“What you in for?” asked the gruff-looking man to his tall, Polish cellmate.
“I offer a lady for a taste of my special Polish kielbasa, and she make big scene and call police,” Marcin Gortat answered with a shrug. “I know not what did I do wrong, but police arresting me, and now I here in jail with you.”
The man made a face. “You ain’t gettin’ away with that these days, man. Women’s empowered now. It’s their right not to feel threatened.”
Marcin was confused by this reaction, just as he was confused by the reactions of the woman and the police. “I only said she could put my Polish sausage in her mouth, what is so wrong about that?”
“Man, women’s rights must not exist in your country, but here in America we treat women with respect. Well, most of us. Or some of us, anyway.”
Suddenly, Marcin got an idea that would help him get on this man’s good side. If they were going to share a jail cell, they should at least try to be friends. “Hey, maybe you wanting to sample of my Polish wiener, since it was not tasted by the woman in the bar who calling the police.” He stood up from his uncomfortable bench and began to untie the belt on his trenchcoat. Underneath the coat was where he kept his “delicacies”.
“No way, man!” shouted his cellmate, who stood up so he could retreat to the far corner of the cramped room. “Yo, get away from me!”
Marcin pulled open his coat to reveal a wide assortment of fine Polish meat products dangling inside. “I have kielbasas and chicken sausages, and kiszka too, taking your pick.”
“What are those?” asked the confused man.
“My special Polish sausages,” Marcin answered. “Homemade with recipe from homeland!” he added proudly.
“You gotta work on your delivery, man,” said his cellmate, sitting back down and leaning his head against the cinderblocks.