Being Urinated on By a Claw Handed Man: Part II
If you missed my fire safety prequal to this to this urine soaked story you can find it here.
As I continue down this bizarre and whimsical path of new business startup, I will be including a random ridiculous story every month or so. Writing short blogs is a fun way to keep my writing going while I am working on the boring behind the scenes business stuff. This tale was exceptionally fun and took a bit of a sci-fi turn that I did not expect; but you can’t direct The Claw Hand Man, you can only follow.
The Claw Hand Man beckons us all home at some point. This is the story about when he called for me.
At the time of this writing I have made it 43 years and a few months without being in an actual fist fight. I decided at an early age that getting hit by someone else’s fist hurts, so I opted to avoid that. Rather than fighting, I learned to talk my way out of tense or difficult situations. The closest I came to fisticuffs was when I encountered the Claw Hand Man. But you can’t fight the Claw Hand Man.
Now, before I get emails about my insensitive terminology, I will preface my use of the term Claw Hand. First off, he referred to his hand as a claw, so I do too. Secondly, the claw was the least of this gentleman’s pressing issues. And third, if you are reading this fuming about the term claw hand or whatever else you have chosen to to be outraged about, this might not be the site for you. Turn away now and save us both some headache. The Claw Hand Man does not concern himself with correct terminology.
Back in the Miami Hellscape, my chauffer escorted me to my new jail residence. Upon entering my secure and delightfully air-conditioned dwelling, I was greeted by my 35 new roomies in our dorm style suite. There was no aggressive greeting, intimidation, nor were face-tattooed gang members sizing me up as is often portrayed in incarceration documentaries. Rather, my new roommates greeted me with tacit acknowledgement; similar to how you might view bus passengers when you are not on a bus, nor planning to be on a bus, nor interested in bus transportation.
I was provided a 1/2 inch rolled mat and a blanket that felt like it was made from fiberglass insulation. My cozy spot in the middle of the concrete floor allowed me to be stepped over and around for the next 2-4 days of heroin withdrawals. I was the jail’s version of a parking lot speed bump but I smelled much worse. I had been wearing the same clothes for weeks, and seasoning a pair of boots a friend had given me with my sockless feet in the Miami sun.
Similar to my assigned dwelling but missing the mats on the floor.
Over the next 24 hours as withdrawals set in, so did the painful reality that there would be no talking my way out of this situation. The opportunity for talking my way of this encounter was ripped from my grasp by my singing antisocial companion from Part 1 of this adventure. The last I had seen the character I will call Antisocial Anthony, he was being chaperoned to a separate part of the jail and I was relieved to see him go. People with antisocial personality disorder often yield more work than reward. Unfortunately, although I did not know it at the time, our quests were not over. Teaser: Our future adventures in lunacy include lessons from the Picasso of shoplifting, a sickly sex worker, and a court encounter that still baffles me.
The unfortunate reality was that my charade was coming to an abrupt end. Today, my heart would open and my life would be changed as I found the inner strength to let my spirit to soar over this adversity. If you believe that nonsense, you clearly have not been reading any of my other posts or you are predisposed to dramatic addiction triumph stories. This is not one of those stories, and I vow to never share anything inspiring. This was not a dramatic turning point but it was a rather inconvenient and involuntary pause.
During my 72 hours of withdrawal induced wakefulness I thought about my family, friends, poor decisions, my fear of removing my borrowed boots, and that asshole Antisocial Anthony antagonizing the cops. I thought about my future life goals and the terrible mistakes I had made to land me here. Mostly though, I thought about heroin and cocaine. I thought about where, when, and how I would get out of that god forsaken human warehouse, and procure the funding capital I required for my next chemical trials.
Later in life, I would learn that I have pretty severe ADHD. A trait of ADHD is the inability to control attention. My attention is either scattered and broad or laser focused on some random dopamine inducing goal. For these 72 hours, my attention was electron microscope level focused on getting the fuck out of this jail, procuring 10 bucks, and getting this haunted carnival back on the road.
Here is a brief rundown of my daily schedule for my 3-4 days in my fancy Miami suite.
Breakfast served at 4:30 am. Cool, I was already up anyway since heroin withdrawals have gifted me insomnia. I would usually try and eat a piece of toast, and give the rest away.
Lunch: 10:00 AM. Still lying on the floor since there is nowhere else to go. Its loud and apparently the card game Spades can be played about 300 million times each day.
Dinner: 2:30 PM. Yeah still here. Ventured across the dorm to the bathroom which would be my big outings for the day. I really want to take off these boots, but that’s not an option.
Snack: 5:30 PM. Another freebie for my new best friends.
Somewhere in the haze of days 3/4, my heroin withdrawals were less awful than the day prior. I even dozed off for about an hour before being awakened at 4:30 AM, for what I assumed was breakfast. Not this time! I was lead into a hallway with 40-50 other residents and shackled via chain gang style hand and foot shackles. I’m sure its protocol, but where did they think I was going to go? And wouldn’t all of the people I am shackled to want to go with me?
My colleagues and I were chained together and lead down a jail corridor where we would be standing until court began at 9:30 AM. It was now about 6:00 AM. Math was not working in my favor. Unless I was the absolute first case called, I would be here for well over 3 hours. Standing, shackled in misery corridor, and about to learn that it can indeed get worse.
Claw Hand Man was the 60+ year old, fully delusional, feces and urine soaked man chained directly behind me. I suspect alcohol withdrawal and/or Wernicke-Korsakoff Syndrome also known as wet brain were at play but my diagnostic skills had yet to be learned. Simply put, things were unpleasant for him, and soon would be unpleasant for me. He spent the next couple of hours mumbling and making jokes about his “Claw” to what I had incorrectly assumed were people behind him. I’d later discover there was no one behind him and I was not privy to his communion with other dimensions. The Claw Hand man was not bound to my earthly reality.
The Claw Hand Man’s long greasy matted hair grew in the traditional balding male U-shape. He still had several of his teeth, and bore the scent of a time traveler which again, is similar to urine and feces. His mangled right hand consisted of a thumb, an index finger, and a pinky. His middle and ring fingers were missing from the above the top knuckles, a common result of multidimensional travel. Each time he transported between existential planes, he came back assembled slightly wrong. And he had clearly been traveling.
There were about 10 seconds where I was confused about what was happening. The back of my leg felt suddenly warm, and my fellow chainees were making sounds of disgust and anger toward the guards.
“You can’t just leave us standing here, this motherfucker’ pissing himself” - wise words from some random chainee.
Social norms and etiquette are not my strong suit. Now in middle age, I embrace this trait, but at the time of the pee-party I was plagued with uncertainty and doubt. Couple this with the fact that few people have been urinated on by a delusional Claw Handed Man in the Miami-Dade county jail and you can understand the urgent complexity of the situation. I was going to have to do something because southern charm does not repel urine.
I turned to see the Claw Hand Man urinating on both me and the wall next to me. My befuddlement must have appeared as anger because another chainee grabbed my shoulder and urged me not to harm Claw Hand Man. Little did his keeper know that I was more confused than angry and that my fighting skills were sub-par at best. I don’t know what would be worse, harming the frail Claw Hand Man, or learning that the Claw Hand Man is a gifted and merciless fighter. The Claw Hand Man’s keeper insisted I forgive this urinary transgression because the Claw Hand Man couldn’t help it; so I obliged.
I still don’t know the right answer for this specific social encounter. I had about 2 more hours before I would be ushered into court, my pants were now soaked with an old man’s urine, and despite his harmless intentions, I did not feel much sympathy for the Claw Hand Man. I mumbled words of hostility and confusion to the Claw Hand Man, who responded with sincere apology. He then said a lot of words to me which I did not understand at the time, nor do I now, nor will I ever. His linguistic skills had been lost between dimensions, and my attention, as usual was elsewhere: A goal.
I was later separated from the herd and ushered before Judge Jeffrey Rosnick. Because this was my first offense, I was being offered a reprieve; a program called Drug Court. I could have the felony possession charges expunged from my record. Expunged means for all legal purposes, it never happened.
All I had to do was the following:
1. Report to court each month in person to check in.
2. Stop using drugs.
3. Be honest with the Judge.
I was on board with numbers 1 and 3, so I agreed to the terms and I was released by 10 AM. That was the day my life changed forever and I found the hope and belief in myself that I had so long been missing. I had found my rock bottom of despair and I was ready for my new life. I would walk out of that jail determined to make my life better no matter what it took. I intended to restore my honor and redeem myself in my eyes and the eyes of those around me.
Fuck, you are gullible. That didn’t happen, I burst outside, had 10 bucks within minutes and was bound for an awful part of Miami called Overtown. Somewhere in the dimensional portals between realities Claw Hand Man was laughing and smiling down upon me; because Antisocial Anthony was also released and walking out of the courthouse at the same time clutching a Bigfoot Monster Truck T Shirt he had stolen from the jail which he tossed me. “I stashed some new sets (needles) in the bushes on the way over”.
May you follow the Claw Handed Man guiding your soggy path.
My sweet new shirt for the next few weeks. This in size small.
