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When we
left off, I had just been busted for possession of alcohol that technically
wasn't even mine on the first night of school. I was lucky enough to be
offered the PTI Program that South Carolina offers to minor offenses such as
this. At least, I thought I was lucky.
My arresting officer (Jesus, just
saying that makes me feel like such a thug) described the program as "you
pay three hundred dollars, you go to a few meetings, and you're done." And,
for some reason, probably the fact that I was inebriated, it made a lot of
sense, so I agreed. I later learned that the worst penalty that I could have
faced had I not agreed was the loss of my license for ninety days. Needless
to say, I made the wrong decision.
So, here's what PTI's really all
about. First off, it stands for Pre-Trial Intervention. Second, most people
don't use it for a "crime" as simple as mine. I learned during the prison
tour (yes, a real "Oz," rampant sodomy prison) that the majority of the
people were there for far worse crimes, the majority of which seemed to be
domestic violence. One kid, and I mean kid, he couldn't have been more than
14 or 15, claimed he was there for "lynching." That was the only time I ever
saw an entire room, including a couple hardened prisoners, do a double take.
I'm just going to assume that lynching doesn't mean what it used to mean
anymore.
Anyway, the fee was, indeed, three
hundred dollars. To get in. Then, you had to pay a fifty dollar processing
fee, forty dollars here, sixty dollars there. By the end, I probably spent
over six hundred dollars. Okay, my parents spent over six hundred dollars.
The program itself was just a wee bit
more than a few meetings. The cop failed to tell me about the aforementioned
prison tour, the obstacle course, the random drug tests, the D.U.I. class,
and the fifty hours of community service.
The prison tour was about as exciting
as it sounds like it would be. A group of us walked around a medium-sized
prison, checking out the negative aspects of prison life. The majority of
the tour consisted of walking around and letting the prisoners make fun of
us, which was very easy, considering they made us all hold hands. They
claimed it was for safety, though I get the feeling if a riot broke out, not
many of us would be too awfully worried about our "buddy." Basically, I had
to waste an entire day during my Christmas break being taught that going to
prison isn't a good thing. Thanks much, state of South Carolina, maybe for
spring break I can pay you to give me a two-day seminar on why I shouldn't
put a blindfold on and do some back-flips across a highway. Yeah, you could
say I'm bitter.
The obstacle course wasn't quite as
bad, though it wasn't exactly fun. A group of us criminals gathered in a
camp in the middle of nowhere to go through some tests that were supposed to
make us better people somehow. The only thing I learned is that there are
very creative ways to waste forty-five bucks. One funny occurrence: when we
were meeting in the morning, we all went to a mess hall that was populated
with regular campers (what they were doing there in the middle of March, I'm
not sure). When we came in there, a camp counselor looked at us, realized
who we were, and quickly shuffled us all to the far corner, as far away as
possible from the real, law-abiding citizens. When I later went to look for
a bathroom, I expected to see a sign that said "no drinkers allowed." The
same thing happened at lunch. They were treating us like we were a pack of
vicious puppy-killers, instead of a bunch of kids who got caught with some
beer or weed. Then I remembered the "lynch" guy was there, and it started to
make a little more sense.
This all sounds bad enough (shut up,
you weren't there), but there's more to the story. Rather than completely
drying out after our first brush with the law, my roommates decided we
should just drink only in our apartment. For college students, our reasoning
skills weren't too great. About a month later, our apartment was strewn with
beer cans, and there was a stack of empty boxes about waist-high right in
the doorway. In all honesty, I only drank one, maybe two beers out of all of
this. But, still, this was enough to get me busted.
On September 11th, around 11:00 at
night, I was in my apartment trying to get in touch with my brother, who
works in New York. At the time I didn't have any clue where he worked in
relation to the World Trade Center, so I was freaking out (he was nowhere
near it, thank God), and the whole tragedy pretty much wrecked me
emotionally. My roommates felt they needed to do their part to help by going
out and getting drunk. There was a knock on the door, and without thinking I
opened it widely, only to find the cop that had busted me standing there.
Apparently, he had a question about PTI, but his motives changed greatly
once he noticed the cans and boxes. Technically, we didn't have any beer in
there, so we got busted for not recycling, I guess.
At my second meeting with the housing
official in less than a month, we were going through the motions, "do you
know why you're here, blah, blah, blah." I was thinking about the World
Politics test I needed to study for that night, figuring I'd get a slap on
the wrist, maybe a few work hours or something.
"Danny, I'm going to recommend that
you see the on-campus psychiatrist for at least three sessions."
Heh? Well, she said 'recommend,' so
it's not mandatory, right?
"No, it's mandatory."
So, now, not only am I doing PTI, now
I have to sit through a bunch of psychobabble from some moron. Life totally
sucks right now. It can't possibly get any worse.
I need to learn to stop saying that
to myself.
To be concluded….
Next week: Hard labor, a startling
discovery, and peeing in front of strangers. |
