An Insignificant Incarceration

The watchers watch, but who pray tell, watches the watchers

....© by D. Grant DeMan

"Yo hee, yo hi, yo ho-ho-oh, a gal I used to know. I don't think much, but when I do, I think about that gal I knew. Yo hee, yo hi, yo ho-ho-oh...and, Yo hee, yo hi, yo ho-o-o..." Sang Officer Trach of the Victoria Police Department, swinging his Black Beauty baton in rhythmic time with the song while eyeing every pretty young thing who jiggled along the sidewalk. Out on his beat the spring air and warm sunshine felt good.

"Mighty fine," He thought. "MMMMighty fine."

About this time George Weatherby, desperate for another bottle of wine, scooped up some goods from McMaster's Leathers, stuffed them in a brand new handbag and made off across the street, unfortunately traversing Officer Trach's line of vision and trajectory. Even then, Trach nearly missed the ensuing arrest, so enamored was he with the sight of two near-naked hookers seemingly waiting for a ride. "Damn!" Roared Trach as he grabbed the inebriated Weatherby, throttled him and called in for the black Mariah. "Damn these guys. Now I gotta do all that paperwork for this bum."

At the time of his arrest Weatherby had in his possession, in addition to the purse, a package containing ten new pairs of burnt sugar sheer nylon hose, a pair of Italian lady's gloves, one room key, one medicine bottle containing three 292 tablets, a ten dollar bill, and one Gillette razor blade, all but three of which were turned in by Officer Trach. Upon examination, the hose and gloves compared favorably in size and color with those normally worn by Mrs. Trach, and since the handbag was sufficient evidence to send Weatherby to jail, the apparel was carefully secreted in the Trach personal locker.

The second item overlooked was the waxed paper-wrapped razor blade concealed between the upper denture and the roof of the prisoner's mouth.

Having performed the routine duties of incarcerating the inebriated Weatherby, Trach set out on his beat once more, only to be called back two hours later. Sergeant Gower confronted him: "That stupid bastard you brought in tried to take the back door out. His neck is cut from ear to ear. But the doc says he'll be okay. He's upstairs. You guard him for the rest of the day and don't let him outta sight - it looks bad to have one of them in here now with the new chief and all."

"Me? Why me, Sarge?"

"You missed the blade. You look after the mess. Simple as that."

Trach cursed under his breath. The very concept of exchanging an exhilarating stroll through the cherry blossom lined city boulevards for the morbid stench of a dungeon-like jail with its howling pimps, drunks and dope-fiends mangled his every nerve-ending. As the iron door of the prison elevator clanged behind him, he saw Weatherby stretched out on bare crisscrossed steel lattice cell bunk gasping in delirium, a scarlet-stained bandage tightly wound around his neck as if applied by a hangman. Trach spit in disgust.

For three eternal days he sat near that cell listening to the verbal hallucinations of Weatherby's opiate-shrunken mind, the hacking cough and the plaintive pleas for medication. In order to relieve the man's arthritic back-pain sufficiently for sleep, he was allowed one 292 tablet per day, and forced to lie on the concrete floor of the windowless chilly damp cell. It was the worst three days of Officer Trach's life.

When the pills ran out Weatherby groaned and screamed so intensely that Trach called the Sergeant who permitted Weatherby to summon his doctor. Following the call Sergeant Gower asked him, "What did he say? Going to get some more pills for you?"

"He said he didn't want nothin' more to do with me. Said to call the cop doctor."

Gower sighed and cursed. What an infernal waste of official time! But nevertheless the police physician attended and made a cursory disinterested examination of the wasted body.

"Look doc, I just want a prescription for some 292's. I gotta get some sleep.," Weatherby cried.

Trach's attention was alerted by the last statement. Merely a walk across the street would be a break from his foul cell duty. But alas, not this time, for the doctor replied, "Okay. Got some in my bag here. I'll leave them at the desk. You get one per day."

Both medic and sergeant boarded the elevator, disappearing beneath the floor, as Weatherby watched with misplaced hope. Trach sat back on his chair, sighed once more and grabbed up a filth-laden copy of Playboy.

Five minutes later Sergeant Gower returned, confronting the prisoner with unabashed scorn, "The doc says the pills will cost you a sawbuck."

"For Christ's sake, I can buy a whole bottle for a buck and a quarter across the street!"

"Well, you ain't at the store across the street, and you ain't never gonna be at the store across the street. Take it or leave it." The voice of authority had spoken.

The cracked spirit broke. The man became a child. A complete and pathetic wave of helplessness overcame him. His lips trembled. "Okay...okay, I gotta have 'em. Dirty rotton....." He made a futile to kick the bars of his cage and then sat convulsing.

Trach was disgusted: That sonuvabitch Gower isn't going to get away with this. The doc never charges for medicine. He'll split that ten-spot with me or I'll spread the word about what a pig he is, and he'll get nothing around here from now on - a thought broken by a low moan from Weatherby.

"Shhaddup!" Trach cried, "You're the most trouble I had in four years on this here force. Tomorrow you go to the rock pile 'cross the pond. You won't be losing any sleep over there."

We gotta clean the town of these bums once and for all, he surmised, or I'll be doing this every week. Why the hell did he have to try and knock himself off.

Asshole!

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