Jail really kind of sucks.
Jail on the weekend of a gigantic college football game sucks more.
First, I was stuck in a holding cell with a dozen guys, half of them dressed in green, the others in blue and gold, or as I came to learn from one especially adamant Michigan fan, maize and blue. His commitment impressed me. The fact he barfed regurgitated beer and some sort of pork product right after making his point impressed me less.
On Friday night these drunk Notre Dame and Michigan fans almost seemed as though they had a good time. It was as if getting arrested at a pep rally and fighting with opposing fans made one the ultimate athletic supporter. By Saturday, when they awoke hung over, not at the game, and facing felony charges, they all seemed far less jovial.
I got charged with assault. When they ran my name through whatever computers they run things through, they noticed I was licensed as a professional fighter. Somehow that upped the ante of my charges to something-something assault with a deadly weapon. Apparently, if you've fought competitively, and then hit someone with your hands, then you used a weapon. If they charging me with assault with a deadly weapon, they had obviously not looked at my record as a pro fighter. Of course, there probably aren't charges known as assault with a light jab and weak cross.
Fortunately, Karl didn't get charged and he had custody of Al. I had no idea where they were, but I knew Al was in good hands. Al might be wearing a Notre Dame helmet and rubber gloves on his paws, but he was probably safe. That was about the only thing I was reasonably sure of, and the fact jail sucked. At one point I got ushered into a small court room, which by the way looked nothing like the court room Sam Waterson worked on in every episode of Law and Order. This one had a lot of battleship grey paint, cheap wood paneling, and it smelled like the stuff they spray on puke in grade school.
They arraigned me and set bail at $10,000, which didn't exactly put me in Margaret Stewart status, but it might as well have because I had fourteen bucks in my pocket. Compared to Karl, that made me Donald Trump.
I had one of those little boxes of Cheerios for breakfast, with milk that tasted pretty close to spoiled. Lunch was a bologna sandwich with one slice of bologna and bad brown mustard. Dinner was supposed to be spaghetti with meat sauce, but it tasted more like lumpy ketchup over egg noodles. Now, thirty-six hours in jail didn't exactly make me Nelson Mandela or some hardened guy from Goodfellas, but I could see why violence happened in penitentiaries. The jail consisted of ten cells on the first floor, that I was on, and I don't know how many on the other floor. Three cells down one black guy sang bad rap songs about 20 hours a day. Next to him was a middleaged man who cried a lot, and right next to me was a fat Michigan hooligan with bad gas. I had delusions of making a shank out of my commissary plastic fork and making myself king of the cell block. It's amazing what you'll do when you're sleep deprived.
At 10:30 Sunday night a middle aged, balding guard with leathery skin and a look of utter existential indifference came to my cell and turned the key.
"Dombrowski, you got bail. Stop at the desk and complete the paper work," he said.
"Huh? Who made bail?"
"Stop at the desk," he said. I got the impression this guy liked an economy of words.
I filled out a form and signed the bottom without really taking the time to read it. I got a copy of it and several pages of directions. I headed through the door that brought me back into the public area. I was a free man. Standing in front of me was Dr. Rudy.
"Hey Rudy! What are you doing here?" I couldn't help smiling ear to ear.
"Oh, I'm a Big Notre Dame fan. C'mon asshole, let's go; we got a flight to catch." He turned without looking at me or saying anything else.
"Where's Karl and Al?"
"Your brothers-in-arms? Your militia? Or should I say the other avengers?"
"Hey Rudy-"
"Hey Rudy, my ass. They left yesterday morning after that nut-job called me. They're driving your El Dorado back to Crawford. They're probably there by now."
"Wow, so you came all the way out here to make sure I was okay and get me out of jail?"
Rudy didn't say anything, just shook his head. He drove north toward Chicago and O'Hare Airport. He handed me a ticket when we returned the rental car and we sat in silence at the gate waiting for the flight to Albany. It was after take-off; actually after the captain had turned off the seat belts lamp, that he said something.
"Kid, you gotta listen to me." He wiped the sweat off his forehead with one of those undersized cocktail napkins.
"Remember when I told you you might have some damage…"
"Rudy, I don't think-"
"You're showing the signs of a guy who has some impairment." 'Impairment' sounded clinical and told me he was trying to make a point. "Kid, you're showing the exact signs of someone who has been damaged."
"What are you talking about?"
"The main thing is you're taking what Karl says as gospel. For crissakes, he's your patient. You know he's paranoidschizophrenic and you drive a thousand miles and beat some math student with a knapsack full of canned goods because Karl says he's trying to bring down the free world! C'mon!"
"It's not like you think."
"Oh, fuck you, Duff. The guy wears a football helmet and rubber gloves, believes the government is fattening our food and thinks doctors are tracking them on their car's GPS systems."
"It's not-"
"Part of what you got messed up in your head tells you it makes sense. Look, I've known you for years, and probably know you as good as anyone. I'm telling you that you're in trouble and you've got to get it together."
"Rudy-"
"I mean, stay at home, walk that fat fuckin' dog and watch Elvis movies. I don't give a shit what you do, but don't be chasing bad guys with Karl because you're going to get hurt, or I probably should say hurt worse."
I decided to keep my mouth shut the rest of the ride home.