It was going to be an extremely busy day. Efren came every Saturday morning at 7:00, with his son-in-law Ignacio, for our regular go at the grounds. My dear friend Fran was in town, from Fort Worth, and she was coming up for a dialogue and questions in preparation for her forthcoming book on abstract painting. She was due at 10:00. At 5:00 I was supposed to attend a benefit auction, at Elyse and Stanley’s, in Brentwood, for my ex-dealer, Morgan, who was having major health issues. I had purchased two tickets to the event. I would be going alone. Then I had an opening at 6:00, a two-man show, with my old friend Max, at Manny’s, in West Hollywood. This was my plan for Saturday.
 
It started off well. Efren, Ignacio and I set at the chores du jour. Once they were well started I headed back to tidy my digs before Fran arrived. A hot shower and a shave and I was ready to do business.
 
Fran arrived as scheduled and we had hot coffees to get the wise words rolling. I was already two or three joints into the daze, so caffeine is essential. Being a trained professional, this behavior had no noticeable effect on my performance. We talked for hours, then adjourned for a sushi lunch, returned and talked till after 3:00. Articulate and intelligent conversation requires much of the participants and there are few capable of such. Fran was among my favorite people on the planet to make art dialogue with. We didn’t always agree, but each of us respected the others point of view. The back and forth could be quite heady and always a joy. Full frontal formal dialogue could be a bit enervating and I was feeling more than a bit fatigued by the time Fran left for town. I quickly fed the horses and the dogs, and then raced through a hot shower, ended with a cold rinse, and attempted to revive myself. My efforts failed badly. I rolled five or six joints, dressed for the evening, poured a mug of coffee, grabbed three bottles of nice cab, and set sail in my little red car, for the hour drive to Brentwood.
 
As usual, I arrived late. I never valet park as I always lose treats in the process. Plus it’s easier to escape if you are holding your car keys. It wasn’t a huge bash so parking was a breeze. The place looked deserted as I wandered in, but voices led me to the bar. The bartender, a tall, beach-boy tan, actor-handsome, twenty something, hit me with a giant pour of cabernet I had told him I had two tickets and could only stay a few minutes. I stood in the back where I could drink and watch discreetly as they auctioned off personal treasures from Morgan’s collection. Those present were politely bidding up objects to bring Morgan a maximum return; rumor had her facing overwhelming medical bills. This was the art world at its best, and I was honored to be included. I had arrived late and left early, but I did what I could.
 
From there it was a 10-mile trip down Sunset, right on Doheny, left on Melrose and I was there. I felt exhausted, something I had been dealing with for a while. It was more than physical exhaustion. I had finally gone to see my internist, Stewart, when I fell asleep at a stop light, at 5 p.m., on my way home from my 10 to 4 graduate painting workshop in Pasadena. They did a number of tests and came to the conclusion that I was intellectually/mentally exhausted by my long day at school. He gave me medication to take one hour before driving home. Lucky for me I remembered to bring my Ritalin.
 
As late as I was, I found a great parking place, grabbed a bottle of cab, and headed in. After I popped the cork and poured a glass, I joined the party. The show looked wonderful and friends quickly reinforced my assessment. My present work was overtly impasto, about as thick a surface of oil paint as anything you might have ever seen. Max’s work was super flat, color-saturated resin polished to a mirror finish. Our work played at the opposite poles of possibility within “monochrome abstract painting.” The paintings played beautifully together.

I am always a little overwhelmed at these events, even surrounded by friends and other members of my profession, and am almost always inclined to fine-tune my level of comfort with herbs and red wine. I do not drink white wine. As a young painter I had so terribly abused the wine bars at openings, that to this day, the aroma of white wine smells like the embryo form of barf. I never drink the stuff.

I had bought a case of this amazing cab at the local Costco. Friends I served it to had raced out to get a case for themselves. Eventually so many friends were after this great wine that I found myself at Costcos all across Southern California, procuring more. I am just now finishing off the last bottles. Please don’t think me a wino or an oenophile.

I don’t normally drink by myself; wine should be shared. And I only buy what I like. Susanne and Erich had taken me to a number of wine tasting events. At an event for Bordeaux futures I discovered my fondness for a nice Margeaux. At a dinner in Kassel, I discovered my love of Brunellos. I have long appreciated Central Valley Pinots and Syrahs. And like most, I love a great Napa cab. Lately I have been looking at Spanish reds and reds from Sicily. Both areas produce wonderful reds, at a decent price. So I like a good red wine. I’ll spare you a dissertation on the charms of my favorite strains of herb and get back to the story.
 
I was alone and not at all that comfortable. I don’t know why, and probably don’t care to, but I am never comfortable at such events and would easily forgo openings altogether. Additionally I harbor a deep-seated dislike for the business aspects of being an artist, so much so that I have deliberately handicapped myself with a near total lack of understanding as to how the art world works or how to play the game.

The truth is, one almost never encounters an articulate insight, or an interesting question, and I know it’s not realistic to expect such, but more often than not, interaction with collectors, especially at openings, has the potential to leave one’s skin crawling. I know intuitively that I don’t want to be there. I am there out of social obligation. There are, of course, exceptions but they are rare and truly cherished.

Feeling as I did, I stepped outside and have a quick puff. I kept a cigar going, to function as my beard. Michael and I used to smoke cigars in the entrance garden to Manny’s. That’s the last time I ever saw him. I was teasing him about the new anti smoking laws at the bars in New York City. He laughed and said when I was next in town; we should go to the oyster bar at the Plaza, which was now a cigar bar as well. It sounded fantastic. Michael passed before we ever got there. He was a great painter and a kind and generous friend.
 
Eventually the opening came to an end and the crowd moved on to the next event of the evening. Manny had arranged a dinner at Dominick’s. It was an art world hangout and I had partied there often. I climbed into my tiny red truck and was pulling up in front of Dominick’s in just minutes. I left the car with the valet but brought along another bottle of Napa cab. Manny had a large booth up front that could accommodate our party of eight. I was used to events that took up the entire patio. We chatted over wine and a lovely dinner. It was a quiet and elegant end to an incredible day. We said our “good nights and thank yous” on the sidewalk out front. I had given the valet my ticket, when we first stepped out, and my car was quickly waiting at the curb. I tipped the valet, crawled in, and pulled away, headed for Sunset and then the 405.

Having lived in the boondocks for thirty some years, I had made this drive, fairly wrecked, on hundreds of occasions. Tonight was no different. The day had been special and so was the evening. Life was as rich and as full as it gets, absent a companion.
 
The “Bott’s Dots” did their thing. Realizing I had nodded off, I slapped myself across the face and cracked a window for a rush of cool air. Quickly I realized I was exhausted and should have taken a Ritalin. I tried focusing but could feel myself drifting off. It’s a terrible feeling being overwhelmed by exhaustion.

Though I was doing my best to concentrate on the drive, I kept finding myself half asleep. I was on the 118 headed home and increasingly aware of my situation. More “Bott’s Dots." I was drifting off again when I saw the red lights behind me. Shit! I pulled to the right and stopped, just before the Tampa exit. Lucky for me I wasn’t burning one. Whew! The adrenalin rush had me quite awake by the time the Sheriff arrived at my door. He shined a light in my face and asked, “Sir, have you been drinking this evening?” I told him I had been at an art opening and a dinner after and had a few glasses of wine. He called the Highway Patrol. We waited. Eventually they arrived for the ‘hand over’. The Highway Patrol cops were much cooler. The Sheriff got me out of his car, un-cuffed me, and handed me over, whereupon I was cuffed again and moved to the back of the cruiser. They drove me to the next exit, off the freeway, and into the parking lot of a closed fast food place. The second cop drove my car. When he arrived he told me he loved the music, a Jewel/Paula compilation set, that Grover had turned me on to. He also told me my car reeked of wine. I explained that I had corked a half bottle of terrific wine a few nights before, placed it in the trunk, and brought it home. I forgot about it and it had leaked, thus the smell of wine. They were not amused.

They got me out and ran me through the tests. I did okay, having practiced such over and over as a youth. I blew their toy and up came a score that was legal for most of my life, but had just recently been deemed ‘impaired.’

I think we ought to keep the rules we grew up with. Give a dude a break. But such was not to be. They took me to the Northridge/Chatsworth Station and booked me in. Upon a more thorough search they found a joint in my pocket (there were more in the car).

The cop smiled at me, shook his head, and tossed it in the trash. I bet the janitors at the police station never have to buy boo. It is always so fun to meet a cool cop. They told me I was basically fine and would be out in 6 hours.

Everything went well enough until I answered a question wrong. They asked me if I was on any meds and I told them I was on Serotonin, an antidepressant. Well, that necessitated a full-time nurse, and as there was not one at this station, I was cuffed up again and told they had to take me to the Van Nuys Jail.

On the way, there was a high speed-chase coming south on the 5. They raced to the 405, in case the fleeing car took the 405 South from the junction with the 5. We were hauling ass. The cops, thrilled to have an excuse for such speed and behavior, were alive with banter and adrenal energy. I had about had my fill for the day. The dude stayed on the 5, they slowed down and my life leveled off to plain and simply shitty.
 
In time we arrived at the Van Nuys Police Station and jail. We parked underground and I’m walked in. The place was huge and full of intoxicated low-lifes and third world ne’er-do-wells. I was frisked, searched, the cuffs were removed, my personal property was checked, and then I was tossed into a holding tank full of bad people.

I sat quietly and waited. Others were screaming, moaning, whining and talked to themselves. I was chastising myself, but not aloud. This was not how I saw this evening ending.
 
In time my name was called and I was taken to be formally booked. I was fingerprinted and mug shots are taken. It must have been after two by now. They gave me a sheet and a blanket and lead me through this heavy steel door and down an open corridor, with large cages full of prisoners on either side. They stopped, opened a cage door and I was placed in with 29 other dudes, all half my age, one black and all the rest Hispanic. This was not looking like fun.
 
It was dimly lit and noisy, with at least a dozen heavy snorers. Others were moaning, sneezing and coughing. I found a vacant top bunk in the back and climbed up. I wished I had my Purel. Pockets empty, I climbed down and walked to the sink. I washed my hands, as best I could, then my face, then cup my hands and drank as much water as possible.

Immediately I realized I had to pee. No need to lift the seat; there wasn’t one. I flushed and washed my hands again. I dried my face and hands on the inside, back of my shirt. I buttoned my shirt and returned to my bunk. Somehow I managed to fall asleep.
 
Morning came early in jail. It was like the Man was up, so who the fuck were you to be sleeping? It was not like they were waking you up for a reason. Most tried to ignore the chicken shit assholes. I did my best. Their macho pretensions were truly disgusting and were there to compensate for the raw fear in their soft, fat bellies. Reality had chosen sides for me once again.
 
There was a television, high up on the left front corner of the cage. There was a phone beneath it, to the right, on the front wall, and a sink, and two toilets, on the left wall. My companions were all chatting in Spanish, laughing and making jokes. Eventually they did a roll call, then came our breakfast: burritos and oranges. I traded my second burrito for more oranges.

The television was already showing a weird film called Face Off. The stars were John Travolta and Nicolas Cage. I kept waiting for them to call my name and cut me loose. The arresting officers had told me I would be out in 6 hours. Eventually I tried speaking with the guards, who were as macho, chicken-shit, rude and abrupt as possible. I didn’t have my glasses and could not read the phone instructions. There was no one else to ask. The guard told me he would check my status.
 
I was lying in my bunk, eating oranges, watching this prison riot on the tube, and inwardly laughing at the absurdity of it all, when my name was called. But they didn’t say, “bring your blanket and sheet,” as they always did when someone was being released.

I walked to the front of the cage and the guard told me the Feds had placed a ‘hold’ on me because they couldn’t read my fingerprints. He went on to tell me they were going to reprint me in a little bit. So that was the hold up.
 
A few hours later my name was called again. I got down from my upper bunk and moved to the front of our cage. They opened the door and told me to step out. I was walked back down the corridor, out through another set of barred doors, through a steel door, and into the ‘booking’ area. I was told to take a seat.

In a bit I was taken to this large computer-like machine, with this 10 inch diameter glass cylinder, and my hands, one at a time, are placed on the cylinder, and rolled into the federal system. The guy in charge gave me a bad look, and then told me to relax my wrist, so he could get a better set; the Feds had rejected his first effort. They rejected the second and the third.

Apparently, I do not have fingerprints. They have worn off in the course of a lifetime of being an artist. The Feds suspected that I might be a gangster or a terrorist. I was incredulous as I was tossed back into my cell. While I was away, someone had stolen my sheet. Perfect!
 
Eventually someone showed me how to use the phone. People were coming and going and I was quickly gaining seniority, plus I was by far the oldest dude in the dump. I called Tony and asked him to relay messages to Alexis and Jack. I didn’t want Lex to worry. She had her hands full with our daughter who was just 5 days old. Big problem. Jack was everybody’s favorite lawyer, and a total pro at rescuing his dumb artist pals from the strange realities we sometimes became entangled in.

Time crawls, and they were still showing that same stupid movie. I had no idea I would be in here so long and was starting to regret having eaten those oranges. I have never sat down on a crapper, located just beneath the television set, showing a prison riot film, and attempted to drop the log. I was determined that it would not happen now. Towards that end I skipped most of my dinner and turned in as quickly as possible. The lights went out but the din grew more intense. One could have easily imagined they were camping in the Amazon. I ached, I was hungry, exhausted, cold, and totally fed up with this episode. Somebody should have turned the channel. I slept with my shoes on, afraid of losing them.
 
Morning arrives soon enough, and the noise quickly grew. They did a morning roll call and then we line up to get our breakfast. Perhaps in deference to the population, the menu was a steady diet of burritos, and thanks to the beans, the air was rotten and fowl.

I ate light, as I have been told I might not be released until court on Monday morning. Most of the dudes in my cage were minor league fuck-ups, popped for drunk driving, or inadvertent parole violations. As you hear them discussing their problems you could not help but realize most of them were basically decent folks who had somehow managed to get caught up in the system.

There was one dude who was the exception. He looked like he had been lifting weights for years and wore no shirt. His entire torso was covered in jailhouse tattoos. He is neither loud nor aggressive, but all seem to accept him as “Da Boss." He seemed almost able to astrally project himself beyond the walls. He was quiet and never raised his voice. I admired his Zen-Macho cool.
 
I was lying in my bunk, attempting to mentally escape the consequences of my stupidity, when I saw “Da Boss” walking towards the crapper. I focused, without staring, secretly observing his protocols. He picked up the roll of toilet paper, placed it vertically on his left index finger, then placed the end of the paper between the index, and middle finger, of his right hand, twists his wrist a few times, and made a small wad of toilet paper around his fingers. Then he carefully used this wad of paper to wipe off the porcelain lip of the bowl, tossed the paper in, and flushed. That done, he proceeded to tear off three and four length sheets of toilet paper and methodically placed them over the entire lip of the bowl. When finished, he dropped trow and took a seat. All the while a prison riot played on the TV just above his head. He seemed almost oblivious to it all. When he is done, he wiped his ass twice, then stood and pulled his trousers up. He pushed all the paper into the bowl with his foot and flushed. It was performance art, and far more informative than any army training film. I now knew how to do what I had been avoiding. I had a role model.
 
I knew I could do what had to be done. With the casual nonchalance of one who has done it a thousand times, I rolled off my top bunk, slid to the floor and strolled to the front of the cage, for my porcelain initiation. I followed my hero’s lead, doing each step exactly as he had, and when the time came, I sat on my improvised protective shield, and quickly managed to accomplish what I had been avoiding for days. When I finished, and I was putting myself back together, I felt this inner pride, not unlike that moment in one’s youth, where you just qualified for a merit badge. That’s exactly what I was feeling. I wanted a “I Shit Like a Tough Guy” merit badge. After washing my hands and face, which I dried on the inside of my shirt, I returned to my bunk. I felt good as one could under the circumstances.
 
The rest of the day was uneventful. The same stupid movie ran endlessly. Watching a prison riot from a bunk in a jail cell was the height of irony. It was more humorous than scary. The guards were endlessly displaying their, ‘I’m in charge’, macho bravado, while still more burritos arrive for dinner, and at long last, lights out. I was so ready to flush out of this toilet. Most of those I was in with my first night had matriculated on, bailed out I suspect.
 
The next morning my name was called and I was taken down the hall and into a room to meet with an attorney Jack had sent to assist me. He was incredulous; he told me he had never seen a situation like mine. He told me friends and fellow faculty from school had been trying to arrange my release, but that the Department of Justice had placed a ‘hold’ on me and there was nothing anyone could do to expedite my release. He said my best chance was to be taken before the arraignment judge, where he would represent me, and see if the court would release me. This situation was radically expanding my understanding of ‘surreal.’ It was resembling a Kafka nightmare.
 
I was hoping to hear my name included in a group proceeding to court. I waited without any other hope. Nothing. Then I heard, “Hayward bring your sheet and blanket,” a sure sign I was leaving.
 
“I don’t have a sheet. It disappeared when they were re-fingerprinting me."
 
“Fine, bring your blanket.”
 
I dragged my exhausted ass (I hadn’t been sleeping that well) to the front of the cage, managed a weak smile at those I was leavening behind, abandoning, wondering if I was now a hopeful example of release and redemption.
 
I tossed my blanket into the plastic trash-can marked “blankets”, and was marched back to the booking area, where the entire process, from prints to mug shot, was now done in reverse. That completed, I was moved into a small room, with a door at each end, and a walk-up window with bulletproof glass, and gave the cop seated on the other side my name. He quickly retrieved all my personal property, belt, wallet, glasses, money, and returned them all to me. I was putting on my belt when I heard him say, “We can’t release this guy. DOJ has a federal hold on him.”
 
I was about to shit my pants, when this black woman, the Desk Sergeant at the moment, approached and said, “This man is neither a gangster nor a terrorist. He is a schoolteacher and friends have been trying to get him released for days. I am releasing him on my own authority.” She was the coolest cop I had met in the last few days. She looked at the situation and did something to make it right. I thanked her and the guy behind the window told me to exit to my right. The door buzzed, I opened it, and stepped out into the fresh air of freedom.
 
It had been three days since I last showered. I was slick with sweat and the grime of the jailhouse. I felt like shit and figured I looked about the same. I didn’t have my keys; they were with my car, which had been impounded. Out on Van Nuys Blvd I found a pay phone; my cell was in my car. After calling a cab, I wandered down the street and found an open diner. The place was near empty so my Coke, to go, came quickly and I headed back to meet my cab.
 
Eventually the cab arrived. The driver was a heavyset black man who winced when I told him where I wanted to go. My place was about 30 miles away and in the next county. I promised him a nice tip.

He asked if I had just gotten out of jail. I answered in the affirmative and laid a few of the details on him. He laughed at how silly it all was, a conclusion I envied and hoped to arrive at someday soon, but not yet. I directed him to the farm in 40 minutes. I got out at the gate and gave him everything in my pocket. He smiled, thanked me, and wished me luck
 
I wandered back to my compound gate and, not having the keys, scaled it. The dogs, “Chip” and “Jack”, were thrilled to see me. I filled their bowls with water, fed them, found my emergency key, and let myself into the Spartan Mansion. I raced through the trailer and out the back door to the shower. While living in Japan, a few years earlier, I had adopted the behavior of only turning on the hot water heater when needed, and this I did. Now came the 20-minute wait for the water to fully heat, the downside of going green.
 
While waiting, I rolled a fatty, and pulled hard on my first puff in over three days. I know, big deal, three days without herb, but for someone who normally smokes three by 10:00, it is a bit different. Some people meditate, others see a shrink, still others swim or run. Me, I smoke. It’s probably a residual behavior from college in the 60s. It works.
 
Soon I was melting in the most wonderful shower ever. The joint and shower had sapped every last bit of strength. I dried off and crawled into my bed, glad to be home. I’ll deal with all the necessary shit in the morning. For now, it would be sweet dreams.
 
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James Hayward (1943-2026) was a Southern California-based artist, primarily a minimalist painter. More on Hayward, Click Here, at Roberts Projects in Los Angeles.

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