Bob

My loyal readers today I’m treating you to a story told to me from my son in law. It is said that truth sometimes is stranger than fiction. This event is one for the ages. His name isn’t nearly as important, thus I named him Bob to protect his privacy. 

“Mr. McCormach you are hereby sentenced to thirty days, with 29 time served. I would suggest you seriously consider your future plans in this state Mr. McCormach.” 

“I have your honor. I’m going back to see my dad in Washington State,” Bob replied. 

“Good, I for one don’t want to see you grace us with your presence again. As a matter of fact, I’m ordering this county’s sheriff to personally take you to the South Dakota, Montana border and drop you off there.” 

“Thanks, your Honor, I wasn’t expecting this much generosity.” 

“Are you being sardonic toward me?” He removed his bifocal, black framed glasses that showed a searing glare from his steely gray eyes. “Well Mr. McCormach! Are you mocking me?” 

“No, your Honor, I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” He scratched the month’s growth of scraggly beard. His orange jail jumpsuit had a tear on his elbow that ran vertically along the sleeve. He gave the judge as sober an expression he could muster, hoping he wouldn’t add contempt charges against him too. 

“You are a menace to society Mr. McCormach. I’ll gladly let you leave South Dakota and become Washington’s menace,” he told Bob with a stern, unappreciative tone. He wrote something in the folder that Bob most likely won’t ever see. “Get him out of my sight. Next case,” he yelled toward the bald-headed bailiff. 

The khaki uniformed deputy escorted him from the court. Bob had a medium built and long hair, though normally it was cut much shorter when he wasn’t in jail, though recently that had become more infrequent. This last time, possession of over a gram of Crystal meth and assault at the local bar here in Pierre. 

He ended up at the same place he came in, booking, a month earlier. The jailer sneered at him. “Howdy Bob. You planning to make a return trip some time soon? Or are you tired of our company?” He stood four inches above Bob’s shoulders and head. He most likely weighed over a hundred pound more too. His accent appeared like he was a local boy with no plans to leave. 

“No, the judge told me to get out of his state,” Bo replied grinning at the jailer. 

“Where you planning to go now?” 

“Somewhere in Washington. My Dad wants me to come and visit for a while.” 

He laughed at the reply and went to the back room where wire bins were stored. He came back with a bin with his name and social security number on a 3×5 card. He turned the card over and printed neatly were the items he came here with a month ago. “Okay you know the routine, Bob. Coat, 

“Here,” Bob replied.  

“Pants, belt, and wallet.” 

“Here.” 

The jailer pulled a zip-loc baggy full of cash and loose change. He emptied the bag on the counter. “Cash, three twenties, one and four dollars, cash. Coin, three quarters, two dimes and two, four six, ten pennies.” 

“Here.” 

“Pocket knife, butterfly knife, and flat head screw driver.” 

“Here,” Bob replied. 

“Flannel shirt and long sleeve sweater.” 

“Here.” 

“That’s it, go into that rest room and get dressed,” the jailer told Bob. “I hope I never see you again, Bob.” 

“Likewise,” Bob replied as he retreated into the rest room and closed the door. After pulling the jumpsuit from his body, exposing his nakedness and the many tattoos done on him either professionally or in the numerous jails he occupied in the past ten years since he was old enough to become part of the system, he threw on his pants, boots, shirt, and sweater. He threw the rest inside his coat pockets and then threw that on, exiting the rest room and sat on a bench in front of the jailer in booking. 

Another deputy came by and told him, “Get up.” 

Bob smiled as he arose and he was escorted from the booking area down a long hallway toa locked door. The deputy stopped at the door and announced, “McCormack released!” The door unlocked and Bob went outside into fresh, abet bitterly cold air. He breathed in the air and felt thankful he was finally free. 

“I bet I got enough to get high,” he said to himself. “No, I can’t. I need to head to the freeway and hitch a ride to Spokane.” 

He walked down a nameless street to another street and up  several blocks until he got to the freeway entrance. He stooped inside a convenience store, bought marker pen, and went outside to the cardboard bin and took a flattened box, tore it in half and wrote out in big block letters: Spokane or bust. 

Bob then went out to the freeway’s entrance ramp and sat down on the frozen ground and waited for his ride. His mind rifled through thoughts in machine gun-like repetition wondering if this person or that driver or this family would feel sorry for him and stop. He waited and waited. Time seemed to stop or move with the viscosity of frozen molasses. 

A car with a couple, pretty young woman riding beside a clean-cut, clean-shaven man, stopped in front of him. She beckoned him to the car, a newer Lexus with Minnesota license plates. Bob grinned like a fool as he ran to the car and got into the back seat. 

“Hey there, hon. You know you’re kinda cute. Are you in any kind of hurry to get to where you’re going?” She asked flashing a Pepcident smile of perfectly white and straight teeth. 

“No, not really,” Bob replied. The accent sounded mid-western, like she was indeed from Minnesota. “I’m Bob.” 

“Well, I’m Annie and he’s Daryl. You get high?” 

Bob’s mouth subconsciously began watering. “I dabble a little,” he replied.