We were taken to the local drunk tank of a holding cell, sat before a room of smug cops, and properly orientated. Before being addressed, I knew my parents were expecting us that evening, and had to give a cover; I called my dad and told him that the three of us had decided to spend the evening at UNC Charlotte, of which I had some friends, and had never visited before. He thought it was a great idea, told us to be safe, and that he’d expect us the next afternoon. I was scorned by the officer for doing so, but it needed to be done. Through our conversation we learned that an individual you could have up to an ounce of marijuana in South Carolina, and be charged with personal possession. This was a big relief in loom of the scale that I just needed to bring, and the majority of other state’s personal possession laws versus an attempt to distribute. Even if the laws were less generous, the officer went to the length of measuring the accuracy of my scale, which was spot on, yet never bothered to weigh my bag of green.

The officers in the room asked why we exited the free way and ultimately turned around. I ran through a similar story minus the details that you just heard, and the room broke out in laughter. Turns out, just a few days prior to our fine display of panic the narcos had moved the narcotics checkpoint sign up the freeway five miles before the exit rather than after. Forget that we hadn’t been transporting crystal meth, this made the cops month, shit year. We couldn’t believe it, outsmarted by a bunch of jackass narcotic officers; sure fire way to deteriorate a man’s view of his intelligence. They tweeted their ego of a horn for another few minutes before telling us that we would be transferred to the county holding facility; funny how when you phrase it like that it doesn’t sound like jail, but it is.

We were transferred among other prisoners, all properly dressed in fluorescent orange prison suits, except us of course. I still recall one of the songs playing during the transfer, “Let me hear you say, this shit is bananas B A N A N A S This shit is bananas B A N A N A S” Gwen Stefani’s “Holla Back Girl,” arguably the most obnoxious song of all time, icing on the cake at this point.  The two of us were put in a cell with four others, given a gym mat to sit on, and access to a “call collect” payphone. While I had no intention of alerting my parents of our predicament, it wasn’t even an option; when making collect calls only land lines can be reached, leaving Justin’s parents as our only option. Fortunately we were not limited to the infamous one phone call, and were able to relay messages to Emma, who drove back to High Point after we got detained. She talked to a bail-bondsman that would have us released for $160, which was hell of a lot more money then as a student, than it is a look-a-like working citizen today.

For the first time that evening I felt a bit of relief when I remembered I had left my wallet in the car, with close to $200 in it. Things were finally starting to come together, Emma was on her way, we we’re getting bailed out, back on the road, and in Hilton Head by morning; Unless, Emma got in the car and discovered all of the cash was gone from my wallet. I flipped, any gaining momentum had immediately seized, I yelped a scorning “Fuck!” and punched the wall of the holding cell, I couldn’t believe it, the goddamn narcos took the money from my wallet. Maybe it was an F you for the fake ID they found, or maybe they’re just pieces of shit, my guess is both, but either way we were running out of options. In a perfect, no just very average world, there would have been money in my Wachovia bank account, and Emma could have withdrawn $160 and freed us from our then current South Carolina nightmare, but of course, that was not the case. My funds consisted of the $200 the cops stole $140 of, and my $100 quarter of ganj’. Amidst a panic, Justin made another phone call to his parents, and had it relayed from Emma that she discovered unanticipated funds in her savings account in the amount of… freedom!

Via the bail-bondsmen and Emma’s efforts we reentered the shackle free world at 2 am, broke, hungry (we missed dinner in the jail), and three and half hours away from our destination on a quarter tank of gas. Our funds consisted of a $40 prison issued check, given to Justin in exchange for the cash he walked in with’ which was still a major improvement unless you consider the amount of establishments that cash checks between the hours of 2 and 5 am. Once more we boarded the ‘96 worn asphalt black explorer, minus 10 grams, $300, and made our way down I-95 heading south, despite a brief wavering consideration of returning to High Point and calling it a weekend.  With freedom came the resuming burden of explaining to my parents where my month’s utilities payment, which was due to them, and weekend spending money had gone. Surely credit is due to years of lying to the people I love, but the voicemail I left my sleeping father went something like this:

“Dad, we were at a party at UNCC, we ran out of beer, so Justin and I walked to a store nearby… while we we’re walking two guys came up and got into our face, they started shoving us and asking for our money.. I pushed him back… and he punched me in the face… the other pulled a gun, I was scarred as shit, I pulled out all my cash and dropped it on the ground, Justin too, I can’t believe it… but we’re driving now, coming down tonight, we’ve only got a quarter tank, and no money… not sure what we’re going to do… call me if you wake up and get this..”

Yes I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right, mostly, that I’m going to hell, but hey, it was quick thinking in a jam, and not nearly the end of this evening.

While we knew a quarter tank of gas would only take us a third of the way, looking for a place that would cash Justin’s check was an irrational waste of gas, so we drove, and we brainstormed. The Carolina fall night air was cool. I turned on the heat only to have Emma explain how she froze on the return ride to the jail because she feared wasting gas with the heat; I had my first laugh of the evening. Pedal to the medal, we arrived to the realization that Wal-Mart was probably our best late night check cashing option, and attempted to locate one near the freeway with little fortune. Approaching empty, but not quite on the dawn, we exited to the town with the most food and gas options on their sign. Our eyes lit, “Harris Teeter!” a well known 24 hour southern grocery story; I pulled in, parked, and ran with Justin and our prodigal check into the ‘Teet to the first cashier. Alas our sufferings would be purged, hunger relieved, and day from Judas’ corner of hell transformed into the existential beach getaway we had longed for:

“We stop cashing checks at two, I’m sorry.”

For the love of god make it stop. I protested for an exception, sadly those were the days I still believed in exceptions to damn the man’s rules, they declined. So close to paradise I thought I could taste it; with heads hung, smiles reversed, and hope dwindling, we returned to the car, prodigal check in hand, approaching the dawn of empty with a midgets tail over two hours left in our journey.

As if to mock ourselves, we pulled into the nearest gas station for which money we had not, and inquired as to the whereabouts of a possible Wal-Mart super center. A kind gentleman said he could not be certain if there was a Wal-Mart, but the Two Notches exit had a lot of businesses, and would be our best bet, some 15 miles south on 77. With no other options we took his advice and ‘counted on a miracle’ as one Bruce Springsteen put it. Nearly half way to Two Notches, our last straw if you will, the check fuel light lit, as did our nerves as we continued South a little after three on a stretch of Carolina freeway that I’d rather not remember with such detail. In moments such as those final miles approaching the exit, the idea of fuel economy really hits home; with each mile came the gasp of a breath we were  thankful not to release out of gas on the side of the freeway we had previously been cuffed. I had not asked much of my first automobile  to that point, but like the typically “raised catholic” spirit I found god in those moments, swearing off the many of vices that make scenarios like this possible, later of course which would be forgotten, or rationalized in their return. If you have seen the episode of Seinfeld where Kramer blacks out pushing the depths of an empty gas tank to the max for sure thrill, imagine the complete opposite and you will have arrived at my terror holding onto to an ounce, no gram of hope promising a Wal-Mart super center at Two Notches because some guy had a hunch in the middle of the night.

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