The first two times I was arrested, I went to the Mountain Brook jail.
Now, if you’re going to jail, Mountain Brook isn’t the worst place to start.
They brought me meals from the Piggly Wiggly in Crestline. Nice, big, hot, crispy chicken fingers.
I’m talking about actual chicken fingers. Not something that required a forensic examination to determine whether it had ever been a chicken.
And I had the place to myself.
No other inmates.
The first time, I spent one night. The second time, five nights.
Then they transferred me to Jefferson County Jail.
A whole different ballgame.
I had never really been in a fight before.
I had wrestled in eighth grade. I was a wrestling champion, although I should probably clarify that this was gym class, not the Olympics.
I’d also been through fraternity pledgeship at Delta Kappa Epsilon at the University of Alabama. There had been mental hazing and physical hazing.
So I wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with intimidation or physical discomfort.
But I’d never been punched in the face.
That was different.
And it scared me.
I was involved in two fights at Jefferson County Jail. I don’t particularly like describing them as simply getting beaten up. People fight. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes the experience teaches you something you never wanted to learn.
What stayed with me wasn’t some dramatic story about how tough I was.
It was the fear.
One minute, I was a man who had never been punched in the face. Then I was a man who knew what that felt like.
There’s a difference.
And somewhere between the hot chicken fingers at Mountain Brook and the reality of Jefferson County Jail, I began learning just how different two places called jail could be.
One had felt almost surreal in its comfort and solitude.
The other introduced me to a world I had never experienced.
I’m still figuring out what that experience taught me.
But I know one thing.
I’ll never look at a plate of Piggly Wiggly chicken fingers quite the same way again.
JC
