Go West Young Man

Although I was getting a little bored with the autobiographical regurgitation, I wanted to try to stay on track until I finished the bit that I promised my good buddy, which may take quite a few posts (because there is a wealth of material). Of course, the plans alway deviate, but that is the fun of not writing for pay.

So anyways, I left off the last post talking about my aborted rehab stint. The jig was up with that charade, so it was off to more permanent digs (despite my urgent protestations). My folks showed up with luggage in tow to see me off to a long-term stint in Utah. They bought round-trip tickets to make sure I got there, because it was cheaper than hiring an air marshal (or whoever the fuck they had in those days to make sure a bastard stayed in his seat during the flight).

I was picked up in Salt Lake City by an over-sized fat neck ogre named Jared and a shrimpy little effeminate man named Jeff. These turd rustlers tried to make small talk with me during the ride to the lock-up, but I wasn’t having it. When we got to the joint, my kidnappers made me remove my clothes (while they salivated) and I was forced to change into a sweat suit. Unfortunately, my luggage didn’t make the trek, so these were my duds for the next few days.

I was led into a dark bunk-bed filled room by a mustachioed man with a flashlight. His name was Matt and he was a wanna-be cop ball-buster with a Napoleon complex. Immediately I could tell that he hated his job and liked to take out his frustrations on teenage victims (a recurring character trait of most of my captors). It was a long trek, so I drifted off to sleep on a bottom bunk.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of loud clapping and the sight of shuffling bodies. A gaggle of teenage boys in tighty-whiteys were falling out of bunks and running across the room. I shook off my sleep, surveyed the scene, and stepped into a 15-month long nightmare.

A couple of cats inquired about my name, point of origin, and the occasion for my visit. I planned to hold my cards close to my vest until I got my bearings, so I gave them minimal information. We were lined up and led to breakfast with military efficiency. The joint was locked down tight. We were in the intake unit, which had zero windows, sunlight, or fresh air. It was the initial processing center for the newbies.

There were a few memorable scenes from my first few days. The first dial-9 occurred while we were on the way back from supper. A kid named Matt (a hydrocephalic youthful Stephen King look-alike) refused to obey a direct order to stay in line. He was warned a couple of more times, but failed to comply. The counselor screamed “dial-9” into his CB and within minutes a barrage of over-sized Hulkamaniacs came barreling down the hall. Lil’ Stephen was body slammed onto the floor and carted off like a slaughtered lamb. I came to the immediate realization that these muthafuckas did not play.

During the day we were shuffled off to the school unit on the other side of the building. Afterwards, we were marched back into our subterranean dungeon. In the evenings, and the weekends, we played cards. I was quickly labeled a trouble-maker by my handlers due to my smart mouth and passive-aggressive behavior. The disciplinary methods were comical. When I did something they didn’t like, I had to sit cross-legged facing a wall for 15 or 30 minutes. They called it “taking a chair.”

Eventually, I got to meet my therapist. The Bishop was a supreme cock-sucker. He was about 7-feet tall, a bishop in the LDS church, had 9 kids (that he carted around in the back of a 70’s beat-down station wagon), and had zero fucking personality. I hated him right off the bat. I didn’t play ball with therapists (never had), and this over-educated, cult-worshipping, toilet bowl fecal remnant was not about to change my mind.

They had a place for me in this joint that was more fucked up than intake – it was called investment. That was the unit where the little bastards who didn’t get with the program were sent (i.e., me). Basically, in order to get out, you had to work off IPs (investment points) by standing still silently for 30 minutes at a time. You could work off 15 points in an hour. Due to my insolent not-give-a-fuck attitude, I spent my first couple of months in this shit hole.

The cats I spent time in investment with were a sad lot. Wersky was half-Polock/half-Mexican, heavily doped up on psychotic drugs, and swore he was a full-blooded Latino L.A. gang-banger. I felt bad for the kid and befriended him out of sympathy. Another fella told me that if you mentioned to Wersky that you killed his granddad, he would wail on you. I couldn’t believe that this over-medicated kid could even punch out his night lite, so I decided to test his reflexes.

I snuck up behind Wersky while he was sleep-standing and whispered in his ear that I killed the old fucker. Immediately, Wersky’s eyes light up and he swung madly without a target in sight. I maneuvered myself in front of him and pushed him down onto an adjacent couch. I grabbed him by the shoulders and told him that everything was cool. “I didn’t kill your granddad dude, it’s me Johnny”. Wersky blinked a few times, gazed up at me with a shit-eating Thorazin smile, and said, “don’t ever say that again, that shit is not cool.”

2 Responses to “Go West Young Man”

  1. June 25, 2008 at 1:17 pm

    Hey Johnny,
    I haven’t been to your blog in a while, and was pleasantly surprised to see you are writing about the early years of your life. I’ve read all the entries to date, so I’m all caught up now. Great stuff! Lookin’ forward to more, even if it’s fiction (although I strongly suspect it’s not).

  2. June 27, 2008 at 1:53 pm

    sounds like my brother’s life……

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Johnny Peepers

----> is a socio-pathetic degenerate with a penchant for cheap booze, ruphy-laden broads, and dim sum soup.


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