Chapter 3: Painful Reality

When Mark opened his eyes it was dark outside his window. He had gone to sleep sitting on the side of his bed still fully clothed. He rolled over and sat back up on the edge of the bed and looked around in confusion. Mark recognized his surroundings of course; yet everything seemed strange and a little unfamiliar. He felt as if he was another person's room that resembled his. He felt as if it was all a bad dream.

Still in the same wrinkled clothing he had lain down in, Mark stood and walked out of his room, down the stairs and out the front door. He walked through the quiet, well-lit streets in that affluent part of San Diego with no destination in mind. He followed one street after the other, randomly turning corners, unmindful of his surroundings. Finally he ended in a small park barely two blocks from his house. Mark had walked a great distance in an irregular, looping circle. He sat on a lonely bench and stared into the dark. The sense of loss would not leave him.

Suddenly a spotlight shone on his face. "You okay?" a man's voice called.

He blinked his eyes and shaded his face from the intrusive glare. "You have any ID on you?" a second voice asked, not too pleasantly.

"I have no identification with me," he answered hesitantly. "I live two blocks from here and I can go get it for you."

"Yeah, yeah you come on down to the station with us and we'll get it all straightened out." Two sets of hands grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him up off the bench. Too shocked and surprised to protest, Mark did not resist.

Four hands grabbed him and shoved him toward the waiting police cruiser. The back door opened and Mark was unceremoniously dumped into the back seat. "Wait, what are you doing?" he exclaimed. No one had ever handled him like these two just did. "Shut up back there," the cop on the passenger side ordered and gave Mark a contemptuous look.

Mark Panicked. He screamed as loud as he could, "Help! I'm being kidnapped, help!" Panic stricken he beat and kicked against the mesh separating the front of the car from the back. "Help me! Help me!"

The car slammed to a stop and the fat driver got out. He jerked open the back door, grabbed Mark by the shoulder and shook him hard. "Shut up bitch boy," he ordered. In his terror-ridden hysteria, Mark twisted and kicked at the cop's face. When he ducked the kick, the cop lost his balance and tripped over his own feet and fell forward. His head hit the squad car's doorframe. The cop had knocked himself unconscious.

The fat cop's partner hurried around and shoved the young man back into the car and slammed the door shut. "Oh shit, Dwight, you okay?" he asked his downed partner. There was no answer from the still form.

He got into the car on the driver's side, grabbed the mike off the dash and called in, "Dispatch, I got an officer down and in need of medical treatment."

"Is that you, Randolph?" the dispatcher asked. "Is it your lard-laden-doughnut-freak-of-a-partner who is down? What did he do, explode from all those creamy pastries he shoves in his face all the time?"

"Naw, a pretty boy kicked him and knocked him out. He's high on crystal or something. I mean the pretty boy, not Dwight. Dwight don't do drugs, not that I ever seen. He's laying up here in the middle of the street and he don't look too good I think. I mean Dwight don't look too good, not the pretty boy."

"Give me your twenty and I'll dispatch the paramedics to you ASAP." The dispatcher chuckled, and then continued, "After all the hookers and gay hustlers that lard ass had pounded on, it's about time he got some back."

Minutes later an ambulance arrived. One of the paramedics griped, "Christ, if we can't lift him up into the ambulance, maybe you could just roll him downhill to the hospital."

Still screaming his hysteria, Mark pounded on the door and tried to get out. The ambulance driver told Randolph. "Maybe you ought to bring him along and get him checked in. He really looks like he is about to explode."

"Nah," Randolph answered, "He's just another ho boy that smoked too much rock. He'll come back down to earth by court time tomorrow morning.

Then, still in the throes of hysteria, Mark began to hyperventilate, the world turned black as he passed out. Thankful for the silence, Randolph drove to the city jail and booked his prisoner in. Mark was charged with prostitution and dumped in the drunk tank. There his forehead and cheek struck the wooden bench running the length of the drunk tank with a dull, sodden "Thonk."

Happy with another righteous bust, the cop returned to his cruiser and drove slowly away, glad to protect the city from yet another male whore out wandering around loose in a rich neighborhood. I hope to fuck he's a hustler, Randolph thought to himself. If he isn't we are in a world of trouble. Then he decided the punk had to be a whore. No rich kid would dress in wrinkly old clothes like what one had on. He went to check on his partner.

Mark regained consciousness in small increments. His face hurt and his left eye wouldn't open. He could not breath through his nose. It felt stuffed. The left side of his cheek and forehead were swollen. Every inch of his body felt stiff and he hurt all over. His body refused to work properly. Mark became aware he was lying on a hard, unpainted concrete floor that smelled of disinfectant and fear. Mark was confused. He lay still on the hard concrete floor, unmoving as he tried to get his bearings. Finally he forced himself to sit up and look at his surroundings through his right eye. The left one would not open for some reason.

While he was still struggling with the reality of where he was, the tank door was unlocked with a loud click. "Okay, listen up and get in line," a man's hoarse voice rasped at them. Years of harsh tobacco and cheap whiskey had permanently ruined his vocal chords. "It's happy hour. You want to see the judge, get in line, and first come first serve. If you don't want to see the judge, tough shit, you're going to see the judge anyway; so get in line."

Hesitantly, Mark got in line at the very back. Still dazed he waited with his head bent for the line to move forward. At last it was his turn to be cuffed to the man who had stood in line in front of him. "Come on, get your asses in gear," the raspy voice commanded.

The guard herded them down a long corridor, through the steel security door and into a courtroom. This was all a dream; it had to be. Mark sat in the end chair, numb and silent. When they were released from their cuffs, the chains dropped to the floor with a noisy clatter. There was a hushed sense of dread and fear, mixed with little hope as they waited for the judge to make his appearance.

The drunk next to him mumbled, "Oh god, I hope the old son of a bitch don't have a hangover this morning." Mark looked at his neighbor in the adjoining seat and did not answer.

"All rise," a man called in a bored voice and repeated the litany said by him so many times before, ending with, "the Honorable Judge Burton Barton presiding."

Mark's heart raced and he felt something more than despair for the first time. "Judge Barton," he called, "It's me, Mark Cantrell, Joshua Cantrell's son. Please help me; the police beat up on me! Please!"

A guard hurried over to Mark and shoved him back down in his seat. "Sit there and shut up," he ordered.

Mark jumped back to her feet and screamed, "Please, Judge Barton, it's me, Mark Cantrell! The police beat me!" The guard shoved Mark hard sideways. Mark stumbled and fell. His forehead struck hard on the heavy oak railing built to be a barrier between the prisoners and the rest of the courtroom. Blackness claimed him once more.