BREAD & WATER REVIVAL

Suppose you’re Pete’s client, one of five middle-aged women screaming obscenities at him. You’re bold. You show your friends how bold you are. Charlene admires how you grabbed her wrist just before her turn at the intercom button, how you upped the ante, how you lowered the privacy window and dared her to assault Pete’s tapered graying hair—as if by some tribal instinct the verbal-abuse-scalpel would sever the attached cell phone from his ear. But it is Alice, whom you met two years ago at a N.O.W. Conference, who slashes first: “Hey dickhead, turn right.” Everyone laughs, except for Pete.

Pete has learned patience. He believes in chivalry. He plans on fixing something after work, and for reassurance, before he disconnects, he says, “Why’d you get Ray involved? I told you I’d take care of it.”

Alice screams louder. He ignores her, not her directive, but her insult. Perhaps he already knows where the Quick-Mart is; perhaps traversing three unnecessary blocks demonstrates a willingness to follow orders.

Once inside the store, Pete purchases the following items: Mohawk Vodka, Country Fresh Orange Juice, and a loaf of Spartan Bread. Money exchanges hands (twice). His absence, if only for a brief moment, cools everyone’s hostility.

There’s a clipboard on the front seat—Unicorn Limousine Services—a cartoon horse with a tall, thin party hat. Didn’t Sally request a female driver? How else could you celebrate? The standard form did not have driver preference marked. Did you forget?

Sally’s your neighbor, your confidant. Her husband smacked her around, knocked the estrogen right out of her. He wore greasy tank tops, otherwise known to the male species as wifebeaters. She fought hard. She gashed his forearm with a broken Martha Stewart serving plate, the one he flung at her like a Frisbee. You nursed her back. You helped her burn his porno tapes, fanning the flames with her Rosie magazine. “Look,” you said, “divorce the son of a bitch.” It took time. She did. Her divorce is final.

“Woo—woo! Par—tee!”

Pete reappears, cradling a bag in his right arm with the bread dangling from his right hand. Sally demands Mary’s change. He obliges (receipt included).

Mary figures it’s her turn. You invited her along. She waitresses with you at Ram’s Horn. She’s too nice. Her common-law husband crippled her socially. He’s in Ohio, selling pharmaceuticals. You met him the same night Sylvia died in a fiery car crash. He introduced himself, demanded to see his wife. You told him she wasn’t in. You served him the house special: two eggs sunny side up, wheat toast, and coffee until 2:30 a.m. He peppered his eggs, devoured them, smeared snotty yolks into figure eights, and told you about a new male contraceptive waiting for FDA approval. “The way it works,” he said, “is it coats a man’s sperm in cholesterol, blocking its ability to penetrate the egg.”

“This may be kind of offensive,” Mary apologizes, “but Mr. Peter looks more like ah…” now she’s thinking what to say, “ah—ah pinhead!”

You remember junior high. Little Danny Hampton’s trumpet-blowing cheeks. The pulsating rhythm. The convulsive fits. His hands cupping his Adam’s apple—the universal sign for choking. You had a crush on him. You moved closer, ready to do the Heimlich maneuver. He spat strawberry yogurt all over your arm.

Cruising north on Gratiot, Alice spots the “Just Married” sign taped on a parked Lincoln Town Car. “C’mon, let’s crash a wedding reception,” she says. “Turn, turn,” Charlene adds. Pete swerves into Athena Hall and stops near the entrance. When he gets out, Sally flings her door into his hip. “Move, jerk! You’re in the way.”

Pete watches as you push the marble steps with your Nine West flats like your first and last day on a StairMaster. At the top, there’s a fountain of a goddess wearing a helmet and carrying a spear and shield. Water trickles into a basin where Sally throws Mary’s loose change.

The lobby sign reads: Larson & McCoy’s Wedding Reception. They and their guests are chicken-dancing fools. Hands form mouths … cluck-clucking … thumbs hook under armpits … elbows flapping … legs and thighs at various angles … asses wiggling. Sick birds they are.

Sally carves roast beef from a bone; the heat lamp exposes her callused hands. Charlene and Alice stack desserts on dinner plates. Mary fetches drinks. You rest your feet.

The DJ spins Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration.” The dance floor clears. A young couple approaches. “Is anyone sitting here?” the man asks. You feign a smile. They join you.

Your friends reunite, their presence is overpowering.

“So how long do you think their marriage will last?” Sally asks.

“Pardon me?” the woman replies.

“Most marriages end in divorce,” Alice says.

The couple glance at one another for reassurance, then the man speaks, “So—do you know Bob—or Judy?”

“Each of us slept with Bob,” Charlene says. “How about YOU?”

The man pushes himself away from the table. The woman says, “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but it’s not funny.”

“I didn’t sleep with Bob,” Mary says, “I slept with”—and the next word rolls so effortlessly off her tongue it surprises even you—“Judylicious.”

“I slept with both,” Sally says as the couple turns and parts.

You grab the disposable camera, the one next to the flower arrangement. “The ladies room,” you say. In the last stall, you gather up your dress, a Fashion Bug Plus (wrinkle proof), and squench your pantyhose down to your ankles and scratch at your underwire bra. One. Two. After your private moment—and before you flush—you use up the roll of film. Wedding pictures.

A man in a canary-yellow cummerbund and matching bow tie follows you back to your table. He gets by you, sits in your chair. “My daughter and son-in-law say they don’t recognize any of you.” He reaches over, dismantles Charlene’s drinking-glass pyramid, and counts plates. He’s demanding payment.

Sally claims his estimate is way too high. He nods toward the entrance where Pete’s standing next to the men in uniform. You hadn’t seen them in the lobby.

After foraging through purses, Sally, Charlene, and Alice start singing, “We are fa-mi-ly. I got all my sisters and me …” You join in, “We are fa-mi-ly …” Mary too, “…I got all my sisters and me.” He shuffles the money—one bill at a time—like he’s playing solitaire. You give him the camera.

Pete brings the limousine around. Everyone piles in except for Sally. Pete scrambles to open her door. “What took you so long!” she yells. The privacy window remains down. Pete listens for more directions, driving aimlessly into the night while the vodka is depleted. Charlene and Alice claim early morning work schedules cashiering at Wal-Mart. Sally’s tired, very tired, so tired she can’t make it home. She invites herself over to Mary’s apartment. “Why the charade?” you think. “Some divorce party.”

Before you know it, you’re the last one remaining. The buzz-saw silence is killing you. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Can I come up front?” you ask. Pete pulls into an unlit parking lot. He opens and closes the doors for you. He knows you’re intoxicated. He pushes a small propane torch farther beneath his seat. You think it’s a fire extinguisher. “Funny, shouldn’t its outer shell be fire engine red?” You lie on your back, your head resting on Pete’s lap. He reminds you that you’re still on the clock. He tells you you need something in your stomach. He feeds you bread.

“Is that why you bought the bread?” you ask.

“No,” Pete says, adjusting the papers on his clipboard. He tells you his daughter closed on a 1940’s brick bungalow—“signed the paperwork yesterday”—and that she’s moving to Harper Woods. He says, “I need the bread to soak up water, so I can solder a copper pipe.”

Although you don’t understand his reply, you are comfortable and ready to talk. You tell Pete everything. You tell him about Sylvia—how her ex-husband carried her casket through the same church they were married in, the same church her children were baptized in. You want to know why the pallbearers were ALL MEN; you want to know why you had to sit in the last pew; you want to know why you couldn’t get closer to him (“Are you enjoying this? She hated your guts!”), why you couldn’t help carry her dead body from the altar. “Why Pete? Why?” But you know the answers. You do. You really do. You eat more bread.

“Sleep it off,” Pete says.

The key is under the flowerpot. Pete unlocks the heavy oak door. Light pours out. Pete pulls your body from the car, sliding his left arm under your back, sitting you up, wrapping your arms around his neck, and bringing your knees to your stomach. He carries you across the threshold to the living room and eases you onto a plastic drop cloth. He fashions a pillow from his daughter’s oversized polyester paint shirt. Then he goes back outside and gets the propane torch and bread. When he returns, he goes straight to the basement where he crams a piece of bread into a copper pipe. Next, he reaches in his shirt pocket for his lighter. He ignites the propane torch. He takes the small spool of solder on the washing machine and beads it across the sanded copper and reattached coupling; a blue-flamed tongue melts two smooth silvery bands around the circumference of the pipe. He shuts off the propane and turns on the water to the house and opens the shut-off valve to the laundry tub. Trapped air gurgles. Breadcrumbs wash through the pipe, violently spitting from the faucet, then swirl down the drain with a steady flow of water. All of this, while you drift further into a deep, deep sleep knowing that tomorrow you will be awakened and driven home—at no charge, no charge whatsoever.

REALITY FICTION

I once read an article in Discover magazine about a new experimental form of male contraception. Although I don’t remember all the details behind the scientific research, I do remember the observations of a female molecular biologist. She had discovered that a certain drug used to treat high blood pressure in men, also coated their sperm in cholesterol, blocking the sperm’s ability to penetrate an egg. Sounds wild, I know. But that little piece of information became a very minute detail in my story, “Bread And Water Revival.”

I’m a firm believer in not overkilling the details in a story. I like to write my ideas down and put them on ice for a while. Let them chill. Somehow, in the organized chaos of my scrap sheets of paper, I found the master plan to a short story. In this case, a smorgasbord of ideas set everything in motion. I had notes on the following:

1) a new male contraceptive
2) a yogurt incident I observed while traveling on a highschool bus
3) my failed attempts at fixing a laundry tub
4) my friend’s backyard wedding reception where everyone took pictures with the complimentary disposable cameras of the happily married couple’s Australian Cattle Dog
5) my nightmarish experience chauffeuring a bunch of middle-aged women around Detroit
6) a female friend who happened to be heavily involved in the National Organization of Women
7) my shared pallbearer duties with the ex-husband of the dearly departed
8) my wife’s keen observation that only my prison stories were getting published.

Don’t ask me how I managed to write a short story based on these hand-scrawled tidbits, but I did.

Tomorrow I will post “Bread And Water Revival.” I realize that it may be too long for the Internet (approximately 1500 words), but due to my scheduled surgery, I may not be posting for a day or two. A special thanks goes out to Dante Rance for his illustration. And as usual, feel free to criticize.

A MODEST PROPOSAL

I have a modest proposal for Michigan Goobernotorious (Wrong Word?)Candidate Dick DeVos. This proposal will help boost Michigan’s economy, make our state the leading manufacturer of soap, and put me on the road to wealth.

First, Detroit parents and/or legal guardians should not send their children to school on Wednesday—I repeat, should not send their children to school on Wednesday—thus saving the State of Michigan from paying $7,500 per kid. Since Detroit Public Schools estimate 25,000 fewer students, this is a savings of $187,500,00. Instead, the money should go into an escrow account earmarked for the creation of jobs. DeVos should secretly hire Truant Officers to campaign for him, having them promise families potential profits in Amway—that is, if they’re registered voters. If DeVos is elected, each participating family will then receive an Amway start up kit. Mom, dad, or whoever the hell is in charge, will faithfully watch training tape after training tape, while their children manufacture soap and other products, thus competing with China’s cheap labor market. Furthermore, once in office, DeVos could abolish the single business tax so these families can afford to attend several of Alticor’s training seminars on how to sell soap.

I believe this modest proposal to be very sound in creating jobs and building self-esteem. I believe we can compete in a global market. I believe this proposal is a recipe for success (unlike other recipes for children). As a reward for my well thought out proposal, I should be made the sole distributor of soap for the Michigan Department of Corrections. Now, if I could stick a bar in DeVos's mouth every time he mentions “Intelligent Design,” then he might just win and I just might be able to line my pockets with a wad of cash.

I'LL DO MY DUTY, I'LL DO MY BEST

Oh the cruelty bestowed upon me! It's like a self-inflicted punch to the kidney. And I was so sure of myself that I gave my wife permission to make banana bread. But before I wallow in self-pity, let's get the first order of business taken care of pronto. Dr. Anonymous was absolutely correct in picking me out of Sherriff Lester Almstadt's line-up. In case you didn't read the previous blog post (why bother?), it was me, I did it, I ran the guy over with my car because he made me mad, very, very mad. I blame the whole incident on quitting the Boy Scouts of America organization. I went into a downward spiral from there and ended up in prison. Please forgive me. I'll do my duty, I'll do my best ... (I can only remember the part about the girl scouts and I'm quite sure it's not part of the oath).

Anyway, I did not win the "So You Think You Can Blog?" contest. What was The Thinker thinking? What theory of thought did she use? Does she not live her life in fear? I will get out one day! Her link is to the right. I suggest you investigate what I'm talking about. She didn't even send me an award, so I had to make my own. Here it is:



I'm sure you know what this means. Yep, second place. Still, I'm proud of my achievement and will undoubtedly check out my competitors. Please feel free to comment, especially Veggie Dawn--I miss your inspiring words.

F-TROOP

I’ll bet it’s not too difficult picking me out of Sheriff Lester Almstadt’s line-up. My Cub Scout uniform was always neatly ironed, not a wrinkle, compliments of my mother. She even pressed and folded my bvd’s before putting them in my underwear drawer. She cut my hair too. Not that that made me photogenic. Let’s just say I was in the early toe-head Moe phase (think “The Three Stooges”) of my childhood. My dad, the disciplinarian of our family, constantly reminded me to stand up straight and show them you’re a leader. He led by example, volunteering as the local Boy Scout treasurer until a couple of parents ripped him off—Hey, can I pay for the canoe trip on Monday? I’m short on cash, I’ll make it up to you. I soon learned that the Boy Scouts of America hadn't been about honesty and loyalty; it had been about fathers designing their sons’ aerodynamic balsa wood derby cars and filling them full of weights to guarantee victory. And, in my case, it meant quitting the organization in disgust because my dad couldn’t collect on the mounting debts; He was shortchanged one time too many.

So which Cub Scout am I? Look closer. Old Sheriff Lester Almstadt and the den mother kept a watchful eye on the shady character on the end. He’s holding up a sheet of paper with some obscure message handprinted on it. Is he being held against his will and crying out for help? Or is he practicing for the day he will enter the Michigan Department of Correction’s intake area? Prisoners, afterall, come from all walks of life. I even knew an inmate nicknamed Boy Scout. He couldn’t understand why he was incarcerated, his explanation, I paid every one of those kids to let me touch them.

By now you should’ve picked me out of Sheriff Lester Almstadt’s line-up. Or at least narrowed it down to the studious boy on the other end, faithfully holding his notebook to his chest. I had already mentioned my uniform, so you can rule out the kid in civilian clothing—he could’ve at least closed the barn door or covered it with a notebook, like the other ununiformed kid, before posing with our troop. Also, there’s no way I would’ve had a lollipop in my mouth for such an important event, or stood on the outer edges of my shoes. No. I stood at attention, not knowing, that one day I would fight crime from within.

KID ROMEO

We simply can’t run away from our problems, but we most certainly can try. In my case, running may have been the subtle reminder that something was wrong in the first place. For the past year or so I’ve been getting lower back pains. I contributed the pain to exercising too hard. You know the saying, “No pain, no gain,”—that’s always been my motto. Without the pain I wouldn’t be able to improve my physical fitness. I know what you’re thinking, “that’s a load of crap and doesn’t make any sense.” Well, to me it does. If you don’t believe it, try watching “The Biggest Loser.” Do you see a bunch of happy faces? Hell, no—they’re in P-A-I-N. What I should’ve done differently was consult a doctor. But I didn’t.

After spending much of my 30’s comfortably married and less active, I decided (hell, my wife decided for me, okay?) I’d get my ass up off the couch and become more active. In fact, I consider myself to be in better shape now, in my 40’s, than in my 30’s. Not only did I run, I trained on weights, used the ellipticals at the fitness center, and went for an occasional bike ride. But for some reason, running seemed to be the cause of my lower back problems.

In today’s picture, I’m running through the woods at Stoney Creek Metropark. I was the captain of Romeo High School’s cross-country team. Those were the days. I wonder if Ken Ritchie, one of my fellow classmates, is the older brother or cousin of Bob Ritchie? I remember a few Ritchies walking the corridors of my high school. In case you’re wondering who Bob Ritchie is, he’s Kid Rock—“I mix it with the hip hop”—another futile attempt at humor by association now that I know that my running jarred loose a few rocks (one in each kidney), now that I know I’m scheduled for surgery on Wednesday. The doctor’s course of action: pull the stone out of my right kidney if there’s no tearing. If the stone doesn’t come out easily, he’ll break it up and put a stent in so I can pass it at a later date. As far as the left kidney, he said we could wait. Does this mean I should hold up on the running or should I jar loose the other one too? I'm sure Kid Rock would say, "Drink more Bud."

BEDROCK CITY

Why is it that when we learn a new word it magically appears in newspapers, television/radio programs, and conversations soon afterward? Is it our heightened sense of awareness tuning into a frequency and allowing us to appreciate the use of our new knowledge? I’m not exactly sure.

I will say this, since my preoccupation with a four millimeter kidney stone, I am discovering some fairly odd items in my office area that may be remotely linked to my health care predicament. First, there’s this black and white, 1970’s snapshot of my brother and I standing at the entrance to Bedrock City with Fred Flintstone towering over us. In case you’re wondering, I’m the shorter boy, younger too (seven).

The other unusual item is a 1987 cassette tape of The Screaming Blue Messiahs’ “Bikini Red.” The first song on side two is “I Wanna Be A Flintstone.” I listened to it and wrote down the beginning lyrics: “I wander around in a twilight zone/Little bitty Flintstone/All on my own/Yaba Daba Do Time.” Perhaps I’m: a) reading too much into it, b) foreseeing my near future, or c) mixing alcohol with Darvocet. We shall see.

I have another appointment today with my urologist. I will not ask him if his name is Fred. I’m more concerned with the “Screaming Blue” message, hoping that I am indeed “in a twilight zone” when he locates Bedrock City. Here’s to painkillers, symbolism, and Bam Bam. KNOCK ME OUT PLEASE!

WARM & TENDER MOMENTS

My desire to title this post “He Stoops To Conquer” and play the part of a modest man chuckling over a four millimeter kidney stone vanished once I realized the task at hand. The stone is now somewhere in the bladder preparing to lodge its jagged little edges into my urethra. The urologist gave me a prescription for Darvocet which seems to have mellowed my anxieties and prepared me for the worse. Hey, at least I don’t have an upset stomach any more (I’ve learned that Vicodin isn’t the drug of choice for me).

I continue to have trouble sleeping, but the lower back pain has subsided—no more tossing and turning. Still, I have chosen to stay at home rather than tough it out at work. Last time I passed a kidney stone, I simply walked out of a room full of convicts, did my business, and scooped up a mid-sized rock from the toilet. I showed my class the calcified rock afterward (teachable moments never die), which scored me some points for toughness and/or craziness. In hindsight, what would’ve happened if the stone got stuck? Who would’ve made sure that I got out of the prison in a timely manner? My worst fear isn’t crying in front of a bunch of prisoners—are you kidding, they’re the biggest babies ever—no, my worst fear is passing out and having some convict prying the gold out of my mouth or doing the unimaginable: pleasuring himself at my expense. God, how awful is that?

Since I took “the funny” out of my words, I leave you with the following picture my brother emailed me (compliments of http://go.funpic.hu ). I wish I could be that relaxed. I wish it were that easy. I wish my stream of humor would begin to flow.

ROMANCING THE STONES

Dear Blog Reader,

I’m not here, in my bedroom, wearing a party hat, listening to the Stones. They’ve been temporarily silenced. Vicodin will do that. Mick Jagged (no misspelling there), along with the others, have made their presence known. They sing to me internally, a reminder that things shall pass. Amen. I’ll drink to that. Then again, maybe not.

My wife’s been giving me heavy doses of tea, having switched from lemon water to a stronger diuretic. If you look real close, you will find two teabags dangling above the “World Class Teacher” mug. Still don’t see them? Keep searching, they’re camouflaged in with my Fosters Beer label pajama bottoms, less obvious than the Sears & Roebuck model of lore (now I know you’re looking). I’m hoping the tannic acid—gee, that would make a mighty fine name for a rock and roll band—will take the edge off of those pesky Stones. Dissolving them would be better. It’s all in the preparation, like using earplugs at a loud concert, except I want to hear everything.

I’m wearing my hospital wristband too, so if the pain becomes unbearable and I have to rush back to the emergency room, they can scan the bar code to see my past history. But what I’m really really really hoping for is to toss a few of these Stones into that funny looking mosh-pit party hat and call it a day. Or night. Whichever comes first. Wish me luck.

Sincerely, JR’s Thumbprints

P.S. In case you still don’t get it, the party hat is a strainer for the strainee.

A MATTER OF PERCEPTION

As I entered my personal code into the key box, the hearings officer (she’s the Department of Correction’s lawyer who determines whether an inmate is guilty or innocent of any major misconduct tickets written against him) said to me, “Can you believe it? I’ve been lied to.”

I secured my keys, turned to her, and said, “Tell me something new.”

The inmate in question had claimed that he was more than 10 minutes late for his call-out (Ticket Code: “036 Out of Place or Bounds/AWOL”) because it had been his first time attending Law Library. The hearings officer showed me a seven-page document indicating that he frequented the Law Library well over one-hundred times.

I said to her, “Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe he went to the general library.” She rolled her eyes at me. A library call-out is a library call-out. If it has “Law Library” printed on the inmate’s itinerary, then he gets access to the most current set of law books; if not, then he can check out all those saucy Harlequin romance novels.

I remember another time when this hearings officer asked an inmate how he would like to plead in regards to a sexual misconduct ticket he acquired in the visiting room. “Ma’am, I’m innocent. Nothing happened,” he retorted.

Then the hearings officer retrieved a videotape from her desk drawer and played it for him. I happened to be walking by when it got to the raunchy part. The inmate’s female visitor clearly had her face in his lap. The hearings officer asked, “Now how do you plead?”

“Well,” the inmate responded kindly, “what did you see?”

MR. 2000, JIMMY MAC

FRONT OF IDENTIFICATION CARD:


BACK OF IDENTIFICATION CARD:


Is this a hoax, or am I approaching 2000 hits? The last 100 hits have been agonizingly slow. I can imagine after today’s unpopular post it’ll be even slower. Why? Well, anyone new to my site may think I’m an actual prisoner, a hit man (and I’m not talking Tommy Hearns, although I believe his brother’s in the Michigan pen), or a murder-for-hire parolee, and if they do, they’ll quickly click off my blog. But it’s not true. PLEASE RELAX. I’m not a convict. It just appears that way. I’m a convict teacher.

I know—bad decision on my part. But it doesn’t matter because I have a plan. I exchanged links with Lue’s Looking In My Review Mirror blog, which is guaranteed to get me plenty of hits from the Amish community in Ohio (now you probably think I’m an inmate). I’ll definitely make the 2000 mark within a day. Trust me. What? Thirteen more to go. There's got to be some Amish folks with computers, right? Isn't there a computer now that you wind-up?

On a different note, today I attended my wife’s annual family reunion, and as usual I watched the Detroit Lion’s game on my battery-operated GPX television, and as usual their lack-luster effort forced me to engage in conversation with my wife’s family. I would’ve rather watched reruns of "Amish in the City." Or went to the festival Lue described in her post yesterday. At least if I had a laptop, I could’ve went to her blog and caught up on her posts.

BUDDY LEE

It doesn't make any sense to add AdSense to my blog when I can pick and choose my own products. Perhaps I'll go to www.LeeJeans.com and say, "Hey, I mentioned your merchandise in my blog. How about sending me $5 for my efforts?"

And believe me, it isn't always easy collecting Buddy Lee memorabilia. The cashier at Sears rang up my purchase--two pair of Buddy Lee Jeans. I paid $18.99 each for street carpenter jeans, regular price, not sale price. Hey, without a belt, I could wear them riding the hips, which is how the young folks kind of do it (no lower than that).

The cashier told me to "have a nice day."

I said, "Wait just a minute. Where's my Buddy Lee Commemorative Americana Watch? It's a promotional item. I'm supposed to get one for buying two pair of Buddy Lee Jeans."

The cashier acted like she didn't know anything about it. They never do. She phoned the manager. They discussed my request. She said, "The manager doesn't know anything about it." They never do.

I stood my ground. I was determined to leave Sears with a Buddy Lee Watch on my wrist. I got there early for their one-day promotion. The manager did a little research, he handed me a form, said I had to mail it in with my receipt. I did. Four weeks later and I had my watch. Just like Buddy Lee, I kept going. Or is that the Energizer Bunny?

Anyway, no AdSense for me. I've checked out numerous blogs related to prison and crime, most of the AdSense is prisoner advocacy groups. I don't want to advocate anything--except, well, maybe ... Buddy Lee.

HOSTAGE NEGOTIATIONS

Prior to the formation of E.R.T. (The Emergency Response Team), the Michigan Department of Corrections trained non-custody staff in Hostage Negotiations. This was a voluntary position, a thankless duty guaranteed to make the negotiator despised by any potential hostages. I had learned early on to induce the Stockholm Syndrome—make the hostage-takers and hostages value each other, make them form a special bond, make them think that I was a complete asshole.

Luckily (can you detect an ounce of sarcasm?) the warden had hand-picked me. He said I possessed a certain “rapport” with the inmates.

“It’s a voluntary assignment,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I volunteered you.”

With an offer like that, how could I refuse? After one week of intense training at the Huron Valley Correctional Facility, I became a certified hostage negotiator. Eight months later, my skills were tested when a situation developed in the sally-port. The deputy warden in charge of security ordered me to a small office area, a place to negotiate from. He had another officer throw a special-designed phone over the fence in the sally-port for contact purposes.

The items the hostage-taker demanded started out large (they always do)—a getaway car, guns, money—but somehow during the negotiation process, I offered him a cup of coffee. Upon delivery, he complained that it was cold. I apologized, and promised to have it heated. Then I asked whether he wanted cream or sugar with it. Anything to keep him talking, to wear him down. I even convinced him to let me speak to the hostage between deliveries.

“Fuck the coffee!” the female officer said. “Give him what he wants. Your messing with my life.”

“This may take awhile,” I explained, “don’t do anything rash.”

Then it turned ugly. The demands intensified.

“Look,” he said, “if I don’t see a getaway car by 1300 hours, I’m going to start tossing fingers over the fence.”

I paused for a moment, tried to regain my composure, tried to think of what needed to be said. “Are you getting hungry?” I asked. “ I can get you something to eat. A hamburger. A steak. Anything.”

Then I heard the background screams. “You still there?” I asked. “Hello. Hello. Hello.” Then I heard the laughter. I can joke about it, say things like “I had my work cut out for me.” Scenarios make for good practice. I'm just glad we have E.R.T. I'm willing to bet they do a much better job.

YOU CAN LEAVE YOUR HAT ON

Whenever I hear Joe Cocker singing “You Can Leave Your Hat On,” I visualize a young Kim Bassinger’s striptease routine in “9 ½ Weeks.” What a performance! Better than going to what some of my friends refer to as The Ballet. But this has nothing to do with what I’m going to discuss, except for the fact that, at one time, inmates could not leave their hats on while in the school building.

So, whenever a coworker mentions the old prison hat rule, they’re usually reminiscing about the time I allegedly waltzed into the middle of a program staff meeting and threw a hat at the assistant deputy warden. Let me explain. First of all, I was not intentionally late. I had to stay with the computer vendor while he worked on our server. Once he figured out exactly what needed to be done, I attended the meeting. And it’s true, I brought a prisoner’s hat with me. I even remember whose hat I confiscated—Little Joe’s.

What happened next, for some odd reason, became part of a legendary tale. Let me just say this, “I DID NOT THROW A HAT AT THE ASSISTANT DEPUTY WARDEN!” Instead, while he was conducting his meeting, I entered the conference room, and simply tossed the hat on the table, right in front of him. Then I sat down in the only chair available—you got it—right next to the hat rule originator. He, in turn, stopped whatever they were discussing and said, “What was the meaning of that?”

I replied, “I told the inmate that if he wanted his hat back, to come see you.”

“You didn’t have to come in here late and interrupt our meeting by throwing a hat at me.”

“I did not throw the hat at you and I got here as quickly as possible.”

Before the debate heated up, the computer vendor tapped on the window and saved me from further argument. Don’t ask me why the story changed. I know what I did. I know it wasn’t exactly the correct way to protest a hat rule. However, I had become sick and tired of constantly telling thieves, rapists, and killers to please remove their hats in the building. I like to pick and choose my battles. Hats were not a top priority. Now it doesn’t matter. Some of the inmates leave their hats on, others don’t. The hat rule maker has since retired. The only thing that remains constant is the legendary tale of how I threw a hat at the assistant deputy warden--hardly as memorable as Kim Bassinger's dance routine.

MY FOOT, YOUR NECK

I had a young black man call me the “N” word yesterday—repeatedly. “N” this and “N” that. Not that it meant much of anything to me. His overuse of the “N” word, his various nonsensical ways of using it for positive and/or negative strokes, only magnified his deficiencies in self-expression. In other words, I believe he’s EI (Emotionally Impaired).

I had been trying to help him focus on his fraction pretest to assess his difficulties. I pulled up a chair, proximity control usually works. I wanted him to know that I had a vested interest in him, that I wanted him to stop horse-playing around and start working. Once he had done a few problems with guided practice, I moved on to an older white gentleman, a low functioning cutter, a man who sometimes wept for no apparent reason.

Within five minutes—gee, could it have been that long?—the young black man went into his tirade. “N” this and “N” that. I was a racist teacher. I spent most of my time with the white students. On and on and on. I held my right hand in the air, with my index finger extended—my way of semi-acknowledging his cry for help, and also a nice way to say give me a minute here.

Next, he got up, scribbled on another student’s class assignment, then snatched the student’s jacket off the back of his chair, and started stomping on it. I had seen enough. “Mr. Allan,” I said, “give me your identification.” The inmates carry ID cards on them. At this point, he understood my intentions. I was going to have the school officer escort him out of the building.

“N” this and “N” that, he yelled all the way down the corridor and out of sight. With him gone, the class ran fairly smooth. At least it was quiet, until the student with the crumpled jacket on the floor spoke out. “You were wrong for what you did, Tom-Tom.”

“What you’re telling me then,” I tried to decipher, “is that it was appropriate for him to mess up your class work and stomp on your jacket.” He shrugged his shoulders like it was no big deal. “I guess you wouldn’t mind if I did the very same thing.”

“If you did it, then it'd be wrong.”

I shook my head at his response. Once in awhile I have to use the foot-on-your-neck-approach to keep control of my classroom. But I didn’t think it necessary this time. As the noise level grew louder, I announced that I had truly missed Mr. Allan's presence and thought that maybe I should get him back a.s.a.p. Everyone stopped what they were doing, including the student that stuck up for him earlier, and they begged me to leave things be, at least for the day.

A FLASH OF CREATIVE NONFICTION

TEMPORARILY CLOSED

JR's CHOICE

I’m willing to bet George Dila, the current Director of the Ludington Visting Writers, editor of The Driftwood Review, and self-admitted writing workshop junkie, found inspiration for the title story of his book "The End Of The World" from what happened five years ago. As the media replays the series of tragic events, I'm sure people will gravitate toward the radiant glow of their televisions, rediscovering their own possible vulnerabilities.

In the title story, the narrator, a constant worrier of flesh eating bacteria, bird flu, prostate cancer, road-rage, car-jackings, ATM hold-ups, terrorist attacks, and much more, faces a rebellious teenage son sent by his second ex-wife. His concerns run deep: I’m worried about weapons of mass destruction in the hands of the wrong people. Nuclear weapons. Chemical weapons. Worst of all, biological weapons. When his son lights a cigarette, he worries about second-hand smoke; when his ex-wife lends a sympathetic ear, he frantically claims that maybe he’ll be murdered in his sleep. His anxiety transcends horrible thoughts about the afterlife to concerns regarding the destruction of mankind. I saw on TV, although a fragmented statement, emphasizes the narrator’s dependency for receiving bad news.

Interestingly enough, Dila uses a more forceful, paternalistic voice in "My American Dream," pulling the reader into the conflict: Whatever your daughter tells you about when she started having sex, assume it’s a lie. Raising his daughter alone, the father questions her sexual activity, slapping her across the face only to regret his actions. Again, Dila’s literary mechanism is the television. Here, Oprah confronts the father in an imaginary dialogue running through his mind, and later, not knowing his daughter’s whereabouts, he watches a news story …about some kids who had been killed and maimed by a wayward American bomb.

Separation occurs in Dila’s stories too. In "The Cello Player," the narrator, tormented by his love for two women, does some soul-searching, reacquainting himself with an old friend and musician whom ran away at the age of sixteen. Dila shows the complexity of the narrator’s situation when referring to the wife and the cello case: I did not tell her that when I shook it, nothing moved inside. In "Teddy and Freddy," dinner companions, fascinated with the discussion of Siamese twins, become eyewitnesses to the twins rather mundane evening routine. Dila’s at his best here, juxtaposing marital commitment with marital aloofness. "Maid of the Mists," completes his contemporary stories, where two sisters reconnect after years apart through adoption.

Lastly, there’s "Shaft Men," which first appeared in North American Review. Soldiers, freshly circumcised, prepare for the biblical battle of Jericho some 3,000 years ago. I’m not sure this story fits, preferring "Berger," published in Electric Current Magazine, for its modernity as the main character begs God to take him away.

Overall, Dila’s debut short story collection earns two big thumbprints for taking the reader on a memorable journey through the lives of some very interesting characters. He is a talented Michigan writer, and I look forward to reading more of his stories in the near future.

THE DEMYSTIFICATION OF TOM

My last name starts out with a first name, so people have a tendency to call me by it. I used to correct them from time to time, until the misidentification had a domino affect. No sense in chasing down the source when paths split and dominoes continue to fall. I can’t make people notice who I am; they have to do that on their own. Soon, the person I thought I was turned out to have another name, another role, leaving pieces of my other self for family and close friends, whom thought that maybe they understood my identity a little bit better. And I’m sure they do, it’s just that I sometimes feel much more alive when I’m on the war path at work, when the inmates are calling me "Tom-Tom."

Today is my birthday. I had originally selected a picture from my 5th Birthday Party. My name, "Jimmy," was easily identifiable by the Ford-blue masking tape strategically plastered onto my parent’s garage wall, next to the traditional Pin-The-Tail-On-The-Donkey game. The neighbor kids wore cone-shaped party hats with elastic string cutting into their chins. Although the photo was black and white, my hat was different, not in size, but in color—I’m sure of that—my parents, like most parents, would’ve wanted it that way. Birthdays, after all, are meant for recognition.

I’m not too sure why I dismissed this photo. Is it because it showed such promise for my future? Is it because I’m not too sure I know enough about the child blowing out the candles? What was he thinking on that day? What were his dreams?

Instead, I chose a photo of my 26th Birthday. "Why?" you may ask. After some reflection, I think it’s because I finally understood the direction I was headed. I finally knew that my schooling would pay off. Besides, the tee shirt said, "Tom."

HERE, EAT A TOMATO

This is serious. Something needs to be done about all the tomato pushers out there, aggressively forcing large quantities of their mutated fruit onto unsuspecting citizens such as myself. No one should be pressured into doing something they absolutely do not want to do. Why do I always have to revisit this issue every summer? Why do I have to cart them away?

Two weeks ago, when I punched out at work, a sign greeted me, "Free Tomatoes." Sure enough, under the time clock was a large office supply box crammed full of muddy tomatoes. Then, earlier this week, on my peaceful drive home, I kid you not, there was a road side stand with you got it: FREE TOMATOES. Where were the people who grew them? Did they run in the opposite direction at the mention of the word—at least that’s how it happens in the movie, "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes."

I understand that uneaten tomatoes will eventually rot, but if the gardeners take the time to grow them, then why don’t they take the time to make salsa? Someone please enlighten me. What’s the big fascination with tomatoes? Is it because they’re easy to grow?

"Here, have some tomatoes."
"I don’t want any."
"Take them anyway. Give them to someone you know."

I did just that. Became a Stepford Husband in the spread of unwanted tomatoes. My wife had me deliver a CVS bag full of them to the fitness center we work out at. I wonder how many exhausted sweaty people grabbed a tomato or two as they left? When I came back home, our neighbor approached us near the fence line (not the boat-owner guy) and told us to help ourselves to his garden, especially the tomatoes.

Enough with the tomatoes already! Put them in your compost pile and chalk it up as a loss.

SKIMMING

I've done my share of digging and writing and haven't really touched the surface. I've made some miscalculations along the way, like pouring the wrong amount of Algaefix into the water, depleting the oxygen level and suffocating the fish. Lives were lost, but they did not die in vain; They made great fertilizer.

Looking back, I can't really say whether blogging has improved my writing skills or not. What I can say is that it has helped me generate new ideas as I ponder (pardon the pun) past events in my life. Here are some of my previous pond postings:

May 22, 2006 "Digging"
May 25, 2006 "Jimmy Hoffa's Over Here"
May 30, 2006 "Oh What A Paradise It Will Be"
June 5, 2006 "Pond Update"
June 11, 2006 "Let There Be Water"
June 15, 2006 "Bridging The Gap"

Winter is fast approaching and I must prepare myself. To combat the fallen leaves and various debris, I spread netting across the pond and switched fish food (yes, I bought more fish) to accommodate their slower metabolic rate. By the end of October, I will simply quit feeding them altogether until spring.

THE HALLMARK HUSTLE

I give my new students one complimentary manila folder to keep their school assignments and plotters in. I scribble on the outside and inside of their folders to discourage them (or others) from making cheesy Hallmark-type cards, which are sold to the general population on a daily basis. Manila folder thefts increase the most near Christmas, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Sweetest Day, Valentine’s Day, and Easter. Also, special occasion cards such as birthdays and anniversaries are commissioned for a small nominal fee. "You want a sketch of your loved one on the front," an inmate peddling his wares said to me, "then that’ll cost you extra."

The more serious cardmakers order heavier cardstock through hobbycraft and market their cards to match whatever sentiments a person is feeling. For instance, a lovesick inmate showed me a romantic card he’d just purchased; It had a crude pop-up on the inside with the catch phrase, "I wish I could give you more." With my best poker face, I asked, "Who’s this for? Your sister?" He quickly closed the card and put it away.

Most cards fetch a respectable two to three dollars, depending on the workmanship and hustling skills of the artist. The 3-D cards usually cost more. The one displayed in today’s photo is commanding three dollars (a little steep if you ask me). In fact, it’s out on loan, I promised to give it back. The cardmaker jokingly asked if I’d set up a PayPal account and work off a commission. He already knew my response. I’d have to sell a shitload of cards to replace my current salary.

DAGWOOD & THE LOST KEYS

Contrary to popular belief, working in a prison is actually quite dull. No "Prison Break" storyline here. Sorry Dawn. Sometimes correctional employees have to create their own bit of excitement by seizing whatever opportunity comes their way. For instance, yesterday, during my morning break between classes, I discovered a coworker’s Tommy Hilfiger designer jacket hanging in the staff bathroom. I’ll call him Dagwood, after his latest hairstyle set back, his final acceptance that a comb-over doesn’t work. Anyway, I did my usual business, a number one followed by a thorough hand washing, then, out of curiosity, I did a quick check on the pockets of his stylish jacket.

Hmmm … a pack of Trident gum and oh … what do we have here?—car keys.

Since Dagwood and I don’t get along (three years ago he called me "a punk" and dared me to take a swing at him), I decided to inform custody staff of my find. Hey, security issues shouldn’t be taken lightly. An inmate could’ve posed as Dagwood and made a courageous escape right from under our noses. Once in the employee parking lot, our Dagwood imposter could’ve pressed the key fob to identify his getaway vehicle. Next thing you know, we’d be playing "find the inmate" to the constant whirring sound of an immobilization siren, while Dagwood’s ride rolled down Interstate 94.

During my lunch break, I noticed a correction officer walking with the real Dagwood. I observed him wandering the halls moments earlier, afraid to approach anyone in regards to his keys. I had tried to convince the c.o. to at least keep Dagwood’s belongings until after lunch. I figured, what better way for him to get less caloric intake for the day. Unfortunately, Dagwood was wearing his Tommy Hilfiger threads, unzipped, so as not to stretch the fabric, and his reddened face had regained its natural pinkness, further proof that my boredom had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.

POOL CLOSING

Here I am in my birthday suit (five more days until I can celebrate my forty-third year in these finest of threads) clinging to the side of my very first pool. There are more pictures of this inflatable luxury, however, I’d have to get permission from my brother to post them. We each had a beach ball, evidence of his recent departure, leaving me waiting for assistance from our mother, the lifeguard on duty, whom had to be nearby, had to be. At least I had a tight grip on the side, unlike the hard slippery tub of my childhood, also shared at a very young age, the most sensible and economical way to bathe two kids in the least amount of time.

I don’t have many fond memories of our first pool, nor do I remember much about pool’s number two and three, both above ground, one circular and the other peanut-shaped, respectively; each upgrades, our last one cabbaged from the neighbor’s backyard and erected in ours. This was our father’s futile attempt to keep us entertained at home, his reasoning, if we swam in this very same pool at the neighbor’s, then by golly we’d be able to enjoy it over here. Unfortunately, the only flesh hitting the water were his hands as he tested the water’s pH, alkalinity, and chlorine levels. His strategy had backfired. Our neighbors may have given us their old pool, but they too had upgraded. Often when we were asked why we didn’t swim at home, we’d remind him (he worked midnight’s) about all the times that he had opened his bedroom window and yelled at us to quiet down so he could get some sleep.

Well, Labor Day is officially over, and as Michigan tradition goes, I winterized my own above ground pool and covered it. I’m preparing for the seasonal change, hoping to one day replace my pool with a hot tub instead.

A MEAT-CUTTER'S LAMENT

I could tell you a story on Labor Day about Michigan not being “a right to work” state and team up with the unfortunate low-wage earners and small business owners in railing against the unions, but to do so would mean choosing a position of weakness or strength. So I’m not going to pontificate for or against unions even though I’ll admit, the first time I read Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged,” I wanted to shout out to the world, “You got what you deserved!” Little did I know that Rand’s characters lacked human depth, that they were mere puppets pushing her “Philosophy of Objectivism.” And why not? Knowing John Galt's identity meant superiority, while forgetting it meant framing yourself into a substandard existence.

Which brings me to the story I heard from a meat-cutter. “There’s a half-way house not too far away from where I work in Detroit,” he explained, “Eastern Market. A parolee seeking employment walked into our establishment and said he had experience as a butcher. He was straightforward with us, explaining that he did not have a car, that he was an ex-felon, that he’d appreciate the opportunity to prove himself. For whatever reason, whether it was the sincerity in his voice or our need to find experienced workers, we decided to give him a chance.”

“Billy, it turns out, couldn’t cut meat for shit. He wasn’t completely truthful, but he had a heart of gold. His willingness to learn shined through. At first he did the menial jobs, scrapping excess meat off the floor, unloading trucks, and carting packaged orders to the freezer until pick-up. We would’ve consider Billy for overtime, however, he had to report back to the half-way house by a certain time or risk going back to prison. In fact, his parole officer would periodically call us to see if Billy showed up for work.”

I asked the meat-cutter if he regretted hiring Billy and he said, “absolutely not.” Then he continued, “After one year we let Billy make deliveries. Three months into his new position and not one single problem. I even filled out paper work for his parole officer, giving Billy high marks on punctuality and work ethic. Unfortunately, the delivery truck he was driving broke down one day in Mount Clemens. Billy called us in a panic. I personally took it upon myself to explain the situation to his parole officer. ‘If he’s more than ten minutes late,’ the parole officer said, ‘he’s violated the conditions of his parole.’ So we had to send another worker to Mount Clemens to pick-up Billy and get him back to the half-way house, instead of having him wait with the truck.”

I asked if Billy made it back on time. “Oh yeah,” the meat-cutter said. “In fact, Billy eventually moved on to another job. He used us as a reference too. Things turned out fine for him.” I could tell something bothered the meat-cutter. “We’re trying to run a business," he said. "The parole officer should’ve made an allowance, considering the circumstances. Would you believe he called us with a referral, and we reminded him that under no certain terms would we hire another ex-felon.”

SO YOU THINK YOU'RE A FROG

I tried my best. The lighting seemed perfect. Too perfect. I needed to hide my warts, put on a little make-up. Dress it up for the "So You Think You're A Frog" competition. But I changed my mind, decided being a toad was okay. Showed my ugliness, magnified it too. Ugliness means intensity. I didn't want to look like Mimi from "The Drew Carey Show." Who would take me serious? Then again, maybe I should have entered the competition hiding my imperfections (see next picture).














One toad. Two toad. True toad. Green toad. Which brings me to my next point. I lost to an evil twin, a deviant anomaly. Then I realized, it wasn't a frog contest, it was a blog contest. And since I didn't have a Chiquita banana to pose with, in desperation I went with my toad photo to acknowledge my award. I now have a 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place in the contest. For more details go to Theory of Thought.

THE UNDERCOVER GRADUATE

When I earned my degree from Oakland University, I had them mail it to me. It sat in my desk drawer at home for well over a year before my parents even realized my accomplishment. Something about taking 7 ½ years to get a 4-year degree didn’t seem all that spectacular. Besides, when my dad entered my room with his “Failure to Launch” speech, wondering when I would finish my college education, I nonchalantly told him, “I’m done.” He seemed confused to say the least. I guess maybe he thought I had temporarily quit again. I explained, “Dad, remember how you told me I could live at home rent free as long as I stayed in school? Well I figured if I told you I had a degree then it would cut into my beer money.” He still didn’t believe a word I had said, so I showed him the piece of paper as proof. The look of disbelief on his face is hard to describe.

Soon after I moved out.

On the other hand, my high school graduation was entirely different. One keg party after another—a summer long celebration. I guess I was practicing for the beer bashes I’d encounter in college. I enrolled in night classes so I could continue my ways at the local watering holes, something called "College Night". Perhaps my freedom kept me from enjoying what I had earned. I certainly kept busy during those days. My only regret—that I’m not having a 25-year high school reunion this summer. Or maybe, like my 20th, I didn’t get invited.

GRADUATION DAY

A GED Graduation Ceremony in a correctional institution can be an uphill battle. The graduates, proud of their monumental achievement, sometimes feel entitled to more than they deserve. The ceremony includes the customary strip search afterward—just in case a visitor successfully smuggles in a few party favors. However, the only keestered item I’m aware of is the graduation tassel. One correction officer went so far as to ask me if I’d like it back. “Hell no,” I answered, “throw it away.” (In case you’re not familiar with the term “keestering,” it means to hide it where the sun doesn’t shine.)

As you can see, graduation day is a very very big deal to the graduates. We’ve had inmate bands and choirs performing original graduation songs, food technology students serving cake and punch to the participants and their families, and institutional maintenance students (Mopology 101) scrambling to bring more chairs into the visiting room. We’ve had guest speakers too: The Reverend Wendall Anthony of the NAACP; David Sneed, former Superintendent of Detroit Public Schools, and Sharon McPhail, a successful attorney and Detroit city council member who once campaigned for mayor.

I’ll never forget one graduation ceremony in particular. While the graduates were putting on their caps and gowns in the muster room, I discovered that two of our graduates were missing. When I asked control center if they could check into their whereabouts, I was informed that one graduate transferred to another prison earlier in the week, while the other graduate was in segregation. My heart went out to the correction officer who had to inform a family that their son wouldn’t be participating due to his recent transfer. I’ll bet the poor C.O. received an earful..

In order for me to get the other graduate out of segregation, I needed the warden’s permission. After jumping through the necessary hoops, Inmate Webster was brought to me in handcuffs. I asked the C.O., “Are you going to uncuff him?”

“No. The only orders I received were to bring him to you.”

“Well don’t you think it’ll take away from the whole graduation experience?”

“Unless I receive orders to uncuff him, he will remain cuffed.”

Again, I sought out the warden. Within five minutes, Inmate Webster had the restraints removed and I was handing him a cap and gown. “I’m not wearing that,” he said. Turns out, he didn’t give a shit about graduation; he only wanted out of solitary confinement.

I looked at the other graduates, eager to “get the show on the road.” I said, “Make sure Mr. Webster is properly fitted in a cap and gown. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

When I returned, Mr. Webster had on the proper attire. His hair seemed somewhat messier than before, but he was ready to get his GED certificate.