The Boiling of the Bones

13. The Marines

I slept in underwear, and they didn't let me change or throw on any of my clothes. They dressed me in a plain, gray jumpsuit that looked like prisoner garb. They marched me down the stairs and into an SUV rental car in the driveway. I looked back and the light was on in my parents' bedroom. I saw my dad casually observing from the window. I couldn't see for sure, but I imagined he had a drink in hand. I felt a burning sense of betrayal and animosity toward my father harsher than I'd ever felt before. This was some really messed up shit.

We drove to the airport and caught a five forty-five am redeye flight to Salt Lake City, Utah. Sure enough, my 'escorts' had all the necessary paperwork to get me through the security check in and onto the flight. It was humiliating having to wear restraints in the airport. Onlookers, mostly last-minute Christmas travelers, glared at me like I was a criminal.

We arrived in Salt Lake as the sun was rising above the mountains. The winter air was cold and drier than I'd ever felt before and the landscape looked like a barren desert wasteland like we were on Mars. The dry grass and weeds were matted down with a patchwork of snowy areas.

Everything in my life was suddenly turned upside down. The part that hurt the most was thinking about Sophia. I had no way to contact her and let her know where I was. It was Christmas Eve, and I didn't even get to give her a Christmas present. My heart ached for her. She'd worry about me not knowing what happened and wonder where I went, what I was doing and why I didn't call or come see her. She'd probably assume I was hiding from her because I didn't want to see her anymore. The thought of it tore me apart inside.

A van picked us up at curb. It was labelled simply, Rocky Mountain Rehabilitation Center. There was a green circular logo with the letters RMRC in the center. We rode for about an hour, then pulled up to what looked like a nice, gated estate in an upscale neighborhood near the base of a mountain. The property was surrounded in a ten-foot-high spiked iron gate. Tall shrubbery concealed most of the view of the estate.

The driver waved at a guard in the nearby security shack and the driveway gate swung open. He drove through and the gate automatically closed behind us.

I was brought inside and processed at an admission desk. I was then handed over to a pair of orderlies who were incredibly demeaning and insulting. They shaved off my long hair and my heart sunk as I watched the long dark strands fall to the floor.

They weren't talking to me. It was borderline yelling like basic training drill sergeants. They kept going on about how it might feel like I was being treated harshly or unfairly but claimed it was all in my best interest and that this was actually tough love that was somehow going to make me a better person. I was going to learn disciple and hard work and a bunch of other highly regimented militaristic stuff that was going to help me become a productive member of society. They went through a long list of rules and the accompanying punishments for bad behavior.

Next, I was taken to a health clinic and given a physical exam and administered a drug test. It was humiliating. I wasn't a druggie, but nobody ever believed anything I said. It was pointless talking to them. They treated me like a convict. Oh well, maybe they'd believe me when they got my test results back. It didn't matter. Even if my drug test results came back clean, they still thought I had a rebellious attitude problem. Pleading my case wouldn't make the slightest difference. The girls were separated from the boys. Their dorm was in another building. I could see them through thick glass wall panels out in the yard when they had exercise time. But I never got to know any of them.

I was brought to my 'dorm' and introduced to my new roommates. We bunked eight to a room with cameras everywhere. We were under constant supervision. No one was outwardly friendly or welcoming. Most ignored me. A few nodded or grunted faintly, hey or hi, barely acknowledging my presence. They mostly seemed depressed. No one was happy to be there. They weren't especially welcoming. Give it time. I'd make friends.

I was provided with more 'prison' clothes—we all wore the same matching outfits, but other than that, I wasn't allowed any personal belongings. I wished I could have at least brought my guitar, but they wouldn't allow it because I could be hiding drugs or weapons.

At noon it was time for lunch. We weren't allowed coffee so I grabbed a cup of apple juice. I reluctantly grabbed some fruit and a bagel and picked at a few bites. Mostly, I'd lost my appetite.

After lunch we had more PT time which I learned was military lingo for physical fitness training. We worked out in a small gym doing pushups, sit-ups, pullups, then had to run laps around the inner courtyard for thirty minutes.

After a shower, we had to report to class for schoolwork. I was academically much farther along than most of the other prisoners and found class to be a complete waste of time. I quickly completed my remedial assignments then wasted the rest of the class time writing song lyrics or journaling about my experiences.

The next morning was Christmas morning. It was the worst Christmas ever. No presents, no fresh cinnamon rolls or breakfast or fancy roast for dinner. It was horrible. We had some nasty meatloaf with overcooked peas and lumpy mashed potatoes.

We still had to do our PT time, but school classes were dismissed for the day, so I hung out depressed and feeling sorry for myself in the dorm. I just laid in bed all day wishing I were dead.

A few days into my incarceration, one of my teachers saw me scratching out song lyrics on a scrap of paper and inquired as to what I was doing. I quickly tried to hide my work under another page of assignments, but the teacher saw me and confiscated my paper. He crumpled it and discarded it into a trash can. They were perpetually afraid we were trying to contact people on the outside to either bring us drugs, or weapons, or hatch some type of escape plan.

Rule number one was absolutely no outside contact with friends or anyone else on the outside under any circumstances. They couldn't visit or even know where we were. It was so demeaning. They treated us more like animals than human beings. Some of the inmates rebelled and were subsequently locked away in solitary confinement for the rest of the day.

Some were understandably upset, being torn without notice from friends and loved ones. If they lashed out, they were administered shots of some type of sedative because moments later they became zombies. They were like human vegetables-sedate and manageable. They'd sit with a blank expression in their eyes and stare off into space for a few hours, sometimes with drool running down their faces.

I rubbed the crown of my head a dozen times—always alarmed by the odd, prickly sensation of my buzzed head. I looked so weird. It took a long time to acclimate to the feeling.

The but the worst part of all of it was that I never got to say goodbye to Sophia, and I had no idea how long it would be before I'd see her again.