there.
Ziggy leaned against the wall in a green parachute suit. The Transistor boys ’ lead singer leaned into the microphone and nearly made out with it. The others leaned back and played bass guitar with what I knew was deliberate cool.
The lead singer, Walt, grabbed the standing microphone at the end of his last ranting (which seemed to end out of nowhere) and garbled incoherently , but I think he said, "Thanks for coming to our show; this one's for the bartender.” And then began blasting out his next selection, which sounded exactly like the previous one.
"Krishna,” I yelled in her ear . "Krishna!"
"What?"
"I've been meaning to tell you something,” I shouted.
She didn't seem interested, just kept watching the band , but I went on.
"I saw a hand rolling up the window."
"What?” she screamed.
"Or maybe rolling it down , I am not sure!"
"I can't hear you!"
"Someone's hand rolling the window!"
"No!"
"No?"
"We wouldn't have had time!” she screamed.
"Why not?"
"We had to get out, silly girl! Besides, you can't roll it down or up under the water."
I didn't get angry right away. But for some reason, after a few minutes of sitting with this latest piece of news, I began to rage inside. I sat boiling with it for a long time, and fueling it with more alcohol. She stood with her back to me, swaying unsteadily to the loud banging, drinking her beer, her long, black curls spilling down the back over her black coat. She had the collar up. I suddenly felt an urge to yank that collar back and throttle her. I got up and went back to the restroom.
I looked in the mirror.
There were worry lines between my brows set there by the years. The crinkle lines spread to the sides and then curved around my smile lines. The lines from laughs and smiling weren't as deep as the crease in my brow. I tried to sober up, but couldn't.
9
"Baby girl, you gotta be shittin' with me. Dat girl's your cousin?"
"Yea h, she stole my driver's license, my credit card, all my identity. So I get pulled over an' I get my ass hauled to jail, what the fuck? I been keepin' it clean, I don't want this shit no mo. I don't want no mo trouble with the police."
"Dat sounds like her," laughter, hard slap on knee . "Dat girl's a playa."
I woke up to this sound on a hard bench. My head felt like a steel plate.
"She's wakin' up. What the hell happened to you, girl?"
I sat up.
"Where I am I?” I asked.
Laughter burst through the cell.
"You in the city jail, honey."
"What city?"
"Milwaukee."
"Milwaukee?"
"Hey how much longer till I get processed?” yelled one of them at the door.
Looking around me , I realized with a mixture of uneasy fear and dull shock that I was the only white one in there. What do you call a room like this, a ‘holding cell’?
I shut my eyes tight and held my hands over my face. What was the last thing I remembered? Had I thrown up on my self? It didn't seem so, oddly.
I always was a blackout drunk. Apparently that's when I was my funniest : at least, so I'm told.
But laughter wasn't what I remembered from last night.
I remembered screaming, "BITCH!" at who I thought was Krishna. But it couldn't have been, could it? It couldn't have been her.
"Why didn't you call me back?” I remember asking her.
I was having a terrific time, and then something took a turn. Things got all twisted. I became so enraged at her.
Then what happened?
"You look all messed up, girl. What'd you do?” A tall, lanky girl who lay next to me with her head on a roll of toilet paper laughed.
I didn't answer her at first, but then, I thought, I don't want to be thought of as rude in here.
"I'm trying to remember," I said.
Well, this got a big laugh, and I felt like at least I was a hit in here, and if I just kept quiet, I wouldn't be messed with.
I had never been arrested before. And when they yanked me into the processing room, I heard several complaints about how whitey was getting special treatment.
The woman who booked me kept
Ziggy leaned against the wall in a green parachute suit. The Transistor boys ’ lead singer leaned into the microphone and nearly made out with it. The others leaned back and played bass guitar with what I knew was deliberate cool.
The lead singer, Walt, grabbed the standing microphone at the end of his last ranting (which seemed to end out of nowhere) and garbled incoherently , but I think he said, "Thanks for coming to our show; this one's for the bartender.” And then began blasting out his next selection, which sounded exactly like the previous one.
"Krishna,” I yelled in her ear . "Krishna!"
"What?"
"I've been meaning to tell you something,” I shouted.
She didn't seem interested, just kept watching the band , but I went on.
"I saw a hand rolling up the window."
"What?” she screamed.
"Or maybe rolling it down , I am not sure!"
"I can't hear you!"
"Someone's hand rolling the window!"
"No!"
"No?"
"We wouldn't have had time!” she screamed.
"Why not?"
"We had to get out, silly girl! Besides, you can't roll it down or up under the water."
I didn't get angry right away. But for some reason, after a few minutes of sitting with this latest piece of news, I began to rage inside. I sat boiling with it for a long time, and fueling it with more alcohol. She stood with her back to me, swaying unsteadily to the loud banging, drinking her beer, her long, black curls spilling down the back over her black coat. She had the collar up. I suddenly felt an urge to yank that collar back and throttle her. I got up and went back to the restroom.
I looked in the mirror.
There were worry lines between my brows set there by the years. The crinkle lines spread to the sides and then curved around my smile lines. The lines from laughs and smiling weren't as deep as the crease in my brow. I tried to sober up, but couldn't.
9
"Baby girl, you gotta be shittin' with me. Dat girl's your cousin?"
"Yea h, she stole my driver's license, my credit card, all my identity. So I get pulled over an' I get my ass hauled to jail, what the fuck? I been keepin' it clean, I don't want this shit no mo. I don't want no mo trouble with the police."
"Dat sounds like her," laughter, hard slap on knee . "Dat girl's a playa."
I woke up to this sound on a hard bench. My head felt like a steel plate.
"She's wakin' up. What the hell happened to you, girl?"
I sat up.
"Where I am I?” I asked.
Laughter burst through the cell.
"You in the city jail, honey."
"What city?"
"Milwaukee."
"Milwaukee?"
"Hey how much longer till I get processed?” yelled one of them at the door.
Looking around me , I realized with a mixture of uneasy fear and dull shock that I was the only white one in there. What do you call a room like this, a ‘holding cell’?
I shut my eyes tight and held my hands over my face. What was the last thing I remembered? Had I thrown up on my self? It didn't seem so, oddly.
I always was a blackout drunk. Apparently that's when I was my funniest : at least, so I'm told.
But laughter wasn't what I remembered from last night.
I remembered screaming, "BITCH!" at who I thought was Krishna. But it couldn't have been, could it? It couldn't have been her.
"Why didn't you call me back?” I remember asking her.
I was having a terrific time, and then something took a turn. Things got all twisted. I became so enraged at her.
Then what happened?
"You look all messed up, girl. What'd you do?” A tall, lanky girl who lay next to me with her head on a roll of toilet paper laughed.
I didn't answer her at first, but then, I thought, I don't want to be thought of as rude in here.
"I'm trying to remember," I said.
Well, this got a big laugh, and I felt like at least I was a hit in here, and if I just kept quiet, I wouldn't be messed with.
I had never been arrested before. And when they yanked me into the processing room, I heard several complaints about how whitey was getting special treatment.
The woman who booked me kept
Similar Books
