My Time In The Clink (Part Three) / March 2006
When I stepped into the doorway of Fergie’s office I noticed that the distinct smell of curry flooded the capacity of the room. It was as though I was stepping through a curry porthole that led me into the mysterious life of this police officer whose neon pink nail polish clashed with her butchly shaved head.
She sat at her desk, writing in a notebook, and without even looking up at me said, “I knew you’d come. Sit down.”
I stepped into the office and sat down in the cold metal chair in front of her desk. To my left was a long side table set up like a buffet with metal caterer’s pan filled with different types of foods.
“Are you having a party or something?” I asked, staring at all of the steaming hot grub that was making my stomach rumble.
“No. Why do you ask?” She had finally looked up at me.
“Oh, no reason.” I should have known that all of it was for her. That this entire feast fit to feed at least eight or ten people was just for her singular, enormous, and fat pocketed face.
“So, Shady. I know why you’re here. You know why you’re here. So how about we get started?”
She stood up, towering over me. Her giant watermelons tits ended at her waist, and her thighs fiercely rubbed together as though they were trying to start a fire for survival. She shut the door and clicked its six locks, then walked back over to her desk and began unbuttoning her shirt.
(I shall omit this section of the story seeing as how I have tried so hard for the past few years to delete every sight and sound of it from my memory. Oh dear god, it’s… it’s starting to come back. MUST move on…)
It took me two weeks to heal. After giving Fergie what she wanted, she gave me the information I needed. She told me that at 1:30am, every other Saturday night, she and the rest of the guards played a rousing game of moonlight sloshball in the courtyard and that they usually become so inebriated that they leave the gate open after passing out on their walk back to the jail.
She said that she would excuse herself from the game at 1:42am that next Saturday night, saying that she needed to “break the seal” and take a leak. She would then come to my cell, unlock it quietly so not to wake any of the other prisoners, and then return to her game. It was the perfect plan.
That following Saturday, I lie on my back, staring at my watch and listening for any unusual sounds outside my cell. It was 1:41pm, and she would be there any second. Suddenly, a monstrous shadow came lurking down the corridor. It was Fergie. I sat up and walked to the bars. There she stood, key in hand. She unlocked the cell, winked at me, and continued down the corridor.
I looked over at the cell door as it slowly started to creak open. She came through! I was free!
As quiet as a mouse, I tiptoed through the door and slowly shut it. There were 152 paces between me and the door to the courtyard, and I needed all 152 to be silent. I had already taken off my shoes and socks and was barely touching the ground with my naked feet.
About halfway there a cold and clammy hand reached out from the cell next to me and grabbed at my ankle. It was my dear friend the whore who had given me the 411 on Fergie. I looked down at her, holding back the frightened scream that inhabited my lungs. She was smiling. She quietly mouthed “good luck” and winked at me, then crawled back into her bed. I mouthed a quick “thanks” back at her and continued on my way down the corridor.
When I reached the open door to the courtyard, I could hear the faint sounds of drunken law enforcement frolicking in the grass. I stepped outside and put my shoes and socks back on. Sure enough, there they all were, stumbling over one another while trying to run around the bases. I saw the open gate. Freedom! I ran as fast as I could, and within ten seconds I was out.
Breathing the air of a free person once more, I continued running down Katella Avenue with no clue as to where I was going to go next. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t go to the house of anyone I knew, as they would surely find me. I needed to get out of the country. I stuck out my thumb and hitched a ride from a truck driver who was heading for the border.
I was now on the lam...