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.