Bob Bitchin “Boah, ah cain’t hep dat, y’all sposed to weah it, and since ya ain’t ya gonna to ta jail.” I thought he was kidding, and said so. “Ah ain’t jokin. Ya gatta see the Justice o’ da Peace and pay a fine, and since it’s Satdidy, the JP ain’t workin’, so y’all gonna wait ’til Monday.” It was at about this point that any humor seen in the situation completely disappeared. I mean, a joke is a joke, but three days in a joint called Boeme, Texas, wasn’t a whole bunch funny. It was then that I turned to Game Plan 2, also known as sniveling. I commenced to the “good ol’ boy” about my poor ol’ mom, whom I hadn’t seen in years, and how’s I was supposed to be at her house that night if I was in jail. She was going to be so disappointed in me. Wasn’t there something he could do? Well, after a few minutes of hardcore sniveling he finally agreed to radio in and see if he could get the JP to come down and set a fine. I got up off my knees and followed him into town. When we pulled up in front of the medieval looking dungeon that he called home, I was sorry I didn’t lay it on any thicker. The place looked like something out of the Marquis de Sade’s worst game plan. I could picture torture chambers and all kinds of neat things inside. When he unlocked the door to my cell he gave me the good news: The JP would be down to set bail. Then he gave me the bad news: It wouldn’t be for a couple of hours. As the door swung shut with a “clunk” of finality, I got ready for my wait. I mean, I had seen enough 75
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