Electroboy (27 page)

Then I wait for him to speak. “I’ve thought a lot about this case. And I must say, I am very impressed with the letters that were sent to me. Extraordinary, they were, on the whole, and I believe them—most of them. I get a lot of letters for people up for sentencing, and mostly they are concocted. They don’t have a ring of sincerity about them. These did—a lot of these did. You’ve obviously done good things in your life, and I’ve thought a lot about that,” says Judge Nickerson. Among the letters included in the submission to Judge Nickerson is one particularly moving one from my friend Suzanne Yalof:

One of the letters comes from Robert DePasquale, who was featured in the documentary Lauren and I made,
A Six Voice Home
. Robert writes:

Judge Nickerson straightens out some papers on his desk and leans back in his chair. There’s a painfully long pause. “I’m going to impose a sentence of five months’ imprisonment, two years’ supervised release, a special condition of home detention, another condition of two hundred fifty hours of community service, as directed by the probation department, to commence only following the period of home detention. And I’ll impose the minimum fine of $7,500.” I’m relieved that he has not sentenced me to the maximum five years. In fact, I’m thrilled. I think he’s been extremely fair. In the next few weeks my parents line up a “sentencing advocate,” who for a fee of $7,500 will negotiate that my sentence be served in a CCC—a community corrections center—with work-release restrictions. Without the recommendation of the sentencing advocate and the approval of the judge, I would be sent to a minimum-security prison somewhere in the Northeast. This particular CCC, Esmor, provides residential care for individuals who have been referred by the U.S. Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Prisons, U.S. Probation and Parole Service, U.S. courts, and other legal jurisdictions. It’s something like a halfway house for assistance in the transition from institutional to community life. It’s supposed to be a step up from a minimum-security prison, and it’s closer to home. The judge approves the
advocate’s recommendation. I leave for Esmor at the end of August.

August 16, 1994. New York
.

In preparation for serving my sentence, I put all of my possessions in storage and move back to New Jersey with my parents. I enjoy the comforts of home—good food, a comfortable bed, and a clean bathroom, luxuries I doubt I’ll see again for the next five months. My parents, concerned for my safety at Esmor, make me feel as though I am going off to battle. Luckily the facility is in midtown Manhattan and not someplace in Bumfuck, Pennsylvania, making it easy for friends and family to visit. Everyone is sad here. Scared for me.

A few days before we leave for Esmor, my mother suggests we take a short drive over to Riverside Square, an upscale shopping mall in Hackensack, to pick up a few things. Like what? I wonder. She keeps her eyes focused on the highway as she drives us to the mall, looking like she’s about to break into tears at any moment. We park the car, and I can smell the heat rise from the asphalt as I follow her inside. It’s a hot day in August, a year after my indictment, and the mall welcomes us with a blast of cold air. Our first stop is the men’s department at Bloomingdale’s. My mother immediately reaches for a black cotton DKNY sweater, which she waves at me from behind a mannequin. She looks at me for approval. We’ll take it. She strides around the store at a rapid pace, a woman with a mission. She holds up a pair of Ralph Lauren khakis. Try these on. I grab them and try them on in the dressing room, and when I come outside I see that she’s made a pile of button-down and polo shirts. Is there anything else I need for the next five months? For God’s sake, Mom, I want to say. I’m not a freshman going to college—I’m a convicted felon going to prison to serve his sentence. But I’m not sure if reminding her of this would make her laugh or cry, so I just keep trying on the clothes. It makes my mother happy to see me try on everything and put
together a few good outfits. She starts grabbing packages of Calvin Klein briefs. I don’t need that many. She doesn’t pay attention, talking and reaching for white sweat socks. You were “best-dressed” senior in high school, and you’ll be the best-dressed prisoner at Esmor, damn it, I think to myself. She pays for the clothes, and we stop in a restaurant at the mall. We both order Caesar salads with grilled chicken and Diet Cokes. And we’re both happy.

Jonathan calls me from Washington and tells me that he’s leaving the East Coast. Somehow I find humor in the fact that he’ll be in treatment in the Midwest and I’ll be in a prison at the same time; in our own ways, we’ll each be on sabbatical from the New York scene. I didn’t think it would end up like this. He was going to be the famous novelist, and I was going to make a small fortune and retire by forty. Lauren and their daughter, Nicole, who is now two years old, are living far away in Denver. She is encouraging about my situation.

I don’t want my friends to forget about me over the next five months. Two nights before I have to surrender at Esmor, I throw a party for myself at the Merc Bar in Soho. I design invitations using the famous Lichtenstein image of the crying woman, which I caption, “Come Shed a Tear for Andy Behrman,” and enclose free-drink cards based on Monopoly “Get Out of Jail Free” cards. I invite all the friends, acquaintances, contacts, and media people I know in New York. I’m having fun organizing the party and making sure everyone is going to have a good, memorable time. I arrive in an upbeat mood and am energized by the crowd and their support, but I immediately realize that I’ve forgotten what I’ve done to be in this room—I’ve been handed a five-month sentence in a minimum-security facility and five months under house arrest. The evening is a celebration of a huge loss for me as well as a good-bye party, and there is an undertone of sadness beneath the good mood. “I’ve got to leave early—early morning flight to Miami—be good,” says one friend as he shakes my hand. Nobody knows what to say to me, and nobody talks about where I’m going. We just talk about the phenomenon of having a going-away-to-prison
party. I hug and kiss friends and make the rounds to everybody who has come to send me off and toast to the next five months. “Here’s to prison,” I say. Everybody laughs. I’m walking around, a little spaced-out, when I see Katie, a “friend” of mine. I met Katie on the bus a month earlier and in the first five minutes of our conversation invited her to my going-away-to-prison party. She has come with a guy she met in front of Grace’s Market, on the way to the party. I realize there are lots of people here I don’t know, and they all seem to be having fun at my prison send-off bash. The bar is crowded and friends are handing me drinks and I’m getting pretty drunk for the last time and this party isn’t making much sense to me. Somehow I feel like I’ve won a prize I don’t really want.

The night before I go to Esmor, I dream that I am sent away for five years of hard labor and that I find myself working at Kostabi World as a painter. I am standing in the studio, wearing a pair of paint-splattered overalls and a cap. I work around the clock, churning out painting after painting of faceless images; Kostabi signs his name to them as fast as I can produce them.

August 31, 1994. New York
.

E
arly on this sweltering afternoon, my parents drop me off at Esmor, on 31st Street between Fifth and Madison. It used to be a single-room-occupancy hotel, and by the look of the façade it was probably a magnificent place in the early twenties. It’s as if my parents are dropping me off at a hotel for the weekend—except for some reason we’re all crying. I walk up the steps to the building and into the lobby, a dingy area with walls that are painted two shades of gray and speckled brown carpeting. There’s been a little mistake. My travel agent has obviously booked me into the wrong hotel. I identify myself to a security guard at the front desk, a young Latin man in his early twenties wearing black pants and a wrinkled white short-sleeve dress shirt. He has me fill out registration papers—I guess they’re expecting me. I’m dripping with sweat, and my hands are shaking from fear and all of the medication I am taking. Everybody around me is speaking Spanish. Latin music blares from a radio behind the desk. When I’m finished filling out the papers, I give my suitcases to one of the resident supervisors to put into storage. I am pushed into a small room and asked for a urine sample. It takes me a few minutes to pee because I’m so scared, and when I do it spills over the tube onto my hands. Too much. Then I pick up my suitcases from storage and am guided to my room on the fourth floor by a resident supervisor. It’s a small room with a TV, two single beds, two dressers, a closet, a locker, and a bathroom. One side of the room is occupied. I follow the resident supervisor back downstairs for
sheets, blankets, a pillow, a towel, and a handbook. I go back upstairs and make my bed the best I can—it’s a three-inch-thick green plastic-covered mattress, and the sheets keep slipping off. I unpack my clothes and put them away. I organize my books and magazines on top of the dresser. I glance at the handbook and read the list of prohibited acts; the first three are killing, assaulting, and setting a fire. I put all of my pills in the top drawer of the dresser and take a Klonopin to calm myself down and stop shaking. I hide my medication in my socks, as a precaution against theft. I walk outside my room and laugh when I hear Tony Orlando and Dawn on the radio singing “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree.” Nobody else is laughing.

I walk through the hallways and pass by small groups of men just hanging out in shorts and tank tops, sweat dripping from their faces, trying to cool off in front of their fans. A large group has congregated in the first-floor smoking lounge. The room is filled with smoke, and
Cristina
is blaring on a television in the background that’s competing with the heated tones of two residents arguing in Spanish. Three pregnant women in shorts and slippers stand near the vending machine in the corner; one is kicking it—she’s just lost two quarters and is intent on getting them back. The women live on different floors from the men. I can’t stay in this room much longer without being noticed—I’m the only white person in here—unless I can find a big-enough cloud of smoke to hide behind.

I take the elevator upstairs, but there’s someone blocking the doorway to my room. He’s drinking a Pepsi, a pack of Marlboros sticking out of the waistband of his shiny green sweatpants. It’s my new roommate for the next five months. He’s muscular and tattooed with multicolored serpents and hearts;
SONYA
is written in script on his right shoulder, and dark green-and-red swirls are emblazoned on his torso from his pectorals down to his navel. He’s wearing two thick gold chains with medallions. Didn’t I see him on
Geraldo?
He reminds me of some kind of Latin superhero action figure. He introduces himself as Pippo and extends his hand, glittering with gold rings and bracelets. He offers me a cigarette.
No, thank you, I don’t smoke. Pippo finishes his Pepsi, opens the screen, and throws the can out the window. He throws all his garbage out the window. He takes a picture out of his wallet of his girlfriend and their kid, a seven-year-old girl. He smiles. Two more months in this place, he tells me. He walks into the bathroom to smoke a cigarette, since we’re not allowed to smoke in our rooms.