Stay : Sweaty Ham and Oprah for Paris?

(originally published in the Los Angeles Daily News, June 2007)

Paris Hilton and I have two things in common.  We share the same birthday, February 17th 1981, and we were both sentenced to jail for drunk driving related offences.  I had the displeasure of committing my crime in Ventura County, California, a county that has a particular chip on its shoulder for drunk drivers.  I did not need to violate my probation, as did Ms. Hilton, in order to receive jail time.  I actually chose jail because the idea of paying to work by the side of the road for five days did not appeal to me.  Also, I wanted to always remember the ordeal, as to never repeat it.  So, off I went, to jail.

Never mind how I got my DUI.  That’s between me and the Fourth of July party that I left, just before.  Suffice it to say, I broke the law and they caught me red handed.  I spent four hours in a Simi Valley jail on the night of the offence, before the kind folks at the Sheriff’s department released me into the Simi Valley darkness at 4am, car-less, with only a polo shirt, swim trunks, flip flops, and a cell phone to my name.

Later, during my glorious trial, I pled guilty and was sentenced.  I reported for jail a few weeks later, on a Monday evening.  It was about 7pm.  My friend Shireen drove me from my place in Los Angeles to Ventura.  Fortunately, she owns a hybrid.  With me, I brought only my ID, house keys, and cell phone.  Shireen gave me a sad hug.  I felt like I was going off to war.

My time served in jail was uneventful, yet marked with a few great moments.

One of those great moments was when a jailing officer, let’s call him Jim, ordered us to remove our clothes and followed with, “Now I’m going to eat this candy bar,” Jim produced a Twix, “And then I’m going to search you.”  We then proceeded to remove our clothes, one article at a time, while Jim ate his Twix bars.  The last thing we were asked before getting dressed again was “raise your sack.”  Jim inspected our scrotums to see what we might have smuggled in for our stay.

I was then issued my jail-wear (Paris will not like this part). A fellow inmate, put in charge of handing out orange jail jumpsuits to the fresh recruits, asked me, “Hey holmes, you want Tour de France or Gangsta.“  I hesitated for a moment and considered my options.  I gathered he meant baggy or tight jail-wear.  I thought it best to side with the Gangstas.  I later discovered that, much to my obvious dismay, violent offenders were kept in a separate part of the jail.

The entire booking process lasted about 13 hours.  In booking cells, sometimes ten or fifteen people occupied a cell at once.  Each cell was about 6’ by 12’ and held a single stainless steel toilet, no seat, with a 3’ dividing wall for “privacy.”  Rolls of toilet paper were almost immediately absconded by someone and used as a pillow.  Time went by very slowly, but you were periodically called out to do fun things like signing your name, answering questions about tattoos, and taking pictures (Paris will love this part).

Once inside jail proper, we were assigned a cell.  The jailers also issued us a ragged yellow blanket and green foam pad for sleeping.  The brand name on the green pad read: Bob Barker flameproof mattresses.  Who knew Bob Barker manufactured jail beds?  That guy never ceases to amaze me. 

During lock down, the jailed were only allowed to move about inside our cells.  The skinny steel doors closed automatically, following a friendly warning from the jailer, and there you remained for hours at a time.  My cellmate was a Spanish-speaking fellow named Pedro.  He and I mostly discussed movies.  We both shared a yen for middle-90s Michael Bay flicks.  He was more partial to Bad Boys, but I’ve always been a fan of The Rock.

When not locked down, the jailed were permitted to hang out together in a shared room, with tables, chairs, board games, and a single television set.  A group of guys used Uno cards to play Texas Hold ‘Em.  Twice during my stay, the room fell silent as the TV was tuned into Dr. Phil.  I will never forget the look of some many criminals, so spellbound by that mustachioed, Texan talk show host.

What intrigued me most was the common decency that all the jailed had toward each other.  They spoke of horror stories in other jails, outdoor furlough sentences in the bitter cold, awful inedible food, but they all seemed to agree that the accommodations in Ventura County Jail were tip-top.  Here, the jailed were permitted to receive prescription medication, including certain painkillers and muscle-relaxants.  These were treated as currency and circulated freely.  I decided to keep myself out of that particular loop.  I mostly went to my cell and thought about what I did.

To my complete surprise, the food was appalling.  I elected to eat very little of it.  It seemed like every meal was a slab of sweaty ham paired with a piece of fruit.  I drank, from a short plastic cup, a purple “juice.”  I also ate the bread when it came around.  It was wheat bread, and I am usually more inclined to enjoy sourdough, but hey, its jail, what can you do?  I gave most of my food to Pedro.

When my 48 hours were up, I became a little antsy.  I paced in my cell during lockdown.  Later, when released in the TV room, I knocked on the window and tried to explain, through the bulletproof glass, that my time was served and I was ready to leave.  It was difficult to get the jailer’s attention.  Once I had it, I was commanded over a public address system to, “Step away from the window and get back in your cell.”  Still, knowing I was in the right, I persisted.  This led to cries from the other jailed of “They’ll just make you stay longer,” and “Now you won’t get out until tomorrow morning.”

I explained to my fellow jailed that, no, I would need to be on my way soon, as I had someone waiting to drive me home.  Several others let me know that they would be staying for many more months, and then advised me to “sit down and shut up.”  I went back to my cell and paced.  Eventually, after several more hours and much more pacing, my name was eventually called and I was ordered to “roll it up.”  I picked up my ragged yellow blanket and Bob Barker jail mattress, and skipped gingerly toward the open door of freedom.

Although my time served was only 48 hours, I know that I learned a great deal from my stay.  Sometimes I worry if Pedro is getting enough to eat.  Granted, Paris, your stay will be a touch longer, but you get to stay in Los Angeles County Celebrity Jail.  I hear in there the ham is not so sweaty and they let you watch Oprah, too.

written by Zachary Urbina