Released on the Epic records label in September of 1981 "Still Doin' Time" was co-written by John Moffatt and Michael P. Heeney, and recorded by George Jones, one of Country music's most iconic Performers.

A song about a man who is a prisoner of alcohol, "Still Doin' Time" was the first Single from George Jones' Still The Same Ole Me album and his 8th Number One Country Single on the Billboard Hot Country Songs chart.

Part of the lyrics for "Still Doin' Time" include:

"Still doin' time in a honkey-tonk prison
Still doin' time where a man ain't forgiven
My poor heart is breakin'
But there's no escapin'
Each morning I wake up and find
Still doin' time"

That was exactly how I felt about all the years I rotted away locked up inside Hermitage Hall.



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CONTENTIOUS AND IRRECONCILABLE, I HAD NO DESIRE TO DROWN IN THE PREDICAMENT I FOUND MYSELF IN. I wanted to kick the car door open and jump out but could not position myself to where I may have been able to manage the act. Not much I wanted to recall, my whole world flashed in front of my eyes as I stared out the window of the cruiser while transported to the Main Street Police Substation. There wasn't anything else I could do but fret.

We reached our destination after three left turns and a couple rights. The trip did not take long. My freedom unceremoniously wrenched from me soured my disposition. I hesitated upon arrival at the stationhouse and became uncooperative exiting the vehicle.

One of the transporters threatened me. His gruff demeanor and icy stare plumbed his darkest depths. "Get out or we will pull you out! Don't make this any harder on yourself, Brett."

I delayed a moment longer before stepping out of the vehicle one reluctant foot in front of the other.

His partner said, "Atta good boy. Now you're using your head."

Inside, I was escorted past three holding cells. They offered concrete floors and iron bars. I had never been in a police station before and wasn't impressed with what I observed. I noticed how busy the joint was. Armed officers scurried about in all different directions. Although I didn't understand much of what was relayed, I overheard the cackling of several radio transmissions.

One said, "Unit 14, see the manager of the Willow Woods Apartments, 2111 Oakdell, possible 10-76 in process."

A uniform on the desk shook his head in disbelief and stated, "This is going to be a crazy shift. The lunatic prowlers are already out."

Passing by the lock-ups, I asked, "What kind of drunks are those?" Of course, I got no response.

I noticed the detainees' blood-shot red eyes and unkempt fly-away hair that looked like it'd never seen a comb. Their ragged clothes disheveled, a strong smell of alcohol permeated the air. They resembled living proof there is sorrow on the rocks. One paced his cell. I noticed he weaved from right to left.

I asked myself, "Wait a minute, isn't he the bum you lifted the pocket knife off of?"

I'd almost forgotten about the tramp. Noticing the slovenly litter lout brought back his memory. Getting out of the range of the stinking aroma my olfactories seized on pleased me.

Delivered to Waiting Room A at the end of a short corridor, I did not feel the calm harmony its white walls were intended to produce. Disinterested in his current activity, the escort who accompanied me down the hallway twiddled his thumbs in front of him as we walked. He pulled out a chair, and swept his arm wide, to motion me into a metallic folding seat at the head of an elongated rectangular table. Three others stood positioned around the furnishing. Once I was situated, he disappeared.

A geriatric officer soon entered the room. I honed in on his receded hairline and the dark age spot in the center of his forehead. Though not portly, the obvious beginning of his middle age spread became apparent. He was kind of a paternal-appearing appiration from what I deduced. He attempted to begin his interrogation by introducing himself in a cordial manner. I listened close to detect if his friendliness appeared sincere.

"I'm Sergeant Edward Smalley."

I remained silent. I would not have given a flip if he was Santa Claus and stuffed a room full of my favorite gifts under the Christmas tree I never had.

"So, you ran away from Hermitage Hall, did you?"

"And, I'm not going back there no matter what!"

"Awesome. As soon as we have a cruiser available we will return you back where you belong."

Back to where I belong? Did the deaf mute not hear what I aforementioned? Hermitage Hall was the last place I intended to visit!

"In the meantime, Brett, why don't you tell me about yourself? The floor's all yours. That's what I'm here for."

Wasted words were not my forte. Exhausted from the day's capers, I looked away from him. What I longed for was release from incarceration. I was fairly certain that was not going to occur.

Frustrated, he caved in. He rose from his perch and told me, "Suit yourself. It's almost seven. You must be hungry. I'll bring you back some dinner."

Feasting was not on my mind anymore than yapping had been. All I cared about was getting out of there. Since I did not have a keycard like the one I watched him use to exit the room, I was trapped to my own inclinations. I felt like a condemned inmate on Death Row.

"Would that be so bad?" I asked myself.

Even being left unattended in that holding room felt better than the dreaded prospect of being shipped back to Hermitage Hall. I looked at the clock hung on the far wall. The big hand was on the twenty-eight and the little hand straight up on the one. That told me it was the next morning. Time flies when you're having fun, doesn't it? The problem remained I did not enjoy myself one iota. Two hours earlier, I started pacing back and forth from one corner of the room to another. Caged lion in a looney bend here I come.

Growing more impatient with every passed tick of time, and left in this unfathomable lurch stewing in my own juices, I curtly wondered, "Where are those boys in blue?"

Officer Smalley strolled back in. He held a package of Lance's peanut butter crackers from a vending machine in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm water in his other mitt. He called these dinner. Famished, I gobbled the unbroken crackers.

I did not hold being detained against Officer Smalley. He was only doing his job protecting the fine citizens of Nashville from a ruthless ruffian like me. Oh yes, I did! Mad as a hornet whose newly constructed nest had been disturbed for no good reason, my intense but unexpressed anger seethed.

One good thing resulted though. At no point did they frisk me, or find my switchblade knife. I supposed they naturally assumed as a juvenile, I would not be in possession of anything of that sort in their precious police station.

Possessing no way out, I reluctantly told myself, "It will not be long before you are returned to the one place you do not ever want to be again."

(TO BE CONTINUED:)

In Chapter Seventeen I am confronted by King Tubbo.