How Steemit Changed My Life – Part Five

Link to Part One

I exited the plane, squinting to look past the blinding light to see if @cathi-xx was there waiting for me, but I was surprised to see stairs leading down to a runway. I held onto the rail for dear life, holding up the line of people behind me, as each shaky knee struggled with each step.

There was a small crowd of people patiently waiting on the runway next to an empty red bus. When the doors of the bus finally opened the crowd became excited, as if someone shook their hive and they swarmed in clawing and scraping for the few available seats, while trying to hide their bruised egos if they lost this game of musical chairs.

I had seen this type of thing before and I wanted no part of it. I stood back to watch this horrific scene play out and when the dust settled I entered the bus and grabbed onto a pole while resting my carry-on bag at the base of the curved window.

As we waited, some flight attendants walked onto the bus and told all the victorious seat holders, in the front, to move to make space for some handicapped people. They looked shocked for a moment and I could see the fire building within their eyes as they deliberated: “fight or flight” but civility is still the law of land, so, they swallowed their pride and proceeded to crowd around me.

After all the handicapped people boarded, the bus began driving toward a maze of buildings. After a few minutes of twists and turns, I felt the hand of a young blond girl lightly brush past my arm, as if she were attempting to catch her balance. She made no apology or even eye contact, but I still knew what she was after.

Behind her light coating of girl-next-door-make-up and trendy clothes, lay the heart of a grifter, but her disguise didn't fool me! She had one thing on her mind: the passport in my bag. I began watching her out of the corner of my eye wondering what might have happened to make her this way.

I realized that she had probably just spent the last year hopping from one flea bitten hotel to another, committing petty theft with her boyfriend, who just wound up overdosing, leaving her holding the bag. Then out of desperation she finally gave in and called her parents for a ticket back to England, wearing the only good outfit that she hadn't sold, during her rampage across the states; she was now standing next to me following the only instinct that she knew: theft.

I quickly gave her the evil eye to let her know that I was onto her game and she disappointedly slid back away from me to find another mark. This grifter was a welcome distraction for me since she made me forget that I was probably going to be waterboarded by MI6 for disguising all my computer equipment as a bomb.

The only thing standing between me and a prison doctor with the unfortunate job of sowing up my rectum each morning, was a customs form that was filled out by the drunk guy on the plane. I was no stranger to be locked up, but the last time had left a bad taste in my mouth.

The inmates were friendly enough, but the trouble started when it was time for me to be bailed out and the guards told me to change back into my street clothes.

Sadly, over the last 24hrs rehabilitation had failed, but I had grown extremely attached to my orange prison shirt, maybe I had become institutionalised, all I know is that the thought of losing it was just too much for my drugged mind to handle.

I dressed and redressed a few times keeping it hidden in different ways under my clothes, but I realized that this was just too risky: if they caught me wearing it, they may strip search me again and probably kick the shit out of me for wasting their time, so, I decided to smuggle it out by holding it hidden amongst an armful of other clothes.

I half dressed and hid the prison shirt amongst my socks, shoes, over-shirt and jacket, thinking that if I were caught, I could say that it was an honest mistake. People tended to believe me, because I looked very naïve, so I was happy with my final solution. I was escorted to a small room and presented to the bail bondsman and we began to have a really nice chat.

He was a young clean-cut guy that looked as if he belonged in college and he seemed very surprised to see someone like me in jail, but he soon began to panic when two cops burst in like neckless, junk-yard bull-dogs that ate only beef and old rusty car parts.

“Where the fuck is it!” they barked.

“What?” I innocently replied.

“Where the fuck is it, you stupid son of a bitch!”

The bail bondsman immediately jumped from his chair and cowered up against a wall to avoid the attack dogs that rushed me and began violently shaking my clothes until that bright orange shirt was flung across the room. One of the officers grabbed the shirt and came at me with his fists ready to beat the shit out of me, but his demeanour suddenly changed like a dog yanked up short by his chain, as he remembered that the bail bondsman was still watching.

He settled for shoving the shirt in my face and screaming through his teeth, “I could give you more charges for this! You're getting off lucky, you piece of shit!” Then the two cops ran out of the room, leaving me alone with the frightened bail bondsman. As he nervously sat back down in his seat, he gasped, “Wha... Wha... What just happened?”

“I tried to steal a prison shirt.” I softly admitted as I lowered my head in disappointment over losing that shirt.

“Oh my God!... I have never seen anything like that before!” he gasped while trying to catch his breath. It was obvious, by the way his eyes glazed over, staring into the distance, that this was a traumatic experience for him which would require a lifetime of counselling and anti-anxiety drugs. His trembling hands were on autopilot as he slid his pen over for me to sign his bail forms.

In that moment I realized that the prison system chews up and spits out everyone that comes in contact with it, so I vowed to always keep a low profile, wearing only polo shirts and driving only Audis and to only buy illegal drugs on the rich side of town or over the internet, so I would never be profiled again.

Jail was not designed for people with Cerebral Palsy, it was a tough man's game and I never wanted to go back, especially not on my first day in a foreign country.

The airport bus finally came to a stop and I began following the crowd, hoping that they would lead me to customs, but once inside the building, they all scattered and joined different lines. After a few confusing minutes of carefully examining each line I felt like the Non-EU line was my best option.

When it was my turn a man with a badge asked for my passport and my customs form and I handed them over. As he reviewed my documents he began asking the type of questions that forced me to lie, like when he asked how long am I visiting, I couldn't tell him that I planned on overstaying and becoming an illegal alien, so I just said one month.

Then he tried to trip me up by asking, “How do you plan to pay for this visit.” I knew I shouldn't mention all the cryptocurrencies that were sitting on a thumb drive in my pocket or a siren would go off and red lights would begin flashing, so to keep a low profile, I just said, “With cash, silver and gold.”

“Cash, silver and gold!” he repeated with excitement, then he turned and yelled to another man with a badge, “I asked how was he going to pay and he said cash, silver and gold!”

Everyone turned to look at me and I knew that this was too much attention. I swallowed my nerves and said nonchalantly with a friendly smile, “I try to be prepared for anything.”

“Can I see the gold?” he asked eagerly with his loud British voice.

“Sure” I said, hoping to quiet him down, while handing him my tiny gold coin that was sealed in plastic.

He examined the coin and then handed it back, while asking more questions. Then out of nowhere he handed me my passport and said, “Welcome to England!”

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Chapter Links

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Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four