One
I can tell you from experience that a jail cell is not a place you’d like to visit.
Now I’m no Papillon, and the police station serving the 68th precinct of
Brooklyn, New York is no Devil’s Island, but it sucks just the same. To give
you a mental picture, for the past thirty minutes I’ve been sitting on a concrete
bench staring at 1) a prehistoric toilet that is no doubt infested with e-coli and
gonorrhea, 2) a very large, possibly mutated cockroach snacking on a green
potato chip, and 3) an entire wall devoted to words and phrases that would
put even Howard Stern under the table.
I’m waiting for my father to show up and bail me out. However, the two police
officers who’d slapped the handcuffs on me outside the Century 21
department store are having a difficult time tracking him down. My dad is a
doctor – OB/GYN to be precise – so at the moment he could be delivering a
baby, performing a hysterectomy, or doing some other procedure on a
woman’s body which is something I’d rather not think about. Especially after
reading Memoirs of a Pervert on the aforementioned wall. Outside my cell, the
nice cop, Officer Burns, hangs up the phone. “Hey Dylan, looks like your dad
will be here in twenty minutes.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. “Thanks, thanks a lot.” The not-so-nice cop, Burns’s
partner, Officer Greenwood, arches an eyebrow like he’s never before met
such a polite juvenile delinquent, then pours himself a cup of coffee. He
dumps in a butt load of creamer and stirs. I can’t help myself. “Um, sir . . .”
He looks up. “You might consider switching to milk or half-and-half. That stuff
you just used, it’s got a lot of trans fat.”
He takes a gulp of his coffee, and winces like he just scorched his throat. “Oh,
is that so?”
I’m not being a wise-ass. The truth is, for the past couple of months I’ve been
doing our family’s weekly food shopping and I’ve become a little obsessed
about additives, preservatives, artificial colorings, things like that. “Yeah, I
read an article about it in Newsweek. The FDA has linked trans fats to
soaring cholesterol levels. Just thought you might want to know.”
He picks up the container of creamer and squints at the label. “Well,” he
says, “it’s amazing I’m still alive.” Then he rolls his eyes at Burns, who,
because he’s a nice guy, only smiles. While the two of them fill out a pile of
paperwork regarding Yours Truly, I go back to wondering what my father’s
reaction will be when he finds out the particulars of my arrest. I’ve never been
in real trouble before, and since it’s my seventeen-year-old brother, Randy,
who’s been screwing up lately, I figure I stand a pretty good chance of a
lecture and a few weeks grounding. And because my dad has other things on
his mind, like the fact that my mother is now living in Greenwich Village with
Philippe LeBlanc, her former art professor, he might consider the whole thing,
well, trivial.
Twenty minutes later my dad walks through the door in his labor and delivery
scrubs. Paper booties adorn his Nikes, and a surgical mask hangs from his
neck. He sees me in the cell and rushes over. “Dylan, are you all right?”
“Yeah, Dad, I’m fine.”
He looks frazzled. “I don’t believe this. I thought for sure they had the wrong
kid. I mean, if they’d said it was Randy, I’d understand, but . . . Dylan, what’s
going on?”
I hold up one hand. “There is an explanation, Dad. It’s just, well–”
“Doctor . . . Fontaine?” Officer Burns stands there gaping. “Is that you?”
Suddenly I realize this is my ace in the hole. My dad must have delivered
Burns’s baby. Maybe even saved the kid’s life.
My dad turns around, and when he sees Burns he shakes his head and
smiles wryly. “Well, what do you know? Michael Burns. How are you? How’s
Christina, how’s the baby?”
Burns walks over and they shake hands while Greenwood watches from a
distance sipping his poisoned coffee. “Oh, they’re fine,” Burns says. In fact,
we just took Sarah in for her one month check up – she’s already ten
pounds. Here, let me show you.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet, and as the two of them
ogle at baby Sarah, Officer Greenwood can’t take it anymore. He picks up my
stack of paperwork, raps it a few times against the desk, and clears his throat.
“Should we uh, get down to business, gentlemen?”
Burns and my father look up. “Oh . . . yes, of course,” my father says. “Sorry
about that Officer. Sorry, Dylan.”
No problem, I think. Anything to get on the good side of the law.
Greenwood walks over, pulls a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks my
cell. The door makes a high pitched squeak as it swings open. I shuffle out,
and the four of us take seats in a nearby room. I’m not sure, but I think the
place is soundproof which makes me feel even more like a criminal.
My father takes off his surgical cap, revealing a tuft of downy blond hair. He’s
a pretty good looking guy, except for the male pattern baldness which seems
to have gotten worse with all the stress this past year. “Well gentleman,
thankfully I’m not an expert in these matters, but shouldn’t we have a lawyer
present?”
Greenwood eyes Burns. Burns smiles apologetically. “Actually Doctor
Fontaine, I don’t think that will be necessary. I’m quite certain we can work
this out ourselves. As you were told over the phone, Dylan was caught
shoplifting in Century 21, and when we searched his pockets we also found
him in possession of –”
“Just a minute,” my father interrupts, holding up one hand, “before we go any
further I’d like to know exactly what Dylan took from the store. I mean . . .” he
looks at me with an expression so sad and disappointed I want to slip under
the table and crawl back to the jail cell. “You see, I give him plenty of money,
actually he earns it – mowing the lawn, cooking, cleaning. It just . . . well,
doesn’t make sense.”
My dad is making me sound like the poster boy for Better Homes and
Gardens, which is a little embarrassing for a fifteen-year-old guy whose six-
foot-three and hoping to play Varsity basketball this year. But to set things
straight he’s a little mixed up about the chore list. Cleaning the house is
Randy’s job, which is a joke since all he does lately is lounge around the living
room in the afternoons getting high with his friends. They have this rock band
called The Dead Musicians Society, and cannabis, they claim, enhances their
creativity. Anyway, I’m usually the one left holding the scrub brush and Ty-D-
Bowl. “And, on top of that,” my dad goes on, “Dylan has never really wanted
anything before.”
Now this is most certainly true. I, Dylan Fontaine, am not a materialist. Even
though I could be if I wanted to since my dad is rich as hell.
Burns looks at Greenwood. He’s too embarrassed, and also too nice of a guy
to say what I took from the store. The job goes to Greenwood. He clears his
throat. “Underwear,” he says, coughing a little, trying to hide a smirk that is
creeping across his face. “Your son stole underwear.”
My dad blinks a few times. He doesn’t say anything for a while, then his eyes
widen. “You don’t mean . . . ?” He looks at me, and suddenly I realize what
he’s thinking.
“Men’s underwear, Dad,” I say, laughing. “Don’t worry, I’m not a cross-
dresser.”
Silence fills the room. No one thinks this is funny, and now the three of them
are waiting for an explanation. I can’t blame them, really. I’d be curious to
know why some rich doctor’s kid stole two packs of Fruit of the Loom. But
right now my lips are sealed.
Back to Books
I can tell you from experience that a jail cell is not a place you’d like to visit.
Now I’m no Papillon, and the police station serving the 68th precinct of
Brooklyn, New York is no Devil’s Island, but it sucks just the same. To give
you a mental picture, for the past thirty minutes I’ve been sitting on a concrete
bench staring at 1) a prehistoric toilet that is no doubt infested with e-coli and
gonorrhea, 2) a very large, possibly mutated cockroach snacking on a green
potato chip, and 3) an entire wall devoted to words and phrases that would
put even Howard Stern under the table.
I’m waiting for my father to show up and bail me out. However, the two police
officers who’d slapped the handcuffs on me outside the Century 21
department store are having a difficult time tracking him down. My dad is a
doctor – OB/GYN to be precise – so at the moment he could be delivering a
baby, performing a hysterectomy, or doing some other procedure on a
woman’s body which is something I’d rather not think about. Especially after
reading Memoirs of a Pervert on the aforementioned wall. Outside my cell, the
nice cop, Officer Burns, hangs up the phone. “Hey Dylan, looks like your dad
will be here in twenty minutes.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. “Thanks, thanks a lot.” The not-so-nice cop, Burns’s
partner, Officer Greenwood, arches an eyebrow like he’s never before met
such a polite juvenile delinquent, then pours himself a cup of coffee. He
dumps in a butt load of creamer and stirs. I can’t help myself. “Um, sir . . .”
He looks up. “You might consider switching to milk or half-and-half. That stuff
you just used, it’s got a lot of trans fat.”
He takes a gulp of his coffee, and winces like he just scorched his throat. “Oh,
is that so?”
I’m not being a wise-ass. The truth is, for the past couple of months I’ve been
doing our family’s weekly food shopping and I’ve become a little obsessed
about additives, preservatives, artificial colorings, things like that. “Yeah, I
read an article about it in Newsweek. The FDA has linked trans fats to
soaring cholesterol levels. Just thought you might want to know.”
He picks up the container of creamer and squints at the label. “Well,” he
says, “it’s amazing I’m still alive.” Then he rolls his eyes at Burns, who,
because he’s a nice guy, only smiles. While the two of them fill out a pile of
paperwork regarding Yours Truly, I go back to wondering what my father’s
reaction will be when he finds out the particulars of my arrest. I’ve never been
in real trouble before, and since it’s my seventeen-year-old brother, Randy,
who’s been screwing up lately, I figure I stand a pretty good chance of a
lecture and a few weeks grounding. And because my dad has other things on
his mind, like the fact that my mother is now living in Greenwich Village with
Philippe LeBlanc, her former art professor, he might consider the whole thing,
well, trivial.
Twenty minutes later my dad walks through the door in his labor and delivery
scrubs. Paper booties adorn his Nikes, and a surgical mask hangs from his
neck. He sees me in the cell and rushes over. “Dylan, are you all right?”
“Yeah, Dad, I’m fine.”
He looks frazzled. “I don’t believe this. I thought for sure they had the wrong
kid. I mean, if they’d said it was Randy, I’d understand, but . . . Dylan, what’s
going on?”
I hold up one hand. “There is an explanation, Dad. It’s just, well–”
“Doctor . . . Fontaine?” Officer Burns stands there gaping. “Is that you?”
Suddenly I realize this is my ace in the hole. My dad must have delivered
Burns’s baby. Maybe even saved the kid’s life.
My dad turns around, and when he sees Burns he shakes his head and
smiles wryly. “Well, what do you know? Michael Burns. How are you? How’s
Christina, how’s the baby?”
Burns walks over and they shake hands while Greenwood watches from a
distance sipping his poisoned coffee. “Oh, they’re fine,” Burns says. In fact,
we just took Sarah in for her one month check up – she’s already ten
pounds. Here, let me show you.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet, and as the two of them
ogle at baby Sarah, Officer Greenwood can’t take it anymore. He picks up my
stack of paperwork, raps it a few times against the desk, and clears his throat.
“Should we uh, get down to business, gentlemen?”
Burns and my father look up. “Oh . . . yes, of course,” my father says. “Sorry
about that Officer. Sorry, Dylan.”
No problem, I think. Anything to get on the good side of the law.
Greenwood walks over, pulls a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks my
cell. The door makes a high pitched squeak as it swings open. I shuffle out,
and the four of us take seats in a nearby room. I’m not sure, but I think the
place is soundproof which makes me feel even more like a criminal.
My father takes off his surgical cap, revealing a tuft of downy blond hair. He’s
a pretty good looking guy, except for the male pattern baldness which seems
to have gotten worse with all the stress this past year. “Well gentleman,
thankfully I’m not an expert in these matters, but shouldn’t we have a lawyer
present?”
Greenwood eyes Burns. Burns smiles apologetically. “Actually Doctor
Fontaine, I don’t think that will be necessary. I’m quite certain we can work
this out ourselves. As you were told over the phone, Dylan was caught
shoplifting in Century 21, and when we searched his pockets we also found
him in possession of –”
“Just a minute,” my father interrupts, holding up one hand, “before we go any
further I’d like to know exactly what Dylan took from the store. I mean . . .” he
looks at me with an expression so sad and disappointed I want to slip under
the table and crawl back to the jail cell. “You see, I give him plenty of money,
actually he earns it – mowing the lawn, cooking, cleaning. It just . . . well,
doesn’t make sense.”
My dad is making me sound like the poster boy for Better Homes and
Gardens, which is a little embarrassing for a fifteen-year-old guy whose six-
foot-three and hoping to play Varsity basketball this year. But to set things
straight he’s a little mixed up about the chore list. Cleaning the house is
Randy’s job, which is a joke since all he does lately is lounge around the living
room in the afternoons getting high with his friends. They have this rock band
called The Dead Musicians Society, and cannabis, they claim, enhances their
creativity. Anyway, I’m usually the one left holding the scrub brush and Ty-D-
Bowl. “And, on top of that,” my dad goes on, “Dylan has never really wanted
anything before.”
Now this is most certainly true. I, Dylan Fontaine, am not a materialist. Even
though I could be if I wanted to since my dad is rich as hell.
Burns looks at Greenwood. He’s too embarrassed, and also too nice of a guy
to say what I took from the store. The job goes to Greenwood. He clears his
throat. “Underwear,” he says, coughing a little, trying to hide a smirk that is
creeping across his face. “Your son stole underwear.”
My dad blinks a few times. He doesn’t say anything for a while, then his eyes
widen. “You don’t mean . . . ?” He looks at me, and suddenly I realize what
he’s thinking.
“Men’s underwear, Dad,” I say, laughing. “Don’t worry, I’m not a cross-
dresser.”
Silence fills the room. No one thinks this is funny, and now the three of them
are waiting for an explanation. I can’t blame them, really. I’d be curious to
know why some rich doctor’s kid stole two packs of Fruit of the Loom. But
right now my lips are sealed.
Back to Books