BY KEITH EVANS
It’s pretty much a peaceful, fair weathered late afternoon. I’m travelling to Northwest Indiana’s beloved county seat, Crown Point, for what was described to me as a “routine visit” to the probation officer. On the way, as I fiddle with the tuner button on the radio, a goddamn Akon song seeps thru the speakers Before I can change the station, he’s able to bellow out his signature “Convict Music” intro (Red Flag #1).
Upon arriving into the CP city limits, after talking to the mother of my child on the phone (Red Flag #2), I get a call from a friend, asking if I wanna go to a Sox game (aka 1st abandoned chance at escape). I decline, cuz like a good boy, I need to see my probation officer. I park and enter the court building, following in such footsteps as Johnny Depp, John Dillinger, and probably 800 alcohol abusers named John. I walk into the clerk’s office, give my name, to which everyone looks at me as if we’re in that scene in Blow when they’re playing cards and George Young discusses the proverbial “one last pickup” before he exits the drug game to be a dad to his daughter. Again, I resemble Johnny Depp.
With her head bowed, the lady asks me to skip the court room and have a seat. Everyone else is waiting in the lobby (Red Flag #3). I gotta pee, but I wait (aka 2nd abandoned chance at escape). I can see the CP cops pull up, not park. They only do this for two reasons, to be an inmate to court or to take a civilian to jail. I subconsciously smell a set up. Apparently, I have a bench warrant from a court (Merrillville) that, according to my lawyer, had been dismissed. A warrant that my probation officer could’ve easily informed me of when she called me a week prior to scheduling this small town “sting” operation. A warrant that, had I been told, could’ve been fixed with a visit to Merrillville court. Nevertheless, I’m arrested and the next few actions are as follows…
1. The next morning I go to court (Lake County), I’m sentenced to a year, do six months, minus the two months I did when I actually committed the crime, which makes four months, which is October 18th.
2. After a parade of begging, I’m granted to at least be placed in a work release (a process where I can work at my job then go back to jail every night).
3. A week later, I go to Merrillville court. My “dismissed” case can’t be dismissed until my lawyer returns from his Greece vacation. I pray he is ass raped on the way back.
Meanwhile, as I sit in my brand new, 10 square foot apartment, complete with cement and stain filled steel décor, so much is happening on the outs. This very blog you are reading is starting to pick up major steam (which for I thank you so much). The DigitalLizardProductions.com website is in a fuller effect than ever. On a downside, I completely missed the massive comedy festival in Chicago (Sorry Beena and Aziz). The mover of my child is acting like…, well… the mother of a child whose dad went to jail. On one hand, I get it, however, it is discouraging when I’m constantly encountering felons with heavily committed/supportive “baby’s mommas” regardless of the mistreatments and beatings these chicks receive. I’m surely no Ward Cleaver of Heathcliff Huxtable, but I’m far from a Scott Peterson or Joe Jackson.
I was told to “stop chasing this comedy shit”, which I’d have to say, was well worded, because had she worded it “stop chasing your dreams”, then she wouldn’t be able to justify her statement to anyone. Well played. Let it be known, I won’t stop chasing shit I believe in. In my mind, teaching my daughter to stop chasing what she wants would make me as bad of an influence as beating the shit out of her from my Appleton, WI cabin (hint, hint). My daughter should be taught that if you want something, faith, persistence, commitment, and hard work will buy it for you. Hell, that’s how my daughter’s mom got in my pants in the first place.
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