Before her gender transition, Piper Sanderson enjoyed going out to clubs on Friday nights, hearing new bands, meeting new people, but since she came out as trans, she has been afraid to go out, having vague fears in her mind that she will get arrested or shot. But this Friday night in August, she decides to ignore the fear, and go out anyway. She takes a shower, and puts on a black sports bra and black panties, an orange Clemson T-shirt, a short purple skirt that shows off her long, strong legs, and her trademark white linen sports coat and white cowboy boots. She gets in her blue, 1994 Mazda station wagon and heads for the Guess Who Tavern and Music Hall on Haywood Road, in West Asheville, North Carolina.

When she gets there, she finds the parking lot full, so she has to park along the side of Haywood blocks away, but she doesn’t mind walking. It’s her favorite form of exercise.

The club is crowded, and Piper has to elbow her way to the bar, where she orders a Dr Pepper, and surveys the people.

Suddenly she is elbowed hard in the back, and nearly spills her drink.

“Hey, watch it,” she says, turning around to see a man with a high forehead, wild Albert Einstein-like hair, and a beard.

“Sorry,” he says. “Geez, it’s crowded in here. The World’s Least Wanted Band can really pack ‘em in, huh?”

“I guess. I’ve never heard of them before. What kind of music do they play, anyway?”

“Country punk. I think you’ll dig them.”

“If you say so.”

“I’m Carl Munson. Did anybody ever tell you how beautiful you are?”

“Every day. Especially my girlfriend,” Piper lies, hoping to dissuade him.

“Oh. A girlfriend, eh? You just haven’t been with the right guy.”

Suddenly Piper remembers why she hasn’t been out in so long: she always gets hit on by the likes of this . . . person. She hates to be rude, but she’s a trans lesbian and has no interest in or use for men.

“And I’m transgender.”

“Oh, outstanding. I’m especially turned on by y’all. What say we blow this scene and go for a ride in my car?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ah, come on, you’ll love it, it’s a Lexus. I’ve got money, and a big cock. Tell me you can’t resist that combination.”

“If you don’t fuck off I’m going to pour my drink over your head.”

“Okay, okay, but at least take my card in case you change your mind.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

“But I . . .”

Piper takes her drink, and pours it all over him, and decides going out was a bad idea. She elbows her way out of the club, and back to her car, leaving Munson sputtering, and yelling something about how she didn’t know who she was messing with.

The next morning Piper is awakened by someone knocking on her door. She puts on her bathrobe and opens the door to find two Asheville Police Department officers standing there.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you Piper Sanderson?”

“Yes.”

“Did you pour Coke on Carl Munson at the Guess Who last night?”

“Uh,” Piper says groggily, trying to wake up. “Who’s Carl Munson?”

“He’s an acclaimed psychiatrist who claims someone poured Coke on his head at the Guess Who last night. We have a witness who identified that person as you.”

Piper runs through the events of the previous night. “Yeah, I guess. Only it was Dr. Pepper.”

“Whatever. We have a warrant for your arrest,” one of the officers, a butch looking female, says.

“On what charge?”

“Simple assault.”

“Oh come on! He wouldn’t stop hitting on me.”

“That’s as maybe,” the other officer, a young kid who looked to Piper like he wasn’t even old enough to drink yet “but we have to take you in.”

“But I’ve got work . . . “

“You can call from the jail.”

“Jail?!?” Piper can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Call from the jail?”

“Yes, after we book you.”

“Alright, alright, just let me get dressed.”

“I’ll have to come in,” the female offer says, “to make sure you don’t try to kill yourself.”

“You think I’m going to kill myself over having done something entirely justified?”

“It’s protocol.”

“Fine,” Piper says, ushering her into the apartment, which is so small the bed is practically right beside the door. Piper grabs the skirt and shirt she had on the night before, and ducks into the small bedroom.

“Leave the door open,” the cop says.

“Honestly, this is ridiculous. I didn’t DO anything.”

“That’s as maybe, but Carl Munson says you did. Did you not know who he is?”

“No,” Piper replies, pulling on her bra and T-shirt.

“He’s a respected psychiatrist here in Asheville.”

“So you’ve said. He should learn not to hit up trans women – hell, just women in general – in bars. It’s not okay.” Piper puts on her boots. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Hold it,” the officer says. “Do you have any drugs or sharp objects on you?”

“No.”

“Turn around and put your hands behind you.”

“Oh, come on, this is ridiculous.”

“It’s protocol. If you don’t comply, I’ll have to do it for you.”

Piper want to yell “Fuck!” but figures it wouldn’t be a good idea, so she puts her arms behind her, and feels the policewoman put handcuffs on her.

The ride to the Buncombe County Detention Center is short. Piper has seen the building from the outside, but is kind of surprised when the police car pulls up to a loading dock in back.

“Out,” the female officer says. “Watch your head.”

Piper is directed to an unremarkable, unlabeled door. Inside there is a large room with a desk and a computer, and a fancy looking camera set up.

“Stand in front of the camera,” the male cop says. Piper does as she is told. There is a flash. The cop looks at the resulting photograph, and apparently is satisfied with it.

“I’ll take the cuffs off so I can fingerprint you.”

“Any way I can get a copy of that picture?” Piper says.

“I wouldn’t joke around,” the female cop says. “This is a serious charge. You could get up to 90 days.”

“Geez, I’m sorry.”

Piper is directed to a scanner-like device, where the male officer takes her fingerprints.

“What happens now?” she asks.

“You get one phone call,” the woman says, gesturing to the phone on the desk. “Keep it brief.”

Piper dials the number of Express Press, where she works as a Xerox operator. One of her coworkers answers. “Is it true you poured beer on Carl Munson?”

“Geez, word travels fast.”

“It’s all over WKS, and it’s gone viral on social media. You’re a celebrity.”

“Great. Can you get Charles for me?”

“Hold on.

When Charles, her boss, comes on the line, he is not pleased. “What in God’s name happened last night?”

“Look, the guy wouldn’t leave me alone. How was I to know pouring a drink on someone was assault?”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m in jail. Or at it, anyway.”

“Oh, good Lord, I’ll come get you.”

“Hurry up,” the butch officer barks.

“I’ll come down and get you,” Charles says again.

“Thank you,” Piper replies, and hangs up. “What now?”

“You gotta go before a judge to set bail and a court date, but it’s Sunday, so that won’t happen until tomorrow morning. You gotta spend the night in jail.”

“Oh, come on!”

“We’ll need all your jewelry,” the female cop says. “Necklaces, rings, earrings.”

Piper takes off her watch and her one ring, a Southwest looking topaz thing she bought in New Mexico years before her transition, her lightning bolt earrings, an ankle chain, and the crucifix she wears around her neck. She could've relied on it, spending the night in jail. It all goes in a plastic zip lock bag.

“We’re gonna take you inside now,” the female cop says. “You swear you have no drugs on you, right? If you do, you’ll face additional charges.”

Piper is still in shock at the whole thing. “No, no I don’t. But I should probably mention that I’m transgender.”

“Oh, really,” the butch cop says.

“Yes.”

“You’ll do fine in the women’s cell block.”

“But I . . .”

“Your documents say F, you go with the Fs. It’s protocol. Come on,” the woman cop says, taking Piper by the arm and guiding her through a heavy metal door with a complicated looking lock on it. On the other side the door opens onto stacked hallways around an open space, with a courtyard of sorts in the middle. Of course it’s not really a courtyard, because it has no trees, just a bunch of metal tables, at which sit a bunch of women in orange jumpsuits.

“This is Mavis,” the cop says, indicating a stern, matronly looking woman in a pale blue uniform shirt, dark blue trousers, and black shoes. “She’ll take care of you. We’ve got us a tranny, Mavis.”

Piper wants to protest the use of the degrading word, but the cop ignores her. “I’ll put fifty on the under.”

“Under?” Piper asks. “Under what?”

“That’s none of your concern. Name?” Mavis demands.

“Uh, Piper. Piper Sanderson.”

“What size are you? You look like a large. Are you a large?”

“Uh, I guess.”

“Here,” Mavis says, handing Piper some orange clothes and a pair of flip flops. “Put those on.”

“Right here? In front of everybody?”

“Oh, are we shy? Alright, come in the office. And make it quick.”

Piper strips off her Clemson T-shirt and mini-skirt, and puts on the jail clothes. They’re way too big, and hang down on Piper’s lean frame. She starts to pick up her clothes, but Mavis stops her. “We’ll put ‘em in storage, and you can claim them when you get out. Let’s see, you’re gonna be in Unit C, Cell 37. This way.”

The whole time, Piper wonders why she hasn’t had a panic attack by now, or cried, or prayed, or anything. She’s just gone along with the whole thing, and wonders why. Probably because you were brought up to believe in the rule of law, and taught to obey authority, she thinks. And, of course, there’s the knowledge that resistance would only make things worse.

“Here ya go,” Mavis says, indicating one of the steel doors that line the sides of the hallway. “In.”

Piper goes into the cell, relieved that there is no one else in there. A night in jail would be hard enough without having to navigate social niceties with another prisoner. She sits down on one of the beds in the cell, and looks around. Four blank walls with only the cell door, a narrow window, and a steel commode to distract the eye. What, she wonders, does a person do when they are locked in a 10’ x 20’ room? She wants to ask Mavis for a pen and some paper so that she can recount the events that led her to this place, but she doesn’t know how to get her attention. There are no bars to rattle, so she pounds on the cell door and yells. In a few minutes Mavis comes and opens up the cell door.

“What?” she says, in a tone of voice that makes it clear she doesn’t like being bothered.

“Could I possibly get a pen and some paper?”

“What, are you going to write the great American novel?”

“No,” Piper says, refusing to be baited by this remark. “I just want to write, is that too much to ask?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mavis says, “but I’m not makin’ any promises.”

“Thank you,” Piper says, but Mavis has already bolted the door and left.

After what feels like an hour, Piper has given up on her request, but to her surprise, Mavis opens the door, and hands her a composition book and a pen.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“I could get in real trouble for this, so hide it when you’re not writing in it. Oh, and don’t stab yourself with the pen.”

“Got it,” Piper replies, as Mavis slams the cell door behind her.

Piper sits down, opens the book and writes “Piper Sanderson’s Jail Diary, The Buncombe County Detention Center, Cell Block C, Cell 37. Sunday, August 12th, 2023.” She wants to record the time but she has no watch.. Her only clue as to the passage of time is light coming in through the narrow window.

Piper picks up her notebook and starts recounting the events that led her to her present situation, in as much detail as she can remember. Saturday at the bar, and a Sunday spent in jail. When she finishes, having nothing else to do, she lies back on the bed. The pillow is lumpy, the bed is hard, and the room is cold. Still in shock at her arrest and subsequent incarceration, she replays the whole incident in her mind. How can what I did possibly be a crime, she thinks.

Eventually she drifts off to sleep, and finds herself in an uneasy dream. She is sitting in the kitchen of her parents’ house. Her mother sits across from her, tut-tutting.

“I can’t believe my only son got arrested!” she says. “You know this would never have happened if you hadn’t taken up this business of being a girl”

Piper wants to respond, but her mouth is somehow glued shut, so all she can do is listen.

“And you’re just lucky the police didn’t find your stash and bust you for that!” her mother continues. “And your hair! I’ll swan! When’s the last time you had a haircut, Pierce?”

To hear her mother use her dead name makes Piper furious, and she lungs at her mother and grabs her by the throat.

Suddenly Piper wakes up on the floor of the cell, her hands tightly wrapped around her pillow.

Getting up, she glances out the window, and sees a lightning bolt light up the night sky, followed by a loud clap of thunder. The window is streaked with water, and Piper listens intently for the sound of the rain. She concentrates on it, and it lulls her into a more peaceful sleep.

Her sleep is abruptly interrupted by someone yelling “Breakfast.” This is what Piper has dreaded since the minute that they put her in this . . . cage: interacting with the other inmates. She rubs her eyes, puts on her flip flops, and walks down the two flights of stairs to the cafeteria.

“Morning, sweetie,” one of the inmates says, joining her in the line, and getting a little closer than Piper feels comfortable with. “How’d you sleep?”

The “sweetie” causes an immediate “Uh-oh, what does this mean?” reaction in Piper. “Uh, fine.”

“Let’s sit together, sweetie,” the inmate says, “away from the others.”

Suddenly sitting with a group of complete strangers seems better than pairing off with someone who seems to be forming an unhealthy attraction to Piper.:

\An older inmate rescues her.

“Mornin’, Piper. Sleep well?”

“As well as I could, I guess. How do you know my name?”

“You’re a celebrity for teaching that prick, Carl Munson, a lesson. I’m Yolanda, this is Sally, and the rude girl who tried to hit on you is Molly.”

“Good morning, Sally”

All the while, Molly stands by with an angry look on her face.

“What’s eating you, Moll?” Yolanda finally says.

“She won’t eat with me,” Molly responds angrily. “She won’t sit with me.”

Piper senses that Molly might not be all there, mentally. Her words sound like those of a petulant child.

“She’s new, Mol,” Yolanda says. “And she won’t be here long, right Piper?”

“Well I certainly hope so.

“I knew it,” one of the other inmates, a Hispanic woman with long, black hair, says, joining the others at the table. “You think you’re better than us because you’ll be getting out soon. I hope you get 90 days. Then we’ll see how special you really are!”

“Melinda, be nice. Sit, Piper, and eat your breakfast.”

“Breakfast” is burnt toast, runny eggs, and institutional orange juice in one of those mini-milk cartons. Piper has never cared for eggs, so she eats the toast and drinks the orange juice. “Anybody want my eggs?”

“Shit, don’t say that!” Yolanda says.

“Why? What’s wrong? What did I do?”

“We’re not supposed to share food.”

“Don’t the ridiculous rules in this place drive you crazy?”

“When you’ve been locked up as often and for as long as I have,” Yolanda says, “it’s good to have the structure. Otherwise there’s no telling what we’d do out of sheer boredom.”

“Say, when they put me in here, they were talking about ‘taking the under’ on me. What did that mean?”

“When they get a trans woman inmate, they bet on how long it will take the female inmates to figure it out and complain.”

“But how did you know I was transgender?”

“Hate to break it to you, but it shows.”

“Well why have you not complained?”

“You’re a celebrity.”

Piper has often fantasized about being famous, but this is not the way she wanted it to happen.

“Thanks, but if this is how it’s going to happen, I think I’d rather not be one.”