raised slab of concrete that was about the same size and shape. There was a combination toilet/sink/water fountain at the back of the cell. A concrete half wall next to it provided a minimal amount of privacy between two cellmates, but I was the only tenant at the moment. The upper ridge of the concrete was sloped and beveled in a way that eliminated the hard corner and prevented climbing on top of it. The toilet fixture itself was one continuous piece of metal without a lid or seat. A roll of toilet paper sat in a cylindrical cubby sunken into the side. No spindle. An angled hole above the sink formed the faucet, and instead of tap handles or knobs, there was a single button that made the water flow out in a little arc that you could either drink or cup in your hands. I was beginning to feel woozy and lightheaded, so I drank water until I felt good and sloshy inside.
There was nothing breakable in the room. The walls were made of large concrete blocks and the ceiling was completely seamless. I was fascinated by the place in spite of myself. I couldn't help taking in all the details. Sitting in my otherwise empty cell, I tried to imagine a jailbreak attempt start to finish, but I couldn't come up with a reasonable starting point. There was nowhere to grab. Nothing to use for leverage. The “phone” on the wall was like a cross between an old pay phone and an intercom.
The faucet fountain was leaking. As quiet as it was, I could hear the water running into the sink and down the drain. My ears focused in on it from across the room. There were different parts to the sound. I could hear the deeper, muffled pressure of the water running through the pipes in the wall. There was the soft hiss as it seeped through the hole in the fixture. Next came the hollow ring of the water traveling down the inside of the bowl, and finally, there was the gentle gurgle of it all trickling through the drain. So many components folded into one sound. Such a simple thing, but with so much hidden complexity. I wondered if anyone else had ever heard it the way I was hearing it. It was beautiful. Here I was, arrested for drunk driving. I ought to be miserable. The fallout was going to be terrible. In spite of all that, I was completely absorbed by the various aspects of the sound produced by my leaky jail faucet. Disassembling and reassembling the component sounds was incredibly satisfying in spite of my situation. The mystery shot from before I'd left the bar was beginning to assert its influence. “Just wait. You'll like it.”
I flexed my ears. There was something else. Besides the sink. It was outside my cell. I turned and stood by the door, then closed my eyes so I could hear better. I followed the sound through the door to the hallway where it was louder. I recognized it. It was familiar. Music. Music I knew. Played back over cheap computer speakers. They were small, with little wire mesh speaker covers over the tweeters, filling my entire field of vision. I zoomed out from the sound. The computer and I were both in an office. I drifted back through a one-way mirror and found myself in front of my cell again. The music was clearer now that I'd found the source. I could hear through the filters of the door and the mirror to the computer in the office as I returned to my body.
“...Mister city policeman sitting, pretty little policemen in a row...”
My head spun. The music pounded in my ears. It swirled around me in stereo panning that filled the room from wall to wall. With my eyes closed, I could pick out each instrument's track floating toward me in waves. I could see the instruments – the actual instruments as they were being played – hovering in space – laid out just like they were in the studio - each individual string buzzing and humming - their vibrations compressing and rarefying the air between the recording studio
There was nothing breakable in the room. The walls were made of large concrete blocks and the ceiling was completely seamless. I was fascinated by the place in spite of myself. I couldn't help taking in all the details. Sitting in my otherwise empty cell, I tried to imagine a jailbreak attempt start to finish, but I couldn't come up with a reasonable starting point. There was nowhere to grab. Nothing to use for leverage. The “phone” on the wall was like a cross between an old pay phone and an intercom.
The faucet fountain was leaking. As quiet as it was, I could hear the water running into the sink and down the drain. My ears focused in on it from across the room. There were different parts to the sound. I could hear the deeper, muffled pressure of the water running through the pipes in the wall. There was the soft hiss as it seeped through the hole in the fixture. Next came the hollow ring of the water traveling down the inside of the bowl, and finally, there was the gentle gurgle of it all trickling through the drain. So many components folded into one sound. Such a simple thing, but with so much hidden complexity. I wondered if anyone else had ever heard it the way I was hearing it. It was beautiful. Here I was, arrested for drunk driving. I ought to be miserable. The fallout was going to be terrible. In spite of all that, I was completely absorbed by the various aspects of the sound produced by my leaky jail faucet. Disassembling and reassembling the component sounds was incredibly satisfying in spite of my situation. The mystery shot from before I'd left the bar was beginning to assert its influence. “Just wait. You'll like it.”
I flexed my ears. There was something else. Besides the sink. It was outside my cell. I turned and stood by the door, then closed my eyes so I could hear better. I followed the sound through the door to the hallway where it was louder. I recognized it. It was familiar. Music. Music I knew. Played back over cheap computer speakers. They were small, with little wire mesh speaker covers over the tweeters, filling my entire field of vision. I zoomed out from the sound. The computer and I were both in an office. I drifted back through a one-way mirror and found myself in front of my cell again. The music was clearer now that I'd found the source. I could hear through the filters of the door and the mirror to the computer in the office as I returned to my body.
“...Mister city policeman sitting, pretty little policemen in a row...”
My head spun. The music pounded in my ears. It swirled around me in stereo panning that filled the room from wall to wall. With my eyes closed, I could pick out each instrument's track floating toward me in waves. I could see the instruments – the actual instruments as they were being played – hovering in space – laid out just like they were in the studio - each individual string buzzing and humming - their vibrations compressing and rarefying the air between the recording studio
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