AWAITING TIMOTHY MCVEIGH'S SIGNATURE

An inmate tutor in my classroom drew the following diagram to illustrate how to make a bomb. He claims to have ties to the Michigan Militia. "I knew Timothy McVeigh personally," he said, as if this would validate his incomplete bomb making instructions.

His reference to McVeigh, a man who orchestrated the bombing of a United States Federal Building in Oklahoma City, did not impress me. I shrugged my shoulders. "Wasn’t he executed?" I asked.

"You don’t believe me, do you?" the inmate went on. "I have proof in the form of letters. I’ll bring them to you."

Whether he’s suffering from some sick delusional fantasy I’ll never know. And if he shows me these so-called letters, who’s to say the signatures aren’t forgeries? And why should I care any way? Will they give me more insight into McVeigh? Will they explain why he thought so many innocent people should die?

The inmate continued, "I knew Ted Nugent from my militia days. The guy's a lying punk-ass bitch motherf***ker. He said he never had ties to the militia and never did drugs."

Again, I shrugged my shoulders. Did he think knowing a former local celebrity and rock star would justify the right to bear arms, the right to belong to the militia? Don’t get me wrong—I’ve always felt that the day we give up our guns is the day we give up our freedom, but I’m not as passionate about it, I’m not willing to sacrifice innocent lives to prove my point. "I suppose you corresponded with the Motor City Madman too," I said.

"No," the inmate answered, "I saw him on the news once denouncing any affiliation with the Michigan militia. He’s a liar. He smoked pot with some fellow members. I was there. I saw it with my very own eyes."

One thing I’ve observed over the years teaching in prison is that there are no gray areas for the prisoners. Every issue is seen in black and white. You’re either wrong or you’re either right. "Let me see those letters," I said. Perhaps I’ll post their contents and let you be the judge. Perhaps I’ll scan McVeigh’s signature and let you decide whether the inmate’s claims are authentic.

On a different note: I saw "Freedom Writers" for free the other day. Excellent movie! It has inspired me to post more stories regarding my earlier days working as a teacher in the Michigan prison system. More to come.

THE VALUE OF SPONTANEITY

I definitely “jumped the shark” on my latest YouTube video production—Oh, what?—with a forced script, bad acting, untimely laugh track, and fast-paced poetry read, the only salvageable part of the whole performance came from a spur of the moment decision to hush two curious little onlookers.



“What’re you doing?”

“Are you making a movie?”

“What’s it for?”

“Can we watch?”

“We’ll be quiet.”

“Sssh, you have to be quiet.”

“I’m quieter than you.”

“No you’re not.”

“Am too.”

“Not.”

I assigned a simple line to each of them as a last ditch effort to silence their fidgetiness. With a newly found purpose, they stayed focused and ready to deliver their words: “You’re not JK Rowling,” and “Yeah, you’re not JK Rowling.” They were naturals.

I wish I could say the same for my students. I wish I could give them a purpose for hanging around. When those electronic doors to their cells clank open in the morning, a majority of them wander aimlessly from assigned place to assigned place, yucking it up with not a care in the world—as if prison were one large playground. “It looks like you came to prison to make friends,” I’d say once in awhile to piss them into consciousness.

Yesterday, a young fool was “kicking it” with his Homey for longer then what I’d consider acceptable in my classroom. I looked in his direction—Marquetting him—a term used in the Michigan prison system where you look at someone from above your wire-framed glasses for an extended period of time.

“Quit staring at me,” the young fool said, “like you wanna get busy with me.”

“It ain’t like you’re gonna do anything,” his Road Dog pointed out to him.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Nigga,” the young fool warned his fellow rapper, “stop co-signing and bring him an apple.”

I’ll admit, he deserved an A+ for spontaneity. At least his lines were unrehearsed and felt right.

TIME ONCE UPON US

Inspired by the Governor of California and Tookie Williams.










These children's books they sell
inject you with their murderous grip.
Pages flutter yonder;
mob your throat.

Quick, here's a ladle, start scooping,
spoon your Cheerios Little Boy Blue,
there's no time for perusing:

Twinkling shooting stars
dodging bullets
like a virgin
scathed and snuffed.

Scan the headlines:

Most Celebrated
death row inmate
put to death.

Makes sense doesn't it?

When you're unforgiving,
when the ink rubs off
and you finish your tea
and you ride into the sunset
on your unregistered motorbike
a sidecar, an outlaw, an accident
a big fat lip.

Presenting:
Politics and Hollywood
Crips and Bloods and Big Dippers
touched and terminated for the very first time.

Put to bed
they'll be back

once upon us.

YOU'RE NOT JK ROWLING!

Once again, I've attempted to please the crowd with a poetry reading.

FIRST SNOW

We’ve had our share of red tags quietly observing and learning the policies and procedures at our facility. Their silence is often mistaken for nervousness, as if they’re walking on eggshells. And why not? They’re an easy mark for the inmates. In case you didn’t know, a red tag is a rookie corrections officer, the nickname originating from the nametags they must wear on their uniforms. It’s a natural progression based on how much time they’ve put in; After a red tag comes a green tag then a black tag. It’s protocol for custody staff. I’ve often wondered why non-custody staff, such as myself, haven’t had to follow suit?

Some of our most memorable moments are when we experience something for the very first time. I remember my first day in a prison, I was with a group of non-custody staff, and the facility trainer paraded us around each unit, showing us off to all the inmates. It was fairly obvious the inmates were watching us, trying to figure out who we were and whether they’d be able to mess with our heads. It wasn’t until years later that I’d call a prisoner a “clear tag” if he inadvertently snitched on another prisoner. “Alright then,” I’d say loudly while clicking my ball-point pen, “give me names.” Offering up too much information usually leads to trouble. After so many years, the older inmates know how to interact and work with the senior staff. Together, we observe the newer, younger kids, eighteen, nineteen years old, playing the part of fools. Someone needs to teach them a lesson. That’s when we play our roles, that’s when we work together for the common good of teaching the youngsters how to do time.

After our first real snow in southeastern Michigan, I walked through the prison mall area, exchanging barbs with someone who completed my class seven months ago. “I see you’re putting that GED to good use,” I said. The inmate cussed at me and kept shoveling the walkway.

Speaking of novices, tomorrow, with the help of my brother, I shall do another poetry reading on YouTube. Sometimes first acts are hard to follow. I'll give it my best.

Oh, and here's a shout out to that DuPont gal in Texas, "Your girls have been notified."

CHARLIE BENDRY HOOKS

Dear Death—F**k you.
From the Editors of CakeTrain Journal.





Whenever my brother and I go fishing with our dad it never fails, one of us—usually me—catch a channel cat and have to perform an emergency tonsillectomy. How else can the hook be retrieved when it’s that far in? Pliers in hand, I’d reach into the cat’s throat and start probing and pulling. “Don’t worry if you break it,” our dad would say. “I got plenty of Charlie Bendry hooks.”

Everyone in Charlie Bendry’s tight circle of friends probably still has those hooks; Charlie was my grandfather’s fishing partner. He claimed to have found a deal in some hunting and fishing catalogue and ordered enough hooks to last several lifetimes. Twenty-some years ago he allegedly became upset over not being able to fix his FarmAll tractor so he grabbed his loaded shotgun and walked behind his barn. His wife found his body the next morning.

Although I don’t recall seeing him laid out, I do remember my parent’s neighbor’s son’s funeral which, unlike Charlie, wasn’t the result of some spur of the moment decision. Who could forget two caskets in the parlor—head to head—husband and wife? Due to the husband’s debilitating illness the couple decided to dress in their Sunday finest and embrace while waiting for the carbon monoxide poisoning to overtake their bodies. Deliberate. Planned. Their frustration, if it existed, masked, hidden. A suicide note left behind.

Then there’s my former student, Prisoner Coley. I had warned him about clowning around in my classroom. “Keep sticking your nose where it don’t belong and sooner or later someone’s gonna get tired of your bullshit.” He supposedly hung himself—but not in that typical Hollywood fashion everyone thinks of. He simply cut off his airway by tying a sheet around his neck and the frame of his cot. There were no dangling feet. Just Coley, flat on his back with his chin tucked in and the sheet taut. Class clown one minute; dead inmate the next.

No matter how hard you try, some hooks you just can’t pull out.

THE FLYING NUN

When my very first boss with the Michigan Department of Corrections asked if I’d like a classroom volunteer, I hesitated answering. “I’m sure she could help the guys with their writing skills,” she said.

I had heard horror stories about volunteers gaining access to the inside of a prison so they could perform extra-curricular activities during those rare unsupervised moments. “I’m not sure it’s worth the headache,” I responded.

For some reason though, my boss sounded enthusiastic about it. She proceeded to tell me that the woman was a nun and a former writer for “The Flying Nun” television series.

I had visions of a young, spunky Sally Fields soaring through the air during the opening credits, but as far as a story line, nothing seemed to surface. Still, a former writer for television volunteering in my classroom?-- seemed too good to be true. I changed my mind, “Sure, why not.”

On the first day in my class she sat among the inmates, freely dispensing sound advice on their essays while I worked with a few guys at the chalkboard. My classroom has never been a quiet place to study; instead, everyone interacts while doing their work. “Books are dead,” I’d often say. “But the people in here are not. Discuss your assignments in small groups. You’ll learn the material better that way.”

I knew something had definitely gone wrong when the noise level dropped off. When I turned around to face my new volunteer, she was sitting all alone at a student desk. The inmates she was helping had moved as far away as possible. She had fallen asleep. I approached her, tapped lightly on the desk, and asked if she’d like a cup of coffee. She in turn became annoyed, as if I disturbed her from a peaceful moment of tranquility.

After two days, I told my boss that I no longer needed her services. My boss looked at me incredulously. “I think she has narcolepsy,” I explained. That was my first and last volunteer.

TWO ELEVATOR STORIES

I’m an elevator boy
just trying to get to the top
of life.
—Sprung Monkey’s “Swirl”
— from Surf Dog Records

I’m not too sure where I heard this story or whether I have all the facts straight, but I’ll retell it anyway. A famous black athlete stepped into an elevator at some ritzy hotel and as soon as the doors slid closed, he noticed a white middle-aged woman all by her lonesome tightly clutching her purse. She deliberately avoided making eye contact with him out of fear. I believe he said, “Hello. How are you today?” —perhaps to get her attention, to ease her uneasiness, perhaps he thought his wealth and fame would set him apart from her perception of other black men. However, she did not recognize him, nor did she answer his question. In fact, at the sound of his baritone voice, she stiffened up and hurriedly inched forward, closer to the metallic doors, waiting for the slightest opening to escape his presence.

Now don’t get me wrong, famous athletes (no matter what origin of race) have their own personal demons—don’t we all?—but if she had only looked up she may have noticed that her fears were ungrounded. That is, unless the athlete happened to be Charles Barkley spewing racist venom, or Mike Tyson whining in that tenor voice of his about how she asked for it, or O.J. Simpson talking about his latest golf outing, or Kobe Bryant staring and smiling, or even some unruly white boys from the Duke University Lacrosse Team bragging about their sexual conquests. But the man in question, if I have my story straight, was Michael Jordan.

When I first started working in a prison setting, I wheeled a cart of GED books from my Level II classroom on the second floor to my Level IV classroom on the first floor. The reason for having two different classrooms seemed simple enough: Level IV’s were a higher security risk, and in case of an emergency, the corrections officers could respond faster. In hindsight, this shouldn’t have mattered; it had been a Level II inmate who sexually assaulted a coworker. On the day that I stepped onto an elevator with two black inmate tutors that looked like they were chiseled from granite, they reminded me that I had let my guard down, that no matter how big of a hurry I was in, I should’ve thought about my choices before going into action. As soon as the doors closed, Mr. Robinson, the larger man wearing mirror shades and dangling a toothpick from his mouth, said, “Do you think this was a good idea?” I had been sandwiched between the two of them with my cart blocking my point of egress. They laughed at my predicament and promised that they’d make sure nothing happened to me. I, in turn, said, “You guys are so full of shit. Don’t act like you’re doing me any favors.” But we both understood what needed to be done from that moment forward: I’d take the elevator and they’d take the stairs.

Yesterday, an inmate, unhappy with the parole board’s decision to flop him, assaulted one of the officers I work with. He punched the officer in the face and stabbed him with a pen. Remember: there are hazards with any job, some more than others.

STEPPING BACK INTO THE BLINDSPOTS

There are days where I feel like I’m retelling the same story, but I’m uncertain as to whether I’ve covered all the details, such as the yellow ribbon the state police used to cordon off the crime scene where a coworker had been sexually assaulted. Last week I was reminded of that detail when I attended a “Performance Learning Systems” conference at my previous place of employment. Marygrove College had been kind enough to hold a training session inside the prison; probably as a last ditch effort to drum up more business for their “Master in the Art of Teaching” program. Their sales pitch reminded me of the time a high school principal at Flint Beecher called to see if I’d be interested in teaching at their inner city school. “Recruiting in the prisons are we?” I said, implying that perhaps they couldn’t find anyone crazy enough to consider their offer. I already knew about how they couldn’t keep the laptops they assigned to their students from ending up in the pawnshops, how the media reported that some of the parents were pawning them to support their drug habits.

“This is where it happened,” I told my fellow coworker, showing him the corner room with only one small rectangular window on the door. After the investigation, the puzzle palace called Lansing, Michigan, released their findings. They claimed that the teacher had been negligent for leaving her PPD (Personal Protection Device) in her desk drawer and that custody staff did not make their rounds in a timely manner. Also, they alluded to the fact that the room was too dangerous to work in. I’m willing to bet no one in Lansing caught any flak for approving the design of the building. The blindspots became more evident as I, the outsider, had time to look about.

“When I worked here,” I told my fellow coworker, “administration reassigned this classroom to me. I guess they thought the room had magically become safe again.” I wanted to step back into that classroom and see the storage area where my coworker had been held hostage. I wanted to see if I’d missed any details. The best way to recall something is to be a part of it again, to experience it in your mind, to relive it, if only for a moment. Because of the training, I didn’t have time to go back.

I leave you with the following short story recommendation which was dedicated to the men at the Cotton Correctional Facility: Davy Rothbart’s “First Snow,” in Pieces: A Collection of New Voices. Davy’s come along way since his Ann Arbor days. His short stories continue to get better and better. Now, if only I could say the same for me.

THE APPRENTICE

All yolked out in spring’s flooded mulch
Kneecaps unhinged, tea bag exposed, palms flat
High-fiving earth, ground’s breath steeped
on Blue Blockers bent
over your bridge.

You took your chance crosscutting Wall Street
Got Humpity-Dumpitied, hedge fund expired
Your version of “The Donald” with a hairline fracture
Your woodchuck toupee clogging up the Ace of Spades
Teased out of your sleeve in a child-like manner
that no longer responds.

They split your wig
Fed you the pig

So you folded—
Like Kenny Rogers
Singing:

This one went to the market

—accompanied by dueling banjoes and
one juice-harp delivering the final crescendo:

You’re fired.

RESUSCITATING POETRY

I may not be a big fan of poetry; however, I'm willing to do CPR if necessary. Here's my first ever poetry reading. I think I'll take a day off from blogging.

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE

So I’m sitting home, alone, watching reruns of F-Troop, when a voice comes out of my television and asks if I am desperate for a change. Of course I am desperate for a change. Who watching reruns of F-Troop isn’t desperate for a change? The answer, says the voice, is career training, and right there it offers certifications in Legal Assistant, Medical Assistant, Taxidermy, Creative Writing, Prison Execution, Driver Education Film Narration. The Taxidermy class was filled, so I opted for creative writing, which is how I ended up in Iowa, going for my MFA.
—William Lashner

Although I wasn’t originally given the task of organizing a GED graduation ceremony at our correctional facility, I knew that the whole event would never get off the ground without my input. It’s not that I’m any more valuable then the next person; in fact, I’ll be first to say, “Anyone can be replaced,” it’s just that I’ve kept a spreadsheet of all the inmate’s GED scores and dates of completion, and no one thought to ask for it. Thus, I took the initiative to get the ball rolling.

Our last graduation ceremony must’ve been in 2001, prior to the GED Exam’s new format. I sorted my spreadsheet by date, with a descending order of current to past. After five pages of passing scores going back to 2002, I had to compare my list with our facility’s pop-sheet. In case you’re wondering, the pop-sheet is a master list of all the prisoners housed at our facility along with their out dates. I managed to whittle the list down to 55 graduates—two of which passed the test in 2002. Now comes the real dilemma: Our facility only has 28 cap and gowns. Thus, another sort, this time from the highest score to the lowest score. The top 27 scorers will have the first opportunity to wear a cap and gown. Also, we’ll hold one cap and gown back for picture taking purposes.

On Monday, we’ll be meeting with our new school principal to iron out the details and assign job tasks. There’s a lot of planning involved to ensure that the ceremony goes according to plan. As long as I’m not the orator, I don’t mind putting forth the time and energy; afterall, this may be the biggest achievement some of our graduates will ever experience. I’m sure their families will be proud of their accomplishments, even though it took being locked up and forced to go to school for them to succeed.

AT WHAT PRICE?

And there is a charge, a very large charge,
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood ...
—Sylvia Plath

I discovered the above diagram in my classroom. It depicts one man’s way of inflicting pain onto himself. Or is it gratification? As if being locked up for raping preadolescent girls wasn’t enough, he needs to practice his sadomasochistic rituals late at night. It’s his way of validating himself, of feeling more alive.

I often wonder whether he thinks about how his victims suffered under his domination? Does it give him pleasure to think about it? I often wonder how his most current defense attorney could win an appeal for him by successfully arguing that the judge showed too much sympathy for the victims, that the judge should not have interjected his feelings while instructing the jury. I often wonder whether his client will get out, like others before him, only to repeat his crime. And if he does, will his defense attorney be able to sleep at night?

I often wonder about another convict whose lawyer (with the help of a well known realtor who purchased the nail from the Uniroyal Tire on I-94 and a popular former Macomb County prosecutor) had bite mark evidence thrown out, which in turn led to his client’s freedom. Did the lawyer know about how his client tried to get the prison dentist to pull his perfectly fine teeth? Did he care? And what about the victim? I’ve heard she has to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of her life. Is he concerned about his former client’s whereabouts now that he’s in the freeworld? Is he concerned that there may be more victims in the near future?

So when is it appropriate to give someone another chance? And which is more costly: keeping someone locked up forever, or risking more victims who will need long-term care?

REGRETS

If I could turn back time.
—Cher

You know an inmate’s been down too long when he asks you, “What’s the difference between a pop-top and a pull-tab?” and he’s fascinated with your explanation, however inaccurate, that the beverage industries created the pop-top in an effort to improve recycling.


Reflecting on his youth, the inmate says, “My little brother and I used to take those pull tabs and make really long chains and hang them in the door way of our kitchen. Our old man wore a Stroh’s hat made from the aluminum. Yarn and glue held it together.”

I nod in agreement and tell him my old man had one of those hats too, way before the deposit law. I ask him if he’s ever heard of reversible vending machines and he says, “No I haven’t.” So I explain to him, “It’s where you feed empty cans and bottles into a machine. It reads the bar codes and tallies how much money the store will owe you.”

He changes his answer, says, “Oh yes I have,” but his sense of awe changes to sadness as he realizes how much he has missed in the outside world. His main source of information comes from the staff and his black and white television. “I’ll probably die in here,” he states.

It’s the subtle changes in our world that go unnoticed. I tell him about the one time the reversible vending machine spit out my receipt and it slid under the plastic cover. I’d thought I lost about ten dollars. After several attempts at trying to fish the receipt out of the crevice, I rang the bell for assistance and waited … and waited … and waited.

I think he thought I meant for him to have patience. Unfortunately, some things can never be reversed.

VAGRANT VAGARIES & BEING POWERLESS

After the lions had returned to their cages, creeping angrily through the chutes, a little bunch of us drifted away and into an open doorway nearby, where we stood for a while in semidarkness, watching a big brown circus horse go harumping around the practice ring.
—E.B. White “The Ring of Time”

After one month of training at the DeMarse Academy in Lansing, Michigan—more appropriately known as the school for the blind, a place Stevie Wonder once attended—and after years of observation (otherwise known as “looking the other way”), I have learned the art of spin. Rule Number One (actually it’s the only rule): When an inmate complains about something, place the blame directly on his shoulders or let him talk until he’s tired of listening to himself.

Our former quartermaster knew all to well how to play this game:

A rather large inmate stretched a pair of thirty-two inch underwear across his waistline. “Do these look like they fit?” he asked.
“No they don’t,” the quartermaster answered.
“Then why are you giving them to me?”
“Look,” the quartermaster explained, “I only process and fill the orders. You wrote thirty-two’s on your form. Maybe you like wearing your underwear tight.”

Or the classic dialogue I’ve been known to use on the low-functioning inmates that bitch about my never scheduling them for the GED Exams:

“You better put me down this time or I’m going to the school principal to lodge a complaint.”
“You want me to put you down?” I ask.
“Yes,” I hear.
“Okay, you’re ugly.”

Or the inmate who discovers that I may have spun him one time too many:

“You tricked me,” he says.
“No I did not,” I reply. “If I wanted to trick you, I would’ve made you wear a wig and a butt-thong and had you prancing down Woodward Avenue.”

In our service-oriented McPrison industry, our customers are always complaining. They’ll say stuff like: “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have a job.” Little do they know, there are plenty of fools in the world ready to join the circus.

Speaking of complaints, after phoning Detroit Edison, they paid us a visit to look at our extremely low wires. They informed us that our telephone pole, erected in 1942, is leaning towards our house and may need to be replaced. Also, they said our neighbor’s trees will need to be cut down. Hopefully I won’t be powerless. Where would I be without it?

DON'T CROSS THAT LINE!

It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.
—Duke Ellington




In the local section of the Detroit Free Press I read an article titled, “Adultery could mean life, court finds.” According to Michigan’s criminal code: anyone involved in an adulterous relationship where sex is involved can be charged with CSC I (Criminal Sexual Conduct). Our very own Attorney General Mike Cox, a confessed adulterer himself, successfully appealed a lower court’s decision to drop CSC charges against a defendant. His office went as far as to say that consensual sex between the two adults was irrelevant. I guess they really want to keep this defendant locked-up, afterall, he’s a drug dealer, and he often traded his product for a little extra curricular activity.

Speaking of overturned convictions, the Michigan Supreme Court had 90 days to grant Mr. Remick a new trial or cut him loose (see 12/15/06 posting for more information). The Attorney General’s office notified Mr. Remick’s lawyer of a hearing date regarding this matter and the information was forwarded to him:

Dear Mr. Remick:

Enclosed you will find the brief filed by the prosecutor in your case. They are attempting to appeal your case to the Michigan Supreme Court. They must attempt to file for leave within 56 days which they did. I have 21 days to file a response in opposition, no matter how incorrect the lower trial Courts have been, the prosecutors appeal everything that they lose. Unfortunately, the Michigan Supreme Court is unbelievably pro prosecution. However, it is not as if there is not case law supporting the reversal ordered by the Court of Appeals. Once I file a response, the Supreme Court can either grant leave, in which case I’ll have to file further briefs, or they can deny leave and then the ruling by the Court of Appeals stands.

I will forward my responsive brief in opposition just as soon as I file it.

Sincerely,
The Law Offices of Dewey, Cheetum, and Howe.

Now I’m wondering—whose wife did Mr. Remick sleep with? And if so, was she tried and convicted as well? They certainly want to keep him behind bars.

MORE NOTES ON FAILURE

If writing quickens one’s sense of life, like falling in love, like being precariously in love, it is not because one has any confidence in achieving success, but because one is most painfully and constantly made aware of mortality: the persistent question being, Is this the work I fail to complete, is this the “posthumous” work that can only make an appeal to pity …?
—Joyce Carole Oates

Approximately one year ago I had been running eight to twelve miles a day. This, while taking two college courses and creating a Science Olympiad event from scratch. I’d come home most nights literally exhausted, my body aching and too tired for conversation—that sense of accomplishment fading away as my head hit the pillow. After ten months of nervous energy, my wife confronted me. “You’re starving your body,” she said.

“No I’m not,” I replied. In fact, I had increased my caloric intake to sustain my newest lifestyle. After years of coming home from work and fixing myself a cocktail and hearing “You should start exercising,” I threw in the towel, got off my ass, and did something about it. When I put my mind to something, when I say, “That’s it, I’m going to do it,” there’s only one approach I’ve grown accustomed to—full throttle ahead. I still think dropping my weight from 170 to 138 pounds in a year’s time was fairly reasonable. The proof is in the picture. Some of you may think I look horrible, while others may think, “What happened to him now?” That’s an easy one to answer: kidney stones.

It doesn’t matter what the task is: exercising, writing fiction, or blogging, I’ve always been serious about everything in life I’ve tried. (Don’t get me wrong: I’ve quit or failed at plenty of things—Engineering School was my biggest disaster.) But lately, it’s the small missteps that’ll drive me crazy. Just yesterday, I mistakenly called Ellie “Emily.” She politely corrected me and didn’t get angry like I had once done when my wife informed me that her friends thought the newer, lighter version of me meant that my cancer had returned. Also, Patterns of Ink informed me that Pollyanna did not die; instead, she became paralyzed from the waist down. Still, no glad games for me. If only I could do everything in moderation, then maybe I’d achieve more in life; there’s no sense in thinking I’ll finish all those things I’ve set out to do.

HIGH RATIO FAN RESISTANCE

Once in a very blue moon, an inmate will say to me, “You’re probably the best teacher I’ve ever had,” and my typical hurried response: “What do you want?”

I’m not comfortable with compliments because in the prison system most words and actions are calculated maneuvers. Maybe the inmate wants to soften me up so he can get some typing paper or a calendar or a stick of gum—although gum requests seemed to have dropped off lately due to my gross display of offering them the chewed piece in my mouth.

I guess what I’m really trying to say is that I have a difficult time accepting praise. After fifteen years of working in a correctional facility, you tend to view things from a different perspective, you become cynical, and your habits seemed to get altered—like sitting with your back to the wall and facing the exit while dining in a restaurant—your optimism slowly transforms into pragmatism or worse. No Pollyanna glad games here; afterall, doesn’t Pollyanna die in the end? No one’s going to snuff me out early without a fight. At least in the restaurant I can crawl under the table during a hold up and fight for my survival.

Now that I’ve thrown all my self-loathing and negativity to the wind, I’d like to publicly thank Ellie for her kind words. If you haven’t already read what she had to say about me, I suggest you have a look for yourself: Ellie's praise. Also, if you leave her a comment, I beg of you: Don’t talk about me. Heaven forbid that the truth comes out.

Thanks for keeping me motivated, Ellie. PS “How much do I owe you?”

THE MANIFESTATION

When the electronic gate clanked open yesterday morning, a second teacher joined me in emptying his pockets and walking through the metal detector. While I was reclaiming my personal items—car keys, loose change, wrist-watch, computer disk, and eye glasses, I said to the senior officer, “Hey, he’s got a gate manifest, have her look at his.” Prior to my suggestion, the rookie officer wanted to know whether I could bring reading material into the prison, and if so, whether I needed a gate manifest.

The second teacher, who is definitely not a morning person, looked at me rather irritably and yanked his wallet out of his back pocket and found his gate manifest. “So,” the rookie officer observed, “he’s allowed to bring reading material into the prison.” Then she turned to me and asked, “Where’s yours?”

The second teacher chimed in, “Yeah, where’s yours?” He knew I didn’t have one.

I went through my usual you-should-be-greatful-that-I-helped-you-learn-something-about-the-prison-system routine, which, by the way, worked. Both of us were permitted to enter the facility. My coworker looked at me incredulously, “Man, you’re something else.”

“I was trying to help them out,” I said.

“No you weren’t,” he argued. Although crabby in the morning, he was definitely alert.

Not to be evasive, but the book I was bringing into the prison wasn’t technically a book—it was a journal, an inaugural issue of “Murdaland.” I’ve been reading, discussing, and studying the stories in it. I’ve been reworking my nonfiction piece, “Kenny’s Got a Toad,” extending the storyline, making it nonfiction (there has to be a murder) and prepping it for the editor.

Not to be the one to have the last word, but if I’m confronted about reading material again, here’s my answer: “Unlike the other teacher, who is a vocational teacher, I do not need a gate manifest because I am an academic teacher.”

MEMORIES FROM A HAZY PICTURE

Some photographs are never clear; we can only guess or interpret the grainy images before us. In the picture above, I’m standing in front of a classroom bulletin board, circa 1990. I stood before a classroom full of troubled teenage girls housed in a facility called Northwest near Wyoming and Feinkel in Detroit. One of my most memorable moments had to be the day after the Pistons won their first or second NBA basketball championship—as I approached Monte Vista, the dead-end side street where I usually parked my car—I had to dodge broken glass and newsstands thrown into the middle of the road. My sleepy students informed me of the celebratory gunshots they heard all night long.

Another time, before I knew any better, I stopped to grab breakfast at the McDonald’s on Wyoming. After telling a prostitute in the parking lot that I wasn’t interested in what she had to offer, I went into the restaurant and placed my order. As I sat down in a booth, the prostitute reappeared, sliding in next to me. I threatened to get the manager; so in a last ditch effort, she told me she was a crack addict and needed some money to feed her children. I simply replied, “You’ll have to find it elsewhere.”

Yet another memorable moment had to be the ongoing use of an outdated textbook on Health and Hygiene. I’d have my students take turns reading the pages outloud, only stopping to interpret the silly cartoon messages peppered throughout each chapter. “Teisha, please read the bubble above the character,” I said. The other students objected, mainly because Teisha wasn’t pregnant like the rest of them. “I’d be glad to,” Teisha proudly responded, and then in a loud retaliatory voice she said, “Quit your urgin’ be a virgin.”

Lastly, I notice from the hazy image, the word “Happy” in the upper right hand corner of the picture. In an attempt to get my students to feel better about themselves, I had them decorate the bulletin board. Of course, the central figure happens to be a baby, sandwiched between Roger Rabbit and a duckling.

This was my first teaching job and I never did stick around long enough to see whether any of these girls succeeded in life. On a sadder note, the Detroit Free Press has been covering a torture case involving a Tamika Williams, 30, and her adopted twin girls. Could this be the 13-year old Tamika that once sat in my classroom? And if so, what triggered her to use her children as human ashtrays?

HEAD RUSH

“I have a universe inside me. Where I can go—on spirit guide me. There I can ask—oh—any questions. I get the answers if I listen. I have a healing room inside meeeee….”
—Sinead O’Connor
“The Healing Room”





I’m not Sinead O’Connor; I’m not an Irish folk singer reincarnated. My long slender fingers aren’t ripping up a picture of the Pope. Such craziness—a bug blipping my radar. But I’m not her. My passion differs. I’m holding a personal note in my brain. Call it a head rush. I’m riding the wind, two mini-flags permanently suction-cupped to my scalp. Or are they magnetized? I’m not sure. They flap and flap and flap, changing form—a disoriented parallax—a concession to my husband’s quick getaway.

Why is he on the run when I clearly am not? Is it my curt message received on the dash? Did he get it? Did he even understand it? I’d say he’s made confetti and here’s the parade, but our children are numb by it all. He’s copping the yellow in his rhythm, cruising the California at the three-way. Everyone else is blowing reds, and now, kudos to him, there’s a whole freight train of vehicles barreling down on us. They run the gamut: family, friends, constituents, the liberal minded media—a regular delegation cruising down Woodward.

He’s dyed his hair gunmetal black and splashed a newer, spicier Stetson’s for Men on the nape of his neck. He’s calling his PR man and fiddling with the presets on his FM radio. Country music, how appropriate. He’s never liked it before. Songs about drinking and breaking up. Hey, this is Shania Twain, it’s different. Yes, I duly mock him. And what’s with the black leather gloves? The chauffeur’s cap? He claims to be a different man. You’re not getting away that easy, I tell him. My flag-antennae sense that others are taking my side. Swanson and Son’s compliments have rendered him speechless. My feelers feel the other woman’s scent. I want to be brave. I want to destroy that mental note scuttling inside my brain. I want this head rush to quit. I want to start over.

I half-heartedly apologize. Oh, I’m sorry—did I wreck your concentration? Is that decaf you spilled on your Christian Dior shirt? When did you start drinking coffee anyway? Maybe your latest fling can help you out of your middle-aged crisis. Someone should celebrate your victory. Or will it be another concession speech?

His former secretary, Beth, confided in me that she will no longer dictate memorandums for corporate whores who sip Earl Grey tea and fondle college interns from tall wingback chairs. I ask him, Are you a corporate whore? Are you? I’m sure he’ll explain—cut to the quick—I am not a Republican, nor am I a Democrat—then he’ll hold my gaze and, shifting gears, slide his hand along my thigh and tell me the God awful truth—I’m a compassionate conservative.

Fine. Be noncommittal. But remember: this is no longer your jurisdiction, this is no longer your home. I’m riding the wind. I’m chasing my car. It’s my sanctuary. Where I’m discovered. Where I’ll go. Where I’m going. Two mini-flags suction-cupped to my head. A magnetic field pulling me away.

The reality is this: our intermittent marriage fuels my passion; my husband is not the image he portrays. I love him. I’ll wipe away what the journalist said to me at the Roostertail Fund-raiser. She recommended putting him down like a dog. I’ll have none of that. I’ll have none of this windshield wiper fluid fanning out like gossip in a crowd. I’ll keep these thin dirty streaks to myself. I’ll wash away the bugs. I’m riding the wind, streamlining the fender. I’m waiting for the rainbow to regain its color. There’s beauty beneath it somewhere. I’ll destroy my words, sprinkle them onto the floorboard, terminate the static. Listen, I gesture, Don’t you dare turn away from what I have to say. There’s no need in kissing babies. Or turning back for that matter. Everyone’s acting so glum. Remember: there’s as much talk about me as there is about you. ‘Tailgating’s only illegal,’ they say, ‘if you can’t bring your auto under control.’ But don’t worry Dear, the children took the bus, and even though I’ve turned the ignition, I will never ever leave the garage.

TAKING IT BUG BY BUG

Tomorrow I will give a presentation to eighty-some Science Olympiad coaches regarding the insect competition I’ll be coordinating this spring. Overwhelmed with information, a majority of the rookie coaches will beg for advice on how to approach the material. This year I’m going to read them an excerpt from Ann Lamott:

Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he’d had three months to write, which was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother’s shoulder, and said, “Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”

Hopefully they’ll understand the message, that each child should have fun identifying the various insects and insect orders and to prepare ahead of time.

Tomorrow I will also lose thirty-pounds, put on a dress, and ride across the United States like Thelma or Louise, except instead of ending a troubled relationship, I’ll be heading straight toward resolving one. At least that’s my intention when I take on the House of Sternberg's latest writing assignment: Using a first person narrative from gender perspective opposite your own, write seven-hundred words about unrequited love using the title, “Head Rush.” Also, the character must have some deformity, imagined or otherwise.

Of course, neither task is related. That is to say, I will not be in drag singing show tunes at the Science Olympiad presentation. The second task is imagined; the first is real. Your comments will be greatly appreciated, especially on the writing assignment (and not on how you think I’d look in a skirt). Lastly, once my new writing assignment appears, the old one will self-distruct. Why? Because I’m reworking the story, taking the two dozen or so suggestions and reshaping and extending the fictional dream.

GETTING THE SHOWROOM READY

A prison classroom is often viewed as a factory, where the teacher is expected to meet the facility’s quota annually. I’ve found that “making quota” is a nice way to shoot yourself in the foot, especially since no matter how many GED’s you produce, Lansing is never satisfied. They want you to increase your numbers each year by some arbitrary number pulled out of a hat. Never mind that the Michigan Department of Corrections is losing teachers through attrition. Never mind the temporary set backs such as an illness or assault on a staff member. You are on the assembly line dammit, so why are you not producing?

Our yearly audit has been postponed thank God, however, soon we’ll have the leader of our state’s prison education system at our door, her staff asking questions, pulling files, demanding answers. And to be truthful—I have nothing to say that hasn’t been said before. Way back (November 8, 1995 to be exact), School Principal Tim Hogan defended us prison educators in regards to thirty-two contact hours per week with inmates. “What happens when they speed up the line in a factory?” he asked in his memorandum. “The workers try to keep up, but then they 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 the thirty-two hours is strictly enforced, the teachers will try to do their best, but they too will become frustrated and ultimately less productive.” Twelve years later and I can honestly say that Mr. Hogan’s prediction has hit the target dead center—a bullseye if I’ve ever seen one. Files are incomplete. Academic plotters vary from facility to facility. GED Scores get lost. The list goes on and on.

As for me, I’m starting out my week by cleaning house, by getting rid of the dead weight in my classroom. Our facility has gone from five academic teachers to the current low of two. We have a waiting list of students begging to be enrolled in school. I can’t see someone taking up space in my classroom. I’ve got my target group. I’ve had them sign on the dotted line when quarterly evaluations were due. There should be no surprises. I’m going to get that showroom back in order, just in time for our annual audit. Out with the old, and in with the new. And as usual, when the head honchos walk past my room with their clipboards in hand, I’ll say to the inmates, “Okay now, it’s time to put on a show,” and they will shine.

TRUE LIES, TRUE ROMANCE

It’s a known fact that I’ve shared with many people: I did not mature until the age of twenty-nine. I had always said that I’d marry by the age of thirty, and true to my word, I got hitched one year earlier than my goal. During that stressful year, I hired in with the Michigan Department of Corrections, bought a 1970’s style ranch house, bought a brand new 1992 Ford Tempo, and helped plan my wedding. My parents and my in-laws agreed to pay two-thirds of the wedding cost, while my future wife and I paid the other third. Also during that time, my future wife bought a 1992 Lumina. She took out a loan through her employer’s private bank. Not that it matters now, but that Lumina was the crappiest car I’d ever had the pleasure of wasting time at a dealership with.

The day that our offer had been accepted on the house was the day that I proposed—Hey, I never claimed to be the romantic type—in fact, my proposal went something like this: “I guess we should probably get married, now that we bought a house together.” I never got down on one knee, I didn’t purchase an engagement ring, I simply stated a fact while driving over to her parents home. I can’t even remember what my wife said at the time. I’m thinking she said, “Okay,” but I’m not sure. Maybe she said, “Yes” or “Good idea.” Do I have any regrets as to how it went down? No. I’m a practical man, a realist. We sprung the news on her parents in pretty much the same way, “We just bought a house and we’re planning on getting married.” I never asked for permission to marry their daughter. My guess: at that age it’s perfectly acceptable to come right out and state your intentions.

Within the first month of working at my new job (prison in Detroit), I was told to close down my classroom and report to personnel immediately. I had asked my boss, “What’s going on?” She told me the Internal Revenue Service wanted to have a word with me. For some reason, I thought my future wife’s bold face lie about not having a car loan had something to do with this. Prior to our purchasing the house, she had told the loan officer, “My car’s paid for.” The loan officer looked at both of us in disbelief—two new automobiles and no car payments.

As I traveled between desks in the elongated personnel department toward the personnel director’s office, a Hispanic man in a fancy suit greeted me. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. “Mr. Garcia,” he said. “FBI.” The secretaries and office help were looking at me as if I had done something tragically wrong.

Puzzled, I asked for clarification, “I thought you were with the IRS.” The personnel director intervened. He said it was a joke. He knew beforehand that I was purchasing a home, so he thought he’d throttle me some. “Go ahead and take my office,” he told the FBI agent.

As soon as I plunked my ass in a chair, the agent started. “So you’re purchasing a house and getting married?” I was unimpressed, he could’ve received that information from the personnel director. “Your dad’s a tool maker by trade?” I might’ve mentioned this to someone at work. Then he came right out and asked, “Do you know a Lisa Wilson?”

I couldn’t believe it. Had my past caught up with me? She and I used to hangout together. I wanted to be exclusive with her, but she dumped me. The standard line: “I just want to be friends.” Story of my life. She had applied for a Federal Job and had put me down as a reference. I answered his questions as truthfully as possible. “Have you ever known her to use drugs, smoke marijuana?”

“No,” I said. I guess we all tell lies when needed. She knew that I was getting married, that she wasn’t invited to the wedding. After my first year of marriage, she called my parents and asked how I was doing. They said, “Fine. Just fine.” I’ve never heard from or about her since—our lives traveling their own separate ways—fourteen years later, my wife and I perfectly content.

CORRECT ME IF I'M WRONG

Correct me if I’m wrong, but the last time I checked—I’m just a convict teacher with a bachelor’s degree, working for the Michigan Department of Corrections. Nothing spectacular, just someone who helps the dregs of society improve their academic skills. But there’s another, more academically demanding side of me; I volunteer countless hours preparing for and running an insect competition called “Don’t Bug Me,” for the largest county in the United States participating in the Elementary Schools Science Olympiad Program (80 schools and climbing). So when a United States Presidential Award Winning Elementary School Teacher of Science (it’s on her business card) with a master’s degree emails me, asking if I would be so kind as to provide her school district with the practical (including insect displays) for their district competition, I politely decline.

First of all, her district’s competition is scheduled on the same day that I volunteer at another school district. She knew this in advance. She even mentioned it in her email, which in turn means that I would have to come up with duplicate insect displays. Secondly, I let her borrow all of this material for their district event last year, and in return, I got a half-dozen chocolate-covered pretzel sticks for my efforts. Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you think someone who has won the United States Presidential Teaching Award for Science (again, it’s on her business card) would demonstrate a tad bit more appreciation—perhaps a gift-card or certificate for a nice dinner out. The chocolate covered pretzel sticks were probably given to her from a parent anyway.

Correct me if I’m wrong—remember, I’m just your average Joe and probably not the brightest, but don’t you think that if she really wanted my insect displays and test material, she’d change the date of their district competition? Last but not least, her school district (they have a higher socio-economic status than where I live) kicked my school districts proverbial ass at the county competition. Besides, she has her summers off. She should spend her time and effort collecting and researching her own damn insects.

Desirea Madison of "Ambition" tagged me with the following: “Five Things You Probably Don’t Know About Me.” Here it goes:

1. My high school graduating class voted me “The Biggest Grouch,” in their mock elections.
2. I used to be a foot soldier for General Biscuit. My enemy: National Biscuit (Nabisco).
3. As a limousine chauffeur, I once left six middle-aged women stranded at a gas station when their divorce party turned into a “we hate all males” night.
4. As the new kid in a new junior high trying to gain a reputation as a “bad ass,” I deliberately stepped on another kid’s hand, breaking his thumb.
5. At my old junior high, I deliberately hit the classroom bully over the back of his head with a drafting stool because he poked me with his compass on a daily basis. I served a three-day suspension for my deed.

LESS IS MORE, MORE OR LESS

"The short story is written in a manner similar to the way it's read, which is all at once. At some point in a short story, the writer sits down and writes it all the way through from beginning to end. Whether it's on the eleventh draft or on the first draft, there's a wholeness to it, a momentum to it, a seeing of it all the way through."
--Lorrie Morrie,
author of Birds of America

I received an interesting e-mail the other day from Flashquake inviting me to enter their "Less Is More" micro-fiction contest which, by the way, happens to be free. They're looking for complete stories that have clear characters, a conflict, and a setting, and--get this--you must do it within 100 words. For more information go to http://flashquake.org . There's something about getting straight to the point, the heated argument, and quickly satisfying the reader by sprinting to the finish line that I find challenging. I've already sent them one micro-fiction story titled "Hurt's Proposition," and I'm working on another one. Hey, there's money to be won here!

HOW TO SAVE A LIFE

“The elderly are us, grown old, and their lessons for survival, even renewal, are our only preparation for the future.”
—Peter Stine, Editor of Witness

A majority of the inmates do not like the new 2007 version of me, preferring the older 2006 model, and suspected something might be slightly askew when they read the following question on my classroom board: Will the new year be the same as the old year? First, they protested that I no longer handed out full-length sheets of writing paper. Some even mumbled the following, “He’s a straight-up asshole.” Not that I needed to explain myself, but from past observations, the classroom assignments were not being completed. Instead, the paper was used for doodling on, writing rap lyrics, or writing letters home. Prisoner Brown went so far as to say, “I should write a grievance on you for not allowing us to do our work on regular sized paper.”

Before I could address his complaint, I told him to sit in a chair and not on the table. He’d been rather cantankerous since being released from segregation and refused to move. I said, “If, when you were in isolation, they brought you your food and instead of eating it, you chose to sling it at a corrections officer, it wouldn’t be long and you’d be getting your proper nutrients presented to you in a slightly different form.” He understood what I meant. Per policy, an inmate can not be denied a well-balanced meal. Thus, in this type of scenario, his food (perhaps a ham and cheese sandwich, cole slaw, and chips, with a glass of milk) would be mixed together in a blender and baked into a nice solid cake commonly known as nutriloaf. “I suggest you quit complaining, take the two half-sheets of paper, find a chair to sit in, and get to work.”

He refused to budge.

I told him about my younger days as a lifeguard. In order to pass my Water Safety Class and get a job as a lifeguard, I had to prove that I could rescue the instructor from the deep end of the pool. Not an easy task. He’d pull your hair, pinch you, choke you, and do whatever he could to stay above the water. But if you practiced the proper life saving techniques none of those things would occur.

“It’s like this Mr. Brown,” I said, “I’m not going to let you get a hold of me. I’m going to dive under water, spin you around, and ride-out your resistance. In fact, I’m going to bring you ashore alive, exhausted, and gasping for air ... or dead, your lips purple, your lungs full of water. Your choice.”

He smiled, and I decided to carefully bring him ashore.

ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL

If I ever entered the political arena, if I ever ran for office, I’m the type of person that’d get comfortable in a tall leather wing-back chair, where I’d forget about serving my constituents (they say power changes purpose, at least Shakespeare did) and would need someone like the late-former United States President Gerald Ford, God rest his soul, to grant me a pardon.

Better that I never become an elected official, not even an appointed one. Once, during my highschool senior year, I received the most votes from my peers to be our cross country captain, but after one too many complaints and rumors of my free spirited ways as a weekend warrior, the coach decided at the midseason point, after a dismal Detroit Lions type record, to have cocaptains. I considered it a demotion, laughed it off, and no longer offered sound advice. “I suggest you stick with the front pack,” I’d tell the inexperienced freshmen, knowing that the other team used two or three rabbits at the beginning of a race to tire out their opponents. I might’ve fooled them once or twice, but not for long. If I were on Survivor, I’m the type of person you’d forget about on account of my getting the ax at the first tribal counsel.

It’s best that I keep my mouth shut and listen to others. As the saying goes: You learn with your ears and not your mouth. Which brings me to my next point—don’t let the title of Joel Saltzman’s self-help book fool you—writing is not easy—it’s the most difficult, most self-tortuous task I’ve ever wrestled with. Joan Didion got it right about the whole writing process, “…that there is always a point in the writing of a piece when I sit in a room literally papered with false starts and cannot put one word after another and imagine that I have suffered a small stroke, leaving me apparently undamaged but actually aphasic.” Gee, maybe I should drop my pencil and run like hell.

With that said, I’d like to take a moment to nominate two individuals for the Seventh Annual Weblog Awards . In the “Best Teen Weblog” category my choice is Theory of Thought by none other than The Thinker. This anonymous sixteen-year-old young lady not only understands HTML code, but she knows how to effectively communicate with other bloggers. Her writing style is not only mature for her age, but also thought-provoking. My other nomination goes to Michelle's Spell for “Best Writing of a Weblog.” Don’t let the provocative pictures fool you; as my former writing instructor, Dr. Brooks (yeah Ph.D) consistently demonstrates a natural ability with words. She’s also the person who got me started with this whole blogging business. Thanks for suggesting a daily dose of pain in the form of mini-strokes—what better way for me to improve my writing. Both candidates deserve recognition for their steady dedication to writing in the blogosphere. Please vote by January 10th. Thanks.

MY ANXIETY COMES FROM THE T.V.

I hung my Wild & Scenic Michigan 2007 calendar on the kitchen wall only to have it taken down and filled full of doctors and dentist’s appointments, Science Olympiad meetings, presentations and events, birthdays, anniversaries, and whatever else my significant other deems important. Since I’m not a long term planner (and as exciting as watching wet paint dry), I wake up most mornings staring at the date, wondering how much fun I might be having if I could only do whatever I wanted. I simply dream about how I might squeeze a few fun-filled moments into my life. For instance, I’ve always wanted to go to the Ann Arbor book fair, however, it’s usually the same week as my annual catfish tournament, which, incidentally, is the only event I pencil in every year once I get the details. I shouldn’t have scheduling conflicts when it comes to things that interest me.

I used to count going to the gym at five o’clock in the morning and running six miles as quality time for myself, but as I get older and wiser, I treat it for what it is—a way to burn calories and boost my metabolism rate while half-asleep. What can I say? If I’m going to feel like a gerbil on a wheel, I might as well make it as painless as possible. Maybe I need to get a hobby, something more than the occasional Sudoku puzzle or television show to occupy my mind.

More and more, I study that damn calendar like an inmate studies the hashmarks on his cell wall. Allow me to do some quick math regarding “eighty and out,” (My Age + Years of Employment = Retirement). I’m forty-three with fifteen years of teaching in the Department of Corrections. That’s fifty-eight. Subtract that from eighty. Twenty-two. Cut that number in half. Eleven. Yeah right, as if I’ll be able to retire when I’m fifty-four (54 + 26 = 80). After completing his first year of retirement, my dad said, “I don’t know where I ever found the time to go to work, I’m busier now than ever before.” Imagine that! When is it going to be my turn?