LAST MAN STANDING

   Some folks that listen to my yarns give me a certain look. A doubting look. A Anyone that can pile it that deep and keep a straight face oughta run for office look. These doubters are always civilians. Cops, who are usually the worst skeptics, are seldom surprised. They've seen so much the bizarre is common place. That said, I'm warning everyone in advance this one is going to be hard to swallow. But, it was related to me by Ray Barnett (right) while in the company of other old-timers who'd also been witnesses and verified it. So, here goes.

 The "drunk tank" was a common fixture in all old jails. In smaller jails, where there were just a few cells, many times all the cells were designed so they could be tanks. The tank was an oversized cell, bare except for maybe a toilet, and a bolted- down iron bench or two. There was also a drain in the center of the floor.

 A trip to the drunk tank put many an errant youth on the righteous path. One Saturday night of being packed in with filthy inebriates, who puked and pissed on each other--and you--did not beg for a repeat performance. Worse still, to get them all spiffy for court, some time in the early morning the Jailer would turn a hose on the lot, using the floor drain to dispose of the filth.

 After one boisterous night in Immokalee, the little jail was packed full. Standing room only. Inmates clustered in tight packed groups, tighter than the illegal alien benefits line at the Social Security Office. When the door was unlocked, to sort them out, all passed out of the tank except one who stood alone for a second, then toppled over like a chainsawed pine. On inspection, it was determined he was dead. Signal-7. And, from his condition, had been for some hours.
 Ray says that he can still hear Joe Cocker singing "I get by with a little help from my friends," every time he thinks about it.
 Photo courtesy Chester Keene