The curtain rises on our dual protagonist/antagonist, sitting in a bar. Or maybe he's at home. Or in a $50-per-night motel room with a hooker. Doesn't matter where; every story begins a bit differently. But he's drinking. Maybe he's drinking a lot. Maybe just a little. But he's drinking. Doesn't matter how much; every story begins a bit differently. Maybe he's drinking to nurse a wounded heart, to get away from himself, or because he's angry or sad or just relaxing with a couple of buddies. Doesn't matter why; every story begins a bit differently.
But they almost always take the same, stark, stupid twist.
Our protagonist/antagonist gets behind the wheel of a car. He feels fine to drive. No problem—he's done it before. Everyone does it. But then red lights suddenly pop up in his rearview mirror. His first thought is “They're not for me.” But the cop car doesn't speed up. Those lights are for him.
Flash forward. He's arrested on suspicion of driving under the influence. Cuffs are slapped on, and the patrol car he is placed in arrives at Orange County Jail.
And this is where this tragedy kicks into high gear. He's at the Santa Ana facility's Intake and Release Center (IRC), a fancy term for what is collectively referred to as the Loop. The next few scenes fly by in a blur, yet they drag on, agonizingly slow. He is shuttled from room to room, lit by glaring fluorescent lights, equipped with a couple of concrete benches and, depending on the size of the room, one or two metal shitters that, invariably, have no toilet paper or are clogged with God-knows-what substances.
He is booked and processed, a fancy term for the jail's routine practice of making this experience the most dehumanizing one this side of torture. The first deputy chides him for fucking up. He's screened for tuberculosis and asked questions ranging from his sexual preference to what medications he's on. He's asked about gang affiliations, whether he feels suicidal, whether there's anyone he owes money to who might want to hurt him. He is told to remove his clothes and given dingy orange jail garb. He's lucky enough to be fed twice, two meals in a sack consisting of a small carton of milk, an unripe orange and four pieces of soggy bread with some kind of mystery whitish meat.
And all the while, he's moved from cold, ugly room to cold, ugly room, filled with an assortment of supporting characters, from young dudes who think they punched their girlfriend in the face and tweakers arrested for drug possession to homeless guys who got popped for a probation violation and others who aren't quite clear why they're there. Some are obviously experienced with the situation, offering advice, commiserating, sharing. Some are funny and charismatic; others are angry or clearly high. There are wide-eyed, scared-shitless ones and passed-out ones.
Our protagonist/antagonist just sits and observes.
And quickly realizes something: The true obstacles in this narrative aren't the people who fucked up or who are suspected of fucking up, who he's temporarily housed with. A solidarity of sorts instantly develops between them. Regardless of their race, background, perceived offense or history, it's an us-vs.-them mindset (at least before the Mexican Mafia or Aryan Brotherhood start recruiting). And the them are the deputies who staff the jail. They are in complete control, and they wield that power with pleasure. Any complaint about an inoperative shitter is dismissed curtly: “Yep, you got a problem.” They constantly snipe at inmates for their appearance or perceived offense. Any question, appeal or comment is immediately berated or ignored. While our antagonist/protagonist sees no physical violence inflicted, he hears stories and feels as if the threat is always there.
He eventually gets bailed out. He has spent 12 hours in this hellhole, and he has no idea how long he would have spent before being processed into the actual jail.
Our story ends with him released onto the streets of Santa Ana. He is grateful beyond comprehension for a friend who showed up with a large amount of money to spring him. But he's also mired in shame for fucking up and filled with trepidation about the long, costly ordeal that will soon begin.
Literarily speaking, his story is a tragedy. One's own actions result in an unexpected, disastrous outcome. Thematically, it is a story about man vs. himself, as well as man vs. the system. Of how a stupid choice can derail your life, how once you're caught up in the system, you lose complete control and individuality. And how any system with so much power invariably exercises it in the cruelest and most impersonal of ways.
But, ultimately, it's a story that reminds us, once again, of a stark and sobering reality: Don't drink and drive. For if you are popped, for whatever reason, your story will end like every other: You are fucked.
