By Douglas Young

     “Soon after the clock strikes one…” Dorsey Cullen shouted across the lawn at Waller Patton College.

     “Planet Pax rocks the Straight Arrow,” his bandmate Jasper Wilcox replied with a grin.

     “It’ll be balls to the wall,” Dorsey declared as they high-fived each other early that Friday afternoon. The 20-year-old Mr. Cullen was elated their band would play that night in an old, long-abandoned church behind the campus after the local bars and clubs closed at 1:00 a.m.       

     Ever since playing the piano as a small child, music was Dorsey’s most cherished refuge. While at William J. Hardee High School, he played keyboards in a few bands with classmates, but was never really satisfied with any. While always fun to play, Dorsey was drained by squabbles over whether to perform his compositions or well-known hits, and band line-ups were ever-changing as members fell in love, had to study more, or moved away.

     Dorsey remained in Hardeeville to accept a music scholarship at Waller Patton College where he hoped to meet better musicians and form a far stronger band amid the vibrant local music scene. If his rock star dreams were dashed – what his disapproving dad dismissed as “that tomfool fantasy” — he figured a music degree would enable him to teach music. Dorsey also preferred home with all its comforts to living in a cramped dorm or off-campus apartment requiring him to get a job that kept him from his music.

     In his college freshman and sophomore years, he played in a few bands that went nowhere. But he gained valuable experience performing in Hardeeville clubs and meeting many musicians. At the start of his junior year, Dorsey, Jasper, and three other students formed Planet Pax, a psychedelic pop-folk-rock group playing mostly tunes penned by Dorsey. He craved their sound and was thrilled that, in just eight months, they had already filled local clubs and gotten glowing reviews and feature profiles in the downtown, campus, and two underground music papers. They had also recorded a few songs – Dorsey’s – that were played on the campus radio station, WTP. Hearing the group on the radio had been one of Dorsey’s most treasured thrills.

     In music, especially his own, Dorsey could escape his anxieties and feel completely free, relaxed, and confident unlike anywhere else. As uniquely satisfying as it was writing songs and hearing them come alive when played with his bandmates, performing them before an audience catapulted him to a realm approaching ecstasy. When the crowd was clearly enjoying music he had created, he felt a validation and communal connection like no other. So many endorphins were unleashed that he could not sleep for hours.

     Further proof of Planet Pax’s momentum was that so many fans asked the group to play at the old Straight Arrow Church where only the most popular bands in the area performed. Though no one knew who owned the run-down building, the place had long been a hang-out for students, particularly at night, to either make out with a sweetheart, get high, or exploit the building’s excellent acoustics. While not very big, it was still much larger than Hardeeville’s clubs, and bands could levy a small cover charge at the door. Unlike clubs and bars, students under 21 could attend too. Even some high-schoolers showed up. Playing the Straight Arrow earned a group major hip cachet and, with no club-owners taking a cut, much more cash than in clubs.

     “See you at three in the barn,” Jasper said, and Dorsey gave a thumbs-up sign as each went to class in opposite directions. Storing their equipment and rehearsing in Jasper’s grandfather’s barn just beyond Hardeeville was another reason Plant Pax had been Dorsey’s most enjoyable band. On the farm, the group could play as loud as it wanted, and with swell acoustics.

     Deep into imagining a productive afternoon rehearsal preceding a triumphant performance that evening, Mr. Cullen was slightly startled by a high-pitched, lyrical voice.

     “Well, hey there, Mr. Dorsey.”

     On the sidewalk lined by tulips of many colors beneath tall oak trees with hanging Spanish moss stood Giada Giordano. The attractive junior from Trieste, Italy wore a burgundy beret, paisley yellow shirt, old blue jeans, and black ballerina-like shoes. Dorsey got to know her the previous semester when they sat next to each other in class. They clicked so well that they got to class early just to chat. She struck him as extraordinarily kind and so grateful for many aspects of American culture that most students took for granted. Friendly, playful, and cute to boot, Dorsey also loved her Italian accent which struck him as charming and sexy. The only reason he did not ask her out was that she had a boyfriend, but he recently heard that they broke up.

     “Hey there, Miss Giada,” he replied. “What’s up in joyful Giadaville on this mighty marvelously melodic May afternoon?”

     “Giadaville hasn’t been too joyful lately, but it is a pretty day and nice to see you,” she remarked.

     “Oh, I’m right sorry if anything’s been troubling you,” Dorsey said with concern.

     “Well, Brad and I are now – how would you Americans say? – ‘splitsville.’” She sighed with a pronounced pout.

     “Aw. I’m real sorry,” Dorsey lied. When she blinked and said nothing, he quickly sought to comfort her.

     “Well, it’s his loss, and big time,” he declared. “And, as sweet and pretty as you are, you got nothing to worry about.”

     “Oh, thank you, sweetie,” she replied with an uninhibited smile he adored.

     “Hey,” he announced. “I gotta’ run to class, but why don’t you come see my band play at the Straight Arrow tonight? You know, the old church on Alfred Cumming Road behind the campus? We’ll start playing just after the clubs close at one. The cover’ll just be a few bucks. Oh! I’ll put you on the guest list.” He smiled.

     “Wow. How exciting. I remember you telling me all about Planet Pax and your playing piano. Your whole face lights up when you talk about it. Though I still haven’t seen you guys, I love hearing you sing on WPC. I shout to my friends, ‘I know that guy.’”

     Mildly hypnotized, Dorsey repeated his invitation.

     “How sweet of you, Dorsey. I will try to be there, but I’ll be with a few girlfriends and I don’t have a car—”

     “They’re invited too,” Dorsey offered eagerly. “Give me their names and I’ll put them on the guest list too.”

     “Oh, you’re way too generous.” She laughed. “I promise I’ll try to come, but don’t let me make you late for class.”

     “Okay, but I really think you’d enjoy the show. This is the finest band I’ve ever been in, and by far,” he stated.

     “I believe you.” She grinned.

     He was quite taken by how intently she gazed at him. Usually nervous in the presence of a good-looking girl, he relished feeling so relaxed and carefree.

     “Well. All right,” he said. “Hope to see you tonight … and I sure hope you feel better.”    

     “Aw, thank you, Dorsey. Ciao.” she replied and touched his shoulder.

     His entire being tingled, as if infused with a slightly drugged, dreamy feeling. Gosh, how super splendid if she shows up tonight, he thought. Imagining her staring at him longingly from the side of the stage consumed him as he ran to class where it proved to be a struggle to focus on the lecture.

     After class Dorsey headed to Jasper’s granddaddy’s barn where the band had a productive rehearsal. Besides playing music together, he still did not know his bandmates well. Though they got along, he had not socialized much with them, perhaps since Dorsey was the only one who neither drank alcohol nor smoked marijuana. But the group was gelling better than ever, they had finally nailed down the new songs, and Dorsey was getting more comfortable singing them.

     At 6:15 he ran into his family’s home to join his parents and younger brother Dixon at the dinner table. He was 15 minutes late – again – and apologized.

     “I reckon it’s six o’clock, rock star time,” his father remarked with raised eyebrows.

     “All right.” His mother smiled at her husband before passing Dorsey some sweet potato pie, one of his favorite foods.

     “Sorry, Dad…. The band was working on some new songs and I just couldn’t get away.”

     “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” Mr. Cullen asked lowering his head.

     “Dawson, please,” his wife said in a hushed tone as Dorsey looked at his plate and Dixon kicked him under the table with a grin.

     “Did y’all’s practice go well?” his mother asked.

     “Yes, ma’am. I truly believe we’ve got major potential.”

     “Got any groupies yet?” Dixon smiled as their mother looked at Dorsey while suppressing a chuckle. Their father looked up from his plate with a “Hmpf.”

     “Not for me,” Dorsey answered. “Likely a few for the lead guitarist.”

     “How much money you making from that outfit?” his father inquired. “Anywhere remotely as much as you’d earn from a decent part-time job?”

     “So far, everything we’ve gotten from shows has gone into instruments, amplifiers, and renting studio time,” Dorsey answered with growing irritation.

     “Uh-huh,” his father replied.

     His mother gently tapped his father’s leg with her foot.

     “Okay, I’ll change the subject,” the senior Cullen announced shifting in his seat and still looking at his elder son. “How’d your dental appointment go this morning?”   

     Dorsey paused as his mother and brother looked at him. “Ah … I accidentally missed it.”

     “Slept through the dang thing,” his father declared.

     After a silence, his mother spoke up. “Well, I’m sure you can reschedule it, dear.”

     “You’re paying for any cancellation fee,” his father pronounced.

          Quickly changing the topic, Mrs. Cullen smiled at her younger son. “Dixon, is Zara excited about her birthday next weekend.”

     “Yeah—” her younger son replied.

     His father cleared his throat.

     “Yes, ma’am,” Dixon corrected himself.

     “Has she hinted at what kind of gift she’d like?” his mother inquired.

     “Well,” Dixon paused with a smile glancing at his dad. “She says she’d like a ring.”

     “You listen to me, boy.” Mr. Cullen pointed at his younger son. “Marriage is the most important financial decision of your life, and you are in absolutely no position to get hitched. And your mother and I ain’t paying for so much as another dog.”

     “All right,” Mrs. Cullen remarked with a smile as the boys laughed. “I think it’s quite a compliment that Zara thinks you’re Mr. Right. How long have y’all been courting, honey?

     “Hmm,” Dixon paused. “Since the spring of our junior year in high school. So about two years now. I’m sure Zara can tell you the exact date.”

     Dawson liked his brother’s girlfriend, but it bugged him that his sibling had had far more success dating than he had. How he hoped being in a band with lots of buzz could right that.

     “Ever think of getting a haircut, Dorsey?” his father asked.

     Dorsey dropped his fork on his plate and glared at his father. “Why are you so on my case today?”

     “Now, dear, please don’t get angry.” His mother pleaded with her older son.

     “Dad,” Dorsey added in a far calmer tone, “if I cut it like you want, I wouldn’t fit in with the band at all. I’d stick out like … a choir boy … in a rock band.”

     “Oh, and we can’t have that,” his father replied. “Well, at some point reality’s gon’ kick in and you’ll find it’s a whole heap a lot easier getting a job with a choir boy haircut than a rock star’s.”

     “Maybe so, Dad.” Dorsey looked at his plate and picked up a forkful of spinach. As much as he appreciated his mother and brother’s support for his musical ambitions, it grated and hurt that his father had not joined them. Having grown up poor and worked hard since childhood, the eldest Cullen had little patience or understanding for what he dismissed as frivolous fantasy. While proud of his son’s piano recitals and music scholarship, he was increasingly alarmed at the growing acclaim accorded his son’s latest band. While the rest of the family was overjoyed when the local newspaper ran a front-page story on the group with a picture of the band on stage, Dawson Cullen feared his older boy would drop out of school – as three of his bandmates already had — to pursue an absurd pipe dream and – God forbid – fall prey to the stereotypical vices associated with rock musicians.

     Not wanting to sour his mood before the late-night gig, Dorsey declined to stand up to his father. Instead, he ate a hearty meal and tried to look forward to the show. Because he did not smoke, drink, use illegal drugs, or get into trouble, his parents had long let him stay out as late as he wanted on weekends. But, unlike other performances, Dorsey did not mention that night’s concert since the abandoned church had a notorious reputation, everyone there would be trespassing on private property, and there would be plenty of underage drinking.

     After dinner, Dorsey studied class notes before excitement overwhelmed him. Then he went to see some bands in Hardeeville’s club district, eager to analyze the competition and learn what he could. Seeing two bandmates downing several beers prompted him to request they not get drunk before their show. Mildly miffed, his musical partners told him not to worry and suggested he could use a few brews himself.

     Observing one group perform, he noticed a short, dark-haired girl wearing a beret twirling on the dance floor before realizing it was Giada. Impressed with her moves, he wanted to remind her of Planet Pax’s upcoming concert, but too many folks stood between them in the crowded club. Dorsey wondered how to escape should a fire break out in such crammed confines.

     By 11 he was too pumped to be anywhere but the old church. His confidence that any bandmates would arrive early to help get ready for the show was distinctly low. While fine musicians with whom he played and jammed well, they were decidedly lacking in logistics and organization.

     Just before he reached the club’s exit, a bird-like voice sang out his name. Turning around, he saw a somewhat breathless and sweaty Giada.

     “Hey, girl. How goes it?” he asked.

     “Giadaville feels much better,” she answered with an exuberant smile catching her breath.

     “I didn’t know Italian gals were such dynamite dancers,” he remarked.

     “Thanks. I just lose myself on the dance floor,” she noted.

     “Coming to the Straight Arrow?” he eagerly inquired.

     “I really want to, but I have to convince my girlfriends.”

     “Tell them Planet Pax is the best local band, that we should be getting a recording contract soon, and that for the rest of their lives they can say they saw us when we were still playing clubs. It’ll be like seeing the Beatles at The Cavern Club. Even their children and grandchildren will think they’re hip.” He grinned.

     Miss Giordano laughed loudly and slapped his shoulder.

     “Okay, it’s not that funny,” he got out before chuckling.

     “I’m sorry. I think it’s all great and I promise to try my best to be there.”

     “Come see us and you’ll be even cooler than you already are” he stated, surprising himself by his boldness.

     “Ciao.” She winked and waved before returning to her friends. Dorsey tried to recall if any girl had ever winked at him.

     Feeling buzzed, he went to the church to help move the amplifiers on stage, tune up his keyboards, test the sound system, clean the place up as much as possible, and find someone reliable (sober) to collect attendees’ cover charges. Fortunately, Jasper and a few buddies soon arrived to help.

     The church had been a non-denominational house of worship built in 1885. Closed for decades, its pews had long been moved to the side of the sanctuary to allow the maximum number of folks to dance. By midnight many students were already outside, and Dorsey and Jasper were delighted the band might finally make some decent money from a performance without any club overhead.

     After all five Planet Pax members were present and before any patrons got inside, the band ran through a few tunes for its sound check. They felt completely in sync and looked forward to the show. Shortly before 1:00, the church’s front doors opened, students began filing inside to pay a small cover charge, and the band was thrilled at the rapidly growing crowd. As the 1:15 starting time approached, Dorsey kept scanning the audience for any glimpse of Giada. Seeing a petite girl wearing a dark beret, he felt his heart skip, only to suffer a letdown and frown upon realizing it was not his Italian buddy.

     To Dorsey’s surprise, the band began playing right on time. Seeing the church full while performing one of his songs, he experienced one of the greatest highs of his life. As always, once he started singing, his nerves calmed and he lost himself in an enraptured kaleidoscope of melody, pulsing energy, and so many kindred souls tuned in together. Seeing all those strangers moving to the rhythms of his music was uniquely satisfying, and he wished the magical moment would never end. Not even Giada’s absence could dull such a special joy.

     Halfway through the first tune, Dorsey saw Miss Giordano squeeze herself in front of the crowd while bopping to the beat several feet before him. He immediately grinned and winked at her between lyrics and she waved. Three other attractive girls emerged dancing by her side and chatting with her between numbers.

     Dorsey sensed the band was in peak form, and everyone appeared exhilarated. The light of an almost full moon illuminated the faded but still beautiful stained-glass windows. Where some had been broken out, an enchantingly eerie moonlight lit up the dancing crowd which looked like an organism vibrating to a powerful nocturnal beat. All the frustrations, indignities, and deep disappointments Dorsey had endured for his music suddenly seemed trivial. When he stole glimpses of Giada completely lost in his songs, smiling at him, and vigorously clapping after each tune, he could not remember when he had ever been happier. Exchanging smiles with his bandmates, all doubts about their reliability vanished. This is the life I want, he mused.  

     Then he noticed several sheriff’s deputies in the back of the sanctuary. Though there was no electricity in the building, the battery-powered lights aimed at the band gave enough light to see six men in tan uniforms standing at a table talking with the student recruited to collect the money. Butterflies began to flutter in Dorsey’s stomach, unstifled by the start of his favorite new song. Bandmembers eyed each other nervously as the lawmen gradually made their way along the wall to the stage.

     Dorsey recognized Darius Gray, one of the few local black deputies. Darius had been a star football player at Hardee High, three grades ahead of Dorsey. They had shared a physical education class and remained friendly acquaintances. As the deputies got ever closer to the amplifiers on the side of the stage, Dorsey felt as if his greatest living dream was devolving into an ugly nightmare. In the middle of a song, the deputy pointing and giving orders started jerking the instruments’ plug-in cords from the amplifiers. Suddenly the deafening music became deafening silence, to the shock of most of the crowd who had not noticed the uniformed arrivals.

     “My solo!” shouted the lead guitarist.

     As the deputies walked on stage, a blissful audience threatened to become an angry mob. Loud boos echoed throughout the building. When a few empty beer cans were thrown on stage, Dorsey’s chest tightened in fear of a riot.

     “All right, listen up,” bellowed the lead deputy sheriff, Ben Butler. “Show’s over. Y’all are illegally engaged in criminal trespass on private property, creating a public disturbance, violating the local noise ordinance, and … likely a few other laws. So everybody go home.” He jumped to dodge another beer can.

     “All right,” Deputy Sheriff Butler shouted and pointed at the crowd. “The next thing thrown on this stage guarantees ever’ one a y’all’s gon’ git hisself arrested too. You just try me.”

     The crowd booed still louder and Dorsey cringed at the obscenities directed at the deputies. When he turned to his bandmates, to his shock they were gone, along with the lead, rhythm, and bass guitars. It was just Dorsey, his keyboards, and the drum set left on stage. Failing to see any bandmates in the crowd, he felt a breeze behind him. Turning around, he saw an open door. They’ve all left, he marveled.

     While contemplating whether he should as well, the top officer approached him. Dorsey knew it was pointless to run away. He could not outrun six cops, and Darius knew him anyway. Plus he did not dare want to lose his most valuable physical possession, his keyboards.

     “You got a permit to perform on these here premises?” Deputy Butler asked him.

     “Ah … I don’t know,” Dorsey stammered.

     “Got a permit to serve alcohol on this property?”

     “Ah … I’m just not sure.”

     “Okay. That’s enough.” The officer declared, turning to the other deputies. “Book him.”

     Blinking, and with his eyes wide and mouth open, Dorsey put his hands behind his back as he had seen a thousand actors do on TV. Deputy Sheriff Darius Gray slowly handcuffed him as he stood stunned behind his keyboards.

     “I’m awful sorry ’bout this, Dorsey,” Darius said in a soft voice behind him. “Sheriff Pritchard’s out of town and the acting sheriff’s a real jerk. Even though we’ve never stopped a show here, he was just jonesing to bust somebody tonight. I’m real sorry it had to be you.”

     “Thanks. It’s not your fault,” Dorsey heard himself say, as if in the midst of a horrific out-of-body experience. As Deputy Sheriff Gray led him off stage, Dorsey saw Giada’s anguished face. Another chorus of boos cascaded across the crowd as Dorsey was led onto the floor.

     After the lead deputy’s threat, and especially once Dorsey was handcuffed, a great many patrons moved to the exits. As Dorsey got outside, he noticed lots of people staring at him. Many shouted encouragement, some booed, and others ignored him while drinking and laughing.  

     Just as Dorsey and Darius reached the latter’s car and Deputy Gray opened its back door, a loud voice came from behind them.

     “Deputy Gray, give the prisoner a breathalyzer,” Acting Sheriff Butler demanded.

     “Yes, sir,” Darius replied without looking at him.

     Too embarrassed to face the folks standing between the church and car, Dorsey kept his back to them and blew into the breathalyzer.

     “Well, you ain’t been drinking. That’s good.” Darius smiled before helping him into the back seat with a hand over Dorsey’s head to avoid the car roof.    

     Once seated, Deputy Gray leaned in to recite the prisoner’s constitutional rights before apologizing again. Dorsey thanked him and then the door shut, muffling much of the crowd noise and leaving him alone amidst a carnival of flashing blue and red police lights.

     He wondered what time it was, but the handcuffs prevented him from seeing his watch or phone. Planet Pax began performing at 1:15, and he guesstimated they played for close to an hour. And most of the night’s still to come, he rolled his eyes. Hearing the sheriff’s department dispatcher’s announcements on the radio, he felt like an alien from another planet.

     It was hard to think in the grip of so much fear and an acute loneliness he had never known. Despite the warm night, he noticed he was shaking. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop. Nor could he derail the roller-coaster of horrible images racing across his radar. Would he be assaulted by other prisoners in the county jail? Could he serve time in prison? Would his convictions prevent him from ever getting a job? Could he lose his scholarship? Would the college expel him?

     Most importantly, what would this arrest do to his family? He swallowed at his father’s certain reaction. This would confirm his worst fears about his son pursuing “all that rock star foolishness.” Could he ever live this down?

     But he winced and caught his breath at what this could do to his mother. This is liable to tear her right out of the frame, he gasped. A train of memories of her standing up for him in the face of his father’s disapproval streaked across his mind as he felt deeply ashamed at the pain this would surely bring her. Thoughts of her crying prompted him to take deep breaths and summon every fiber of his manhood not to weep. For students to see his tears was anathema, and he refused to give the lead deputy any satisfaction.

     Desperate, he prayed. Dear God, please help me get through this. Please give me the strength to withstand whatever comes my way. If I’ve done anything wrong this evening or broken the law, please help me man up and accept whatever the consequences, and please help my family and everyone I love not be harmed by this. I’m sorry for all my sins. Please forgive me. In Christ’s name I pray. Amen.

     Pondering his bandmates, he felt a strange mix of confusion, disappointment, and hurt. Why had they fled? Since they all had cans or bottles of beer on stage, the two of them under 21 could have been charged with underage drinking. He recalled seeing the two who were 21 and 22 smoke a marijuana joint before the show, and one often carried a bag of weed. Perhaps they dreaded a drug bust. Maybe they all just ran on a sudden impulse and assumed he would too. However hard he tried to rationalize their escape, he felt a growing sense of abandonment. Suddenly he was decidedly less upbeat about Planet Pax.

     Then he noticed four girls standing about ten feet from the car looking at him. One was Giada. The moonlight and flashing lights illuminated her tortured expression, and he could see she had been crying. One of her friends had an arm around her.

     “He is so scared,” he heard Giada cry. Ashamed to cause her such agony, he leaned his head back with closed eyes wondering how soon she might avoid him as damaged goods. Indeed, he shuddered at how the whole campus and small town could treat him. The specter of the college’s Rebel Yell and the Hardeeville Herald running lead stories about the arrest made him cringe.   

     At last Deputy Gray got inside and cranked up the car. As they started to move, Dorsey heard a thump on the vehicle’s back right window and saw a grieving Giada with her hand on it. Before he could react, the car pulled away. Looking at the rearview window, he saw a girl hugging Miss Giordano. Great, he lamented. How many other people will cry over this? The thought of his grandparents prompted him to shut his eyes and breathe deeply.

     “Listen, dude,” Darius spoke up. “I know you’re scared, but I promise this ain’t the end of the world. Your folks’ll bail you out in a couple hours and the District Attorney may even drop the charges.” Looking at Dorsey in the rearview mirror, he continued. “Yeah, man, see, there’ve been illegal concerts at that church for years and we never broke any up. Old Sheriff Pritchard’s never bothered ’bout ’em ’cause nobody lives near that church and we never got any noise complaints. As for underage students drinking, I ’spect he figures it’s better for ’em to drink within easy walking distance of the college than driving downtown. But this new head deputy is just a hard-ass looking to make a name for hisself, ’specially if Sheriff Pritchard don’t run for re-election next year. So don’t panic, man.”

     “Thanks, Darius. All that means a lot. I really appreciate you.”

     “No problem, man, and you the only one in that band man enough not to run away too. You handling this well, dude.”

     “Thanks.”

     “Shoot.” He smiled. “This gon’ give you more street cred than you ever had, boy.” He laughed looking in the rearview mirror. “You gon’ be the coolest rebel on campus now. Chicks gon’ flock to you like you was a magnet, man.” He laughed again.

     Dorsey caught himself smiling and had a dry chuckle. He did not believe it, but was grateful for the humor and especially the support.

     They arrived at the E.L. Thomas County Sheriff’s Department where Darius helped Dorsey out of the car and led him inside. At the front desk, Dorsey was embarrassed to recognize an attractive Hispanic high school classmate, Salina Alvarez.

     “Hey, Dorsey.” She greeted him with a sympathetic smile. “It’s good to see you. I’m just right sorry it’s like this.”

     “Thanks.” He managed a weak smile as Darius took off his handcuffs. Only now did Dorsey feel how uncomfortable they had been.

     “You’ll need to please empty your pockets, putting everything and your belt inside this envelope, and then fill out some paperwork as we process you,” Salina said gently.

     Dorsey complied and Deputy Gray led him to a room to get finger-printed. Another deputy took his mug shots against the opposite wall. Facing the camera, Dorsey recalled famous mug shots of Frank Sinatra, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and President Trump. Should I try to look cool, angry, flippant, or what? he asked himself. Before he could decide, his front picture had been taken and he was asked to turn to the side.

     As several deputies stood around chatting and occasionally looking at him, Dorsey put his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. He was struck by how casual and even cheerful the officers were. Deputy Gray re-entered the room with a fresh print-out.

     “Hey, man, I gotta’ read you the charges,” he announced. “Criminal trespass on private property, violating the noise ordinance, creating a public disturbance, serving alcohol without a license, and serving alcohol to minors.”

     “We didn’t serve beer to anybody. I don’t even drink,” an exasperated Dorsey stated barely above a whisper.

     “Don’t worry, man.” Darius put his hand on his shoulder. “Your folks’ll get you a good lawyer who’ll get most of the charges dropped anyway – maybe even all of ’em.”

     He shook hands with Dorsey.

     “You gon’ get through this, man, and you taking it real well too,” the deputy stated before smiling. “I seen big football players get arrested and bawl they eyes out like a baby.” He chuckled. “I’ll check on you later.”

     Dorsey was so touched that he hugged Darius and was relieved the deputy hugged him back. He hoped he had not gotten him in trouble with his peers.

     A large, middle-aged black deputy leaning against the wall stepped forward.

     “Let’s head to the holding cell, Mr. Cullen.” Deputy Tyrone Jones motioned for him.

     “Yes, sir,” Dorsey replied meekly.

     “Whoo. A polite one. Y’all hear that? I can’t remember the last time a prisoner said that to me.” Deputy Jones shared a laugh with the other deputies as Dorsey tried to smile. Walking down the hall, Dorsey was besieged by images of a motley crew of career criminals crowded together and itching to prey upon the naïve college boy. His chest tightened and he feared he might vomit.

     To his enormous relief, the oversized cell had just one older, unshaven occupant sleeping on a cot against the back wall. Dorsey was also relieved that it was an open-air cell with bars. He hated to think what being in a closed room with other inmates behind a locked door could do to his claustrophobia.

     “You can make your phone call soon. I’ll come get you. If you need anything, holler,” Tyrone told him.

     “Okay. Thanks.” Dorsey nodded and sat on the cot against the left wall closest to the bars. To his surprise, his dominant emotion was no longer fear but loneliness. Instead of lots of prisoners full of noise, there was complete quiet amidst a jet-white, antiseptic setting. Suddenly realizing he had a powerful urge to urinate, and relieved no one was watching, he quickly used the cell’s lone open toilet and hoped flushing it would not wake his cellmate. It did not.

     Retaking his seat, he looked at his watch. It was 3:15 a.m. Reflecting that the last two hours had been perhaps the best and worst of his life, he let out a long sigh and slumped against the wall. For the first time that night, his mind mercifully became blank as he stared at nothing. The evening’s emotional extremes had wrung his feelings dry, leaving him numb. Grateful he was no longer shaking, he wondered whether the worst was behind him and if the biggest bogeymen were actually in his head.

     “Phone call time,” Deputy Jones soon announced. Not hearing his approach, Dorsey jumped and quickly stood. Butterflies began fluttering in his belly again as he dreaded what could be the worst phone call of his life. Following Tyrone into a small room with his phone on a table, he rehearsed what to tell his father before resigning himself just to stating the facts. Despite all the recent tension, he knew his dad loved him and was deeply worried about him. However stressful the call, Dorsey still preferred being scolded by his father to breaking the news to his mother.

     “Oh,” the deputy added. “And bail’s just been set at $4,000.”

     “Four thousand,” Dorsey cried incredulously.

     “On account of all the charges,” Tyrone explained. “But just 10 percent has to be put up for bail. So just $400.”

     Relieved and not knowing how much time he had on the phone, Dorsey dialed his dad. After three rings during which he envisioned his father groping for the phone as his mother asked what it could be about, his dad answered.

     “What’s wrong?”

     “Ah … I’m okay. But … I’m in jail.” There was a pause.

     “Why?”

     “Um, the band played a late show at an abandoned church … and some sheriff’s deputies showed up saying we were trespassing and, ah, creating a public disturbance, … violating a noise ordinance, and serving alcohol without a license … to minors.”

     “Who is it, Dawson?” His mother’s alarmed voice cried.

     “Your elder son is in jail—”

     “Oh, my baby!” she shrieked as Dorsey put his hand to his head.

     “And I guess you expect me to bail you out, huh?” his father asked.

     “My son is not spending the night in jail, Dawson! If you won’t bail him out, I will,” his mother shouted.

     “Suit yourself,” a suddenly livid Dorsey told his father and hung up.

      Leaning against the wall with arms crossed, Deputy Jones lowered his head and raised his eyebrows. “You sure you don’t wanna’ tell me the line went dead and you need to call back?”

     “No, sir. I’m done. Thanks.”

     “Suit yourself. Let’s go.”

     Walking back to the holding cell, Dorsey started to regret hanging up on his dad. He figured his father’s reaction was understandable, particularly at 3:30 in the morning. But Dorsey was determined not to take any more insults about his musical ambition. For the first time that evening, he felt growing anger: at his father, the lead deputy having him arrested, his bandmates running out on him, whoever (if anyone) complained about the band’s volume when no one lived anywhere near the church, and anyone else helping to hurl him into a jail cell when he was convinced he did nothing to anyone that evening. He lay down on the cot and closed his eyes.

     Soon Deputy Jones returned. Dorsey opened his eyes and was relieved to see no additional company.

     “Time to go.” Tyrone smiled.

     “My parents have already posted bail?” an incredulous Dorsey asked, figuring he had only hung up the phone 20 minutes before.

     “Must have.” The deputy shrugged and led Dorsey to the lobby where a smiling Salina handed him the big envelope with his belongings. Looking around the lobby but seeing neither parent, a confused Dorsey turned to her.

     “Where are my folks?”

     “I don’t know. You expecting them?” she asked.

     “Who else would bail me out?” Dorsey asked.

     Miss Alvarez’s face broke into a full grin as she looked to Dorsey’s right. Turning in that direction, Dorsey was stunned to see Giada Giordano coming out of the ladies’ room with a freshly-washed face breaking into a joyful smile.

     Dorsey Cullen’s heart felt fuller than he could ever recall. With his eyes and mouth wide open, he was transfixed as Giada walked slowly and then quickly toward him. He opened his arms and they embraced a long time. Dorsey was overcome with profound relief and deep gratitude. Whatever the ultimate fallout from this consequential morning, he was now convinced he would prevail and not be alone.

     Salina Alvarez beamed at the young man and woman hugging in the lobby. Walking behind her chair, a smiling deputy leaned down and spoke.

     “True love.”

###

Douglas Young is an author and professor emeritus whose essays, poems, and short stories have run in a variety of publications in America, Canada, Europe, and Asia. His first novel, Deep in the Forest, was published in 2021 and the second, Due South, came out in 2022. His first book of essays, This Little Opinion Plus $1.50 Will Buy You a Coke, appeared in 2024, and the second, Not Just Political, followed in 2025. His first book of short stories, The Double Date and Other Stories, was released in 2026.