It looks like I’ve found the sweet spot in the time of day to do my daily posting. Seems that posting after midnight lessens my anxiety in sharing the community computer, which, in turn, reduces my homicidal tendencies. Now that my sleep pattern is altered by sobriety, I seem to have more day. Not that a caged rat needs any more hours in a day.
As promised, today I’ll detail the events that led up to my last incarceration. It started with a squib, or perhaps ended with a squib, depending on your point of view.
On November 29th, 2014, my beloved Georgia Bulldogs were playing the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets in our final home game of the season. The game was far too close, resulting in more consumables being consumed than usual. As we went up 24-21 with 18 seconds left in overtime, our coach decided to squib kick to the Gnats, resulting in excellent field position for the bugs. The Gnats scored a field goal tying the game. The game went to overtime and we lost 30-24 in a game that should not have been close. The shock of the loss was something akin to going through the windshield at 70 miles per hour; the only treatment prescribed was self-induced coma.
Unfortunately, all of the coma inducing medicines had already been consumed, necessitating a trip to the closest purveyor of distilled spirits. As luck would have it, I live in a dry county, surrounded by dry counties. The closest store is over a winding mountain road that is so crooked you think you’re seeing your own taillights ahead of you. My rage and fury guided me safely to the Double Shot Liquor and Gun Store. My time spent in the parking lot self-medicating got me closer to the coma needed to stop the constant replay of my Dawg’s embarrassment in my head. Unfortunately listening to the post game wrap up on my car radio kept ripping the scab off of my dulled psyche.
The trip back is forgotten except for suddenly being surrounded by the flashing lights of different colored police cars, obviously some sort of multi-jurisdictional issue. I sort of remember one officer, who, if he’d been six inches taller would have been perfectly round, going on and on about a “failure to maintain a lane”. I recollect telling him that whichever lane I was in, was the lane I was maintaining. The last thing I recall was hollering, “hey, that’s mine”, as they were pushing my head down into the backseat of the patrol car. Officer Round was confiscating my bottle from the front seat. I didn’t want there to be any confusion about ownership.
Well, as my dear departed Daddy, Bocephus Lyte used to say, “I’m as tired as a fly in a nudist colony”. I guess we’ll need to continue my tale of woe tomorrow.
Posted on 19 July 2015, 01:28 am
Good morning, y’all. It’s so quiet tonight you could hear a cricket break wind. I don’t know if this sobriety thing is sharpening my senses or not. From bygone days I remember the old adage that “a girl that is a 6 at 6PM will always be a 10 by 10PM”. Perhaps less clarity is a good thing sometimes.
Speaking of clarity, I mentioned yesterday that the last thing I remember from the night of the 29th was going into the backseat of a cruiser. I awoke in the drunk tank in the Union county jail. I was decked out in a very form fitting, but stylishly tailored, orange jumpsuit. One look around the concrete cell revealed four sets of bunk beds and an open-air toilet. Arraignment was set for 11AM, a long time to hold your water. Suffering a shy bladder qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment in my opinion.
At the arraignment, Judge “Bald and Rude” read the charges. I was quick to notice that the unique item in this go round was a charge of property destruction in the amount of $1,500. The goes-without-saying charge of, “leaving the scene of an accident”, bumped my worst day ever into a new category, felony.
According to eyewitnesses, I left the parking lot of the Double Shot Liquor and Gun Store and drove straight across the highway to the Busy Bee Cafe. The Busy Bee Cafe had just that week purchased a large fiberglass bumblebee to act as their logo, kind of like a Shoney’s Big Boy. I am told that that the bumblebee was over five and a half feet tall and three feet wide at his waist.
Accounts vary as to how many times I backed back and forth over the bumblebee after knocking him free from its mooring. By all accounts, I didn’t leave until the job was thoroughly done. My work finished, I blasted off into the night, crossing county lines and negotiating treacherous mountain roads until my eventual rendezvous with the local constabulary. I recall none of these actions.
Now, I’m not going to make light of the vehicular homicide of a fiberglass bee. But, truth be told, I am thinking that if I can get a jury trial, the University of Georgia faithful will undoubtedly set me free. According to my attorney, Adam Dimwit, my wife Mulva was not remotely interested in going my bail. Mulva was quoted as having said, “He can rot in jail until he rots in hell”. After forty years, perhaps some of the bloom has gone off the rose.
To summarize the proceedings; rather than waiting a year for a court date, we took what they were offering. I spent a little over six months in County, did regular psychiatrist evaluations and developed a court approved wellness plan for my probation. I paid my fines, made restitution to the Busy Bee Cafe, and got fitted for a charming piece of electronic jewelry. All and all, it was a better deal than rotting in jail, and possibly the hereafter.
Computer tech is one of the skills you can pretend to learn while in County. Through the magic of tubes and wires, I learned how to share my innermost thoughts with the world without leaving the familiar surroundings of TackyToo. Now I am able to show my emotional progress to my parole officer by my daily vents on the computer. Believe you me; I want the State to be impressed with how serious I am about paying my debt to society.
Paying my debt to my family is a little harder. My immediate family consists of my lovely wife of forty years, Mulva Paine Lyte, my son, Buford Forrest Lyte Jr., and my daughter, Melody Scarlett Lyte. This year we were blessed with my grandson Bud the 3rd, or Trey as I call him. He’s cuter than a speckled pup.
Mulva is still madder than a wet hen. The public embarrassment from this latest episode may be more than she can bear. My only recourse is to follow her lead in how to be a better man, husband, and father while I purge my feelings to the assorted state employees assigned to me. I know now that I can’t trust my first instincts. Until I can, I intend to chink away daily at the wall between us by showing my wife that I can be trusted, that I can be counted on.
The kids may be a little harder. Bud Jr, and Melody have been ignoring me since their teens, with good reason I’m sure. They’re grown, middle aged almost, and Bud Jr. has his own family to worry about. I think back to all of the times they brought me pride, sports matches, dance recitals, graduations. There were so many, many times. No matter the level of consciousness at the time, the pride for my child was etched indelibly into my memory. I wonder if they have even one moment of being proud of me. If I can get the lines of communication open, I might ask. I will have to be healthy enough to hear the answer if that day comes.
In the postings that follow I’ll tell you about my family, immediate and estranged. As best my memory will allow I will attempt to recall the circumstances in my youth that led me to being as lost as last year’s Easter egg. It’s late, and we’ll talk more about family tomorrow. It’s only fitting that we start with my raison d’etre.