Wednesday, April 25, 2018

A First Post

Ah, the first post of my new blog.  I've got mediocre hopes for this thing, as I'm getting it to supplement the stuff I do on Twitter.  Also, hopefully, semi-regular entries here will help keep the writing juices flowing.  I'm gonna hopefully do reviews of stuff I'm reading, hype for stuff that I'm excited about, and maybe the occasional personal essay.

I think I'm going to toll the death knell for this blog early on, and lead with a personal essay!  Haha.  I have spoken about it in various lengths in my online presence, so some of the (hopeful) readers of this blog may be familiar with some of my back story.  I have neither shame, nor take any pride in it, but for a fair few years in my twenties, I was an outta-control heroin addict and criminal.  I used a lot of different drugs, but heroin was my love, my Dark Passenger (thanks, Dexter), and it certainly took me to a lot of dark places.  I got into a lot of trouble and ended up serving three years in the state corrections system in my home state of Pennsylvania.  It was a lifetime experience, and it helped me mature in so many aspects.  Don't get me wrong, it was shitty as hell, prison isn't meant to be fun, but I made the best of my time and learned a lot in the process.

As I sit here, typing this, I can look over my left shoulder and see my beautiful wife-to-be holding our 8-month old son.  He is the greatest thing to ever happen to me.  I know she feels the same way.  Needless to say, I'm in a different place today, on the staggering precipice of 30 years old, than I was even five years ago.

Anyway, I'll get into all that stuff another time.  I actually do have a specific subject in mind for this post.  Without further ado, I present a vignette from my past--my discovery of Dean Koontz(!) in a less-than-ideal situation:

The police paddy wagon seemed to be hitting every single damn cavernous pothole in downtown Harrisburg.  With each successive jounce, my ass would lift off the metal bench and slam into the cramped walls.  My hands were cuffed behind me, so they'd get slammed into the metal partition behind me.  Every time I hit the sides of the wagon, I'd curse under my breath and the two cops up front would laugh.  They'd say something clever like, "Taking the long way tonight, you're not in a hurry to get booked, right?"  And then chuckle like idiots.  

I was 25 years old, a few hours from my last shot of heroin, and I had just gotten arrested for robbing a convenience store with a knife.  My rationale at the time, addled as it was, was simple: I needed heroin or I was gonna get sick.  I did not enjoy heroin withdrawal.  Nobody does.  I was already out on bail from numerous burglary charges, so I reasoned, what would a little bit of armed robbery hurt?  It went smoother than expected, I got the drugs I needed, and then was spotted walking down the street about seven hours later.  Hence, the current situation involving me contorted into the back of a police wagon.

The cops finally arrived at the Dauphin County Prison Booking Center, which is a tiny building outside of the actual county jail where defendants are photographed, paperwork is completed, and bail is set before eventual confinement in the jail.  This was my first time in the jail, and I was prepared for the worst.  

I was already starting to feel like the flu was coming on--my own personal tell-tale signs that full-blown withdrawal wasn't far behind.  My eyes were itchy and watery, my nose was starting to run like a faucet, and my joints ached.  The cops hauled me out of the back of the wagon, laughing even harder than before as I tripped and ate about five feet of concrete in front of them.  They eventually picked me up and led me inside.

I won't bore you with describing the tedious process of the paperwork, fingerprinting, the setting of bail, the attempts that the police made at interviewing me concerning details of the robbery.  After I clammed up and refused to say anything to the two guys working my interview, they simply shrugged and put me in one of the holding cells until I could be transported over to the main jail with a few other guys.  They handcuffed one wrist to the bench, but I was otherwise free to move.  The cuff slid along the slats of the bench quite nicely, so I was afforded a pretty solid seven or eight feet of space to slide around in.

The holding cell was like every other holding cell in the history of crime and punishment.  Drab gray walls, filthy, suspicious stains on the metal toilet bowl--inside and out, and one, lonely, coverless paperback discarded in the corner.  You might be surprised to hear this, but books are more popular in jails and prisons than you'd think.  Everyone, even the guys who didn't finish school and can barely read, has at least a book or two stashed in their cell for long, boring nights.  I quickly slid over to the paperback and used my left foot to pry it out of the corner, grabbing it with my free left hand as soon as it was close enough.

I looked at the title page.  "The Door to December," by one Dean Koontz.  To be honest, I wasn't enthused.  I remember thinking, What the fuck, sounds like some stupid romance novel.  I had been hoping for a Stephen King.  At that point, I had been out of college for a few years and had pretty much given up reading in favor of more crude, carnal pursuits.  I had very little insight into the world of horror fiction, having only read King in my life up until that point.  I had Koontz confused in my mind with Clive Cussler, "that boat adventure guy."  I must note, not talking any heavy shit on Mr. Cussler, his stuff just isn't my cup of tea.  I'm sure he's good at what he does.  Anyway:

Having nothing else to do, and knowing it'd be at least two or three hours before I was moved to the jail, I settled in and began reading, for the first time in years.  It was surprisingly good.  

To be fully honest, I didn't finish the book, nor did I ever go back and try to finish reading it.  I barely remember its plot.  Something about sensory-deprivation tanks, a crazy poltergeist-type-thing, and a standard 80s-horror precocious little girl.  Come to think of it, the dudes who do Stranger Things might have used this novel as part of their inspiration.  I digress.  For me, and the purposes of this quickly-becoming-boring blog post, it wasn't so much about the story in those pages.  It was about my first taste of the transportation that reading can provide for a person.  

I forgot I was in that shitty holding cell, staring down the barrel at the beginning of a years-long prison sentence.  I lost myself after crossing the threshold of the Door to December, and it was a transcending experience.  I never forgot that night, and from that point on, books were my constant companion in all of the different jails, prisons, rehabs, and halfway houses that I had to journey through before I could be free again.

Well, that wraps it up.  This was pretty therapeutic, actually.  I hope you enjoyed it, if you got this far.  Feel free to leave a comment or hit me up on Twitter, my handle is @TheRealJohnBend, and I'll catch you guys another time.