PRE-HOLIDAY FUNK

After college, living in New York City, it seemed like everyone was a writer. They were working on novels, writing plays and destined for greatness. Or so I convinced myself. They were 'real' writers; I was a fake and it was only a matter of time before they found me out.
—Joel Saltzman

Once again, I made an excuse not to finish a post (Nov. 30th); I wouldn’t exactly call it writer’s block either. I had stepped up to the plate but couldn’t follow through on my swing—What, am I sick? The post should have started like this: When a man was pummeled to death with a baseball bat they tried to pin the blame on my friend, the athletic director. I started to wonder whether this would be appropriate material, afterall, someone had died, and on a lesser note, baseball season had ended. I decided not to pursue it any further. I even scrapped the childhood photo of myself holding a bat. Perception is everything.

I decided to write about something less volatile and timelier: There’s a saboteur in my building. This seemed appropriate. I had come home from work Wednesday evening, upset about a serious confrontation I had with a mentally unstable coworker. I stared at the sentence. Too soon. Too soon. I needed more time to reflect.

I decided to do a self-examination of my previous posts instead. Here’s what I discovered: Since last week, Black Friday to be exact, I’ve included some very bleak characters: a quadriplegic, a former student and two-time loser, and a former alcoholic coworker. Let’s not forget my rejection notices also.

I need something to snap me out of my pre-holiday doldrums. Christmas is fast approaching. I should write something cheerful. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost nipping at your nose. Or how about Alfred Hitchcock fanning the flames as Santa comes down the chimney? Hey, at least Santa’s not chained up, at least he still has a chance to escape.

JR SHRUGGED AND LIFE WENT ON

I’ve had my share of peculiar assignments working for the Michigan Department of Corrections, and I’ve graciously accepted most without debate; however, when I was informed that Mr. Lansky, the Institutional Maintenance instructor, would be sharing a classroom with me, I knew I’d be shouldering a very heavy burden.

Management would stop Mr. Lansky periodically as he came through the front gate, checking his breath for signs of alcohol (this was before random drug testing was signed into law). The first thing Mr. Lansky would do after being confronted is run to me. “They did it again. Can you believe it? They think I’ve been drinking.”

I’d act surprised, even though I could smell the vodka permeating from the pores of his skin. Did they honestly think these interventions would help him overcome his addiction? Or were they going through the motions, hoping for the best, expecting the worst? As for sharing a classroom, my students had a difficult time studying with Mr. Lansky and his entourage dragging floor buffers, mop buckets, fans, and whatever else they needed, back and forth from the storage closets. His tutors, noticing the concern on my face, would tip toe about and reassure me. “Hey, don’t worry. We’ll look after him.” This only deepened my concern.

As I look back, I sometimes wonder how much management knew about Mr. Lansky’s personal life and whether they advised him to seek employee services. I do know one thing, the more they checked his breath, the more withdrawn he became. At 10:40 a.m., our school staff routinely ate lunch in the break room while Mr. Lansky sat in his van sipping coffee from his thermos, or so he would explain if he knew I saw him. By the end of the workday, his hands shook so badly that he had difficulty signing out.

One day, Mr. Lansky confided in me that his son and daughter-in-law, whom happened to live under his roof, found their baby boy unresponsive. “My only grandson,” Mr. Lansky said choking back tears, “died in my house.” I’m not sure how long ago this tragic event occurred, but I do believe this was Mr. Lansky’s way of asking for forgiveness. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders. Soon afterward, I transferred to another facility and shortly thereafter, I learned that Mr. Lansky had been fired for drinking on the job.

LIFE LONG LESSONS; LIFE LONG LEARNERS

From this day forward the Puzzle Palace, a.k.a. Lansing, Michigan, says we can no longer have lifers in our classrooms; only the short-timers should be in school diligently working toward their high school equivalency diplomas. No GED, no parole. The legislators made that perfectly clear years ago—as clear as mud. Since then, there has been an increase in GED exemptions. Because of no fault of his own, so-and-so wasn’t able to get his GED and should be granted a parole. Hey, with a large state deficit, why should the taxpayers foot the bill for an expensive GED?—incarceration ain’t cheap you know. Then again, neither is the liability and risk involved with most ex-felons.

"They gotta cut me loose," Prisoner Lane once told me. He’d been enrolled in one of my afternoon GED classes, expending all his energy on ways not to cooperate. "I’m special ed, you better look it up," he added.

Not a problem. After having him sign a release of educational records, our school office discovered that he was placed in a Special Education classroom not because he had difficulty learning—he told me he was dyslexic—but for behavioral reasons. "What? Did you beat-up your teacher?" I asked. "There’s nothing special about you."

Then one day, and I’ll never forget it, Prisoner Lane came into my room with his parole papers. "I’m going home assssshoooole. You can’t make me do anything, so f---k you!"

Why argue? Instead, I wished him well.

Two weeks after that, my boss stormed into my room and demanded to know why Prisoner Lane wasn’t attending school. "He got his parole," I answered.

"No he did not!" he countered. "I’ve enrolled him in all seven of your classes. No GED, no parole."

The very next morning, Prisoner Lane approached me, "This is bullshit. They snatched my parole. You gotta help me."

He had a 5th grade reading level at the time, but I had never seen someone work as hard as Prisoner Lane. He worked as if his freedom depended on it, and … well … it did. There were some hiccups along the way. "What’s wrong with you?" I asked him.

"The police were at my momma’s house looking for me. They had a warrant for my arrest."

"Why?"

"Failure to report."

"Kind of hard reporting to your parole officer when you’re still here, isn’t it? I suppose you’ll have to straighten that out too."

After four months from his initial parole, Prisoner Lane earned his diploma and was granted his freedom. After two months of freedom, he caught a new case.

DO YOU BELIEVE IN SANTA CLAUS?

When I stopped over my parent’s house several Christmases ago, my dad had Santa Claus chained to a tree. I wanted to ask him how Santa was going to deliver presents to all those good little boys and girls around the world. He didn’t give me a chance. “Those pisscutters stole your mother’s Santa,” he explained, “but they aren’t getting this one.” Pisscutters, for whatever reason, seemed to be my dad’s most popular reference for bored teenagers in the area. It was those pisscutters that smashed his mailbox with a baseball bat. It was those pisscutters that gave him a lawn job. My dad’s word choice seemed appropriate. So did his keen sense of observation when it came to pointing the finger—all it takes, he had said, is for one rotten kid to live nearby.

My dad’s always had his suspicions, like when his battery disappeared from his truck, and Steve, the kid on the next street, managed to get his eggbeater of a car running the very next day. Steve, as rumor would have it, did a few local B & E’s. The Michigan State Police visited his house quite often.

One neighbor, Mr. Nelson, ran onto his back deck and lost his footing while giving chase to an unidentified thief. I remember coming home from high school, his two daughters stepping off the bus, greeting him while he waited in the driveway, sitting in his wheel chair, his head propped up, a quadriplegic, not unlike the late Christopher Reeves. I also wondered about Steve’s innocence and how he felt as he sat near the back, staring out the window. It didn’t take him long to switch to the opposite side of the bus where he didn’t have to look at Mr. Nelson on a daily basis.

This year I put my plastic Santa Claus lawn ornament in my fenced-in backyard, overlooking the waterfall on my pond. I can see him from the kitchen window above the sink, waiting for his sleigh and reindeer, the pond lights marking the landing strip. Santa’s on a timer, his superpowers evident in the late evening hours. He’s much safer there than out front. Plus, my backyard and wood deck are very well lit at night. Not that I’d give chase to any intruders.

UNPLEASANTVILLE, MY COLORLESS WORLD

There’s only one reason why I’ve chosen a childhood picture of myself relaxing in bed casually smoking a cigarette, let me whisper it softly into your ear: rejection. Oh, I know you don’t care about my sex life—Did I just say that? Let me start again.—I know you don’t care about my writing welfare as much as you do about my health. My guess is that you’re straining your eyes right now to see whether I’m actually holding a Pall Mall unfiltered in my left hand (yes, I’m an evil left hander). I’ve learned a long long time ago not to underestimate my audience. You’ve probably already come to the conclusion that I’m holding a crayon. Did the plastic cup give it away?

I could’ve been clever. I could’ve photoshopped a Penthouse magazine over the coloring book and blurred the cups contents into a nice liquidy foam, but then again, you’d know better. I’m a child. In a bed. Wearing one piece pajamas. So here’s the real scoop: I received rejection letters this month from the Apple Valley Review, Cezanne’s Carrot, Flashquake, and Mindprints, A Literary Review. Count’em again. Four. One for each week of November.

I lost five smackaroos entering the Mindprints “Flash Fiction Contest.” The editor, Paul Fahey, said they had over fifty submissions and selected three top winners and eight honorable mentions. With those type of odds, approximately a twenty-percent chance of making the publication, I’ll be back next year. I can’t cry over it. I’ll keep plodding away at my work. I’ll try to stay within the lines. Speaking of lines, I’m thinking of The First Line . Why do I continue to torture myself?

CIRCUIT CITY, POPULATION: ONE TOO MANY

On Black Friday morning—5:20 a.m. to be exact—my wife and I shuffled our feet along the masking-taped line like movie extras in “Shaun of the Dead.” It’s no fun maneuvering the crowd when you’re vertically challenged, especially when you haven’t had your morning coffee and your eyelids are semi-pasted shut.


My wife tried to get a Circuit City employee to assist us. “Sir, is this computer still available?” she asked, waving a newspaper flyer his way. Before he could answer, someone else diverted his attention, leaving us standing there, not knowing how this would pan out, like two insignificant bodies being led to the slaughter, moving forward inch by agonizing inch. A majority of the customers in line had vouchers, which were handed out prior to the stores advertised hours. We were the less fortunate, hoping for a miracle—a computer bundle with $430 in savings. There were at least 7 per store.

The young couple in front of us, a brother and sister, both beyond 6 feet tall, told us they waited outside since midnight. Not feeling well, he stepped out of line. “I’m gonna take a nap in the car,” he told her. “Give me a ring when it’s my turn.”

Twenty minutes later, a Circuit City employee appeared, handing out laptop carrying cases to anyone lucky enough to have a laptop voucher. The sister took two. Then a short silver bird of lady swooped down—don’t ask me where she came from—and challenged the young lady in front of us. “You can’t buy two laptops.”

“I know.”

“It’s one per customer.”

“I know.”

“Well then, why do you have two of those?” The old lady pointed toward the carrying cases. The young lady turned away, ignoring her. “She can’t get two. It’s one per customer.” Everyone kept quiet. “It’s one per customer,” she repeated, proud of her detective work. I should’ve said something to save her from embarrassment. “They can’t give her two. It’s not fair.”

Then it happened. “I’m not buying two. The other one’s my brother’s. Is that okay with you?”

Unfazed, the old lady went elsewhere to stir up trouble. As for us, we were able to make our purchase without incident.

HOLIDAY CASUALITIES, GET IT OVER QUICK!

Two years ago I celebrated Christmas on Thanksgiving Day and my wife nearly killed my dad. It’s always difficult getting family together. Usually Thanksgiving dinner becomes an open forum for negotiating where Christmas will be held. On this particular occasion, we merged the two holidays together at my parent’s house, including opening gifts.

We’ve done this dual holiday thing in the past. But since my wife nearly killed my dad, he has put his foot down. “I want Christmas to be on Christmas day, not Thanksgiving.” I certainly can sympathize with him; afterall, it was I who had to drive him to the hospital and wait for three hours. He sat in the passenger seat, silently pleading for me to speed-up because he was having difficulty breathing.

There were other causalities in the emergency room on that day: a man who leaned back in his chair while laughing at a relative’s joke until he toppled over and cracked his head on the tiled kitchen floor; a diabetic woman who ate enough sweets as if nothing in the world mattered to her anymore; and an exhausted housewife who accidentally cut herself with an electric knife.

This year Thanksgiving ran smoothly. My wife no longer brings her delicious cheesecake topped with walnuts. As she pointed out to me, my dad should’ve known better. He snuck a piece of dessert as soon as we arrived, way before dinner, way before the normal holiday traditions. Also, he did not tell anyone (too embarrassed I guess) that he made a terrible error in judgment—not until his tongue swelled-up, not until the skin from the back of his throat started to tear away and bleed, not until his airway shutdown. So now we know he’s allergic to walnuts. We're still debating over Christmas though.

BLACK FRIDAY IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER

I’m always thinking ahead, beyond Thanksgiving Day, beyond turkey, mash potatoes, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie. Beyond the Detroit Lions so-called football game. But not that far beyond. I’m combing through the advertisements and mapping out my strategy for Black Friday. I probably won’t do as well this year (as a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve ever done well). I should've studied the floor plans of Circuit City, Best Buy, etc. When those doors open, I need to know exactly where I’m going, where the massive displays are; unfortunately, this year I’m hoping fate is on my side. One wrong turn, one zig when I should’ve zagged, and the retailer’s spectacularly low-priced merchandise that I want will be sold-out. Sorry, no rain checks. My enemy: other customers, especially those that work in tandem with cell-phones on, one blocking the aisle, the other loading up their shopping cart.

What I really need is someone to guide me through this whole process, someone brave like my wife. I remember going to Bronner’s in Frankenmuth, Michigan, on the day after Thanksgiving. Never again. There I was, crammed into a corner of this massive store while everybody aggressively pursued Christmas tree ornaments and wreaths and other holiday nic-nacs. I panicked. I yelled for my wife, “Get me the hell out of here!” If I could, I’d have her do my dirty work for me. She’s much better at the whole shopping experience. In fact, she has done this in the past, but instead of lending a sympathetic ear when she comes home without that one special item I had truly wanted, I tell her how disappointed I am. I should've been thankful for not having to go.

Thanksgiving Day shouldn’t be the only day we give thanks. Take my latest attempt at becoming a fierce warrior—I should’ve thanked my first-grade teacher for helping me create my outfit. I should’ve thanked my mother for my Gene Autry singing cowboy costume. Hey, who needs a six-shooter when you have a guitar? I should’ve thanked my mother for her first attempt at making me look like a real Native American, even if she accessorized with jewelry and everyone thought I was a squaw. So please, everyone, enjoy your holiday and give thanks from this day forward.

One last thing: Yes, that is a paper grocery sack I’m wearing, and no, even though I’ve talked about going on an expedition, I am not Sacajawea.

A TO-DO LIST, CREATING FICTION

I’ve always had a difficult time with plot development. Back in 2004, while grocery shopping with my wife and sorting through expired coupons and navigating a cart up and down each aisle, I had one of those eureka moments for two of my fictional characters, Jocelyn and her live-in ex-felon boyfriend, Blake—Why not write a short story based on a set of instructions? Here’s the more refined set of instructions which became part of a published piece experimenting with the mystery genre (I say refined because some of the instructions actually became comments about the instructions):

Grocery Shopping
1. Get a pen and write down the necessary information.
2. Coupons will help reduce the cost; but some are not worth redeeming.
3. Eat before you go. Studies have shown that you may buy unnecessary items on an empty stomach.
4. Select a functional shopping cart. Do not deviate from the list.
5. Check your receipt. What did you save?

In Step 1, I start the story with two police detectives investigating a murder in an apartment building where the two main characters reside.

In Step 2, Jocelyn argues with Blake, who refuses to go grocery shopping with her. I use some back-story to show the reader why Blake would rather stay home.

In Step 3, there’s more back-story, mainly how Jocelyn and Blake met. The reader also learns why Blake went to prison.

In Step 4, I use a montage of Jocelyn shopping freely and the police detectives questioning Blake about the murder. Blake gets arrested.

In Step 5, Jocelyn buys her groceries using the murder victim’s credit card. At this point the reader must decide whether Blake is innocent.

For all my fiction writing friends out there, try using this idea to develop a plot line; Just don’t do like I did, don't get too bogged down in detail; I chalk that up to being inexperienced at writing mysteries. Lastly, the illustration below is by Marc Nischan, the guitar player for Detroit’s Twistin’ Tarantulas. He received his BFA in illustration from the College of Creative Studies. Drop by http://www.marcnischan.com and have a look.

SUNNY-SIDE UP & CLOSE THE REFRIGERATOR

I’ll try not to be long winded and conserve energy.

When I think about having eggs sunny-side up, I think about that commercial: This is your brain (egg) and this is your brain on drugs (yolk surrounded by white sizzling in pan). Of course—mainly because I don’t cook—this takes me back to a small diner in Carson City, Michigan. I had gone there for breakfast prior to attending a TABE (Test of Adult Basic Education) Conference. Not knowing the area, I had asked about directions and a good place to eat just in case I decided to leave early and beat the traffic.

It just so happened that one of my classroom tutors at the time, Mr. Berrera, a farm-boy/crack-addict, grew up in that area. He and I were not on the best of terms on account of his woefully lacking academic skills. Hey, I don’t hire these guys; the classification director simply plucks the next name off a list. I had heard the other tutors teasing him about his bank robbing experience, so I chimed in, "What? Did you leave the teller a note with your address on it?" The other tutors yucked it up while Mr. Berrera turned beet red. Anyway, Mr. Berrera, the forgiving person that he is, claimed that he was from Carson City and knew of a good place to eat. Thus the diner.

When I ordered my breakfast special, two eggs sunny-side up, hashbrowns, toast, and coffee, the waitress, detecting that I wasn’t a regular, asked, "What brings you to Carson City?" So I told her about the conference. She seemed satisfied with my answer and went about her business.

Just before I paid my bill, I asked her if she knew of a guy named Berrera. "He went to prison for robbing a bank," I explained.

She burst out laughing. "He’s from here," she said. "He was on that television show, ‘World’s Dumbest Criminals.’ He robbed our local bank and left behind his pay stub. Not that it mattered. Everyone knows everyone."

Can you believe it? And all I’m guilty of is leaving the refrigerator door open too long. Time to close it. Time to fry some eggs.

THE REMY MA BRUSH OFF

If I wanted to make some extra cash in prison all I'd have to do is start a lost and found and charge a storage fee. With four locked storage areas in my classroom, I have plenty of space to keep all those extra goodies such as jackets, gloves, and hats. How can anyone forget their jacket with this colder weather?

I guess the Remy Ma brush is a different story. Before inmates can half-test in my room they have to be shaken-down in another area. No jackets, hats, doo-rags, long sleeves, papers, pencils, no nothing, except yourself, are allowed in the testing area. We do get quite a few folks that think they can cheat their way to an education. On this occasion, an inmate left behind his personalized hairbrush.

"What's it look like?" I asked.
"It's purple. It's got Remy Ma lacquered on it."
"Remy who? What's she look like?"
"Remy's part of Fat Joe's posse. She's a rapper. Real thick lookin' too."
"That's an unusual name, how'd she get it?"
"It's a liquor! Quit messing with me and give me back my brush!"
"You sure it doesn't have Corinne Bailey Rae on it? I like her music."
"I don't listen to that white hillbilly shit! Where's my brush?"

I didn't have the heart to tell him who Corinne Bailey Rae is. I gave him back his brush.

JOEY & ME & GROGAN'S MEMOIR

Total emersion, page after page, coming full circle, pleading for a puppy, my brother and I, thirteen and twelve respectively, in unison: Dad, can we get one? Pleeease, pleeease, pleeease. His caving in, not knowing it’d be a sixteen year commitment, 1975 – 1991, the last of it with both sons earning degrees, getting jobs, moving on; the last of it with a dog turning tight circles from a debilitating stroke and Dad returning him to the place he’d been born, ending the misery and burying him in the woods.

My brother and I, like most decisions in life, can’t come to an agreement. I pick the puppy that looks like a Beagle; No, I want the fluffy brown one. Our cottage behind us, passing the Wentworth’s house on Shady Lane, the locals whose dog Ginger had pups, the locals that let us play with them all weekend long. Dad in a hurry to get back home, work on Monday. Us falling silent and mom saying, Let them get a puppy.

And so our Dad doubles back. We want two, one for each of us, but mom breaks the tie, agreeing with my pick. Riding home, settling on the name Joe … Joe, the Beagle-Tennessee Walker mix. Yelping and playfully biting us all the way home. Page after page, until the inevitable conclusion, finishing John Grogan’s memoir, “Marley & Me”—it’s that damned good—it makes you recall your very first dog—from the beginning—to the end.

GO BLUE! THIS ONE'S FOR BO

There’s a big big football game today and it doesn’t come without controversy. I’m not talking about the national rankings or the price of tickets (somewhere around $800 each for scalped ones)—no, I’m talking about a small prison in Ohio where the warden is throwing a pizza party for the inmates during game time. If you go to The Foo Logs you can participate in his survey on whether you think this is perfectly acceptable.

I remember a time when banquets were the norm in the Michigan prison system. The National Lifers Association had two or three a year to raise money for needy charities. Also, family members could attend. In order to have such an affair the IBF (Inmate Benefit Fund) had to foot the bill and a state employee had to sponsor it. I shied away from such activities after hearing about nightmarish stories of inmates and volunteers having sex in the bathrooms and storage closets.

One time an outside singing group performed a concert in the gymnasium. With a majority of the prison population attending, three female singers started strip teasing. As the men got louder and more excited, the women, craving all that attention, decided to go topless. The shift-commander ordered the concert/exhibition show to cease; however, no one moved on it for fear of a riot. Luckily, when the show ended, no one got hurt.

I still run into inmates that will say, "Hey, remember the time…" Nowadays, Michigan no longer has banquets or special events in the joint. I’m sure the dayrooms will be packed with inmates cheering on U. of M. and I’m sure someone will request to be put into protective custody when their team doesn’t cover the point spread. As for the Ohio pen, give them all the pizza they can eat; as long as U. of M. wins the game for Bo.

"S" IS FOR SPEEDBOAT

Convicts may act confident, but usually that’s just their way of masking their own deficiencies and continuing down that lonely road called poor self-esteem. However, there was one particular student that really changed and I’ll always remember his accomplishments. Amongst the prison population his nickname is "Speedboat." He’s in his mid 40’s and has been locked up since the age of 16. For three years straight he did not show any signs of progress in my class. From my observations, he could do the necessary class assignments with guided practice; however, he had difficulty with long-term memory. In fact, I could assign him the same work week after week and he’d act like he’d never seen it before. Some of the other students would laugh at him, and I’d have to come to his defense, often saying, "Wait until he gets his GED and you’re still sitting in here poking fun at the next guy." I wasn’t too sure this would materialize.

One day Speedboat asked if I’d read his court transcripts. They were part of his institutional records. At the time, I didn’t know his self-fulfilling prophecy was contained in one short little paragraph on those transcripts. In fact, prior teachers reported in his educational file that getting a GED was highly unlikely, if not impossible—I’ve always felt that you should be very careful about what you put in a student’s file. Anyway, I’m not to keen on reading court transcripts because I don’t want to know what crime or crimes my students have committed. But Speedboat was insistent. So I read them. A school psychologist said his IQ peaked at about 70, that he was mildly retarded, and probably uneducable. When I finished reading, Speedboat was trying to get my reaction. I didn’t acknowledge him at first, so he pointed out that one paragraph. I told him it was one man’s opinion and that he needed to get back to his schoolwork in order to get his GED

I’d like to think my emotional support and social approval turned him around. Needless to say, it was a long haul. The following year Speedboat passed all five-subject areas of the GED. It’s amazing how his self-esteem blossomed. Now I see him handing out and inventorying gym equipment. He sometimes visits my classroom to encourage other students to keep trying.

Here’s what I’ve learned: figure out what is causing your student’s low self-esteem and be careful about what you put in his academic file. Also, a few encouraging words never hurt anyone, followed by suggestions on ways to improve academic skills. In Speedboats case, I stuck with concrete goals such as: He will continue working on the prescribed algorithms for fractions, completing each assignment with 80% accuracy. Every four months I’d do another report such as: He has consistently hit 80% on his fraction assignments and will now utilize the grid method to solve ratio and proportion problems. Each report showed progress no matter how small. When I look back, it’s because of people like Speedboat that I continue to teach in the prison system.

WELCOME TO ADULT DAY CARE

Before you ask, I’ll answer. "Yes, that chubby-faced toddler is me." But at least today I’m not a little boy trapped in a man’s body (code for MDOC inmate). Although, if you examine the picture a bit closer, you will see a wayward hand hanging onto my elastic bvd waistband, directing me where to go. All I can say is that this picture is symbolic of how the inmates act toward one another. So many of them want to be leaders, they want to take charge—the proverbial king of the shit pile—and no matter how stupid they are, they’ll try to find someone else who will listen to their childish advice. They’ll pair up and I’ll say, "Looks like the blind leading the naked. Who’s groping who?" Then I’ll get comments such as, "Don’t cut into my intelligence," and I’ll say, "I don’t even need a Spork to do that."

Lately—and I’m not sure why, perhaps it’s a full moon or I’m getting into my preholiday funk—I’ll observe my students horseplaying around and giggling like little school girls (sorry if I’ve offended anyone, didn’t mean to). When I remind them that they will be testing tomorrow to see if they qualify for the actual GED exams, they seem to think school has always been a slam-dunk. Now, I’m not the smartest tool in the shed, but after fifteen years, I know what’s going to happen, and they should too, considering their public school histories. The man-child or men-children will act shocked after the fact. "I should’ve passed. It’s your fault. You should’ve been helping me. You didn’t give me anything to study." Hmmm, I’m thinking, If I use the foot on your neck approach you cry like a baby and write grievances or want to be transferred to another teacher. Quit acting like you know what’s best! Your way doesn’t work.

It’s called A-D-U-L-T, adult, education. They are supposed to be responsible for their actions (at least now, since they're incarcerated) and do the book work and computer work assigned to them, instead of blaming everyone for their woefully lacking academic skills. But then again, this would mean acting like an (gasp) adult. As I frequently tell them, "Why am I embarrassed for you?"

I’m sorry. I just needed to vent a little. Please forgive me. Maybe it’s that hand in my bvd’s. Maybe it’s another traumatic childhood experience. Maybe it’s adult day care at it’s worse. Sadly, as taxpayers, we're paying for it.

THE ANSWER IS BLOWING IN THE WIND

Yesterday I received a kite—prison term for a letter written on prisoner stationary—from a former classroom tutor stating why he had been late for class, repeatedly. I’m not talking about a few minutes here or there, I’m talking forty-five minutes to an hour. After numerous warnings that his job was in jeopardy, I wrote a "036 Out of Place / AWOL" ticket and terminated his employment. He never did his job anyway. He usually sat with his back to everyone and read magazines. Did he think he was an ostrich?—Stick your head in the sand and hope no one would notice? Once in awhile I’d say, "Mr. Hartford, the students are behind you, how about taking some time out of your busy schedule and helping them?" He’d go into his thousand questions mode. "Who needs help? What’re they working on? Where are the answer keys? Do you have a ballpoint pen I can borrow? I need a calculator to figure their scores, can I get one? Can you show me how to subtract unlike fractions so I can show the students how to do it? Class is ending soon, do you think there’s enough time for me to help them?" It never ended.

In all fairness, I decided to post Mr. Hartford’s kite in its entirety. Perhaps it will shed some light onto his tardiness. Here it is:

Dear Sir,
This is in regards to my absences. I was prescribed to a medication causing drowsiness which resulted in me developing a sleep dependency, and when I signed off on this medication, I began to incur sleep withdrawal, where, on a consistent basis I couldn’t fall asleep until 3 a.m. being the cause of my inability to wake up in time for 7:25 a. m. school. I know that there’s no excuse for my behavior, but these repetitive acts of absences were not motivated on the basis of foul intentions, and if you may, I would appreciate your consideration in pulling the "Out of Place" misconduct.

Here is my answer to his kite (assuming I’d answer such a ridiculous explanation):

Dear Mr. Hartford,
First of all, why would I renege on a ticket I deliberately wrote? If I give you an inch in this here prison system, you will make me look softer than Dairy Queen ice-cream on a sweltering-hot day. Also, once I pull the ticket, you will demand that I give you your job back since there is no longer a record of your past actions. You obviously must think I’m a guppy—a little fish amongst the sharks. Do you want to know what I think of you? Do you? I don’t. I don’t have the time. Good day and good riddance. By the way, your health care needs are still covered. Go back on your medication and sweet dreams.

BASKETBALL FEVER AND ONE MAN'S REMEDY

Nobody plays basketball with more passion, more commitment, than the young inmates locked-up in prison. Ask them and they’ll tell you they’re superstars, no one can take it to the hole like they can. Three meals a day, a warm place to shit, another warm place to sleep, and some yard activity and they’ll dribble that ball from sun-up to sun-down, or for however long the yard officers will allow. They’ll sacrifice learning how to read and write well, and don’t think for a red hot minute that they’ll take time out from their busy schedule to learn their multiplication tables either—it’s just not going to happen. Skipping school, even if it means risking a parole, is worth every minute of hoops. Short-term thinkers get long term punishments but who gives a hoot.

Once the snow hits, it’ll be time to move indoors. At Ryan Correctional, the athletic director invited some retired professional basketball players inside for a scrimmage. I remember the pregame warm-ups. The pros started with a standard two-line formation, one for lay-ups and the other for rebounding. On the other end of the court, you had a dozen balls flying from all angles at the basket with no rhyme nor reason. Total mayhem. Shock and awe, sapping any possibility of team play. Needless to say, the pros toyed with them, let them gain a sizable lead before picking them apart with a variety of set plays and the occasional slam dunk for emphasis.

Another time, our facility went into lockdown mode after an inmate spat on another inmate during a heated game. In order to make things right, in order to “save face,” both teams brought out their shanks and started running the gears. Maintenance had to dismantle the drinking fountain after someone bled in it while sipping water. Also, an inmate porter, trained in blood borne pathogens, proudly declared that he had cleaned up after the melee. I looked to see what time it was, “1430 hours.” The clock hung twelve feet high on the wall so no one could steal the motor and use it on a hobbycraft project. “How about there,” I said, nodding at the blood splatter on the clock.

But not all inmates shared the same passion for b-ball. There was this deputy warden, an ex-felon himself, paid his debt to society and went on to become a productive citizen, who believed in giving the inmates a cold-hearted reality check. He transferred to another facility and the first thing he decided to do to show the inmates that he had arrived, was to have maintenance cut down the basketball poles near the units. I’d heard this story from the inmates and chalked it up to modern day lore. When I transferred to the very same facility, I saw the asphalt filled holes where backboards were once erected and had to smile, simply had to.

I LOVE LUCY

Last thing I want is another damn dog. You're talking at least a twelve year commitment. I'm as enthused as an inmate flushing his toilet when the Michigan State Police pay his cell block a visit with drug sniffing canines. Besides, it hasn't even been a week since Bear's death. Let me get through "Marley & Me" before we even discuss it. I'm a slow reader. Here's where I'm at: Poor John and Jenny Grogan came home to a shredded garage because Marley's afraid of thunderstorms. Do you really think I want to clean up after a puppy? Forget it!

So what does my wife do? Talk incessantly about our next dog. "When it's time, what do you think about a Sharpei-Lab mix?" Not now honey, we're still grieving over Bear. "Or should we get another Black Lab?" Enough with the dog talk already! After two days, I agree to let her peruse petfinder.com . Her doggy discussions increase twofold. She's even talking on the phone to various breeders. I try to ignore her. That's all she'll talk about. Dog this, puppy that. Once she has me worn down a bit more, she asks, "Would it be alright if I go to the Michigan Humane Society just to look?" Don't you bring a dog home. We've already went over this a thousand times. "Yeah, okay."

I speak to a coworker. He tells me when his dog died he made his family wait three years. "Damn, you're good," I say, "How'd you manage?" "Just keep saying 'no' no matter what tactics your wife uses. Don't give in." I'm afraid it's too late for that.

I come home from work and my wife's talking about a four month old Beagle-Pointer mix. I'm thinking of the added costs in upkeep. Veterinarian bills. Puppy chow. Dog crate. Accessories. She says the dog's name is Olivia, but she likes Lucy better. Great, she's already named her. My wife reminds me that her allergies will dictate which type of dog we get. Nothing's a done deal. "Alright alright alright, I'll go."

I should've never started reading Grogan's memoir about Marley. How could it be avoided? The book won the 2006 Quills Award for Best Biography/Memoir and the 2006 ASPCA Presidential Award. Grogan has two Children's Books and a movie deal in the works. I blame him. Dammit, it's his fault for softening me up. The above photo collage is Lucy and me. We've spent two days together. She's already housebroke and knows how to "kennel up." All she needs to do now is pass my wife's allergy test. My wife claims her eyes are itchy, her throat is scratchy. I ignore her. Leave us alone, I want to say, you might have to move out.

MY UNCLE JOHN

The last time I saw my Uncle John alive my mom was entertaining a rather large family visiting from Sweden. She had promised them a year earlier that they could stay at her house while vacationing. As she prepared a nice welcoming meal, my dad made the necessary trip to Ann Arbor’s U. of M. Hospital with my Uncle John hanging on tight from the back of his Harley.

My wife and I, my brother and sister-in-law, and all the Swedes got reacquainted in my mom’s walkout basement. Suzanne Andersen, a foreign exchange student during my college days, shared pictures of her new home and extended family. When my dad arrived, my mom went upstairs to see her brother. My dad whispered to my brother and I, “The doctor said there’s nothing more he can do for your uncle. The cancer’s too wide spread.” He suggested that we go visit with him.

I hadn’t seen my Uncle John in well over a year, so when I went upstairs I kept thinking—What can you possibly say to a dying man? I did the best I could, shaking his hand and greeting him with a “Hello Uncle John,” followed by a “you’re not doing so well, huh?” With very little energy left for conversation, he managed to say, “Not at all.” After a moment of awkward silence, I said, “Hang in there,” and left.

Three weeks later, after the Swedes departure, my Uncle John died. He was a Vietnam Veteran, serving his country at a very young age. He never spoke about the war, however, he sent letters home to my mom along with pictures.

In Sweden, every young adult male must serve their country for a mandatory two years. I often wonder whether our country should do the same. Today, we give thanks to our United State’s veterans for their dedication and commitment in protecting our country. We also remember those who’ve made the ultimate sacrifice so we can enjoy our freedom. God Bless.

TRANSFERS GO BOTH WAYS

I’ve had my share of problems as an employee for the Michigan Department of Corrections, so when I was told by the Sergeant to close down my classroom and report to the Warden’s conference room immediately, all I could think was "here we go again." The year was 1994 and I was still a guppy trying to fit in, trying to learn all the nuances of dealing with inmates. Hey, it was them against us, we had to stick together, had to. Management even gave us Team Spirit pins and an official pep talk delivered on a general memorandum declaring "Team Work Makes The Dream Work."

Before I marched my timid self to the administration building, I popped my head into the principal’s office to see if she could enlighten me. My concerns deepened when she said she hadn’t a clue. After making a phone call, she claimed that maybe it had something to do with the recent ride-ins. I agreed. Two weeks prior, our facility received a Greyhound bus full of white convicts. My initial reaction had been Uh-oh, I’m not so sure this is going to work. You see, our facility housed predominately black inmates. Management had decided we needed a better racial balance, and as far as I could gather, it was because the few white inmates we had were always pleading to be transferred out. In no uncertain terms would the transfer coordinator show preferential treatment. Thus, bring in more whites.

Greeted by a long line of employees waiting to get into the Warden’s conference room, I asked the maintenance worker in front of me, "Hey, what’s going on?" He replied, "You don’t know? Take a look around." I’ve always known the Department of Corrections to hire a diverse staff, but when I stepped back, I saw only white male employees standing in line. The maintenance worker continued, "The EEOC is here to investigate reverse discrimination."

Here are some of the standard questions I was asked including my answers:

Q: How long have you worked at this facility?
A: Approximately two years.

Q: Who do you eat lunch with, white, or black employees?
A: Wherever there’s an available seat.

Q: Have you ever been passed up for a promotion based on your race?
A: I haven’t been here long enough to find out.

Q: Have you witnessed any tension among white and black coworkers?
A: Not really. But racial tension among the inmates seems to be increasing.

Unlike others, my interview ended rather abruptly. I started to wonder whether some of my fellow white coworkers were requesting transfers of their own. As for myself, I made a lateral transfer in 1997, having turned down the promise of a promotion.

ACME MEAT GRINDING CORPORATION

It’s not unusual for me to have students my father’s age or older studying for a GED. They’ll often complain that when they were on the "outs" they were making more money pressing car hoods than I'd ever dream of. I say, "Good for you, but did you ever learn a trade?" This usually puts them on the defensive. "I didn’t need to. The money was good enough." I often wonder what they mean by that, good enough for buying cheap beer at a premium price at the local watering hole? Good enough for liquor? Marijuana? Cocaine? Crack? What was it good enough for? To end up in prison?

I try to explain that you shouldn’t get too comfortable doing the same thing over and over. "Learn something new for a change and quit being so close-minded." My comments are unpopular. Someone always tells me about a family member with a college degree who can’t get a job—"all that education and for what?"

"Give me some paper," Mr. Snyder routinely greets me, "I ain’t got time for your shit. I gots work to do." Another older gent stands next to him, points toward my desk drawer. "Make yourself useful and get me some paper too."

They come to class early to get a premium seat in the back. Unlike the youngsters, they’re no trouble at all. Don't get me wrong, they hate attending class, but they’ll do whatever it is that you ask them to do. They’ll even lend some moral support by commenting about the youngsters in class not having worked a day in their lives. "You still got milk on your breath, son," Mr. Snyder says, ready to jab his knuckle into the chest of a youngster. "You ain’t weaned from the teat."

The youngsters hate being checked. They feel smarter, and indestructible. Most of them are willing to fight over any little comment. However, Mr. Lawton has channeled his energy elsewhere. He likes to draw amateurish cartoons in mock support of the old timers. He doesn’t realize that a good paying factory job is near extinction and that he should work on his academic skills. Even cleverness comes with a price. I show him his mistakes, thrusting my index finger toward his illustration. "You spelled ‘carefull’ and ‘anouther’ wrong."

FLEEING THE SCENE, A REENACTMENT

Some perspectives are hard to understand, especially if you’re on the inside looking out and the razor sharp concertina-wire doesn’t hinder your movement any more than the bloated sparrows preparing for flight with large chunks of bread from the inmate chow hall. "Where should we go for lunch?" You ask me, "Nevada Coney Island or Buddy’s Pizza?" It’s my turn to drive and for some odd reason, even though I’ve heard you, I’m deep in thought, replaying an old conversation with an inmate. Hey, he readily admits, if it hadn’t been for my imprisonment, I’d be dead by now, and I believe him, not because I’ve walked a mile in his shoes but because he was born and raised in Detroit, the very same city that permitted the state to build this safe-haven called prison. “Nevada’s fine,” I answer while thinking I have a much better chance of getting killed driving to and from work, than inside here. I’ve often thought about another commuter plowing into me by doing as I do, coasting through the four-way stops in the early morning hours as a preemptive strike against being car-jacked.

When we get to the employee parking lot, you notice tiny flecks of paint on my white Ford Tempo. You’ve complained about having them on your vehicle too. I shrug it off, my car’s older, less fancy, it’s really no big deal. “It’s permanent,” you say, sliding your index finger along the side panel, “it won’t come off. See.”

A week later on the way to work there's a shooting in the Pershing High School parking lot. The police cordoned off the street and strung yellow homicide tape near the entrance. Students mill about, casually jay-walking the street. I ease up on the gas pedal, careful not to hit any one. Hit and runs happen quite frequently in Detroit. "I’ll no longer be going out for lunch," I tell you.

Today the immobilization siren blares and the entire facility goes into lockdown mode. This is fairly common. However, we are not escorted to the administration building as usual. A desperate voice can be heard on the corrections officer’s radio, “We have three officers down, three officers down. There also appears to be two inmates down.” I’m none too concerned, thinking this is a practice drill, something we do on a monthy basis. They tell us nothing, absolutely nothing. Then an announcement, “Keep all windows and doors closed. Staff are not to go outside until further notice.”

You complain, "This is cutting into our lunch break." I look out the window, see two ambulances in the sallyport. Shortly thereafter, we’re informed of a chemical spill at the paint factory next door. They evacuated hours ago, but did not notify our facility. We are now given a choice: remain here or go home. Most of us choose the latter, knowing the inmates are locked in their cells waiting it out, knowing custody staff must remain also. I drive away, hoping to transfer some day to a prison out in the country.

A DIFFICULT DECISION

When Dr. Krysinski tightened the tourniquet and steadied the needle, I thought about my wife’s reaction to the nurse who gently touched her shoulder and said, “We do this procedure all the time, you have nothing to worry about.” My wife replied, “No, it’s not that. It’s … it’s …,” she reached for a Kleenex and dabbed her eyelids, “it’s the book.” She lowered her eyes toward John Grogan’s memoir “Marley & Me,” it’s spine unevenly balanced on her right knee. I, of course, was being rolled away on a hospital bed, the nurse pushing me through the double doors.

I do know this, my wife plowed through the first two hundred pages of “Marley & Me,” laughing and informing me of every bad incident that Marley, a Yellow Labrador Retriever, went through. “You got to read this,” she said. The last thing I wanted was to start reading a memoir about someone’s pet; I had better things to do with my day, or at least better things to read. “It’s been on the New York Times bestseller’s list forever,” she claimed, her way of saying, What’s the matter with you anyway?

Now, at this particular juncture, as Dr. Krysinski stuck the needle in, I remembered how difficult it was for my wife to finish the last few chapters on the day of my surgery. I guess it was then that I took an interest in what was going on. “Is Marley dying?” I asked. She nodded yes. A few days later, she finished the book, and gave it to me. I’m only on the fourth chapter, but let me tell you, John and Jenny Grogan, two young newlyweds, have purchased this dog, their hopes and dreams of his potential are as limitless as their love for one another. And so the story goes, each milestone Marley reaches is marked by something significant in their own lives. My wife and I certainly can relate to that. Our very own Bear started out as a guard dog, a square jawed British Black Labrador Retriever, a young pup with lots of energy and a nice disposition. Any little sound and he’d be charging at the door, barking his fool head off. But not anymore. We had a difficult decision to make. My wife looked into his eyes as they slowly closed and I felt his heartbeat slip away. We will miss him, may he rest in peace. And many thanks to the wonderful staff at Harvey’s Animal Hospital in Detroit.

IN MEMORY OF ...

THE HUSBAND WORE PANTS

I’m a bit disappointed that my wife did not get absentee ballots for us, that way I could’ve filled out both ballots exactly how I wanted them, a sort of two for one deal, a perk for being the head of household. Marriage, after all, is a sacred bond between man and woman, and I’m sure she would cherish and obey my opinions and decisions. Take Michigan’s Civil Rights Initiative, otherwise known as Proposal 06-2, which, if passed, would ban public institutions from giving preferential treatment to groups or individuals based on race, gender, color, ethnicity or national origin. Sounds good to me. My wife, I’m sure, would agree that I’m right, that this proposal needs passing.

I’m sure Tekla Dennison Miller, the first female warden of Michigan, would agree to no preferential treatment too, even if it is a man’s world out there. In July 1971, when she applied for a job as a probation officer in Oakland County, the white male interviewer asked her the following, “Are you on the pill?” and she readily replied, “Have you had a vasectomy?” Needless to say, her interview did not go as planned. The interviewer explained that he was only concerned about her availability for the job and continued, “We also would like to interview your husband,” and she countered, “I didn’t know that (he) applied for this position.” This is how Mrs. Miller’s book, “The Warden Wore Pink” starts out. She tells it like it is. According to her, because of affirmative action, women have made great strides in choosing career paths that at one time seemed impossible. Excellent book by the way; Know a few people in it too.

So, are you thoroughly confused about the ballot language and my stance on it? Let’s just say this: If I vote “yes” on the proposal I get to reinforce the idea that it’s a man’s world out there, (white man to boot) and if I vote “no” I’m saying we need to keep affirmative action as it is. Either way, it’s a two for one deal for me. As long as I keep my wife happy.

Michigan Voter Information

LEAVING PICTURES, DELETING POSTS

Most artists I know think their work is terrible; they are perpetually self-doubting and are extremely anxious. I’ve heard very few artists whom I know well say, "You’ve got to come and see this piece; it’s great." I usually hear, "This piece is horrible; it’s a disaster. Come tell me what to do with it." —Jennifer Bartlett


Robin, from R's Musings , asked me what I’ve learned from 6 months of blogging. Her question has been gnawing at me for days now. I’ve skimmed my various 180 posts, searching for answers, something perhaps witty or inspiring to say; unfortunately, I’ve come up with very little. Oh sure, it’s nice to reminisce after perusing past posts about my childhood and work experiences, and the photos certainly help, but this only deepens my uncertainty.

Why am I doing this? Why write? I’m sure I could find a less agonizing hobby. Then I tried to refocus, to become more positive. OK, I said to myself, there must be something, some tiny morsel of good, that has come from my blogging. Here’s what I came up with, Robin—brace yourself—four posts from June, July, August, and September, four posts that I absolutely believe in. In fact, I deliberately left off direct links because I’m thinking of deleting each one (I'll leave the pictures and titles) in hopes of making improvements and sending them off to various literary journals under the auspiciousness of nonfiction. I’ve never tried my hand at publishing nonfiction, so what the hell, it beats a stick in the eye.

So there’s my answer. Probably not the best explanation, but after 6 months, I believe in 2.2% of what I’ve written. Also, I’d like to congratulate The Thinker on her 100th posting. She celebrated with an amazingly perceptive theory on blogging, and I’ll admit, at sixteen, her answer is much better than mine.

NOTHING GOES UNTOUCHED

Walking the wire is life. Everything else is waiting around.
—Karl Wallenda

Yesterday, I became a human rip-chord, my legs propped up on hard plastic stirrups, (and no, I wasn’t horseback riding). Just a simple little joy ride; no pressure at all. Except when the nurse, trained in Chinese water torture, filled my bladder with cold water; Except when the doctor performed his standard (but oh so invasive) cystoscopy.

"Was it the right kidney or left?" he asked while probing around inside me.

"Right," I gritted through my teeth, my lower back unforgiving, wanting to spring forward, if only I’d let go of the metal railings.

"Yes," he agreed, then disappeared.

"…"

"The stent’s out," the nurse said.

"I was afraid to ask," I responded.

"You can get dressed now. Remember to schedule your next appointment with the receptionist."

The fluorescent lights came on. The door shut. I got dressed and got the hell out of dodge. The day was still young, why not enjoy it?

Yes, I’m holding my stent—all eighteen inches of it. It’s bought and paid for. Also, I may have jarred loose my left kidney stone. Here it is under my digital microscope. Sorry for being so graphic. Perhaps I should’ve written a limerick instead.



There once was a man with a stent
Which made him walk with a bent;
The nurse dimmed low the light,
Doc pulled with all his might,
So it was done before he could vent.

TEMPORARILY OUT OF ORDER

You be me for awhile, and I’ll be you.
—The Replacements

I’ve been known to high-hurdle the Caution: Wet Floor signs in slow motion while an inmate porter drags a sour mophead across the tiled hallway floor. “Guess who I am?” I’ll ask the passerby’s, all wearing six-digit numbers stenciled on the backs of their shirts. For the most part, they give me that who gives a shit who you’re trying to be look. This doesn’t deter me. I toss them a hint. “Remember those Hertz rent a car commercials?” Still nothing. Perhaps they’re too young or I’m too old. I hammer them with my answer, “O.J. Simpson, man.”

Mocking the Juice doesn’t necessarily induced shits and giggles but you can tell he’s envied by a majority of the inmates. And why not? He beat his case, got a way with murder. “He was proven innocent in a court of law,” a jailhouse lawyer will argue. “How can you say he got away with murder when he was found not guilty of the crime?” Yeah, okay, Johnny Cochrane. If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit.

I’ve been known to poke fun of those inmates with “Temp” stenciled on their shirts, too. “So,” I’ll ask, “who’re you temping for?” As if they’re voluntarily filling in for someone and will soon be going home. Speaking of temporary: Perhaps someone could fill-in for me today. With eyes wide shut, my stent will be yanked out. The doctor’s temporary fix is no longer needed. I’ll be back to high-hurdling in no time.