In the Jefferson County Jail, G Hicks would save me a place in the phone line and hand me the phone after his turn. This one goes out to him.
G showed me the ropes. Nobody walks into a new place knowing how it works. You can read every rule on the wall and still have no idea how the place actually runs. You need somebody who has been there and cares enough to walk you through it. G was that person for me. He still is.
He told me how to get a new towel and new clothes. Small things, unless you are the one who needs them. When you have almost nothing, a clean towel is a major life event. Before G, I had been drying off with optimism.
We always ate together. We exercised together in the mornings. Eating with G meant I was not facing the meal trading alone, which, given my record as a trader, was a significant economic advantage.
G is a strong Christian man. The woman he loved was fighting a brain tumor while he was in there. He was carrying that weight and still had room to help me carry mine. Some men would have turned inward. G turned outward. I call that the Holy Spirit at work in a man.
When I think about the Good Samaritan, I think about the man who stopped. G crossed the road for me. In Jefferson County the road was a cell block, and he crossed it every day.
So how did Captain JC get there in the first place? You picture jail as a place for masterminds. My charges were a store-bought vape and a speeding ticket. Somewhere out there is a criminal who has done real damage, eating dinner right now with a clear conscience and a full bank account.
I got beat up in jail. Twice. Once could be bad luck. Twice suggests a pattern, and the pattern is me. I have now been punched by more people than I ever sold anything to, and I was in sales for years.
Then came the long stay in Montgomery. Hendrix had “If 6 Was 9.” That many days is not a stay. It is a semester. I came out knowing every flavor of pudding and which chair catches the afternoon sun.
My credit got ruined. I used to think of my credit score as a number. Now I think of it as a weather report for a town nobody wants to visit. Somewhere a computer looked at my name and whispered, Absolutely not. I respect the computer. It was honest with me up front.
And then the big one. I lost custody of my daughters, temporarily.
There is no joke here. I looked for one. I turned this over a hundred times like a rock on a creek bed, hoping something funny was underneath. There was only the word temporarily, which I am holding onto with both hands. Temporarily is a door, not a wall. I will keep knocking, politely, persistently, and in the proper way, for as long as it takes.
I was in a psych ward in 2009 and again in 2011. At this point I am less a patient and more a returning customer. I should have a punch card.
So here is where the captain stands. No car. No bank account. Credit score in the basement, feeling around for the light switch. A custody matter I intend to see through.
And I am still standing.
Because I am a Christian and not just an angry man with a motorcycle, I take a breath and remember who actually runs the world. It is not the bank or the credit bureau. It is not the impound lot, though the impound lot clearly believes it is.
I have spent a lot of entries telling you about the people God sent. Billy, who answered the phone. Brandon, who brought the chicken and the smile. Tish and the Montgomery crew. And G, who showed me the ropes. Every time the ship went down, somebody threw a rope. I did not deserve most of them. That is what makes them grace.
G, I am eternally grateful. I am praying for you, brother, and for the woman you love. He always had a Bible verse that got me going, and he always reminded me that God had plans for me. Here is the one he gave me most.
“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.”
Jeremiah 29:11 (KJV)
Captain JC, continuing the voyage.
— JC
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