YOUR NEW NAME IS NOW, YOU

Not many, but when discovering that I’ve been to jail, people ask me what it was like. As all mature adults should do, but unfortunately not many do, I always filter my reply and give an appropriate answer.

If only there were some type of forum where I didn’t have to do that, because --

Jail is being confined to a certain area that usually smells like the combo of piss, crap, feet, farts, sweaty balls, body odor, Lysol, and mildew for an indefinite amount of time. Key characteristics would include: a 200 sq ft room stuffed with 250 sqft of other men who are equally as stupid as I am, an impenetrable door that is only opened remotely, or with special keys securely fastened to the belt of uniformed guards, a stainless toilet that hasn't been cleaned since 1989, and a bunk-bed with a very reusable mattress that probably has been urinated on 1000s of times.

Jail is a place where gangsters are as happy as clams, but where future Landscaping Account Managers, church volunteers, or 2nd year UW-RF students are nervous and should never bend over… Well, at least a place where church volunteers should never bend over.

It’s the naughty room for naughty adults.

It’s a word that rhymes with hell hole.

When we were saying goodbye out by the car, you asked me one thing – to let the family come and visit on visiting days.

I asked you not to but did I ever tell you why I didn’t want you to? It was never about how I didn’t want to see you, or how I didn’t want you to see me even though I absolutely did not want you to see me. I really really really didn’t want to have to look at you through scratches on the freedom glass, or hear your voice through the germ-crusted, static-crackling prison issued phone. I didn’t want you to see me in prison clothes either, how low is that? I didn’t want this to resemble any type of movie I had seen about people being visited in jail and that’s exactly how I saw it unraveling in my head. I didn’t want to return to my cell with swollen eyes and lead on to the general pop that I spent the entire visiting time crying and wishing I was home with you. I didn’t want to watch you leave me there through the bullet-proof door.

More than all of those listed, my feeling was that I started this shitty journey, and I wanted to finish it. I wanted to own it. I wanted to feel like I never wanted to be in this position again and to do that, there was no more room for crying or emotional bail-outs.

With those thoughts, I picked my head off your shoulder, wiped my tears away, told you I love you, not to come visit me, and walked through the doors.

I thought of the Vangster with each step. As my anxiety grew, I hoped more and more that I’d see him.

Inside was not as comforting as your arms; let me be the first to say.

I had to check-in, but it was no Motel 6. You, is what my name was. Not Dennis, or Dennis Joseph, or DJ, or Junior, or Groess. I despise when people call me Denny, but I would rather answer to Denny than my new name.

You, let’s see your papers. You, stand over here. You, follow this wall. You, strip down and cough.

Turns out it wasn’t a personal jab, everyone was called, you. Like in A Family Man, when Black Don Cheadle tries to cash-in his winning lottery ticket but the clerk, who is convinced that Black Don Cheadle cheated, won’t cash it in, so, Black Don Cheadle pulls a gun to the face of the store clerk demanding that he cash it when White Nick Cage saves the clerk from his apparent death wish by buying the winning lottery ticket for cash from Black Don Cheadle. Afterwards Black Don Cheadle reveals to the clerk that it was a real winning ticket, then turns to white Nic Cage and says- C’mon Jack, let’s get outta here, and Jack asks- how’d you know my name is Jack, and Black Don Cheadle says - oh, I call all you guys Jack. (…love that movie). That’s how it was for us inmates. They call all us guys, you.

Inside, I recognized no one. I wouldn’t be able to recognize a single one of those faces today, if they were standing in front of me with Ralph Maccio. I knew nobody and I was in unfamiliar territory. To top it all off, I was in Wisconsin.

You, and he pointed at me.

Walk along the wall and follow me.

More, I looked around for The Vangster. My heart was pumping so hard that I wouldn’t be surprised if it propelled out of my chest and slid across the hallway floor. But I didn’t see him. I walked down the hall passed a few empty cells that seemed to be smiling at me. I started to cry again. The rooms looked, well, scary. They just had an aura about them that clearly said many men had been in there before me. Different men for different things were held in these rooms and there was no emotion, no care, and no sensitivity for why men came in. They just wanted me to take that one step inside so the door could slam shut behind me. The eeriest part was that the cell rooms would do to me what they did to all its visitors... ensure me that I was in a place that would do nothing to help me.

I didn’t recognize a single face. Nobody recognized me. I wasn’t following a friend, or a party host. I wasn’t following a tour guide. There was nobody there that I felt comfort from. That I felt even remotely connected to.

I followed the guard into another room.

He told me to wait here as if I should just ignore any impulse to wander the halls, which trust me, was HIGHLY UNLIKELY.

And again, I thought of The Vangster as we call him. Leng Vang. My friend. He was a short kid from Laos, who would make me laugh everyday and was as loyal of a friend as you will ever find. Sure he didn’t even stand Five feet tall, but the guy was a laugh whore. He laughed about everything. He laughed at his own jokes, his own comments, my jokes and it was infectious. Things that had no business being funny, were funny just from his laugh. He assured me that he’d try to stop by and see me at some point if he could. As my luck would have it, he was my room mate and was a prison guard at this jail. When I was sentenced, but before being admitted, he and I would talk about if he would be working my Ward. When I said goodbye to my friends, he was one of them. We went to RF together and I lived with him and 2 other guys.

I wished he’d hurry.

I waited in the small room that had lockers stacked on top of each other covering the entire wall from ceiling to floor, and corner to corner. The last time I had seen lockers like this was in high-school, but my hockey gear wasn’t crammed into one of these. Neither Ms. Stout, nor Mr. Juba’s class books were thrown in there. And to top it off, Grossman and Grill weren’t going to be my locker neighbors in this place. I wished any one of those things or people had appeared. All of them appearing would have been even better. I wished Tom or Dave or Brent would walk through the door, or even be stuffed in one of those lockers. I wished you could be there with me. Your crying eyes played over and over again in my head, forcing me to realize that I did this. I deserved to be standing where I was standing. But someone’s familiar face to calm my nerves and take away the fear would be assuring. I was scared. I was all by myself.

Another guard finally came. The door opened and I started crying - Vangster just walked into the room. I couldn’t believe it, I was so happy to see his face that I wept.

I wanted to hug him.

You can’t touch me. You can’t pal with me. You can’t talk to me. We can’t act like friends. In here, you have to treat me as if you don’t know me. I’m sorry Denny, I’ll do everything I can to help get you through this.

I wanted to say, dude, you know I hate when people call me Denny. What I said was:

I’m so happy to see you.
I know you are. Follow the rules and this will go faster than you think.
I will.
Now you have to drop trow.
And the search began.

JAIL?

The Big-house.

Hoosegow.

Jailhouse, joint, nick, pen, penitentiary, slammer, cell, reformatory, hole, institution, hock, cooler, clink, can, pokey, guardhouse, prison, gulag, guardroom, calaboose, bastille, stockade, stir, general pop, bull-pen, cage, oubliette, block, tank, tollbooth, jug, lock-up, coop, hold, brig, ward, bridewell, glasshouse, hulk, training school, labor camp, prison camp, dungeon, keep, work house, stalag. 

Everyone that I’ve ever seen in jail has a tattoo. On TV especially. Man, if they would have offered to ink me in jail, I would have been game for that. 

Since jail, I’ve been tattooed five times. 

I didn’t get them because I promised my inmate friends that I’d stick to tradition. Time spent behind bars was only a delay. The addicted side has plans for more:

A ¾ sleeve on both arms, I’m all over that!! 

Before that even, I would LOVE to get tat's on the top area of my hands. That would be sweet, but my wife tells me that it looks horrible and says I'd be embarrassed. I think that's debatable, but she might have a point. 

The other place I'd love to get tattoo'd is on my neck. Back of the neck, or side of the neck, it doesn't matter - I used to work with a guy who had a russian word tattoo'd on his neck and I thought it looked awesome. My wife tells me to be careful where I get them. In my line of work, it might not be a great idea. I think that's debatable, but she might have a point. 

I know I’m getting older but it’s not like I’m getting dragons and skulls, not that there's anything wrong with that. All of my tattoos represent something from my life. 

Of the five, four of them I love - a lot. 

The third one, which means the one that I had done after the second one, is the red-headed stepchild. I will always love it. I will always remember it. I will always love what it represents, but I do not like it, the design, or the circumstances surrounding it and the circumstances surrounding it do not include the 10 to 20 extra pounds hanging off of it - although I don’t like those either, but that’s a work in progress.  

Anatomy-wise, if I had this tattoo in addition to beautiful flowing hair and other female parts, it would commonly be called a tramp-stamp but being a boy, I’m pretty sure it’s referred to as a tramp-stamp, still. 

People have raised eye-brows, gasped, and some have become spontaneous comedians because of this stupes tattoo. Every Tuesday during winter we play hoops, shirts vs. skins, and there was a guy who commented on it every time. I tell him I’ll tell him what it means when I know him better, but I don’t ever plan on getting to know him any better than I know him this very minute. He doesn’t really comment on it anymore, but more where it is.  

The tattoo is my cell number. 

-- even though there was a time when I probably should've just had my cell phone number tattooed to a highly visible area on my body, it’s not my cell phone number. 

In jail, each jail cell is labeled with a number much like a hotel room, or a locker. My locker was H2. 

For a guy who loves tattoos, I’ve never liked this one. Not for a second, from the first dip of the needle to the saran-wrap wrapping, and I feel bad about that. I knew I wouldn’t like it from the moment the tattoo artist quickly (and half-assed) drew the design. I could tell he didn’t want to do it. Call it a feeling, but he didn’t have the marbles to say ‘not today.’ Literally, it was 10-minutes before lights out and he was all by himself. When he asked what I wanted I gave him the quick version of my jail story and told him I wanted to have my old locker number, my old cell number, tattooed on my back. But I don’t remember telling him to put it on my lower back, and I don’t remember asking him to pierce my nipples either, but both were done. 

I was married at the time to my first wife, I was drinking again, we were drunk in a tattoo shop with a bad tattoo and freshly pierced nipples. Funny enough, I just listed off 2 of my favorite things -- being drunk, and being in a tattoo shop. 

You can be the judge, but for good or for bad, I removed the nipple rings after about a year and a half. I removed my ex-wife almost two years after. 

I can’t get rid of this addiction induced memory, and I can’t get rid of this tattoo. 

What I can do is make better decisions in the future and hopefully that will lead to a much better redesign.

GOODBYE AT ST. CROIX COUNTY

My lawyer, who first off, wasn’t actually my own personal lawyer, and second off, how much money do you have to have to have a personal lawyer? Anyway, this guy who, if you’re asking me, was lucky to get my business in the first place said to my face after DUI number two:

If you get another one, you’re gonna do time. There is almost no way out of it.

He wasn’t actually my personal lawyer so I wasn’t mad that he said it, but how could he make such a preposterous statement? I’m pretty sure I hire him or not based on how strongly I feel he’d keep my stupid a-- out of jail. Did he not know that?

After this one, it’s Tom, right?

He says yes.

After this one Tom, there is almost no way I would ever get a third one. You have to be an absolute moron to get three.

Looking at me, Dad chimed in.

 If he does get another one, he’s on his own.

He stayed true to his word, Dad that is. So did Tom the lawyer. After I officially became a Moron, even by my own definition, I didn’t call Tom the lawyer to help. I still lawyered up after my third, but he too let me know there wasn’t much he would be able to do. But he laid it out for me a lot more professionally than Tom the lawyer.

The best thing to do is simply shut up, and do your time. …in so many words.

I knew he was right. You and Dad knew he was right.

Looking back, and now having Lily in my life, I think I understand why you never stepped out of the car that Sunday morning. How did you manage to say goodbye? I can barely say goodnight to my child at the end of the day. I’ll never know what it felt like for you and Dad to watch your son (or daughter, in my case) walk into jail by himself from the rearview mirror.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember. I do.

Dad got out of the car to help me get the only thing that I could claim as mine for the next 60 days, a small duffle bag. In it, who knows anymore? I was about to sit in jail for the next two months, not relax at the Holiday Inn. What a strong man Dad was to have the courage to step out of the car knowing that when he pulled out my small duffle bag, with it came one of the most difficult goodbyes.

Sometimes I wonder why you guys helped me at all.

In a way, you left it up to me to get my life back in order and often I felt scared and very alone, but I never felt abandoned. You’re my parents, and my entire life you raised me to believe that you loved me and would always support me, good or bad. I knew I was in trouble, I knew I was the black sheep, but I knew that I was still welcome in this family and that you loved me, and I knew I was on my own. I wouldn’t have been mad had you dropped me off at the curbside and squealed away with a sigh of relief without looking back, but I’m glad you didn’t.

The entire family was there to see me off, send me off, say goodbye, whatever the correct saying might be.

Toni, Angie, Nick was the usual routine for anything that had to with leaving. First was Toni, second was Angie, and then Nick being the youngest had to earn his stripes by waiting in line. This day was no different, I mean, this day was more different than any other day in my life, but in terms of my goodbye routine, this day was no different.

Hug hug hug, Toni, Angie, Nick.

Then Dad.

Up to this point it wasn’t often that I’d seen Dad cry or even seen water fill his eyes. But they were filled with tears with the opening of the trunk.

We hugged. And he let me cry in his arms. I couldn’t even look in his eyes, and he never made me feel like I had to.

He told me to be strong.

He told me it would be over soon.

He told me he loved me.

He told me to go say goodbye to your mother.

My head was buried in his chest, but I nodded – ok, I will.

So, I began the walk all the way around the car to say goodbye to you. I didn’t mind, I was about to sit in jail for two months, I welcomed the long walk around the car.

The entire time I was watching you out of the corner of my eye, which is surprisingly powerful and accurate. I saw you already crying which made me cry even more. I’m not sure why I was crying. Well, let me back-up, I knew why I was crying but I wasn’t sure if it was 90% shame and 10% sadness, or if it was 90% sadness and 10% shame. Either way there was more water coming out of my eyes than out of the showerhead in the bathroom.

I walked around the rear of the car. You stayed put. I approached your door. You stayed put. The window came down. You stayed put. I bent down, leaned through the window and as I went to kiss you, you pulled your hands away from your face. Through your tears you looked at me. I couldn’t read the look on your face and I’m not sure how good of a thing that was but your touch was deafening.

It was tender.

Soft.

Protective.

Sad.

Firm.

Sorrowful.

Affectionate.

Lenient.

Emotional.

Loving.

Inspirational.

And it said – I still love you, my son.

With that, I grabbed my duffle bag, walked across the open and empty parking lot, grabbed a-hold of the handles and walked through the front doors.

CHANCE AT REDEMPTION

I can get a way with this.


How can I get away with this?


I could keep driving, or, I could try to get a ride.
If I get a ride, it’ll have to be for at least six months.Portal to portal, home to work to home. Maybe a year.


Who should I ask?


My girlfriend? That’s a  huge favor. Can I? Of course, but I can’t do that. For a million reasons, I can’t do that on top of it’s really embarrassing.
Co-worker? Nah, living with you and Dad in CG??? That’s crazy thought.
If I try to get a ride, it’ll have to be family. I can’t ask a friend. 
It has to be you or Dad. 
You’d have to get up early, drive me to Eden Prairie and then come all the way back here to be to work before 8am. Option, yes. Realistic, no. I’ll leave that alone.
It has to be Dad. He could drop me off on his way in to the office. It’s a little out of the way, but this is the only possible way. There is nothing else. 
...great reality. 
Idiot. 
Me, not Dad.

Maybe I simply keep driving.
If I drive I might just get away with it long enough to get me out of this without having to ask Dad.
If I drive I might get caught.
If I drive I would have to use cruise-control constantly.
I can’t speed.
Can’t swerve.
Can’t roll through a stop sign.
I’ll have to use my blinkers for everything.
I could do this.
I could do this.


Not that I’m thinking of it, but if I were to get pulled over again with booze on my breathe my life will be over. I’ll end it myself. That’s not true, I wouldn’t end it, but it would be over just the same. Three? How did I end up with three -- How did I end up with one??? How can I make good?
If I can do this, this could mean redemption. Very very little redemption but any redemption at this point is good redemption.
If I get caught there is no redemption. There is no excuse. There is no other way out. IF I get caught.
I can’t remember the last time I was pulled over for a random traffic violation.
If I get caught, I’m screwed.
I can’t - I can’t take Dad for granted like this.


I’m gonna do it.
I’m just gonna take the chance. I’m the one who messed up, I’m the one who makes it better.
I could do this.
I won’t get caught.
I can’t get caught.
I don’t want to get a ride everyday. I’ll only drive during work hours.
I could play stupid about the revocation!
I wonder if they know when this notice was mailed out.
I have to keep working because I have to pay out the a-- for all of this. Court fees, treatment, reinstatement, bills.
I have to keep going to work. In order to get to work I have to drive. I need a work permit, but that means I have to drive there to get it. I need to keep driving. I need to keep going to work.
That’s it then.... settled.

One week later.

Squad Car. Cop in the driver seat staring me down from across the intersection. I knew my license was revoked. I got their letter of intent, their notice, their flyer by mail almost a full seven days prior. The question is, does he? The thing that annoys me the absolute most when behind the wheel is when you and another car are face-to-face at an intersection and for whatever reason, say kindness, say law, but for whatever reason you wave them through first - only to be trumped with a return wave.... now, you’re sitting at your stop signs, you’re waving each other thru, and everyone behind you is wondering what the hell is going on up there????? That was us, minus the people behind us wondering what the hell is going on up there.

I wave him thru.
He waves me thru.
I crap  my pants.
He smiles.

1 minute later.

Do you know why I pulled you over?
No.
I saw you crap your pants, isn’t what he said, but it was pretty close. He actually said, I saw you hesitate when I waved you thru. He said that he’s been doing this long enough that he could tell by the look on my face that I was nervous. That I hesitated...

I did, and yeah, I was nervous.

Do you have a valid license?  

I confidently said - Yeah, why wouldn’t I? Followed by - Ahhh, ...I should. Followed by - I don’t remember getting anything... via mail... about .... Ending with - Can I get back to you?

So why did I lie? I didn’t want to show him my cards and although he already knew what I was holding, I had to play. I couldn’t concede to his authority over me, or my own stupidity.

...fact is, I’ve haven’t been pulled over since that day.

Now, every time I’m behind the wheel, and I lock eyes with a cop, or see a cop within 500 feet of my radar, deep down inside I want them to pull me over. Adrenaline screams through my veins and I want to do whatever it takes to grab their attention to get them to pull me over.

Because of learning difficulties (kidding) and an addiction to stupidity (not kidding) I’ve swerved at them, bumper humped them, made them tailgate mates, throw them stink-eye while driving by, blatantly ignored them, mimicked drunk-driving tendencies (which I should know pretty well, right?), all in the name of redemption. If I had to come up with a list of my top three replies I’d want to say to a cop who pulled me over today for drinking and driving, they would be:

1. No, sir, not today. (with a smile)
2. yes, I have been. (Never to utter ‘soda’ until they ask specifically ask)
3. I don't mean to shatter your ego, but this ain't the first time I’ve had a breathalyzer pointed at my face.

But that ain’t the truth. See, the truth is I would sit still, keep my mouth shut, laugh at his stupid jokes and say thank you like a guy with my driving record is supposed to do. I wouldn’t provoke them. I don’t want to waste my time sending them on a wild goose chase. I’ve got other things to do, mainly get home to Heidi, and Lily, and Cole.

That day was the beginning of scheduled court dates that would eventually land me in jail. Not because I’m a felon, although, maybe I really am, but because you can’t get 3 DUI’s and expect to walk away. Correction, you shouldn’t be able to get 3 DUI’s and get to walk away. I know that happens. I learned a lesson that day... the 3 dewey’s, the 3 revocations, the shame, guilt, embarrassment that I already felt at this point was nothing compared to what I was about to face in jail.

I learned another lesson that day too, if you are being waved through any given intersection, returning the favor is not the polite thing to do. The polite thing to do is to hit the damn gas!!

MIND-MOVIES

Had a guy at work tell me, not suggest, but actually say to me – like you’ve ever been in trouble before. People like you don’t make mistakes.

I punched him in the face.

I didn’t really, but I fed him the collar of his company logo’d shirt and then pushed him into the wall across the hall.

I didn’t really, but I pointed to a chair that was right there in my office and I told him to sit down in that chair right there. 


Then I delivered the best monologue of my life. He left my office that afternoon just another field tech. He went on to become a crew leader, but then the landscaping division supervisor, then the Director of Operations and then left our company to run an even bigger company. The entire time, acknowledging that it was my monologue that he credited for his near impossible turn around.

That didn’t really happen either, but I did tell him that I have lost a best friend, had 3 DUI’s, stayed 60 days in jail, had my license revoked not just one time, but three, lost an unborn baby, had an ex-wife who became pregnant by another guy while married to me, went through a divorce, and then asked him if he wanted me to continue. His face was priceless. After a minute, his eyebrows raised and he opened his mouth to say something but I intentionally interrupted him and said:

I have trouble too. Stupidity is easy for me, good decisions aren’t, but I come back every morning. I’ll see you Monday.

And off he went. I don’t know if he left with his tail between his legs, or if he was silently judging me as he walked out my door, or if I accidentally embarrassed him. I wasn’t looking to prove a point, but rather, make a difference.

The rest of the afternoon was a mind-movie of stupidity.

One time, not at band camp, I fell asleep sitting down on the curb. Maybe I passed out, but I think I just fell asleep. My butt on the curb, my knees up to my forehead, my head on my forearms and my friends are convincing me that I either need to get up or get hit by a car. I never got hit by a car.

I accidentally put a pool stick through the bar wall. I don’t know why……well, I know why. Too much green between the cue ball and the 9 ball, but I don’t know why I was so frustrated that I needed to put a pool stick through-the-wall. My partner, the guys we were playing, the guys who set quarters on the rail to claim next game, and myself, especially myself, all knew that I sucked at playing pool. I don’t even know why I played that stupid game. Hand me a dart and it’s a whole different ballgame…

I accidentally threw-up twice all over the living room floor at a house party and literally slithered out of the house, on my stomach, like a snake. I heard a rumor that I was never allowed back into that house. When I say I threw up twice, I don’t mean two consecutive heaves. No, I mean at two different times during the night I barfed on their floor. The first time someone saw me and told the guys who lived there. They were looking for me most of the night but I didn’t leave. The second time I didn’t bother to stay and slithering out was the safest way out. I never cleaned up my mess. Sorry.

Innocently broke into a friends house via the front window. After bar close, my friend and I drove to the nearest Holiday Station store and picked up a couple frozen pizzas for later that night, or morning, however you want to look at it. Anyway, we get home to where I was house sitting, crank the door knob only to find the door locked? She told me where to find the spare key which was pointless because I really wasn’t listening and truly I couldn’t tell ya if the key was anywhere near where we were looking. We must have searched for an hour if it was even 5 minutes but I decided that we were done looking and it was time for us to get inside. From what I can remember, I snapped out the screen, or ripped it out, and opened a window, or broke the window either one is possible. I crawled in, told my buddy to get inside and sleep on the floor and we crashed. The next morning was hot. We woke up in the same clothes, no AC running; sweat dripping from… everywhere, and no toothpaste. Not only that, but my friend is not sleeping on the floor. Neither is he sleeping in either bedroom? I assumed he bailed earlier that morning until I see him walking up the sidewalk to the front door, turn the handle and walk right in?! A couple not-frozen pizzas in hand. Both thawed out and half sun-baked. While I was breaking into our friends house, he fell asleep in the car which by the way I have to clean out by myself with a bucket of hot water, soap, and hardy washcloth. I scrubbed for over an hour to clean the sundried throw-up that was all over the inside and outside of his car. Sundried throw-up stinks something horrible especially when you’re already severely hung-over. After I finish cleaning my own puke, we finished cooking the not-frozen pizza.

My friends circled me, pointed, and laughed at me as I lay on my back drowning in 1.5’ feet of water in the Apple River. They still laugh at me for that. Word to the wise -- keep your children away from the Apple River. Enough said.

I snuck booze into University sponsored concert. My very good friend had a girlfriend at the time and his girlfriend performed in the University Orchestra. It was an important concert so he had to go. He invited me and now I had to go. We thought it would be a good idea to fill our Big Gulps with beer, instead of Soda. We LOVED the Orchestra that night. No one ever found out, but on the off-chance that we were busted what would our sentence have been?

A security guard threw me out of MOA by my neck. Jerk. I was the jerk as a matter of fact. It was closing time and I was walking out with S-censored-. We were being escorted out, but not because of any trouble. Just slow to exit. I spouted off to the MOA security guards for no reason other than I’m stupid and they started following us a lot closer. I said a couple more things about this and that, and the guard grabbed me by my neck, which was way too hard if you ask me and could have gotten his point across with a little bit of a gentle hand, but nonetheless, he got his point across.He whispered in my ear something that scared me, and literally pushed me out the door. Neither one of us turned around or uttered another word. We left just like he asked, although, I’m not sure we would have liked what happened to us if we would have stayed even another minute.

Now, these aren't the worst things in life. I don't feel like a let-down because of them. But they are stories of stupid things I've done. I wish that guy could be in my head to see them. I wish you could have seen them. he said people like me don't make mistakes.

Wrong.

KATHLEEN.

DUI 2 and the aftermath had an impact on me. When dad and I got home from the police department, he went to bed. I was a crying mess and when we got home and my emotions unraveled in the living room. First of all, looking back, why was she still awake. Second of all, I’m glad she was. She spent the entire night with me. We both slept in the living room that night but it’s not like we came home said Hi, I just finished drinking and driving, being arrested, and bailed out of jail, 'night! No. There was some drama but it wasn't a dramastorm. We wept together and she listened to every word I said and cried next to me.

Swearing to her that I wasn’t drunk, I pleaded with her to believe me that I didn’t deserve to be arrested and I swore to her that I was sorry and this was a misunderstanding. She watched me pace around the living room, she watched me cry on my knees, and she watched me come apart at the seams with regret. In that moment I wanted so desperately for her to agree with me. I wanted so desperately for her to believe me. 


I believe you, I believe you. She said repeatedly, no matter if she truly did or didn't. 


Not every detail is crystal clear but what is branded into my brain is that she stayed there, without judgment. She comforted me, unconditionally, when I absolutely wanted to not-exist. I don’t know if I ever thanked her for that, but I’ll tell you what right now; I never forgot that night.

Did I let you down? Did I embarrass you? Are you ashamed of me? I know you pretty well and I'll bet you everything from a diddle-eyed Joe to a damned if I know that you wouldn’t admit it even if you were.

You used to laugh at me all the time. All I had to do was open my mouth and mime a word, not even say anything, not even make a sound, simply fake like words were about to come out of my mouth and your giggle would turn into a laugh. Making you laugh was the thing I loved the most. I had a different nickname for you everyday when we were kids and even if you hated them, you loved them. When I couldn’t do it anymore my heart was broken. We were tight. And just like with Toni and Nick, I didn’t know where I stood with you.

Since that night of my DUI, I’ve forgotten how to make you laugh. Everything started to focus on how to redeem myself from that night plus all the other nights that I couldn’t live up to big-brother duties.

I watched you grow up from a shy, non-speaking little girl, to someone who could read better, to someone who scored better grades, to the cutest thing who couldn’t stop smiling to save her life, to one hell of a good home run derby outfielder, to an equally talented line-reciting partner during Grease and Rocky 3 (beach scene only-don't get cocky), to a dedicated mother, a hard working wife, a supportive and fun sister – and you had to watch me fall flat on my face over and over again. How do I make up for that?

You were married first, you had kids first, and you started parenthood first. It’s hard for me to think that you will ever be able to look up to me, but if that day ever comes, I hope I do you proud.

Today, rarely a day goes by when I don’t think of that night. Not the fact that I messed it up, but the fact that you stood out, and that you took the time to be with me instead of washing your hands of me.

I will always want to be close to you. Thank you for what you did for me.

Angela Kathleen Groess, my little sister. I see your face in my daughters face. People say she looks like her father and I like that compliment, but to me she looks like you. I love her as much as I love you. I love looking at her – I see your smile. I see your cheeks. I see your eyes. If she grows up to be anything like the woman that you are today, I’ll be very happy. Dad, our dad, must be so proud of you.

I am.

SENIOR, IS MY FATHER

Sometimes I feel that certain actors become actors because they have one role or movie that they were born to be in. Will Smith was meant to play Muhammad Ali. Nobody else could have done that movie. He was perfect for it. Ben Kingsley was meant to play Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. Tom Hanks was meant to be Forrest Gump, and Andrew Beckett in Philadelphia, and, well, Tom Hanks was born to be every role he’s ever created. Nobody else could have done a better job in Born on the 4^th of July, other than Cruiser, except for maybe Hanks. I can’t think of anyone who could have pulled off Jeff Spiccoli, except Sean Penn. Glen Close was born to be Alex Forrest, in Fatal Attraction. Han Solo? Try and think who would be a better Vito Corleone, if not Marlon. Sylvester Stallone was born to be Rocky, and only Rocky, just look at his film bio… I tried to fit Paul Newman in here but couldn’t stop thinking that this bit was getting too long – My point is, no one could do what those actors did. They were meant for those roles.

No offense, God, but if you’re open to some feedback - I think you could have proven your point earlier. But because things don’t run according to the clock I live by, it turned out to be perfect timing and because of it, to this day, I’m convinced you and dad named me after dad for this precise moment. Maybe it’s a stretch, but really, there’s a chance. So, it’s the opinion of this humble narrator that perhaps I was meant to be named after dad for this very scene:

The cop asks me my name and I give it to him willingly but unwillingly - I know he’ll see my two previous charges and then I have no idea what to expect, except probably jail. I sit and I wait. They ask me for a urine sample. They ask if I want to give a blood sample which I turn it down but they don’t argue it. They frisk me. Ask me question after question and then they tell me that they’re going to let me go seeing as it’s my first offense. Wha?

…letting me go home is many things, but without question, it’s wrong because it’s not my first offense.

I pause. For a long time.

I don’t say a word because I can’t believe what I hear, and I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how they think it’s my first offense - but I don’t EVEN care. I want to make my call and leave before they figure it out. The whole time I’m in the booking room I’m waiting for this curveball to break and hear them say – oh, we made a mistake this is your third. Say goodbye to your life. No take-backs, straight to jail.

I get to call someone they say. Do I have anyone that would pick me up? Yeah - my father. One cop  is suddenly calling dad, the other cop staring at the computer. I’m waiting for them to figure it out. It’s torture, me knowing that they don’t know what I know.

Dad answers and I tell him what happened. I’m not sure he even said anything. Actually he did. It was very threatening but time has erased it (thank you, time). You might even know what it was more than I do.

One cop shifts – is this it, does he know? The other cop hits more computer keys – is this it? Now do they know? Scenario after scenario plays in my mind. Time is literally in a freeze. I watch every facial expression, every move, and every breath of these guys waiting…. Waiting. Thoughts of nothing, but thoughts of a frozen computer? Misspelled my name maybe? Another Dennis Groess maybe…….. Shit. Another Dennis Groess. There is only one other Dennis Groess that I know of. I know where he lives, I know his phone number, birthdate, names of his kids, where he works, his favorite color, what time he goes to bed, how pissed off he is at this very second. Mister Dennis Groess, SR. Oh boy. This is not good. 


Should I 'fess up? I know in my soul that they pulled dads record. Wouldn’t they see the birth date? They never asked me for mine. Do I look like I was born in 1950? Hey, screw them. It was their mistake not mine.

If I don’t tell them, what happens? Would dad get something in the mail weeks from now suspending his license and charging him with DUI? Would he read that letter and simply fall to the ground in cardiac arrest? Would he lose his job? I know it would ruin his insurance and his driving record. Would he be stuck paying thousands of dollars in court fees just to clear his own name for something he never did? He’d hate me. He’d hate his own son who’s already dumped disappointment directly in his lap. Would he be able to get it erased months down the road if I held my tongue now? 


I can’t do this. I can’t do this-I tell myself.

I bury my face in my hands.

look…

My fingers run through my hair. I Sigh, and I sigh. I look at the cop for help but he just continues on like he’s got me on a pay-no-mind-to list. Well, screw him then. This will be his mistake not mine. But if dad ends up getting hurt by this then I truly am a cruel, heartless, selfish, Godless person.

…wait…

The cops look at me like I’m a complete drunken idiot, which I am.

You said you’re letting me go home because it’s my first offense…?

That’s right.

I’m Dennis Junior. I think you pulled my dads record. 


The cop immediately goes to the computer and starts punching keys. He says nothing. I think he notices his mistake. Then he just looks at me.

I have two priors. I think you looked up my dad’s record and I don’t want this to go on his record.

Inevitably, he corrects his mistake.

By this time, you and dad are now here to pick me up. The cop actually thanks me for telling him and then he conveniently adds that it’s a good thing for me that they goofed. I asked him why and he replied that they would have just taken me straight to jail and I would have been there until my court date which wouldn’t be for weeks.

I think that was Gods miracle performed 26 years before. I think I was meant to be Dennis Joseph Groess, Jr for this exact moment to play out and keep me out of jail (for now). Who knows where I would be right now if it had turned out any different.

I’ve learned a million things over my 37 years. But only 3 things I’ve learned from life so far stand out to me and keep reappearing. And they aren’t Nobel Piece Prize winning observations:

Number 1. Current traumatic stress disorder is and will always be different for everyone. The degree at which it is considered traumatic is only only only decided by the people directly involved. My headiness might not be to anyone else.

Number 2. Truth stares us in the face but we look away, terrified to make eye contact with something that judges our actions and lives. When all else fails, truth always prevails. When truth prevails, you’re seen in 1 of 2 ways. You look like a complete coward, or like a respectable, strong person. This theory never gets tested more than when a man has to admit his own faults. When a man is about to admit he did something wrong, hold himself accountable and be a man, there is a split second when his mind tries to convince his mouth to lie.

If he’s successful in persuading his tongue to misspeak, then he voluntarily tags himself as a coward and will always take that road. If he holds himself accountable, then his integrity and his character and his pride are all kept in check and he then, and only then, becomes a man.

There are people that think a boy becomes a man after a certain dream usually reserved for teen boys, or after a boy has sex for the first time which is like proving something to someone (in our mind), or after his pubic hairs pop through the skin, or after he can grow a mustache, or after his voice changes, or after he’s 18, or after he’s done time in the military, or after he’s married, or after he’s divorced, or after he’s had a kid. But, a man, truly never becomes a man until he is forced to confront himself, look at himself and hold himself accountable for his own actions towards another person. Unfortunately, people, myself included, will cut to the front of the accountability line when it’s for something good. Anything that will shine the bright white light directly on their smiling face. Anything that generates positive vibes and gives them the glory. So the sad part is that the transformation can’t, won’t, and doesn’t happen until we have done something that might be so unforgivable, or at least so embarrassing that they will do anything to cover it up - but don’t. And it happens. It does happen. That doesn’t mean it happens at 18. Maybe it happens at 40. Maybe 50. Maybe 8. But it happens.

I think I became a man 100 times over. Not that I wanted to, hell no. I was forced to, even against my own will. Matter of fact, my own accountability wasn’t even my idea. It was the courts Idea. Matter of fact, it wasn’t the courts Idea - It was my idea, so that the court system would look at me favorably and choose to be lenient with me. But holding myself accountable was not supposed to be part of the bargain. I was supposed to enter into a treatment center for alcohol, the court was supposed to notice and say “good job, we think you’ve learned your lesson, don’t do it again,” and then after I show up for the first day of treatment, my counselor and all the other alcoholics would admit that I didn’t need help. It would be embarrassingly obvious to everyone that I was normal, and should just start the car, drive home, watch TV, fall asleep, and pick up where I left off in the morning.

It didn’t happen that way. I had to admit a boat load of truths - the things I hid from myself and you because it made me uncomfortable. I still had excuses for the things I’ve done.

Number 3. God’s hand was in this and He is the reason I’m still here, on my own two feet. I couldn’t have done this alone.