I admired his loyalty, but I wanted them to be friends. Maybe because I’d only just found Jay again, and I was losing Autumn. She’d been apologetic at first—said she had meant to meet me at the jail, never meant any of this to happen. She explained Karen was a fundraiser for the Gay Liaison Unit. They all knew her.

That’s when things started making sense—the felony charge, the made-up additional charges, the attempt to lose me in a cell for thirty days, long enough to lose my job, my dog, my mind.

Ann showed Autumn the charge sheet, where it said I’d lifted Karen off the ground and thrown her down, like either of us was qualified to perform stunts in movies.

   Autumn just said, “I know. I tried to tell them. But they’re cops.” Then, for no reason whatsoever, she laughed and said, “I was stoned. Sorry.”

Ann and Jay shared a look like, Are you hearing this shit? Autumn shrugged, said she had to work in the morning. I realized then that I’d never really know how she felt about any of it. She’d probably been apologizing to Karen just as earnestly. The only thing that mattered to Autumn was that no one was mad at Autumn, which also happens to be how she’d ended up dating two people at once.

By the time my case went to court, I would’ve pleaded guilty to anything that kept me out of jail. But Autumn did get the stalking charge dropped. I pleaded guilty to assault and got two years’ probation, and orders to stay away from Karen. I didn’t think that would be a problem. My probation officer let me volunteer at a dog shelter for my community service.

At first I thought I could maintain some semblance of a social life. But D.C.’s a small town if you’re gay. Seemed like anytime I went to a bar, Karen would walk in ten minutes later with a full posse and I’d have to leave. When Pride came around, I spent the day standing with a couple friends on one sidewalk of Pennsylvania Avenue. Karen set up camp on the other side of the street. I did my best version of “Having a very good time. Who? Don’t even see her,” like you’d do with an ex at a party when the host accidentally invited you both.

My last attempt at being gay, as I knew it, which involved being around gays on Friday and Saturday nights, was the Badlands Christmas party. My old boss always invited anyone who’d ever worked at Badlands. I was there maybe an hour before one of the bouncers came up behind me and said, “Karen’s here.”

   I stupidly said, “She didn’t even work here,” like it mattered. I knew it didn’t matter. I ran out the back door like I’d robbed the joint and drove home.

I stopped going out after that. Which, by default, meant I stopped socializing. Didn’t actually know how else to socialize. I’d go to work, come home, hike with my dog, volunteer at the dog rescue, sign up for a couple programming classes at the community college. I was being good. I could be good. Someone fucking notice I’m good.

I was barely speaking to Autumn when she asked me to meet up for the traditional “I want my blue hoodie back, and I have some of your mail,” the final dissolution of any relationship.

My probation was almost over. I was thinking of moving to New England, to be closer to my family. We ordered beers and I went outside to answer my phone. And another member of the Gay Liaison Unit gayly bent me over the hood of his cruiser and cuffed me. My friends were still inside. I managed a text message, in cuffs, “I’M ARRESTED.” I also managed to swallow a gram of coke that was in my wallet.

Karen arrived while I was being read my rights. I’ll never know if she was in the bar at all. I doubt it. I’m tall enough to see across a crowd. Either way, her entourage sang happy birthday to her as I was hauled off to jail again. Surprise.

Once again, Autumn had to call my supervisor to explain why I would not be coming into work. At least this time, it was only for a night.

   Karen said I’d been circling and threatening her for hours, in the bar I’d entered fifteen minutes beforehand. All I had were three witnesses and an ATM receipt from a bar blocks away from when I withdrew money and had a shot for liquid courage to prove it was impossible I’d been threatening Karen for an hour. Karen had her own personal police force.

The judge added another year to my probation, but thank fuck I didn’t have to spend any more time in jail. I decided I should probably think about moving.

* * *

—

For a long time, I didn’t tell anyone but my closest friends that I’d been to jail. When I did, the fact fazed no one in my working-class circle.

Jail, convictions, violence, drugs, police, prison, and judges are facts of a life in the margins. In the world I inhabit, a record can mean you’re an asshole or you were an asshole or you met an asshole. In the world I inhabit, you’re more than the record. But that record won’t let me leave the world I inhabit. Because there’s another world where the record is all that matters. It’s why they made the records, to keep people out. As long as I keep to my station, they won’t use it against me.

In that world, I would meet a writer with a trust fund who would say, “They don’t just lock people in jail. You see a judge. You can make bail. You call a lawyer.”

The problem is, people like me, white people with even a little agency, aren’t usually the people who get locked in solitary for a week because they assaulted the wrong person who was friends with the wrong cop. But it does happen. In most cases, someone like me could’ve pleaded down to disorderly conduct. We pick up trash on the highway or work at a dog shelter, and our probation officers warn us a full month before asking us to pee in a cup so they don’t have to bother with the paperwork.