Daily Story—Category: Jail
Tuesday, September 15, 2009 at 2:10PM ----------------------
You’ve Got Jail! (Number Two In A Series of Four, Collect Them All!)
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I first got arrested in 1976 and it was quite a stretch of time till the next time I got thrown into the clink. Fourteen years, to be exact. My second stint in stir was in October of 1990. I was 32 years old and working nights at a printing company called Fleming Potter in Peoria, Illinois. I was also publishing and editing my own magazine, People of Peoria. I went out to celebrate the second issue being completed and the celebration turned into a cell. A jail cell, to be more specific.
My Second Time in Jail
In 1989 I had the wacky idea to do my own magazine and by 1990, by some miracle this was happening. The magazine was called People of Peoria and it was a mix of People, National Lampoon, Mad magazine and my own warped imagination. The first issue took about six months to put together, but when it came out it was a big hit in Peoria and it sold very well. The only problem I realized after I did the first one was that people then expect a second one. And I had about six weeks to put it together as opposed to six months. I had assembled a rag-tag crew of a staff for the magazine that ran the gamut from a punk rocker, to a high school kid to a journalism professor and everything in between. All in all there were over twenty people working on it and I found that half of my time was spent meeting people to get their stories and/or photos and then putting the whole thing together own my Apple computer with a couple guys who were doing the page layout. It seemed like I was always running somewhere and there was not enough hours in the day. But everyday was an adrelaline rush and soon I was hooked.
I’ve always read bands talk about making and writing their second album and how you get years to write the first one, but then you’re expected to do the same thing in a couple months with your sophomore release. So that’s how this issue was to me, really nerve-wracking, but by September I had it ready to go to the printer’s and two weeks later the issue was printed. I wrote the cover story which was on a homeless man named Willie York who was famous in Peoria for existing on roadkill, cheap wine and marijuana. Here’s the cover:
The issue turned out great, considering the lack of time we had to put it together and that I was still learning the ins and outs of putting a magazine together. One thing I quickly learned to love, was the thrill of seeing it printed, it was a real high and I usually met a few people for a celebratory lunch the day I got them from the printers. I had gotten advance copies from the printer on a Friday and I made plans with Mike Foster, who wrote two features in this issue and Jeff Putnam who was the photo editor. How did Jeff become the photo editor? Simple, he had a camera, that’s they way things worked around the magazine.
Mike had written a great story on a unique and charming German bar and restaurant in the neighboring town of Washington, Illinois. The restaurant’s name was The Rat’skeller and it was owned by a 39-year-old German native named Wolfgang Thomalla.
I had known Wolfgang for a while before he opened up his bar. He was a rough and ready guy and to say he liked to drink was a bold understatement. This guy was a world-class boozer and he hung out at the same bars I did. I had seen him 13 sheets to the wind and continue to drink beer and shots like he had just come from a fortnight in the desert having subsisted on a diet of only sand and dust. His pet name for me when he was drunk was, “Cowboy Faggot.” I don’t know how he came up with this title for yours truly, but since it was Wolfgang I always laughed it off, because he only called me that when he was blind, stinking drunk, which was most of the time. So for him to be opening up a bar, was kind of like putting Amy Winehouse in charge of a crack factory. But for a while, Wolfgang kept his nose fairly clean and the place was a success in the beginning.
Wofgang at the Rat'skeller bar. (Photo by Jeff Putnam.)
Like I said, Mike did a great job on the story and Jeff took some great photos of Wolfgang, so it was decided to meet there for our celebratory lunch. I remember saying to Mike on the phone, “Wolfgang’s going to love the story, maybe we’ll get some free beer out of the deal.” Right now would be an opportune time to throw this well-worn phrase into the mix: “Be careful what you wish for!”
The feature article written by Mike Foster.
Mike, Jeff and I all arrived at the Rat’skeller at noon and I showed the article to Wolfgang. Wolfgang loved it and promptly placed one German beer apece in front of all of us and said the magic words, “On the house!” Now true journalists never accept anything free for their work, that’s why I’ve never considered myself a true journalist. I’ll take anything free you put in front of me and if it’s loaded with alcohol, well then, so much the better!
So we toasted the magazine, we toasted the Rat’skeller, we toasted Wolfgang, we toasted each other and somewhere in between all the toasting, we had lunch. I don’t recall what we had, but I know it was something German and it was probably toasted. After lunch, Jeff wisely left. I’d like to say that Mike and I rounded out this trio of wise men, but foolishly, we stayed. There was free booze flowing after all and by now we were toasting Germany and parts of Europe that I had never heard of, or were just plain made up. And then it happened. In a moment of pure joy, Wolfgang uncorked a bottle of Jagermeister. Now today, everybody knows that Jagermeister is a liquid, alcoholic mindbomb that can throw you into a drunken frenzy in just a few friendly shots. But back in the innocent days of 1990, I had never heard of it until I had lunched at The Rat’skeller.
Wolfgang started pouring shots for us and that is when this scene in this movie goes dark. Black I should say. I remember drinking many shots of Jagermeister and then the next thing I remember is trying very unsuccessfully to stand on one leg on the side of Prospect Road in Peoria Heights in front of a cop. Peoria Heights is miles from Washington, Illinois and to this day I have no idea how I drove there. It’s a complete blackout. I’m just eternally grateful I didn’t plow over or into anyone. How I maneuvred that far being blind drunk is a miracle. But now a crowd had gathered as a short cop put me through the motions of a field sobriety test. Needless to say I flunked with flying colors and was soon sitting handcuffed in a small room in the Peoria Heights sheriff’s office.
The cop who arrested me was a real piece of work. Like I said, he was short, probably about 5 foot five, was skinny and had short black hair. He had equal parts Napoleon and Barney Fife syndrome going on. He handcuffed me so tightly that my wrists were bleeding and when I asked if he could remove them or untighten them because they were cutting into my wrists he walked up to me and screamed, “That’s what we give drunks around here to wear asshole! You don’t talk unless I tell you to!”
It was probably a good thing that I was handcuffed at this point, because I drunk and pissed off enough that I would’ve probably taken a swing at him and been in even more trouble.
He scowled at me and then said, “Okay, get up, you’re taking your breathalyzer now.”
Now I knew that you had every right to turn down the breathalyzer. A guy that I knew who was an attorney had once told me that if you get pulled over and pass the field sobriety test, refuse the breathalyzer because then you could argue in court that if you passed the field test, why did they even bring you in. Now even though I got an F minus on the field sobriety test—when I tried to touch my finger to my nose with my eyes closed, I think I touched my left ear—I wasn’t going to take the breathalyzer test just to spite this asshole cop.
“I’m not taking it,” I spat out defiantly.
“What?” short-stuff asked incredulously.
“I’m not taking it, I don’t have to,” I shot back.
With this he scrunched down until we were eyeball to eyeball and said, “You’re taking that test you drunken asshole. You do what I tell you to do.”
“I don’t have to and that’s the law. I know it,” I said not backing down an inch.
He glared at me like a bull that’s been waved the red flag at by a matador, grabbed me, pulled me up and said, “Alright smartass, we’ll take your weight first and then see what you have to say.”
He led me handcuffed through an office of cops and civilians typing and sitting around, into a room with cement walls, a desk some chairs and a scale. He walked me near the scale, got directly behind me and then kicked me as hard as could in the back. I went flying head first into the wall and landed on the floor with a huge bump already growing on my forehead.
“You going to take the breathalyzer now, asshole?” He asked glaring down at me on the ground.
“Fuck you,” I said and then he proceeded to start kicking me in the stomach.
I remember yelling, “stop it,” when another cop stopped at the door.
“What’s going on,” he asked with a grin on his face.
“This drunken piece of shit can’t seem to stay on his feet,” the short cop said while laughing.
“Well, you better take him to jail, we got that game tonight,” he said and then turned and walked away.
“Alright, asshole, up on your feet,” shorty said while yanking me up by my left arm.
He stopped at a desk, picked up a folder with some papers and then drove me to the Peoria County Jail.
Neither of us spoke the entire time. I remember at the time thinking it felt like when you had a fight with your girlfriend and neither wanted to be the first to talk. I almost felt like laughing, but I knew better.
We arrived at the jail and went in through a back entrance. We made our way into a room that had a long desk with a woman at the end of it. She was attractive, blonde and appeared to be in her late twenties. We approached the desk and he handed her the envelope. As she looked in the envelope he finally took the handcuffs off and I put my hands up near up near my face and my wrists were covered in blood and bleeding. The woman looked up and then looked shocked at my wrists.
“Oh my God,” She said while running into another room.
“You keep your fucking mouth shut,” Shorty said while glaring at me.
Blondie returned with a wet towel and handed it to me.
“Did you know his wrists were bleeding,” She asked Shorty as I ran the towel over the cuts and cleaned them up.
“Must’ve happened on the way down,” Shorty sneered back while glaring at me.
“What happened to your head,” She asked looking at the lump on my forehead.
“He fell down,” Shorty interjected while smiling.
“Yeah, I fell into his boot,” I sarcastically shot back.
“I told you to shut your fucking mouth,” Shorty screamed at me.
“Look, officer,” Blondie sharply interrupted, “I’ve got the paperwork, I think we can take it from here.”
“Fine, I have to be going anyway,” Shorty said, while spinning around and marching away, almost goose-stepping like a little Hitler.
“Is your head okay, do you want see a doctor?” She asked.
“I’m okay,” I answered touching the knot on my head.
“You think you can make bail?” She asked while filling out some paperwork.
“I know I can,” I lied, hoping to get on some sort of fast track out of there. I think she felt sorry for me, knowing I got beat up by that short piece of shit.
“Okay,” we’ll process you and I’ll have you put in a holding tank and you can make calls from there.”
“There’s a phone in the cell?” I asked.
“Yeah, in the holding cell,” she answered.
“Jail sure has changed,” I said half smiling.
“So you’ve been here before?” she asked while typing something on a piece of paper.
“Yeah, a long time ago,” I said while remembering my first night in jail.
Blondie took me to a room and I was fingerprinted, had my mug shot taken and then a cop escorted me to a cell, but it wasn’t in the regular part of the jail and there was just one guy sleeping on one of the wooden racks that lined the walls. The cop opened the door escorted me in and told me I could make my calls from the phone on the wall.
“If it’s not local, you have to call collect,” he said and then slammed the jail door shut. I remembered that sickening clang from the first time I got thrown in jail. It’s a sound you never forget.
This woke up my cellmate and he rolled over squinted at me, grunted and then fell back asleep. He looked a little older than me, had long red hair and looked as bad as I felt. I had sobered up somewhat and called my friend Moon. Moon’s brother-in-law was a sergeant on the police force and is a real nice guy. So I immediately called Moon. It took me awhile to convince him I wasn’t kidding and when I finally made it clear I was in jail he said he’d immediately call his brother-in-law. Then I called my brother Jim and luckily he was home. I told him I was in jail and that bail would probably be one hundred bucks. He said he was on his way. Within five minutes a cop came to the cell door and yelled out, “Wombacher? Martin Wombacher?”
“Right here,” I spat out while waving at him.
The cop unlocked the cell door and told me to come with him. He was young, tall with sandy brown hair and had an air of nonchalance about him. I had a good feeling that my luck was turning.
I followed him into an office and he had a bag with my money and things they had taken from pockets when I was being processed.
“Am I getting out of here?” I asked amazed.
“Yeah,” the cop shot back, “it’s your lucky day. You got a ride home?”
“Yeah, my brother’s coming here,” I told him. “What’s my bail going to be?”
He smiled and said, “No bail, Sgt. Needham said you wouldn’t flee the country before your trial. Just sit here until we call for you,” he said as he walked away.
Postscript
My brother picked me up and drove me to my apartment. The next day I called Mike and he told me he was in the doghouse at home, because he had to be at some school meeting that evening and he had come home bombed. After I told him I had been in the jailhouse, I think he felt a little better. My car had been impounded and I spent the next couple days getting my car and talking to an attorney that specialized in D.U.I.’s. His name was Donald Halm and he was a short pudgy guy with grey hair and a ruddy pink face. He told me my D.U.I. I had gotten years ago was long off the books, so this would be treated like a first offense. I’d probably lose my license for a month and get a fine and probation. But since I worked nights, he said he could probably get the judge to let me drive for a half an hour before and after work. After we were done, as an aside he asked why I had gotten so drunk. I told him about the magazine and that Wolfgang was practically pouring booze down our throats for free.
“He was giving you free drinks and he’s the owner?” The attorney asked with his face lighting up.
“Yeah, the guy can be pretty fucking nuts,” I told the attorney.
“Would your friend testify to this?” The attorney asked excitedly.
“Yeah, but why would he?” I asked confused.
“I think I can get you out of this whole mess,” Halm said smiling widely.
“How?” I asked, a little shocked.
“Look if a bartender serves you too much, he can be in trouble, but it’s tough to prove sometimes. But if this clown was giving it to you for free and he’s the owner, we can get this thrown out, I guarantee you!” He told me triumphantly.
“So what would happen to Wolfgang?” I asked.
“Well, he’ll lose his liquor license,” Halm said matter-of-factly.
I thought for a minute and said, “Shit I can’t do that, he’d go out of business then.”
Halm let out a sigh and said, “Well, I understand, if you change your mind let me know.
Wolfgang never knew how close he came to getting shut down and I never went back to The Rat’skeller. The last I heard from him was about six months after my D.U.I. I was home working on an article for the magazine and the phone rang, I picked it up, said hello and just heard somebody mumbling.
“Hello?” I repeated.
And then I heard in a German accent, “Hello you cowboy faggot!”
I laughed and said, “Wolfgang, what’s up?”
“Hello cowboy faggot,” he repeated like some drunken German parrot.
Then someone grabbed the phone and said, “Can I help you?”
I recogonized the voice. It was Jim Bonnett who managed The Rat’skeller and was also a writer. He had worked on the magazine.
“Hey Jim, it’s Marty, from the magazine,” I told him. “Wolfgang called me, but he just keeps shouting, ‘cowboy faggot,’ at me. What is he bombed out of his gourd?”
“Yeah, he was reading that old issue with his article in it and he must’ve seen your phone number in the masthead,” Jim explained. In the background I heard Wolfgang yelling. “Listen I gotta run and take care of Wolfgang” Jim told me.
“Okay, tell the cowboy faggot I said goodbye,” I laughingly told Jim.
“Will do Marty, talk to you soon,” Jim laughed and hung up the phone.
Eventually The Rat’skeller closed due to a mixture of the economic climate and Wolfgang’s insatiable thirst for booze. I’ve never had another sip of Jagermeister and if I even so much as catch a whiff of it, I feel like I’m going to throw up. I don’t know whatbecame of Wolfgang, but I imagine he’s in a bar somewhere screaming out the words, “Cowboy Faggot!”
I don’t know what happened to that short little piece of shit cop that arrested me, either. My lawyer advised me to stay out of Peoria Heights if I could because those cops had a reputation for being nuts. I can only hope that that sawed off asshole got caught doing something illegal and is now in jail and being repeatedly gang-raped in cell block number nine.
Reader Comments (3)
Reason No. 14,983.001 to not drink Jagermeister!
I loved this article. I'm sure that cop is rotting in hell!!!
That shit does sneak up on you and it tastes like vicks cough syrup! Great story..............when do you get gang raped? Trip number 3?