On Spit *warning reading this might make you say bad words in your head*
Joey has only been working five months in the jail and two very wonderful young men have spat on him. The first was a scrawny Mexican whose lovely saliva and mucus landed on Joey’s belt.
The second was a fat white young man who was irritated that Joey was video-taping him as he was escorted like a wiggly, naughty toddler into the jail, shouting things like, “Get that f*** ing camera out of my face” and “If I wasn’t handcuffed I’d take on all of you f***ing cops” and other sweet things.
When Joey didn’t move the camera, Mr. Wiggly spat right on my husband’s left cheek, the remnants landing in his eye as if it were a paint splatter.
The first incident Joey came home hotter than a cat sprayed with the hose, ranting and raving and telling me the story from start to finish like a normal human being would.
The second time he was cool. He called me from the doctor’s office to let me know he had been spat on and they had to take his blood to test for diseases as if he were calling from Wal-Mart to see if we needed milk.
“He spit on you?” I was disgusted. “In the face?”
But then he had to go get his blood drawn and that was all I ever heard of Mr. Wiggly.