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First time I went to jail I was fourteen years old.
First one in my family to go, I think. My father never went. Grandfather neither.
There was a great-great-great uncle that went in. But that was back in the 1870's. Him and about 70 other Kiowas, Cheyennes and Arapahoes were shipped out to Fort Marion prison in Florida for fighting with the cavalry. Prisoners of war they called 'em back then.
They sent me to juvenile hall, or "juvy" for short. Possession of an illegal substance. County was next, but I didn't land there 'till I was 18.
My Dad showed up to take a look at me in those orange county-jail pajamas, waved and went back home.
Lookin' back now I have to say he did the right thing letting me sit there and stew. It was a quick lesson on actions and consequences that day.
All in all by twenty-three I'd been caught with a controlled substance, arrested for two petty thefts, and charged with inciting a riot. None of 'em were felonies, and I admit to all charges regardless of how ridiculous a few of them are, but the last time I got arrested, the fifth time, I was innocent. Truly.
An expired inspection sticker got me pulled over. A bounced check to Wal-Mart got me arrested. It was four days before I got bailed out.
I knew I hadn't written that check, it was five years old from Burnett, Texas, and I'd only been to Burnett once to visit my friend Charles.
It took me a long time to figure it out, but luckily I had a few days to sit around and ponder those difficult questions. I couldn't say for sure the signature on the check was in Charles' handwriting, but it sure wasn't mine.
I'd known Charles for almost five years. We'd lived together off and on in various places for almost the entire time. He'd lived with my family, and with friends.
We looked alike in a lot of ways - same color hair, same eye's, same skin color. He was from a different tribe then me but when we swapped checkbooks and I.D.'s, cashiers didn't look too hard to see how close the picture matched.
He was border-line sociopath and the only person in my life that could intimidate me, but in a lot of ways we were the same person.
I never got a chance to tell Charles about those four days in jail; and I well would've liked to.
Charles took a trip down to Brownsville, Texas somewhere around 2000 and died in a motel room. Rumor has it that it was an overdose.
If he'd still been alive I'd like to think I'd be mad at him. But I can't really. He'd written that check five years before I got arrested for it. And died three years after writing it.
If I had a way to talk to Charles nowadays, I'd probably tell him "better you then me."
It's hard to compare yourself now with the person you used to be. Sometimes it feels like you're watching a movie when you remember those times.
Hard times, good times, wasted times.
I know when I look back I see that Charles and I were the same person. We just went separate ways. Looks like I picked the better option.
My father always told me not to say they names of the dead. It calls them back to you.
You can talk about somebody, just don't say their name.
Charles' isn't really his name, but I don't say it because I don't want him hearing me.
He isn't a part of this world anymore.
I am.
He doesn't need to come back.
And I have things to do before I join him.