CHARLIE AND JESUS

My mother-in-law always comes over for Halloween; It's tradition. She likes to give away our candy and comment on the various costumes. She even dresses up Charlie, her travel companion dummy. "He's a witch this year," she says enthusiastically.

"That's nice," I yawn.

In case you didn't know, I'm really not into the whole ghosts and goblins begging for candy at my door routine. I'd rather spend a quiet evening watching television, uninterrupted.

"You just missed the cutest little Elephant. He was adooorable, just adooorable."

My wife approaches and joins in, "Awwwh, look at the little Batman coming up the driveway."

"Hmmm," I say from the couch, ready to grab the t.v. remote and turn up the volume. I wish they'd sit on the porch, keep the door closed. I'm not trying to heat the outside.

So goes my night. Not all of their comments are favorable. My mother-in-law complains about a gaggle of teenagers breaking with tradition--no "trick or treat," no costumes, just pillow cases thrust forward waiting for some candy. As they walk down our driveway, my mother-in-law says, "They didn't say thank-you. I should've told them 'no costume, no treat.' They're too old to be trick or treating, don't you think? They should be at a Halloween party or passing out candy at home."

"How about a trick?" I ask. My wife and mother-in-law nod in agreement. I hit the key fob to my mother-in-law's van. Someone yells, "Jesus!"

TRICK OR TREAT

Our neighbor Pete had a prostitute living at his house, and when my wife informed me of this, I said, "Hey, at least someone's cutting the grass." The prostitute has long since disappeared and the grass and weeds are now matted down by a blanket of wet Maple leaves.

The children in our neighborhood know not to approach Pete's house, and Pete knows to leave his porch light off. Last year, for some odd reason, his mailbox spent more time in the ditch then standing erect at the end of his driveway. You see, Pete's a pedophile. Oh sure, he beat his case last year, but he still has teenagers coming over to buy weed and coke when school lets out.

Pete will seek me out whenever I'm walking our dog. He'll engage me in small talk by commenting on which breed of dog Bear is, or how the weather certainly has changed. He's been looking a bit haggard lately, like he's testing his product too much. One time, I found a rolled-up dollar bill near his house. I took it home and washed it off. Pete's no different than most of the inmates I deal with, not very bright.

Happy Halloween everyone. If you get the opportunity, read Bonnie Jo Cambpell's short story "Candy," which first appeared in The Ontario Review (issue No. 55). The allure of candy is just too much for some people.

ANY SONG REQUESTS?

I told you I had a guitar. What would you like me to sing? How about Bon Jovi's "Wanted, Dead or Alive?" How about anything by Willie Nelson? Or Johnny Cash (except the song Erik mentioned)? How about something from the Cowboy Junkies? How about helping me out here?

HALLOWEEN TRAUMA (PART 2)

Here’s why mother’s shouldn’t let their sons grow up to be cowboys, or should I say dress them to be cowboys? Look! Just look at my outfit! Oh sure, at the time I was smiling. Wouldn’t you?—I’d just opened a present, the camera was pointed at me. But I think my smile was forced. Or at least I’m now wishing it were forced. I’m pretty sure I wanted to be a cowboy. A Clint Eastwood type of cowboy, not a Gene Autry type of cowboy! Not to be disrespectful, Mr. Autry did serve in World War II, but I’m not a musical type of guy. What happened to A Fistful of Dollars (1964), For a Few Dollars More (1965), The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (1966), Hang’em High (1968), and The Outlaw of Josie Wales (1976)? I know, the last one was seven years after this photo, but so what—these were spaghetti westerns filmed in Italy and no one complained.

Now the complaints. Where’s my gun holster? Where’s my six-shooter? I’ll tell you where—there isn’t any! I had a guitar instead. I’m posing with it in another picture. My brother’s by my side. Guess what he is? A damned Indian Chief with complete headdress. Tons of feathers too. What was I to do? Shoot him with my six-stringer? Sing him to death?

So there you have it—another Halloween trauma. Like a Rhinestone Cowboy. Hell, I’d rather be in West World, a Malfunctioning Robot Cowboy, not a Village People “YMCA” Cowboy. I think you understand—a Macho Macho Man type of Cowboy! Or do you think I’m confused?

A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND

Tell the truth, but understand that it is not necessarily what happened.
—Flannery O’Connor

If the Misfit in Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard To Find,” were up for parole (prior to his escape), I’d be hard pressed to see the good in him. I’d have a hard time giving him the usual speech I give to any inmate willing to listen. “Remember when you were a child,” I’d start, “and you did something bad, I mean really really bad, and your parents were disappointed in you? Remember how awful you felt? Remember how you had to regain their trust? Think of the parole board in the same way, they’re your parents, they’re trying to see the good in you, your redeeming qualities, whether you’re worth placing back into society, whether you’re worth saving.”

Now I’ve had my share of inmates respond with, “Fuck the parole board,” but this here Misfit, he’d claim to have never been bad as a child. He’d acknowledge to having done something wrong, but he wouldn’t be able to tell you what it was; you’d have to read it from his case report.

Here I am, standing in front of Flannery O’Connor’s childhood home in Savannah, Georgia. My wife and I roamed the city, hiding our tourist stickers in our fanny packs, revealing them when we wanted the free trolley ride. We were on vacation and did not want to become victims, easy targets, to any of the misguided souls on the outskirts of the city. As if that mattered, you could spot the tourists from a mile away.

Not only do I admire Flannery O’Connor for her short stories, but her desire to make revisions demonstrates how truly devoted she was to her art. “Judgement Day” had been revised, made seven pages longer, after its initial publication twenty years earlier. How’s that for perfection?

I HAVE A DEEP, DARK SECRET

In 1992, when a Catholic priest (the actual cousin of Guido Sarducci of Saturday Night Live fame) wished me well at our end of the school year luncheon, the other teachers, one by one, approached me. They pretty much said the same thing, “I didn’t know you were leaving.”

“Neither did I,” I replied. “I think I was let go.” Let go, at the time, seemed much nicer, had less sting, then saying, “Hey, I just got fired by a Catholic priest.” I can’t say I was shocked. Father Novelly and I never really did get along. I don’t think he really understood me, where I was coming from.

I remember taking my seventh grade class to the Saint Matthew’s Church for confession. This took valuable time away from instruction in the classroom, so I would count it toward the one hour of religion per week requirement forced upon me. I had asked another staff person, a teacher/nun why she couldn’t teach the religion class. She said, “Don’t you think I get enough religion?” I told her I hadn’t been to church in years, which only reinforced her beliefs that I was the right man for the job. Earlier in the school year I had surveyed my students. “How many of you are Catholic?” Seven hands reached skyward out of twenty-six. That meant nineteen of my students would have to sit in the pews, while seven others went to confession. It didn’t seem right to me. As my last student, Johnny, left the confessional booth (I had learned that the divider no longer existed, sinner and priest sat face to face) he said to me, “Father Novelly told me to tell you it’s your turn.”

I panicked. I’ll admit it. I hadn’t confessed my sins in at least a decade. I said to Johnny, “Tell Father Novelly that I’m not comfortable with the arrangement, afterall, he signs my paycheck.” The rest of the class started laughing. They got a kick out of my statement. Johnny entered the confessional, quickly came back out, and said, “Father Novelly said that’s okay.”

“What do you mean—okay? No, it’s not okay.” I said.

“For you to go in there,” Johnny said reassuringly, nodding toward the curtained booth.

I sent Johnny back into the confessional again. He didn’t come out right away. I sat with my students, wondering what was going on. Johnny reappeared after what seemed like eternity. He looked at me, and said, “Are we going back to the classroom?”

Yes. Yes we are. At least for the time being.

BROKEBACK MOMENT

You put your hand on my shoulder and spoke softly about the things you were going to do to me. I got nervous, felt your warm breath on the back of my neck. I shook my head, leaned forward, my way of saying, "I will have none of that." You felt my tension, said you’d be gentle with me down there, but when I questioned you further, you joked around, said you’d done this sort of thing before. Then I surprised you, personalized it, told you about the other guy, told you his name. "Yeah," I said, "he informed me of your gentle touch." You laughed, but did not reveal any information about him. You did not disclose any intimate details. "Don’t worry," you said, "You’re not going to feel a thing. Once I grab the end of the stent, I’ll tie it to the door knob, hold you tight, whisper sweet nothings into your ear, and kick the door shut."

At home my mother-in-law said I was making a big deal out of nothing. "He’ll numb it first. You’ll probably feel a slight tugging. Nothing more."

I tried to act brave. I jokingly said, "It has a name you know."

She laughed. I laughed. My wife rolled her eyes. I no longer have a stone in my right kidney. At least that’s what Dr. V told me. "But I never passed it," I said. He claimed that the lipthotripsy blasted it into sand. One more cystoscopy and I am done (right side anyway). Ironically, I’m most certain I saw the stone fragments after the doctor’s appointment. There had been a slight discoloration in my urine; sorry to wreck your fall traditions, but it looked like apple cider. As for you, Dr. V, "You can quit me any time."

HANGING LIGHTS, DREAMING FICTION

I have never thought of myself as a good writer. Anyone who wants reassurance of that should read one of my first drafts.
--James A. Michener


The first draft of anything is shit.
--Ernest Hemingway


I'm stuck in rewrite mode, untangling my thoughts, my ideas, my words, trying to string them together like the Halloween lights attached to plastic hooks on the gutters of my house. I've scooped up the clumps of damp wet leaves and thrown them to the ground, an added measure in preparation of the fast approaching winter months. Soon all those colorful leaves will have fallen, making for perfect mulch, a natural fertilizer, an insulator for growth to come.

I'm studying characters, new and old alike, introducing them to various situations, waiting for their reactions, waiting for them to pound on my door and offer up a trick or two. Sometimes what they do and say is too predictable, other times they're out of control, shocking me, making me beg for more. "Ok," I'll say, "What if I change your behavior with a swift stroke of the pen, will that make you more believable, will that make you not return to your old ways?"
And if the answer is "yes," it's okay not to believe them, as long as I keep an eye on their mannerism and know that certain situations may arise, bringing out the truth.

I've been blogging now for six months. Some days have been more productive than others. It's a learning process, a matter of continuing to move forward. Writing doesn't always mean publishing. I've learned that. I've also learned to be patient, something I've observed in the inmates who are doing more time than they actually have.

The only thing worse than a bad story, is a bad story published.
--JR Thumbprints

STUCK IN BOONE HALL

I’m not writing autobiography. It’s all subject to change. …Whatever seems to suit the work best, that’s the direction I’ll go in.
—Raymond Carver

#1 Prison/Work
The young black gangbangers thought I had more in common with the older white gentleman, a pathological liar who claimed that he drove the Zamboni for the Detroit Red Wings Organization, but when he hung back after class and made some derogatory remarks about African Americans, thinking a “white-bonding” session would earn him special privileges, I said, "You sir, no matter what color you are, are one sorry-ass excuse for a human being." He, of course, laughed it off and called me a "nigger lover."

#2 Vacation
Four weeks earlier, my wife and I left Charleston, South Carolina, traveling down U.S. Highway 17 to America’s most photographed plantation, Boone Hall. The television mini-series “North and South” had been filmed there, so it didn’t take much for her to convince me to spend the day walking along the gardens and pecan groves. She snapped a few pictures of me standing in front of a slave cabin and in the gardens. The entrance alone, a one-half mile avenue of massive, Spanish moss-draped live oaks, had made the trip worthwhile.

#3 Prison/Work
The older white gentleman knew to avoid me after making his racial comments. From that day forward, he buried his face in a book. The young black gangbangers, on the other hand, refused to do any class assignments. I tried to get their attention. I showed them the photographs of Boone Hall Plantation. "Someone who has the ability to read but chooses not to," I said, "might as well be illiterate. Is that what you want? Do you want to be a slave to your own ignorance?" They studied the photographs and made disparaging remarks about the “white honky tourists” enjoying themselves. One gangbanger even questioned whether these were the original slave cabins. "Yes," I replied. I informed him that these had been the better living quarters, a place for the house servants and the plantation’s skilled craftsmen. I told him that the field slaves had lived in clusters of small cottages elsewhere on the plantation. "See," one of them said, "even the smart ones is catering to the white man." I wanted to tell them, Don't do if for me, do it for yourself, but, for some reason, I kept quiet.

STRAINING (A LOVE POEM)

I could not, for the life of me
give my wife a stone on Sweetest Day
my actions were well intentioned
gallons of lemon water drunk
thinking of better times when I wore
Dick DeBeck's hat
and sung
and danced
until I jarred loose a few sad memories
etched in granite
the pressure never letting go
I memorized my lines
my torso bent

a forty-five degree angle
a pinch of table salt too
thrown over my shoulder
and my wife, my pillar
straightening me out.

THIS IS NOT ABOUT DICK DEBECK

Some of my stories are about real people. It’s funny how when you try to be very accurate, it’s boring and there’s nothing there. But when you distort the reality, it comes back stronger than before and is often closer to the truth.
—Tatyana Tolstaya

Thirteen odd years ago, on my wedding day, I wore Chuck Taylor’s and Dick DeBeck’s hat. Chuck Taylor’s are cheap canvassed high-tops. Dick DeBeck’s hat is … well … Dick DeBeck’s hat. Dick DeBeck is on the Advisory Board of the Ludington Visiting Writers. Click on (LVW) , scroll all the way down, and you can see Dick DeBeck.

But this is not about Chuck Taylor’s, Dick DeBeck, or my wedding per se. My wedding guests were not preapproved and LEIN cleared (Law Enforcement Information Network). I was allowed more than six people at my wedding. My wedding band exceeded $50.00 in value. I did not have to wear state issued shoes. And thank God, my wife was not forced to hold a cheap plastic wedding bouquet.

On the other hand, Prisoner Echols and his fiancee had to abide by all these rules and more. He asked me, wait, no, he told me, “I won’t be in class tomorrow. I’m getting married.” I learned that his soon-to-be-wife was a topless dancer at BT’s (The Booby Trap) and that they were so in love that she was willing to wait, for however long it takes, for him to be released from prison.

The day after their ceremony, Prisoner Echols proudly displayed some cheap Polaroid’s for everyone to see. I said, “I think she did a lap dance for me once.” He simply collected his photos and sat down in the back of the classroom. I guess he did not like my comment. Perhaps it was the sudden realization that other men had easier access to his wife than he. Just to hammer home my point, I asked, “So where did you go on your honeymoon?”

YOU PEOPLE UP THERE

Around the time that Ross Perot bowed out of the presidential race because of perceived threats to his family, Sergeant McCallister had accused me of racism. It’s not so much the accusation that pissed me off; in fact, I can handle controversy, but I did not like how he went about the whole situation. You see, in Corrections, if you don’t like something then you need to speak up.

We had argued about four tickets I had written on different prisoners. I had trekked over to the administration building and delivered the tickets to the Control Center on the second floor. I had done my duty. It was custody staff’s job (mainly the sergeant's) to review the tickets and deliver them to the inmates within a 24-hour period from the date and time I inked onto the forms.

Sergeant McCallister phoned me the next day. He wanted me to rewrite the tickets. Although he didn’t give me an explanation, I understood the reasoning behind his request. By doing the rewrites, I’m giving him a fresh 24-hours to deliver the documents to each prisoner.

Again, I felt I had done my part. Besides, the infractions were “036 Out of Place/ Out of Bounds/ AWOL” which really meant that these pumpkin heads (hollow on the inside) skipped school. Big deal. I’d have plenty of opportunities to hammer them next time. “Look,” I said, “You have two choices: Accept the tickets as is, or throw them out.”

He told me that I would have to rewrite the tickets, in fact, he demanded it. An argument ensued. I said, “You people up there need to get your shit together.”

He hung up. I thought to myself, that went rather well, until a week later when I got called into my boss’s office. She had me read a memorandum addressed to her from Sergeant McCallister accusing me of racism. In all fairness, his description of our conversation was 95% accurate. He had misquoted me, but not by much. This is what he said that I said: You people need to get your shit together.

My boss wanted to give me time to refute the claim. I told her all I needed was “right now.” I explained to her that Sergeant McCallister left out the prepositional phrase “up there,” meaning all of the Control Center staff (White, Black, Hispanic, you name it—hey, why not offend everyone?) and that if he had a problem with something I said, then he should’ve confronted me instead of hanging up the phone. As an added measure, knowing that I’m vertically challenged, knowing that Sergeant McCallister is even more vertically challenged, I said, “Plus, he has a little man’s complex.”

THE UNTITLED, THE UNWRITTEN

A writer’s material is what he cares about.
—John Gardner

Lately I’ve been thinking of the seven young black men (all under twenty-one) in my morning classes. I’ve wanted to write something about them for quite some time, but I’m at a loss for words. What can I say?—They’re like a pack of wolves. None of them are interested in learning. They’re gang bangers. They’d rather talk about their hood, about bitches and whores and how many niggers they’ve killed. Every other word is N-this and N-that. I’ve tried to intervene. I’ve said, “You know, those bitches and whores are somebody’s sister or mother.” They don’t care. I’m Caucasian. Why listen? I know not to correct them on the use of the N-word on account of my race. I just tell them to quiet down. The older inmates get annoyed. They look at me, as if to say, “Do something, or we will.”

I’ve confronted the loudest of the bunch on several occasions. “Look,” I say, “there’s no need to shout at each other. You’re sitting at the same table.” I remind them that I don’t have a seating chart. “We’re all adults and should be able to control our tongues in here.” It doesn’t work, even when I’ve kicked the ringleader out. He calls me a N-this and N-that all the way down the corridor. I’ve tried to redirect him, to get him to study. He orders me to get him a book, a pencil, and some paper, as if I’m one of the very same bitches and whores they speak of. I tell him that I’m not here to serve it up. “Get your own damn book,” I say. He laughs. They all laugh. His latest trick is to pick his nose, get it to bleed. He requests to go back to his cell. I tell him no. “Go use the bathroom,” I suggest. He whines about his rights, that I can’t deny him his rights. “Fuck your rights,” I want to say to him, to them. But I don’t.

An eighth young black man ignores them. He sits up front. He’s lighter complected, has freckles. He’s working on Algebra and preparing for his GED Exams. “Would it be okay for me to remain in your class,” he asks, “once I’m finished with my exams?” I check his TABE scores, and tell him he could qualify as a classroom tutor. He looks horrified. He doesn’t want to be put in a position where he’d have to help the other seven youngsters in the back. I don’t blame him. I say, “Look, try to make the best out of a bad situation. Try to learn as much as you can before you’re paroled.” He understands what I’m talking about. He didn’t come to prison to make friends, this isn’t a bed and breakfast, or sixth grade camp. He wants to learn from his mistakes. He knows he’s done something wrong, that it isn’t his place to question authority. He wants to leave here, to go unnoticed. He’s worth writing about.

PLAY BALL!!!

Yesterday, before the anesthesiologist rendered me speechless, I wrote "here" and "JT" on my right flank. I guess I don't have much faith in our health care system. As for prayer, I let the hospital chaplain do her thing out of politeness, but I listened to the Today Show instead.

Once we arrived home, I displayed my new party hats on the kitchen table and had my wife snap a picture. Notice the Calcucatch Urinary Stone Interceptor in my right hand. This convenient little contraption will accompany me to work. It's telescopic design with built in mesh screen should be easy to bring inside the prison. That is, if the gate officer allows it. Also, I'm still waiting for the approval of being on pain medication while dealing with inmates.

Excuse me, I have some pitching and catching to do. My strike zone will be much smaller once I return to my place of employment.

SURGERY

Last night while sleeping, a dog spoke to me in Morse-code, his nails clattering along the kitchen’s wood-laminate flooring, his dull sounding message accompanied by a laboring motor churning water. I descended the steps, saw the sub-pump’s trigger arm stuck, and reached for the electrical plug before examining the motor further. It was hot to the touch. I hadn’t a clue as to how long it had been running, but I knew without a doubt that any longer and the motor would have burnt up. I made a quick repair, or at least I thought so, and slowly drifted back into the dreamworld.

Today is my much awaited surgery. After a day of liquid dieting and its aftermath, I’m anxious to get the 4-millimeter stone blasted into sand. Yesterday’s X-rays and ultrasound indicated that the stone is in the lower abdomen area. The doctor informed me that he will be sending shockwaves over my abdomen and into the kidney stone—nothing invasive—and that I should have mild bruising and mild internal bleeding. He demonstrated the pulsating beat of the shockwave with a slow rhythmic tap on the counter, next to the horrific poster depicting a cystoscopic exam. He told me there's a 85% chance of success.

Before leaving for the hospital, I checked to see if the red tape I applied to the sub-pump’s trigger arm worked. It had. I believe this is a good omen. I plan on continuing my blog, and more importantly, checking up on my fellow bloggers asap. The stone in my right kidney shall soon be a thing of the past.

MY SPECIAL LIQUID DIET

I know you shouldn’t eat anything past a certain time in the evening, but I decided to snack on pretzels at 11:30 p.m. last night. My cut-off deadline for solid foods was midnight. I am now on a 24-hour clear liquid diet to ensure that my Right Extracorporeal Shockwave Lithotripsy procedure is successful. Here’s a list of what I can have throughout the day: Water (how come that doesn’t surprise me?), 7-up, ginger ale, apple juice, white grape juice, chicken or beef bouillon, tea or coffee (no milk) and all flavors of Jell-O except red or orange.

Then in the evening I have to drink four 8-ounce glasses of water and clear fruit juice. At 8 p.m. I have to drink 1 ½ fluid ounces (equivalent of 3 tablespoons) of Fleet phospho-soda in a 4-ounce glass of water. In case you’re wondering, Fleet phospho-soda is an oral saline laxative used for bowel cleansing before medical procedures. Yippee, ginger-lemon flavor too! One of the warnings on the box says “Do not use this product if you have serious kidney problems.” I guess my kidneys are fine. Hey, I’m just following the directions the hospital sent me.

Tomorrow is D-day. I’m still curious as to how the doc is going to deliver the shockwaves. Will it be warm bath water or will it be fiber optic tubing? My guess: fiber optic tubing down that long corridor to the kidney. As I commented to a male friend who told me about his bladder procedure, “Sounds like they tickled you compared to what they've done to me.” After the procedure I still have to pass those tiny little fragments through the stent. Wish me luck. If all goes well, the hospital will give me another pair of skid proof socks to help keep me on my feet.

BEFORE & AFTER

I may not get a bottle of cheap champagne dumped on my head, and that doesn’t matter to me. I’m just glad that I’m no longer struggling with a poor self-image (too many second places will do that to you). For well over a month, I’ve been looking in the mirror at a big ugly bloated-toad staring back at me, like I’ve been stuck in “Before” picture mode, where no one comes around to offer me a magic pill with promises of becoming a Prince Charming. “Hey mister” someone resembling my father says, “drink it down with a tall glass of water.”

Today, I celebrate my victory. I even have my own Theory of Thought: I think I scared The Thinker’s SYTYAF Contestants away (or at least confused them with my newfound wit and letter reassignment surgery). She had five competitors this time around. She should’ve had at least a dozen. Did I not advertise the event? Did I not leave myself vulnerable to defeat? The information is still listed to the right, under the heading “Contests.”

In case you’re wondering what the hell I'm talking about, I have reclaimed my “So You Think You're A Frog” First Place Status. The long drought of second and third places is over. The transformation is complete. I’m in my “After” picture mode. And guess what?—I didn’t even drink any liquids, and that’s a tough pill to swallow.

BLESS YOU BOYS

I’m not going to pretend that I’m a diehard fan of the Detroit Tigers. I haven’t watched or attended a regular season game in ages. Most of my loyalty and support comes in the form of a Hot-N-Ready pizza (Hey, split the proceeds with the Red Wings). I did watch last night’s game though. The most memorable moment to me wasn’t the game winning homer that earned them a trip to the World Series, it was the cameraman’s second inning close-up of a rather pudgy fellow wearing a "Tigger" outfit. I think he would’ve made a better Pooh Bear. Who was he calling any way—Christopher Robin? I’ll bet he stayed warm.

I never played any organized baseball as a kid. No Little League for me. Just the occasional pick-up game in our old neighborhood. My brother (the one wearing the Old English "D" ball cap) had the better throwing arm, and he certainly could field the ball better. I’d like to boast that I was the better slugger, but I’m not even sure that was the case.

So what do I remember? Well, for one, the heated arguments and fistfights that sometimes cut short our innings of play. We worked off the honor system, where if you were tagged out, you had to admit to it. Of course, no one ever did, unless it was way too obvious. Some games were taken too serious, as if it were a matter of life and death. And in the case of my brother’s best friend, a true Little Leaguer, he swallowed his tongue after colliding with a teammate in centerfield. It had been touch and go for awhile, until the opposing coach used a corkscrew to pry his tongue out of his throat. Thank God for organized sports.

What can I say? Go Tigers! And Bless You Boys.

(Stay tuned for Monday’s post on my blog’s return to victory in the "SYTYCB" Contest.)

THE BOY ON THE FENCE

Every weekday when I come home from work, I see my mother-in-law's oil painting hanging on my living room wall. I've titled it "The Boy On The Fence," which annoys my mother-in-law to no end. She's in her 80's and hasn't painted in years, but she thinks this painting is aesthetically pleasing. I'm no art critic, but I've tried to explain to her that the dock lacks depth. She disagrees, so I've learned to let it go, to back off; her eyesights failing anyway.

My wife has been trying to get her to clean out her house. There's art supplies up the kazoo stored in her basement--easels, canvasses, brushes, paints, and art books/magazines. Unfortunately, it has become too much of an ordeal. Some things we're just not allowed to do.

A few years back, I helped my wife paint my mother-in-law's kitchen a nice off-white with golden-yellow details sponged on top. Two months later, my mother-in-law responged the golden-yellow with a flourescent lime-green. We were utterly in shock when we saw it. She also took scrap pieces of wallpaper and cut out the flower patterns and glued them along the border in a haphazard way. I've learned over the years not to say anything, to just sit back, and be quiet. It's not worth the agony. Call me "The Boy On The Fence."

O.K. COMPUTER

Today is Friday the 13th and I can only hope that my workday goes well. I have a simple prison motto, it speaks volumes to my number one goal—making it out alive. "I’ll do my eight and hit the gate," I say. Unfortunately, there are times in the joint where my back is against the wall, where I have to, simply have to, come out swinging, afterall, people’s careers are on the line. Usually it’s my policy to speak to my coworkers about any infractions they’ve committed, infractions that might not jeopardize the lives of others right away, but if you let the incident go, it’ll fester and become more problematic down the line. Call it my complimentary freebie if you will. "Look," I’ll say, "what you did is wrong. Don’t let it happen again, or I’ll be forced to report you."

On this occasion, I explained my predicament. I told the two female coworkers that they were angering several inmates in my classroom as well as two dozen more in the other classes. I wanted to tell them, "You are swatting at a beehive, agitating the worker bees, causing them to swarm my desk demanding answers. I know what you’re doing seems innocent enough, and I’m not exactly against it, but it compromises my work area." I had thought they understood. I had thought I made myself clear as to my next step of action. They shrugged their shoulders, as if to say, too bad.

The next time it happened, I contacted the deputy warden for programs (the person I allegedly threw a hat at in a staff meeting). I requested that he do something about it. He tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. "You don’t know for certain that this is the cause of your problems. Start documenting when it occurs. Keep a log."

"You don’t understand," I wanted to tell him. "Most of the inmates that gravitate towards the computers are antisocial. They hate authority figures. They want absolutely nothing to do with us. They become very very angry when something affects their routine." Instead, I told him this, "Let me get this straight, you want me to document what happens every time I smell popcorn?" He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, too bad.

Here’s the scoop: Whenever these two female coworkers popped popcorn our classroom computers would shut down. Although I never actually saw them in the act of popping popcorn (I only salivated from the buttery smell) I quickly deduced the problem—an overloaded circuit. Shortly thereafter, maintenance sent an electrician to our school building and the problem was fixed. I made it out alive.

PISS FACTORY

In 1996, the Michigan Department of Corrections implemented an Education Action Plan that increased the amount of teacher/student contact time from 28 to 32 hours per week. Zero input came from the teachers regarding this action. However, one school principal spoke out against this new policy in a memorandum dated November 8, 1995. Here is a portion of what he had written:

Maybe it’s the misguided notion that more contact hours will mean more success, more literacy, more GED’s. I don’t think so. What happens when they speed up the line in a factory? The workers try to keep up, but then they will start making more mistakes, start getting frustrated, and eventually become less productive, and very, very angry. There are limits to what the human body and spirit can do. If this policy is enforced, the teachers will try to do their best, but they too will become frustrated and ultimately less productive. A classroom is not a factory. You cannot chain a prisoner to his desk and force him to get his GED. You must teach him, you must lead him from the point you find him ever so gently so that he can focus on the knowledge he is acquiring and not on the dismal failures of the past.

When 1996 rolled around, us teachers were stuck in the classroom for an additional 4 hours per week. Luckily, we had our own private bathrooms. But not for long. One teacher, now retired, who once claimed that he could get more respect as a Wal-Mart greeter, raised the issue of having our toilets and sinks removed from our private bathrooms without any accommodations being made. Subsequently, a grievance was filed on behalf of the teachers at our facility, which we easily lost.

In a December 27, 1996, memo addressed to our school principal, the assistant deputy warden for programs wrote the following:

Kindly tell your staff that they are not to leave their classrooms unattended. When there are prisoners in the classrooms, the teachers are to be there to supervise and ensure nothing is taken/destroyed.

So here it is—2006, and nothing has changed. For the past 10 years I’ve avoided drinking liquids during my shift due to not having easy access to a bathroom. I wonder if this contributed to my kidney problems?

HALLOWEEN TRAUMA

Mothers should not, I repeat SHOULD NOT, make their children's Halloween costumes. Nor should they be able to accessorize. Let the kids come up with their own attire.

Many moons ago (not long enough to forget) I had wanted to be a brave warrior, one with war paint, a tomahawk, and a feather. Do you see a feather? Do you see war paint? Do I look fierce? Does the ring on my right hand scare you? Does it make me more Native Americanish?

My brother (the old white man/traditional hobo) and I may have scored plenty of candy that year, but at what cost? At what damage to my psyche?

"Trick or Treat!" We'd yell. "Trick or Treat!"

It didn't matter who was behind the door; The reactions were pretty much the same. "Here's a Bit O'Honey for you little man, and here's one for your little sister."

The rabbit's foot around my neck did not bring me one ounce of good luck. Everyone thought I was a squaw! A SQUAW! The make-up on my face didn't help either.

THE SWAMPS OF KALKASKA

I quit deer hunting a long long time ago, not because I didn’t enjoy the sport of killing, but because my wife refused to prepare or eat the venison. I remember traipsing through the Kalkaska swamps of Michigan, searching for that isolated place deemed too thick with obstacles for other hunters to venture. I would sit for hours listening to the slightest of noises stirred by the wind and trees, only to feel violated by the smell of cigarettes coming from pinpricks of orange eyeing me through the brush.

Back at camp we’d cook beans and franks and wash it down with Old Milwaukee or Pabst Blue Ribbon. As night approached, we’d sit around a campfire and kibitz, laying claim to our own areas of expertise. One such hunter, Ray, (the big fellow standing to the right), became an unwelcome regular years after my Uncle Ivan invited him along, the year prior to my uncle quitting the hunting group altogether.

Ray was an expert on everything—cards, firearms, automobiles, investments, you name it—the Cliff Claven before Cliff Claven existed on "Cheers" type of guy. I suspect Ray’s arrogance and bravado were ways for him to mask his own deficiencies. He was deathly afraid of getting lost in the woods; he never ventured too far from camp by himself. And who could blame him? A young man turned up missing in these very same Kalkaska swamps, and a couple of years later his decomposed body had been discovered by another hunter.

No one liked Ray, particularly my grandfather (seated in the middle). I distinctly remember both of them arguing, which led to Ray tossing another log into the smoldering ash and my grandfather snuffing out the remains. “It’s time to hit the sack,” he said, “big day ahead of us tomorrow.” Of course, I threw back the rest of my beer and checked in early, leaving Ray to smoke another cigarette before he called it a night. In the morning, it would be my turn to lose him in the woods.

THE ACCOMPLICE

I held the ammo in my left hand and the chipmunk by the tail in my right. The instrument of death—a pellet gun, proudly held by Denny Wentworth, one of the locals near my parent’s cottage in the woods. We stood off Shady Lane, my shoulders tense, feeling the heavy burden of the chipmunk’s soul, an indelible mark in the form of a large shadow imprinted on my coat. It was true, I had been outnumbered—the photographer making us pose with the kill. “Smile for the camera,” he said. So I did. My smile forced, as if I had been an unwilling participant, an accomplice if you will, while Denny seemed relaxed, ready to slaughter more, ready to show off our trophy victims.

It’s hard to imagine that the boy holding the chipmunk would become a teacher for the Michigan Department Corrections. By his own volition, he had chose to surround himself by murders, rapists, and thieves to earn a paycheck. What was it that made him change? What was it that made him gain the necessary confidence? What was it in this photo that didn’t add up? Perhaps Rod Stewart had it all wrong when he sang, “Every picture tells a story, don’t it?”

Now that I have misrepresented the facts based on what you saw, let me tell you what the picture failed to show: 1) I appeared to be uncomfortable because of the cold, damp autumn weather, 2) the pellet gun and ammo were mine and 3) I had been the trigger man, not Denny.

2nd GRADE DISCO PHOTO

In a majority of my elementary school pictures I wore the same outfit as my brother. Matching plaid shirt, sweater, and tie. This often led to people asking if we were twins. Symbolically, yes. Realistically, no. We were eleven months apart. Our parents were always trying to be fair to us, making sure there wasn't any favoritism, to the extent that sometimes identities suffered. It could've been worse. I could've been dressed in my older brother's hand-me downs.

For some reason, in this second grade photo, I had my very own brown suit. I can recall with absolutely 100% certainty that my brother did not have the same threads. Another major difference between us was our hair. Mine was silky straight, whereas his was curly.

One thing is for sure, the bags under my eyes cannot be attributed to old age. I've always had that I'm tired, I need a cup of coffee look. Oh, and that smile (if you can call it that, more like a grin), is the same as my dad's.

DISCO SUCKS

Everyone seems to be an expert on education these days, dancing around the latest hot topics concerning what’s wrong with our public education system. Memories of our own childhood classroom experiences sometimes affect our perception of higher learning. Let me ask you this: Were you a willing participant attending Wizard School, or did you end up an unwilling participant, an unfortunate Sweathog, in Mr. Kotter’s class?

I often hear my adult students blaming their elementary and secondary school teachers for their woefully lacking academic skills. “The reason I don’t understand the material,” I’ve heard them say, “is that my middle school teacher wasn’t willing to help me.” Am I supposed to dance along with their beliefs? Am I supposed to go along with their I hate disco therefore I'll torch all disco memorabilia diatribe?

Why is it easier to remember our negative school experiences? Why can’t we focus on the positive experiences?—Pay tribute to our favorite teachers. I should follow my own advice. One of my past blog postings honored my United States Presidency teacher by ridiculing his quirky habits.

The bottom line: We learn what we want to learn. For instance: I hate dancing. I refuse to learn how to dance. I'll never point my index finger in the air, ahh ahh ahh, stayin' alive, stayin' alive, ahh ahh ahh... Let's get serious here.

“This ain’t no party,
This ain’t no disco,
This ain’t no foolin’ around.”
The Talking Heads

Try to locate one of the following: Johnny Travolta or yours truly, JR Thumbprints. Oh, and in the words of Bon Jovi, “Have a nice day.”

WORK RULE #23

The inmates keep asking me where I've been. My reply, "I got picked up for drunk driving and spent two weeks in the county." Actually, this picture was taken the day I returned from the hospital. I'm much much better now. Unfortunately, I ran into another problem at work. I shall refer to page 26 of my Employee Handbook:

All employees shall immediately notify their supervisor if taking prescribed medication which may interfere with the employee's work responsibilities.

An employee who has duties involving the direct management or observation of offenders shall immediately provide written notice to the Warden, through the Human Resource Office, of a prescribed medication that could reasonably be expected to affect the work performed, such as, but not limited to: narcotic pain medication, psychotropic medication, mood altering medication, or antihistamines.

If there is a question on the effects of the medication, the employee shall be required to provide medical clarification. If the medication does not adversely affect job performance, the Warden will provide a way for the employee to take the medication.

What can I say? I'd like to take it with a glass of water please.

I'M DYING, I'M DEAD

I just signed a “consent for surgery” form for one Right Extracoroporeal Shockwave Lithotripsy at Royal Oak Beaumont Hospital. Two words caught my attention: No Guarantees. I’m not feeling glum, actually The Thinker put me up to it, but if I were to die tomorrow, I would like these five songs played at my funeral:

1) Natalie Merchant’s “Effigy” from Ophelia – If I die in prison, I’d like this song played in honor of my last gulp of water, I mean, breath. If I die elsewhere, and that’s what I’d prefer, then “When They Ring The Golden Bells” should be my last gulp tune. *My mother requested this second song for her funeral, too.

2) Aimee Mann’s “Deathly” from the Magnolia soundtrack – This would be my “ease the pain for those who suffer” song. Hey, there’s no argument with these lyrics: You’re on your honor/’Cause I’m a goner/And you haven’t begun/So do me a favor/If I should waver/Be my savior/And get out the gun.

3) Kansas’ “Dust In The Wind” from The Point of No Return – For some reason, while Saturday Night Fever swept our nation, I turned to rock with violins. This song should also serve as a reminder of my request for cremation.

4) Billy Bragg & Wilco’s remake of “Airline To Heaven” from Mermaid Avenue Vol. II. I could use this song to create a video montage of my life to be shown in the funeral home. In fact, I’d rather have some form of entertainment instead of the standard eulogy.

5) Cowboy Junkies’ “To Live Is To Fly” from Black Eyed Man – Actually, any of their songs will do. I’m a big fan of their music.

So now I guess it’s my turn to tag someone. Since I’m all about breaking with tradition (prehaps it’s my fear of an Amway pyramid scheme or chain letter) I’m going to tag the next three commentators. If you’re an anonymous, I should hope that you chose someone for me; I’ll do the rest. Lastly, if no one comments (that’d be like having a funeral where no one shows), then I’ll be forced to chose. Here it is: “The idea is to pick five songs that you’d like played at your funeral.”

BACK TO THE DAILY GRIND

After two weeks off waiting to produce a stone, I returned to prison. A few concerned corrections officers stopped by to see how I was doing, a rather large “hug a thug” counselor flipped me off from the Food Technology classroom (he undoubtedly was rustling up some grub), and a low functioning inmate kept asking me, “Are you still constipated?”

Work is still work. It’s nice to be back into my semi-normal routine—even if I can’t recall any earth-shattering details besides my numerous trips to the water fountain. There’s plenty to be thankful for. What if these very same health issues occurred when I was renewing my teaching certificate? It’s highly unlikely accommodations would have been granted. My teaching certificate and job would have been history. Mental note: next time, I’ll renew my teaching certificate early—just in case.

When I got home, I received a rejection letter from Boulevard magazine. The editor, Richard Burgin, complimented me on “some great descriptive passages.” After locating the story and rereading it, I understood what he had meant. Although peppered with moments of clarity, the story lacked depth in plot. Sort of like my day.

I WONDER . . .

Since this isn’t a debate—I call it a slight disagreement—I won’t put my old man out front on the issue. No sense in throwing out a red herring. No sense in bringing up senility. Strike that from the record.

The day before my scheduled Cystoscopy he called to tell me why my problem reoccurred. “You don’t drink enough water,” he said.


I, in turn, explained to him that it’s genetic. “Grandpa had stones. You and mom had stones. Uncle Tom had stones. I have stones.”

“I drink a glass of water every night before I go to bed,” he went on, “and I haven’t had trouble with stones ever since.”

Instead of arguing, I tried a subtler approach. I tried informing him that more water would help in the passing of stones, but not in the body eliminating the production of stones. He continued with his unscientific ramblings. “Your mother doesn’t drink enough water either.”

I wanted to tell him that I probably drink more water than both of them combined. With my exercise routine for the past eighteen months, I constantly filled and refilled my water bottle, I constantly replenished my thirst. But there was no convincing him otherwise. His mind was set.

After my surgery, he made a follow-up phone call. I checked the caller ID and nodded toward my wife. I listened intently from the couch. “Hello... He’s doing fine,” she said. “I had to call the doctor’s office to get another prescription for his muscle and bladder spasms… uh huh… well… uh huh… well … I don’t think water intake is the problem.” They must’ve talked for a good fifteen minutes before my wife relayed his message. “Your father says you need to drink more water.”

No sympathy there. I’m glad that chain of nursing homes Dick DeVos (Michigan Gubernatorial Candidate for Governor) invested money in went belly-up. What was the name of them—“All Terror” Senior Living? I might have been tempted to reserve a bed space. I wonder if my father throws back a glass of water only to wonder whether he just drank a glass water. I wonder why HE KEEPS GIVING ME THE SAME ADVICE OVER AND OVER, AGAIN AND AGAIN. I wonder about my grandfather’s Alzheimer disease, my father’s preventive medication for it, and why I sometimes shampoo my hair, rinse the lather, and reshampoo it. I wonder …

HOOP DREAMS

I didn't always hate basketball. In 5th grade I became a second-string small forward in the Saint Lawrence Catholic Church Youth League. I was a poor dribbler and didn’t know how to pass or shoot the ball. My team, “The Gouls,”—I remember the purple shirt with the cursive white lettering and number stretching across my midsection—had twin brothers, both shooting guards, both ball-hogs, carrying the team through a mediocre season. I scored one basket during our entire schedule, including our tournament play. The coach had me cherry-picking during the opponents free-throw attempts. I considered this charity work since the opposing coach didn’t seem to care that I stood on the other end of the court all by myself. A teammate rebounded the missed free-throw and fired the ball down the court. It took two tries for me to get the ball into the net.

After having a Cystoscopy, Retrograde Pyelogram, and Insertion of a Stent in my right kidney, I find myself playing basketball once again. The 4-millimeter stone’s jagged edges make it impossible for the doctor to surgically remove it. He says, “I’m going to send you home. Hopefully the stone will drop into the stent. Then I can pull out the stone in the stent without damaging the membrane of your urethra.”

Four days later and in basketball terms: I have yet to put the ball into the net. I’m taking three darvocets daily, a muscle relaxant, and antibiotics to fight off pain and infection. I’ve had bladder spasms; my lower back muscles feel like they’re pulling away from my spine and hips. By mid-October, if I don’t get all net, then I’m scheduled for the lithotripsy procedure where they blast the stone into tiny fragments; then maybe I’ll be able to get rid of them. Either way, I’ll experience another Cystoscopy. I refuse to explain what that is. Let’s just say that I’m a poor dribbler and that I can’t pass or shoot the ball. With that said, I’m going back to work on Tuesday, regardless of whether I have the doctor’s permission.

Ironically, when all of this is done, I have another season ahead of me. I have my left kidney stone to worry about. So now you know why I have grown to hate basketball.