Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
Texas
Both of the other women in the cell are too big to get into the top bunk. In the morning, Celia wakes up looking at the ceiling, six inches from her face. A warden delivers baggies of cornflakes and small cartons of milk. No spoons. Standing beside the stainless-steel toilet, holding the milk in one hand and the baggy in the other, Celia asks, “How many charges are there against me?” It could be resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer, public mischief.
“I’ll go and find out,” the warden replies, pushing the metal food cart on to the next cell.
Half an hour later, the warden returns. “Just the one.”
“Which one?” Celia asks.
“I don’t know.”
Shackled at the wrists and ankles, Celia is added to a line of women—all wearing loose green tops and drawstring pants. They are taken through the murky jail complex, men in another sector calling out, coughing, swearing. In the brightly lit courtroom, the lineup choreographs onto several benches. High ceilings, lots of wood. The judge rules case by case. Details are read, including the part where Celia wriggled out of the handcuffs in the back of the police car saying, “Na na na na na.” The lawyer doesn’t seem to like saying, “Na na na na na.” Celia is found guilty.
Waiting to use the payphone in the common area of the cells, Celia listens to women arranging childcare, dealing with abusive partners, promising, pleading. Negotiating the day. Release. Reconciliation.
Celia dials Paul’s number in Vancouver. When he answers, an automated voice announces, “This phone call is from a corrections facility. Do you wish to accept the call?”
“No,” Paul says.
He can’t hear her. She dials again. He does not accept the call. She has two numbers—the other one is King’s, the drummer in the Butthole Surfers. Celia leaves a message on his machine.
“Please help me. I’m in jail.”
Lunch is a slice of bologna between two pieces of Wonder Bread.
Days later, from a pay phone at the club in Houston, Celia asks Paul why he didn’t accept the call.
“I thought it was from a collections facility.”
“But you’ve never even been in debt.”
