THE ACCIDENTAL THEME

I agonized over the cell phone for three long months. It’s crucial to the story, to the plot line—who has the goddamned cell phone? I said this to myself over and over and over, again and again and again. The prison-tutor in my classroom, a poet in his own tortured right, was certain that I had finally went off the deep end. Never mind his braided horns, or his tattoo of Satan on his neck, or his extremely long curled-over fingernails, he was a black Frenchman from Quebec, a D-prefix (fourth letter in the alphabet meant fourth time in prison)—never mind all that—HE WAS A RELIABLE SOURCE—in fact, he insisted, "The cell phone doesn’t matter. Forget the cell phone."

Out of desperation, out of a sense of helplessness, I let go, sent the story off, knowing I had failed. Three months later, while my tutor sat in segregation for having a little "holiday cheer" in his cell, I was awarded Wayne State University’s 20th annual Judith Siegel Pearson Award for a short story concerning women’s issues. Instead of feeling triumphant, I felt confused. Sure the $200 was comforting (I hurried up and cashed it), but I didn’t understand my own story. Here’s the link: (Jail Bait).

It wasn’t until later, when the prison-tutor-poet came back from segregation (turns out he inadvertently put baby powder in a small unmarked plastic container, or so he says) that I had figured it out. The final judge, WSU’s faculty member Bill Harris, author of numerous plays including "Robert Johnson: Trick the Devil," "Riffs," "Coda," and "Every Goodbye Ain’t Gone" must’ve seen it all along. One word sums it up: Miscommunication.