Help!
Help!
Here I am at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday morning at the Sinclair station on 900 West and Center Street in Provo with two kids and three policemen. I am surprised at how busy West Center Street is at that hour. This is the story of my brush with the other side of Utah Valley life.
About three weeks ago, a young woman I know calls me about 10 o’clock at night to tell me I have to get her out of jail. She has already lost custody of her nine-month-old baby because of her temper, and now she’s back in jail because of her temper. She desperately wants her baby back; she says he’s the only thing she has to live for.
The bail is $3320, she promises me her mom will pay me back, so I say ok.
She has already reluctantly contacted a couple of bail bondsmen and one of them calls and asks me to meet him in 20 minutes at the 7-11 across from the Trafalga miniature golf place up in Orem.
I wait in the 7-11 parking lot for a half hour wondering what kind of a person becomes a bail bondsmen. Finally, he comes wheeling up in a bright red truck. He’s a good-natured man who clearly fells he ahs an important, worthy job to do. We talk for awhile, I give him my money, he gives me a receipt to give to my friend’s mother who lives in another state, and I go to the county jail in Spanish Fork.
I have been lucky in that I’ve never had to go to county jail before. I pull up to the front of the building which looks pretty much like the emergency entrance into a hospital. OK, I can do this.
I give them my receipt and they go recover Cindi (not her name) from the bowels of the building. Out she boils, cussing and swinging and madder than heck. Frankly, I’m a bit intimidated. I’m uncomfortable with this whole sick feeling I have in my stomach. How would I feel if this was my kid?
I take her to a friend’s apartment and leave her for the night. She tells me later that she slept outside because the friend was doing drugs and she didn’t want to stay. She is a curious mix of cocky and pathetic. I want to take her home and fix her—and I want to never see her again.
Cut to a few days later. Cindi’s taken up residency with a friend, Cary (not his name), and they call me at 1:15 a.m. They are being harassed by a guy who’s stoned and has a gun. Cary is on probation for felony robbery. He’s been clean for couple of years but he’s completely freaked by the possibility that his probation officer will arrest him and send him back to prison for having drug paraphernalia anywhere near him,
Cary is in tears but Cindi talks him into going down to the Sinclair in my car although he’s not supposed to leave his house after six, and calling the cops. He’s literally shaking when he dials the number, but he does, telling the police this is an anonymous call. Cindi grabs the phone, tells them her name, says Cary’s on probation and that they need help.
The drug guy is gone by the time the police come, talk to us, and decide to go to the house. Cindi is never charged with anything. We need to see if we can recover the bail money. I should go with her because she’ll lose her temper.
Cary’s landlord has given him a week to come up with the other half of his rent money. If he doesn’t, his parole officer says he will have to go back to jail.
He starts work on Monday at a local telephone marketing company and will net $569 a month. His rent and utilities will be $550. He can’t work after six because of probation. He figures he’ll come up with the extra money to live somehow. His parents are tired of helping him.
Cindi was going to use the returned bail money, if she can get it back, to help Cary’s first month of rent only now she doesn’t want to stay with him anymore.
Is this what it’s like to have a child on drugs? The difficulties have never stopped in the three weeks I’ve been involved. They need GED’s and parenting that their parents can’t give; money, food and education and the very most basic things of life. They have no car and no desire to take the bus. No plans, no hopes, no ambition.
Cary’s family is tired of trying, Cindi is a product of a family just like her.
It’s been three weeks and I’m ready to give up. What must they feel like?
Here I am at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday morning at the Sinclair station on 900 West and Center Street in Provo with two kids and three policemen. I am surprised at how busy West Center Street is at that hour. This is the story of my brush with the other side of Utah Valley life.
About three weeks ago, a young woman I know calls me about 10 o’clock at night to tell me I have to get her out of jail. She has already lost custody of her nine-month-old baby because of her temper, and now she’s back in jail because of her temper. She desperately wants her baby back; she says he’s the only thing she has to live for.
The bail is $3320, she promises me her mom will pay me back, so I say ok.
She has already reluctantly contacted a couple of bail bondsmen and one of them calls and asks me to meet him in 20 minutes at the 7-11 across from the Trafalga miniature golf place up in Orem.
I wait in the 7-11 parking lot for a half hour wondering what kind of a person becomes a bail bondsmen. Finally, he comes wheeling up in a bright red truck. He’s a good-natured man who clearly fells he ahs an important, worthy job to do. We talk for awhile, I give him my money, he gives me a receipt to give to my friend’s mother who lives in another state, and I go to the county jail in Spanish Fork.
I have been lucky in that I’ve never had to go to county jail before. I pull up to the front of the building which looks pretty much like the emergency entrance into a hospital. OK, I can do this.
I give them my receipt and they go recover Cindi (not her name) from the bowels of the building. Out she boils, cussing and swinging and madder than heck. Frankly, I’m a bit intimidated. I’m uncomfortable with this whole sick feeling I have in my stomach. How would I feel if this was my kid?
I take her to a friend’s apartment and leave her for the night. She tells me later that she slept outside because the friend was doing drugs and she didn’t want to stay. She is a curious mix of cocky and pathetic. I want to take her home and fix her—and I want to never see her again.
Cut to a few days later. Cindi’s taken up residency with a friend, Cary (not his name), and they call me at 1:15 a.m. They are being harassed by a guy who’s stoned and has a gun. Cary is on probation for felony robbery. He’s been clean for couple of years but he’s completely freaked by the possibility that his probation officer will arrest him and send him back to prison for having drug paraphernalia anywhere near him,
Cary is in tears but Cindi talks him into going down to the Sinclair in my car although he’s not supposed to leave his house after six, and calling the cops. He’s literally shaking when he dials the number, but he does, telling the police this is an anonymous call. Cindi grabs the phone, tells them her name, says Cary’s on probation and that they need help.
The drug guy is gone by the time the police come, talk to us, and decide to go to the house. Cindi is never charged with anything. We need to see if we can recover the bail money. I should go with her because she’ll lose her temper.
Cary’s landlord has given him a week to come up with the other half of his rent money. If he doesn’t, his parole officer says he will have to go back to jail.
He starts work on Monday at a local telephone marketing company and will net $569 a month. His rent and utilities will be $550. He can’t work after six because of probation. He figures he’ll come up with the extra money to live somehow. His parents are tired of helping him.
Cindi was going to use the returned bail money, if she can get it back, to help Cary’s first month of rent only now she doesn’t want to stay with him anymore.
Is this what it’s like to have a child on drugs? The difficulties have never stopped in the three weeks I’ve been involved. They need GED’s and parenting that their parents can’t give; money, food and education and the very most basic things of life. They have no car and no desire to take the bus. No plans, no hopes, no ambition.
Cary’s family is tired of trying, Cindi is a product of a family just like her.
It’s been three weeks and I’m ready to give up. What must they feel like?
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