go toRichland County Detention Center, spend the night likely, until someone posts bail for me. After trying, to no avail, to explain that my work visa will be finished in less than three weeks, he informs me than bail was probably going to be set in accordance with the maximum penalty for the charge at hand. In other words, they don't expect me to show up for court so I get the stiffest penalty for simple possession of marijuana.

For the next 3 hours, excitement consisted of a short trip to Richland County, and listening to the dirty crack head in my holding cell, while I wait to get booked and printed. Once it was finally my turn, I was led out of the holding cell and into a large square room lined with cells. Not of the temporary variety. It was very muggy, like an oft-used lockerroom in an ice rink, walls painted a ghastly grey that made the room feel like it was about to burst into a storm, raining all the tears of those who have long since passed through these cell doors.

In the center of the room was a guard station covered in glass and steel mesh. Inside the color pallet was a little more livable but not by much. A few desks crammed against the wall on the right hand side and a photo-copy looking machine to the left. The thing looked to me like something out of Tim Burton movie. Grey, blocky, faceless, like as if the very person that designed the detention center, had designed this behemoth of a machine in front of me. They very look of it sucked the life out of you.

By now the weed has wore completely off, and the fear has begun to creep in. And as if to cue this realization, I get the prickly feeling over my shoulder that someone is looking at me. Curious Canadian that I am, I look behind to the wall of cells. Each cell has a window about the size of a harcover book. Scanning the cells, I see the pale orange light through the thick pane of meshed glass. Except one in particular catches my eye. "One of these things is not like the other. One of these things just doesn't belong....."
About the third cell in, the small window does not reveal the same orange light that all the others share. No, this one was black. Really black. Like I almost thought maybe that cell is empty, but then my eyes focus on the striking white that stands out in the darkness. Then i see, like my eyes were tricked, I realize I am staring INTENTLY at the big, angry, black, black face, who is grinning sickly back at me. Bloodshot and yellow eyes, filled with a rage that couldn't possibly be directed at me. Could it?

My eyes hit the floor faster than if my grandma walked past me, naked as the long, long ago day that she was born.
"Oh god please don't put me anywhere near that cell" I silently prayed, only most likely on dead ears. Lucky I was though, as I was directed to my cell, it was in fact the opposite direction of those demonic, hungry eyes. Very soon the cell door, with a window I could peer through though with not near the same effect, crashed shut.
Probably more akin to the puppies at the SPCA than mad dogs at the pound, but there I was, laying with the big dogs.

Though, some solace awaited me inside the cell, for not only was there five other, much less threatening, inmates and my cousin, whom I had not seen for the last hour. Well that beat the hell out of the grinning devil after me in the other cell, that's for sure. Then to top matters, after only about thirty minutes in the cell, the door swings open, and behold.......we have supper. Now I seemed to be the only one really excited by this sudden turn of good fortune.
"You mean they give you meals here?" I said as I excitedly took my styro-foam container, and my juice box.
"If you wan' call it a meal" One of my cellmate muttered in that same southern drawl.

I was honestly surprised. I had spent a few nights in jail before, and by that I am talking about the holding cells at the police station and the ones before the JP, in CANADA, but I was never once fed in a cell. I mean I'm sure its the law in these type of facilities I just never thought about it. And that was one person in a cell. I had never been locked up in the same cell as my co-accused before, that's for sure.

But none the less, here was a nice semi-hot supper before me and I intended to eat. Damn fine it was too, and I really don't think the shitty joint I had smoked hours before had anything to do with that. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, veggies and a bun. MMMM. I tell you that chicken tasted just like day old KFC. I don't know South Carolina is just a spit south from Kentucky.....Maybe they just make it the same. Ha
Anyway , we didn't spend much time in the cell. We went up before the justice and a court date was set, foreseeably, 3 weeks after my work visa would expire. Convenient. If I attend court, I have to illegally ignore my visa's expiry. If I skip court I get a bench warrant for failing to appear. Hmmmmm. Not a lot of pros in this one. The only other option would be to miss court and forfeit my bail as payment. Convenient for them when bail was set at the maximum penalty for possession. Leaves me with no real option to fight things in court, for doing so would further break the law.
SO now we have the slow, droning process, of booking out and paying bail, and finally being released. Its about 11:30 at night now and they tell us we are free to go, only we must have a vehicle pick us up, no walking. Now I really had a hard time grasping this regulation but the were firm, under no circumstance may we be released on foot. Then get this, we figure problem is easily solved, we will call a cab to come and get us. Perfect. In theory.
My cousin went into jail with around $1500 cash in his pocket, and now, only hours later, they cut him a cheque for $1500. They withheld the cash and cut him a cheque. What the hell is that? So now, we have to call a cab, HOPE there is some sorta 24 hour cheque-cashing outfit somewhere in town(Which there was not), and try to convince the cabbie that although he is picking us up from JAIL we are not criminals, and he can trust us to take us to cash the cheque.
Yah, right.
But the guards were adamant, we were not leaving unless we left in a car. Only other option was to go back into a cell for the night, and that was not gonna happen.
Luck would have it, another inmate was being released at the same time, and he called a cab, arranging someone to pay for the fare upon arrival. When his cab came, we made like we were gonna share and hitch with him, only once outside the gates we told the cab to pull over and we hopped out.
So, now we're on this seriously dark stretch of lonely highway, making our way back into Columbia. My cohort, being 6'3 and at least 230 pounds, was unusually nervous for his size, practically jogging as we entered a particularity bad neighborhood. At this point we approach a dusty old house with a sign on the front yard. I can't remember exactly the name of the place, but it was a bail bondsman anyway. Figuring we might have a chance to cash the prison issue check there, we stopped in to check it out.
I wasn't really sure what to expect but I likened the place to a mix between a roadhouse a used car lot trailer. Inside, various posters and plaques with ghastly fish and antlers , lined the walls, all kind of accentuating the 12 gauge on the back wall, above a desk. Sitting below was a gruff looking redneck, mullet and all, with his feet kicked up , crumpling a sheet of paper.
We pitched our situation to the guy, not really hoping for much, and not much is what we got, save for a bit of forewarning. The neighborhood we just arrived in, turns out out, is not exactly prized real estate, if you get my drift. Turns out, it happens to be one of the worse ghettos in the city. Great.
So we ask him if he knows of anywhere we COULD cash the cheque and of course, there is not. So, after grabbing a cigarette of the fella, we got back out, and braved the ghetto.
I wasn't so nervous, a little, but I didn't think it was as bad as he made out.
About fifteen minutes after we had resumed our journey, I heard a bit of a rustle in the bushes on my right. Looking sharply in that direction, a see someone behind me. Wheeling around, the figure stops short.
"Hey brother, you got a cigarette....?" The man of the dark asks me.
"Nah man I wish, sorry." I look ahead for my partner, a bit more nervous now, and I'll be damned if the guy isn't a block and a half down the street, hustling even. " But I gotta catch up with my friend man, see ya" I say, hoping to leave it at that.
"You guys shouldn't be out here this late at night, man" he says, as he evens my quickening pace. "I walk with you guys"
Nervous as hell, but cool on the outside, I play it out, hoping at least to have running chance if things do get awry.
I end up blurting out we just got released and had no cab money, only the stupid cheque that we couldn't cash. Of course now I got his attention.
"You got a cheque? Aww brother, I know where you can cash it, come with me man....." I realize now I've gone and said to much, as the distance between us and my cousin got shorter. I had no plan to shake this fella, and nervousness was creeping into fear.
Then, no word of a lie, a roar from behind, suddenly blasted in bright halogen light, a 4x4 come blaring into sight, honking his horn. Not knowing what was happening, I shield my eyes and realize my unwanted straggler had took of running. Before my mind could figure what the deal was, a familiar gruff drawl, shouts out from behind this mountain of roaring light.
"This ain't no neighborhood for y'all, hop in" said the bail bondsmen we had stopped upon.
Hero in a cowboy hat, how fitting. So I gladly run around to the passenger side and hop in.
"Where's the other one?"
He was almost surprised to see him ahead now, nearly 3 blocks down the street.