And there I was, standing in the middle of a 10-by-10 cell with rusted metallic walls and a forlorn looking toilet area that looked as though one might contract Hepititides A through Q if one chose to use it.

My cell mates were a self-described former “cocaine salesman” and a soldier who had recently returned from Italy.

Though our backgrounds were certainly dissimilar, our charges were all the same: being caught in the speed trap that is Warwick, Ga., and driving on a suspended license.

Friend of Cliff Kendra Carter and I were, admittedly, speeding our way through the tiny hamlet, trying to make up lost time after some bad directions had taken us several hours away from our intended destination of Savannah, where I was supposed to be the best man at a wedding.

ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” was playing on the radio when I saw the blue lights behind me; by the time the officer was throwing me in cuffs, the background music was appropriately the band’s hit “S.O.S.”

As I made my way through booking, the kind matron there, Ms. Kathryn, commented that I was dressed too nice to be in “her jail.”

As she took me through the photo and fingerprinting process, we talked about the important things in life: our favorite fried chicken chains, e-cigarettes and the wonder that is Gladys Knight.

She then led me to the aforementioned cell, smiling sadly as she closed and locked the door behind her.

I stood in the center of the room, afraid to sit anywhere on the rusted metal benches or the odd center island, where someone had left what looked to be a breakfast meal that consisted of Dickensian gruel and an orange slice that even a scurvy-riddled pirate would be wary of.

On the walls of the box, previous inhabitants had scribbled messages of hope and warning to those of us who would come after them, from the benign “Don’t eat the fruit” to the troubling “You’ll get shanked in B Block.”

“Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that,” I told myself.

Anthony, the former cocaine distributor, was the next to join me, and as we made our introductions to one another, he could tell I was intently studying the bits of graffito on the wall.

“Do you know what any of it means?” I asked, pointing to what appeared to be a Jewish star over the word “B.O.S.S.”

“I know that one,” Anthony replied, pointing to B.O.S.S.

He asked me what it meant when letters stood for a word, and I quickly replied “Acronym.”

Apparently, B.O.S.S. was such a word, standing for Brothers of Strong Struggle, and the Jewish star was about the six values that particular group held dear.

“Growth and development, education, politics, social development, just to name a few.” Anthony said. “And as we stand upon our 6-point stance, together we stand divided we fall. Six is poppin’, jive droppin’. It is not for the weak hearted, love your 6 brother as you love yourself. Stay true as we walk that y.6.r. 974 till the day I die.”

Our cultural exchange led to a few moments of silence as I attempted to process what I had just learned.

“So, it’s kind of like a social club, then,” I asked hesitatively.

“Yeah, but we don’t drive around in tiny cars with those weird Arab hats,” he replied.

We were soon joined by the newly-returned stateside service member, who proceeded to teach both of us new combinations of cursewords that I believe until those moments had not previously existed.

Certainly, none of us was happy to be there, but no one wanted to hear him rant and rave about how unfair the system was and how he should have gotten let go because of his service. Effie, we all got pain.

Thankfully, the matter of my bail was soon handled in a negotiation between Kendra, my father and a bail bondsman called home from his lake weekend with the grandchildren.

As Ms. Kathryn walked me over to the detention center entrance, I thanked her for her kindness and good-natured humor, telling her that she made the experience better than it could have been otherwise.

She just grinned and said thanks, and then asked what I did for a living.

“Oh, I’m a journalist,” I replied.

“Lord, child, promise me you won’t write about us.”

“Well...” I trailed off, as I left her supervision.

Cliff McCollum is managing editor of Gulf Coast Newspapers. He can be reached at cmccollum@gulfcoastnewspapers.com.