The House of the Rising Sun

I never planned to spend a night in jail, but then again, few seventeen-year-olds do. Most people never see the inside of a cell unless it is on television, and that is probably a good thing. It is certainly not the Marriott. Still, I can honestly say I have done time in ‘the Big House’.

It all started with a heartbreak. My first, in fact. She was the prettiest girl in my class, and for two glorious weeks, I thought we were destined for greatness. Then, just as quickly, she decided her destiny did not include me. Crushed and melodramatic in the way only teenagers can be, I filled the tank of my ’65 Comet, and set off on a road trip to clear my mind.

Three weeks of summer stretched ahead, and the open road felt like the cure for everything. Somewhere in Kentucky, however, reality hit me: I had enough money for gas and food, nothing more. Hotel rooms, at a luxurious seven dollars a night, were out of the question. The back seat of the Comet would have to serve as my personal Holiday Inn.

I drove until I found the perfect spot, a quiet schoolyard with no other cars in sight. It was peaceful, dark, and just secluded enough to seem safe. I fell asleep without much thought. Around three in the morning, a scraping sound jolted me awake. Half-asleep, I opened the door and came face to face with two men removing my hubcaps.

We stared at each other for a heartbeat before they bolted for their car and vanished into the night. I stood there, relieved nothing worse had happened, and began reattaching the hubcap. That is when the red lights appeared. A police cruiser rolled up, and an officer’s voice cut through the night air: “Hands against the car.”

No amount of explaining seemed to help. Minutes later, I was sitting in the back of the cruiser, trying to convince the officer that the car was indeed mine, and that I was the victim, not the thief. Visions of Cool Hand Luke drifted through my mind. Eventually, the officer chuckled, shook his head, and told me to come along.

At the small-town police station, he offered a cell, not locked, but symbolic enough to feel like a real sentence. I accepted, stretched out on the narrow bench, and tried to imagine how I would tell this story back home.

In the morning, the officer appeared with biscuits and coffee, smiling in a way that told me he had been amused all along. “Okay, Canada,” he said in a perfect Sgt. Prestondrawl. “Enjoy your breakfast and be on your way. Remember, sleep with one eye open.”

I took his advice to heart. But I also learned something else that night: sometimes, even in a Kentucky jail, you can find kindness… and a pretty good cup of coffee.