In the slammer, graffitied walls held pearls of wisdom: Don’t trust nobody, Life sucks, basic information I had learned by nursery school.
Decoding decades of teen hieroglyphics carved into the wooden table in the middle of the large holding cell brought with it a disturbing reality. It wasn’t the quality of art that bothered me or the string of obscenities; it was the idea that clearly knifes weren’t so hard to come by in juve. I hadn’t even brought a marker, clearly I was uninitiated.
I heard the large metal door to the cell clang open, and in stepped Godzilla with his handler. The enormous, hairy youth was handcuffed to a police officer whose face I didn’t recognize. He half-pulled, half-pushed his teenage hostage into the cell. Godzilla turned for the officer to uncuff him. Obviously he knew the drill. Neither said a word. I tried to look tough in my hip-hugging bell bottoms and Elton John platform shoes. I shook my long blonde shag hairdo while they weren’t paying attention, hoping for a less manicured, more street-wise persona. I hoisted myself onto the top of the table and sat down, planting my feet squarely on the bench below. Godzilla glared at me from under his shaggy hair; our eyes met. I didn’t flinch, but my heart pounded out a John Bonham drum solo in my chest.
My new cellmate rubbed his wrists. Slamming the metal door closed, the police officer shot a look in my direction, a creepy smile slid across his face. He chuckled as he turned to leave. Better take the offensive I thought.
“Violet,” I said. “Assault with a deadly. You?”
“Jeff. Grand theft auto.”
I nodded as though this was everyday chat.
“Attorney?” I asked.
“PD. Don’t ‘spect they’ll be much help.”
“Multiples?” I asked
He nodded affirmatively, “You?”
“First-timer,” I replied.
He pulled up a seat on the table beside me, shook his head and let out a whistle, “Zero to 60. Who’d you clock?”
“My dad. It’s been building,” I said.
“I hear ya,” Jeff replied. Under his hair I could see the cut above his right eye and the bruises on his neck.
“Did the cop do that?”
“Old man. He gets mean when he drinks.”
“I hear ya,” I said, the anxiety in my heart dropping into my stomach, bile rising quickly into my throat. For just a few minutes I had forgotten about my father while studying the history of violence in detention. The fear of what he would do with me next came front and center.
We both looked down at our feet. It was quiet for a long time.
“I was getting pretty bored,” I finally said, “Glad you stole that car.”
He chuckled, “You’re welcome.”
“Any of these yours?” I pointed to the carvings in the table.
He began scrutinizing the surface. “This one,” he said pointing a deep carving that read, fuck off, “It was my first arrest. I was pretty pissed.” He ran his finger along the table, turning his head every which way, searching for evidence of his timeline in county juvenile. “This one, too. Man I was in deep shit that time.”
“Worse than stealing a car?
“Busted with a loaded .38 under the seat of a stolen car.”
“Clearly you’ve got a thing for cars. Ever thought of being an Indie driver?”
He laughed. For the next six hours my new friend, Jeff, introduced me to mischief I hadn’t even thought of yet. His record was laced with violence toward his father, who had repeatedly beaten Jeff and his mother during his drunken rampages since he was old enough to remember. He acted out what I had only thought about. I wished I was man so I could put my father in his place. But I wasn’t. I was a 90-pound girl with a rage growing inside me that was begging to be set free. I was going to have to be a lot smarter about my revenge than Jeff; but for just that day, I lived vicariously through his stories.
Around 5:30 I was sprung.
“You,” said the police officer at the cell door, “Blondie, you’ve made bail. Let’s go.”
“Lucky lady,” said Jeff.
“Not really,” I said, wishing I didn’t have to face my father.
“Let’s go,” the police officer said more forcefully.
I looked at Jeff; a river of pain running through his eyes. For the first time all day, I thought about his upcoming arraignment on charges that could send him off to a state juvenile detention facility. I was glad he was almost 17. They wouldn’t be able to hold him too long. I threw my arms around his neck. We were kindred spirits, trying to survive our families the best way we knew how.
“Jesus loves you, Jeff.” I whispered in his ear.
“Cut the love bird stuff, Blondie. Let’s go!” called the cop at the gate.
I kissed Jeff on the cheek and turned to leave. Tiny pools of tears spilled upon my cheeks. I couldn’t bring myself to turn around.
We were silent as my father and I stepped into the open air of the parking lot. Fall had come to Georgia, and for the first time I noticed the color of the leaves, rich and vibrant. I paused to take in the beauty of the trees before entering the smoky domain of my father’s Lincoln. “Get in the damn car, Violet,” he ordered. Opening the car door I could feel my chest constrict, already I was beginning to suffocate.
Silence filled the space as smoke curled from the tip of his cigarette and crossed the dividing line between us. Somewhere near Mt. Zion road he pulled off onto an unpaved road. Turning to me he said, “You think you can touch me? You think anyone will listen to you, a girl with a violent record?”
His mocking laugh punctuated the truth of his statement. He was right, no one would ever believe a word I said, maybe ever again, about anything.
The tidal wave of intimidation lifted my tiny boat and thrust it over the falls. I could feel myself tumbling into the rapids, the pounding water driving me deeper into the abyss below.
Forty years later, having become the poster child for depression and anxiety meds, I can tell you darkness has a hunger that’s insensible. I’ve often wondered if Star Wars had been released when I was a teenager would I have listened as Luke Skywalker was warned about not releasing his anger, about the power of the dark side. As I have always been a person who learns by doing, it is most likely that the warning would have gone without notice. The smoldering embers of rage toward my father, the ones that had been doused by my encounter with Christ, roared into flame after my juvenile incarceration and consumed me. The light of Jesus became a pinpoint on the horizon of my life. In a single bound I went from Christ child to spawn of Satan. This isn’t to invalidate my affection for Christ, but this wasn’t about love, it was about revenge. I figured Jesus could grow a leg, but obviously he couldn’t take care of my father. My mother and my sisters were too frightened to disturb the apple cart. Clearly, I was on my own.