Ninth of December

It’s Sunday, November 23rd, just four days until Thanksgiving. I’m planning to go to my parents’ house for the holiday. I have a million thoughts running through my head concerning the turkey-and-stuffing-filled revelry. I’m sure it will be lovely.

Depression is getting the best of me today.

I woke up at eight this morning and got a few things done. By 11 a.m., I was ready to slip back under the covers, but the thought of sleeping the day away unproductively sickened me. Not all that long ago, I’d stay in bed during the daylight hours after being up all night putting my nose to a dirty, rolled-up dollar bill and snorting cocaine off of a ceramic plate, complete with a hint of dish soap.

I don’t live that way today, and I see no reason to lie down in a bed, which, at times, feels like my coffin.

I got laid off from my job back in July. Yes, the same job for which I moved to New Jersey. I uprooted my life in North Carolina, where I lived for 30 years, for an employer who decided that they didn’t need me after only five months of employment.

I understand; it’s business, but it doesn’t mean it feels good.

Since my paycheck stopped mid-summer, I’ve picked up work that I can find and have managed to keep moving forward. I’ve delivered pizzas, I’ve swept ice rinks, and I even have done some work in the television industry.

Most recently, I applied to be a substitute teacher in the Freehold Regional School District, the same folks who issued my high school diploma back in 1988.

Not to be, I guess.

Let’s go back to February 28, 2023, Southeast Georgia.

I had done a live shot that morning for Fox and Friends with Lynyrd Skynyrd frontman Johnny Van Zant in Jacksonville, Florida. The remote was flawless, and I got a photo taken with a real-life rock star. A great morning, by all accounts.

So, I’m driving home towards Raleigh on I-95 North, in a great mood, music up loud, and for whatever reason, I start purposely swerving the satellite truck from lane to lane.

I wasn’t five miles over the Florida State Line and into the Peach State when I was pulled over by a Camden County Sheriff’s Deputy.

Seeing the blue lights behind me, I pulled over and came to a stop on the highway’s shoulder.

An officer carefully approached my driver’s side window. “License and registration, please.” I supplied the documentation on demand.

“Do you know why I stopped you?” he continued.

“Yes, sir, I was swerving,” I responded softly and respectfully.

At that point in the interaction, he asked me if I had anything to drink or was under the influence of any drugs, legal or otherwise, to which I answered, “No,” truthfully, and amazingly for the time.

The officer then went back to his car; I watched him in my side view mirror. It was a long and anxious six or seven minutes, even though I knew the only crimes I was guilty of were being excited and repeatedly changing lanes. Nothing more than uncontrolled emotion and a minor traffic violation.

The officer then reappeared on my left. “Please exit the car, hands first, and place them on the hood.”

I obliged.

After frisking me, the officer asked if he could search my vehicle, to which I consented. I wasn’t drunk, and I wasn’t high, and I wasn’t in possession of anything. I had nothing to hide.

After rifling through piles of television equipment and opening every bag in the vehicle for what seemed like an eternity and, in reality, was only approximately 30 minutes, the officer emerged and instructed me to place my hands on top of my head. He then cuffed me and showed me a straw, cut at an angle, with a flake of white residue on the tip.

He explained to me that I was being arrested for Possession of Cocaine and Driving Under the Influence of a controlled substance.

By this time, backup had arrived.

I was placed up against the side of the patrol vehicle, my stomach pressing against the windows, my head turned to the left and resting on the roof. The officers were so close to me; I could feel their breath on my face.

I was read my rights as the cars rushed by me on the busy interstate, as did my entire life through my head.

I watched as the arresting officer handed the other the evidence bag with the straw in it. “Is this ALL you found?” the assisting officer asked. “Yes, and he’s going to jail for it,” was the seemingly pleased response.

Next, I was taken to a local firehouse where a vial of my blood was drawn for testing. Then it was off to the Camden County Jail. It was three long days before I received a bond hearing. Bail was set at $12,000, and I was released two hours later.

I imagine my blood came back clean, like I said it would, because I was never charged with Driving Under the Influence, and the Public Defender handling my case told me the statute of limitations ran out in February 2025.

As for the possession charge, I’ve never even had a first court appearance on it. The lawyer tells me the statute of limitations on that one runs out in February 2027. He says, “Be patient.”

Patience, yeah. Easy for him to say. He has a job.

I have no criminal record. Guilty of nothing more than a speeding ticket, and I haven’t even had one of those in years, yet I’m treated as if I’m a convicted felon when it comes to employment.

I have 30 years of experience in radio and television; I get second and third interviews with potential employers, only for it to end each time at the background check. I did land a job a couple of years ago with a satellite truck company, a prominent one. They fired me after two weeks, saying their insurance carrier found something when conducting a background check and described me as being “unemployable and uninsurable.”

I was excited about the substitute teaching position; I really was. I felt like I had something to offer the kids while also being able to earn a living.

Mass murder, a flake of cocaine on a straw, is there a difference? Neither offender is getting a job…

“In St. James Parish, I was born and christened. I got my story, mister, there ain’t no need for you to listen…”