How To Go To Jail.

Jeez! Has it been a whole week already? Well, I'm still here. Exhausted, but fine. We had a pretty rough week, work-wise. We're a bit short-handed at the moment.

One of our friends has managed to land himself in jail for a bit. Drinking, driving, you know- at the same time. Which is never a good idea, but it happens all the time. Not that I am making excuses for him, mind you, I just hate to see him in there. Luckily K, who is old hat at visiting friends with DUIs came along with me. It was a sobering experience.
When we first came in to the visiting area, we went through a metal detector and got in line to check in. Checking in involves telling the cop behind the counter who you're there to see. He gives you a sheet of paper to fill out with your name (which I am certain they run immediately through a computer to make sure you don't have a warrant out) and the name of the inmate you are visiting. Then you wait in another line to hand in the sheet. Asking questions of the guy behind counter one is not prohibited, necessarily, but it is not advised. He doesn't really seem to want to talk to you. This is likely because he is afraid that the Woman Behind Counter Two will hear him being nice and kill him later. The Woman Behind Counter Two will not look at you when she asks for your sheet. She will not answer any questions you might have in a way that is understandable to a person who has never been here before. In short, you will be treated like a criminal just for showing up. Guilt by association, I guess.
The waiting room is a typically institutional fluorescent nightmare, similar to a hospital waiting room but with cops. The chairs are plastic and uncomfortable, and arranged in rows in such a way that you almost have to disturb the person in the row in front of you in order to sit down. The other people that are waiting have obviously done this before. They are an array of depressing stereotypes. I wonder how K and I fit. Which one are we? You can't have anything on your person, obviously, except identification. Somehow we managed to avoid being frisked. This surprised me. When the Woman Behind Counter Two shouts the name of our inmate unnecessarily loudly (there are only eight people in this thirty by thirty by thirty foot waiting area), we stand up and head for a door that is a few feet away in the corner. Counter Two lady tells us loudly from across the room that we are to leave our belongings in a locker in the corner. "They don't lock," she says helpfully. "Put your things in a locker and close the door." I am very glad that K told me ahead of time not to bring anything. I drop my keys inside a random, beat up gray metal boxes and proceed to the door. I can see through a giant window in the waiting room into the room we are about to enter. It has a bank of small booths with phones and more plastic chairs, situated opposite another bank of booths and phones and plastic chairs, separated by plexiglass. Our friend is being escorted to a booth on his side. We go in and sit down. I pick up the phone, promising my inner germophobe that we will take a very hot shower with bleach and lye and ammonia when we get home, and speak to my friend. I have difficulty maintaining eye contact, as I am not used to speaking on the phone to somebody when I am looking directly at them. I ask what his situation is. We talk about books. I can't bring him any unless they are of a religious or educational nature. I will try to do this ASAP. He has been reading a prison copy of Chaucer. Unfortunately many pages are missing and the ones still in the book are crumbling in his hands. We make small talk. We discuss details of things that need to be taken care of until his release.
K gets on the phone and is hilarious and informed, having spent a day here herself once. There is talk of chipped beef and "The Fish Sandwich." She can't remember which is served on which day. I envy her ability to be both compassionate and comical at the same time. I am very glad that she came. Overall, our friend looks well, despite the circumstances. And he is a pragmatist, so I know he will be okay. He knows he fucked up.
When our fifteen minutes is up, the Woman Behind Counter Two opens the door, and shouts (again, despite the fact that we are only two feet in front of her and the only people in the room). Again she doesn't look at us, but shouts sort of in our general direction and slightly over our heads. I guess the only way to do her job without wanting to shoot yourself and/or everyone else is to avoid thinking about it too much. As much as I am glad that I am not my friend, I am really, really glad I am not her. At least he'll be out soon.