IF YOU'RE FAMILY, LOOK AWAY

Except for a certain Polish corrections officer tackling an inmate on the Level IV small yard and driving him into the fence and confiscating two shanks, my countless hours as a prison educator have approached the rather mundane. I’m afraid this has given me plenty of time to reflect on my days as a chauffeur, and I have yet to exhaust my repertoire of night-life stories.

While I navigated a college campus wasting money on the institution of higher learning, Dave, an acquaintance from my high school graduating class, chose an entirely different career path. During our junior and senior years, Dave hired our hall monitor as an unofficial bouncer to collect the $5 cover charge for keg parties at his parent’s house. Dave would spin records from his turntable, piping music from his expensive stereo equipment into the nearby woods. We’d stand around a bonfire, sometimes lucky enough to find someone of the opposite sex to cozy up to.

Dave never had an interest in college. Instead, he started his own DJ service and many years later provided the music for my very own wedding reception. For all practical purposes, Dave became a rather successful businessman with a regular crew DJ’ing various gigs in the metropolitan Detroit area. For a little extra cash, he provided wedding packages—DJ and limousine services together. I haven’t seen Dave in more than ten years but I’m sure he’s expanded into the video market as well.

But I digress. Dave purchased his first limousine at a police auction—a pimped-out, former drug-dealer’s white Volvo stretch limousine with gold plated trim. When his limo wasn’t being leased, I became his personal chauffeur. He knew I had my chauffeur’s license and that I’d fulfill the necessary role—the typical stuff—driving from bar to bar, opening and closing car doors, and calling him boss. I didn’t mind.

Dave liked his beer too. And his women. There was countless times where he’d leave a bar with a gal under his arm. “Homeward James,” he’d say.

Interesting, how I had fallen into the daily grind of a chauffeur’s dull life, enveloped in the leather cocoon of a fancy car, reading required novels inside my parked appendage, wary of others parking too close; whereas, Dave partied the night away, meeting women from one local watering hole to the next. On one particular night, after closing time, Dave and some young hussy requested to be taken back to his bachelor pad. Naturally, he put the tinted privacy window up as I cruised down the road. I never paid much attention—it was always Dave and some awestruck, lightheaded floozy willing to perform God knows what in the back of his ride, his very own wing nut ready to go for a spin.

When I arrived at their final destination, I did the standard opening and closing of car doors. I never made eye-contact with his lady friends, the chauffeur’s cap remaining slightly tilted forward, but on this night, for whatever reason, I looked up. “Will that be all, Boss?” I asked.

He dismissed me for the night.

A couple days later, he called to see if I wanted to work again. “Sure,” I answered.

He complained about not getting laid. “My luck has got to change,” he said, “For some reason that last girl turned into a real ice queen when we got back to my place.”

I proceeded to tell him why. “Dave, she’s my cousin.”

IT'S NOT WHAT YOU THINK

I had visions of being brought up on rape charges for a situation I had absolutely no control over. Per my client’s instructions, I was given the general descriptions of two women and where to pick them up. At first I was uncertain as to what these men were celebrating, but after making the twenty-five minute trek to their inner-city bungalow, an unsanctioned frat house off John R (not too far from Wayne State University), and after receiving their unusual request, I knew that if I refused—my chances of getting paid would vanish. So off I went, instrumental in their plans, searching for two biker chicks, hoping to score some big money by the end of the night.

I had absolutely no difficulty finding them. They stood on a desolate street corner near an abandoned house smoking cigarettes under a liquor store’s half-lit neon sign. From a distance they looked like your average Detroit hustlers, desperate to drum up a little cash for whatever vices made them tick. As soon as they saw the limousine, they picked up their duffel bags and approached me. We exchanged pleasantries, including complaints about suck-ass late-night work hours. “Remember to get the money up front,” one said to the other. Something I hadn’t yet learned myself.

Turns out these Wayne State frat boys were having a bachelor party and were eager to pass the hat around for the intended strip show. After counting the gwop, and shoving it into a duffel bag, these women placed a chair in the middle of the room for the bachelor. He quickly sat his drunken ass down.

I didn’t see much after that. As the clothes came off, the frat boys whooped and hollered, tightening their circle around all three. “Back off motherfuckers,” one stripper yelled. “Quit grabbing my tits,” the other one complained. I started getting nervous; the frat boys seemed too aggressive. “What’d you bitches expect?” one frat boy said. “We’re paid in full.”

Luckily, the strip tease didn’t turn uglier. The drunken frat boys backed away, clutching their long neck beer bottles like pacifiers while these biker chicks flung nunchucks over, around, up, and under their shoulders, arms, and legs. I did receive my money that night; however, the best tip came from these women when I gave them a ride home. “Don’t ever get yourself into a situation you can’t handle,” one of them advised.

DANCING THE NIGHT AWAY

I’ve occasionally heard about college girls paying their tuition by working in strip clubs and escort services, so when a posse of middle-aged women corralled me and started shoving dollar bills down my pants, I knew I’d inadvertently stooped to a new all-time low. “Please put the money in my hand,” I initially said as they coyly distracted me one after another. Then, tired from my all-nighter and outnumbered, I raised my arms above my shoulders and said, “Bring it on.”

My days of donning a chauffeur’s cap and leather gloves and driving a Lincoln Continental stretch limousine ended years ago. I’ve regained my dignity—that is, if you can tolerate some of the convicts’ insults and the monotonous routines of prison work. The money certainly is better. A three hour limo ride meant fifteen dollars in my pocket plus whatever tip money came my way. The drunker the clients, the better the tip; In this case, as I drove down the road, these middle-aged women lowered the divider window and tossed their bras onto the dashboard in a moment of glee. Hardly a dull moment that night; the money kept coming in, via my awkward dance routine.

From my three years of chauffeuring, I can honestly say that those bachelorette parties were the raunchiest. After bar-hopping all night, after witnessing a soon-to-be bride pick up her third male bar-patron, after being interrupted from doing my college coursework and sitting on the hood of the car as it violently rocked back and forth, I thought about whether her soon-to-be husband was performing some deviant acts of his own. Perhaps, since she had told me his bachelor party was scheduled on the very same night, they had agreed to one last hurrah, one last go-around, a sure-fire-way of complicating their marriage even before it started. Myself, I’d rather keep life simple. In fact, before my wife and I got hitched, we had one big pre-wedding party, and I promised her that my chauffeuring days were over.

MOVE OVER, BILL PULLMAN

If I am the system administrator for the school computers at our facility, then you might as well call me Bill Pullman and Thank You for Smoking in my classroom. As far as I’m concerned (and don’t get me wrong, I love electronic gadgets and the latest technology) the Michigan Department of Technology, aka DIT, in all their infinite wisdom, can figure out this whole computer network mess on their own.

Ten years ago, after former President Bill Clinton’s decree “computers in every classroom,” I threw every computer cord and cable I had into a large box and dropped it into the assistant deputy warden’s office. “Your memo’s in there too,” I told him. “I won’t be needing it.” Back then he wanted the teachers to inventory all the cords and cables at the end of their shift. I didn’t have time for such silliness, considering that the inmates, per policy, could have longer cords in their cells. Hey, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know whether equipment’s missing when booting up the computers each morning.

Once the daily inventory fell by the wayside, this very same deputy-dog sent us a memo demanding we give him every piece of software in our possession. As he pointed out, the Data Processing Coordinator would handle all the software issues. Another laughable, chaotic mess—considering that the DP Coordinator would often ask us for the software in order to fix the problem. “I dunno,” I’d often respond, “Ask the dep, maybe he’s got it.”

Back to DIT, they want to set up a meeting between the school principal and me to sort out any possible computer issues. The DIT guy keeps coming to my classroom asking questions. “I dunno,” I keep answering. Each state department may be understaffed and overworked, yet I see numerous positions available for Program Analysts in DIT, and zero positions available for teachers. My solutions—hire someone who can figure this mess out on their own, or donate the computers to the poorest school district in the county. I’m sure the elementary school kids are more deserving of them anyway.

I CAN EXPLAIN

The evening my wife opened our front door and a drunken Puerto Rican woman asked to see me, I knew I had some more explaining to do. The day started out innocently enough, my wife toiling away at work while I stayed home hanging a drop ceiling in our soon-to-be finished basement. At around noonish, this Puerto Rican lady rang the doorbell.

“What do you want?” I had asked.

She smiled and pointed to Mrs. Anderson’s house, our bed-ridden arthritic neighbor. I heard three forced words in broken English, “Milk, bread, ride.” That’s when I thought I understood; Our Catholic Church (the one I hadn’t gone back to since the day I got married) arranged to have affordable caretakers looking after Mrs. Anderson—this must be one of them, a heavier set, freckled J Lo.

“Just a sec,” I said, before grabbing my car keys. I offered to drive her to Farmer Jacks, the nearest grocery store, but she insisted on the party store across the street. At first I waited in the car; then I decided a six pack of beer might help me get through my project. As I stepped into the store, the clerk was placing J Lo’s items in a bag—a fifth of cheap vodka and a pack of cigarettes.

I guess because of my purchase, she thought it would be fine to come back later in the day and see if I’d make another liquor run for her. “Husband here?” she asked my wife.

“No he’s not, nor do I expect him home any time soon.”

The Puerto Rican woman looked at my parked car in the driveway and staggered across our lawn. I set my beverage on the kitchen table, approached my wife and said, “I can explain.”

IS IT TEMPORARILY CLOSED?

I’m not too fond of real estate agents. I remember going to an open house and showing a genuine interest in buying the place, only to have the agent shoo me away. That’s right—he couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Back then (around 1992) it was a seller’s market. I simply said, “I’d like to make an offer on this house,” and the real estate agent was quick to pull me aside, not wanting me to deter others from doing the same. After our formal introductions, I tried to give him a buyer-broker’s card, but he stepped back like I had the bubonic plague. “Fine,” I said walking towards the front door, “There’s more houses to look at.” It just goes to show you, he was representing the seller and didn’t want to split the commission.

I had already been pre-approved for a loan for some ridiculous amount of money and hired a buyer-broker. To seal the deal I paid him a one-dollar retainer fee, which he said he would happily return once I purchased a house. It wasn’t long after that, when my girlfriend and I were finished with the closing on a house that I said to him, “Hey, where’s my buck?” He gladly returned it, knowing that his real money came in the form of a split commission. Even after that, when Century 21 gave the previous owners too much money from the escrow account, we contacted our buyer-broker and he made sure we got the rest of our rent money. Still, I hate real estate agents.

Here’s another reason for not liking their kind: The hot tub next door will be closed from 2 to 5. I guess I could go over there and take a look at the house. “Sir,” I could ask, “do you mind if I see whether the hot tub works?” If he says, “go right ahead,” then I’m running back home to put on some swim trunks.

THE GUEST SPEAKER

I've never met talk show host Oprah Winfrey. Nor has she endorsed any of my mediocre achievements (hey, let's face it, I'm no Jonathan Franzen). But if Oprah were to invite me to her club with a stamp of approval, then I'm all over it like flies on shit. No second thoughts here. Why not an Oprah Winfrey Blog Club?

Also, I've never met comedian Bill Cosby. Not that I want to. However, Nathaniel Abraham, the youngest Michiganian charged with murder at the ripe old age of 11, has met both. After 10 years of "rehabilitation" at the Maxey Training School for Boys, he's been granted a fresh start. From what I observed on the news station the day he was freed--fur coat, tilted fedora, and expensive shoes (I'm not much for fashion so my descriptions are a bit lacking)--the world is indeed Nathaniel's oyster.

At our graduation ceremony, we had a guest speaker from the Thumb Correctional Facility. She shared her story with the graduates/convicts: "I was a high school dropout, my mother died when I was 17, my father when I was 18, and my grandmother soon after that. I'm not going to go into the details of all my struggles, but I will say I was at a crossroad. I could have hung out with my friends for the rest of my life ... who knows where I would've ended up. Instead, I dropped back into school." She shared her achievements: High School diploma (1983), Associates Degree (1988), Bachelors Degree (1991), Masters Degree, Science (1997), and Masters Degree, Special Education (2005).

What I remember the most about her speech is the final message she delivered to the prisoners: "I challenge you to set new goals. You have already proven you have the ability to do so. In your journey don't forget where you've been, share it, and explain it. DO BE ASHAMED of where you've been. Be honest. Be determined. Be strong in your beliefs."

Amen.

Wait ... what about the pedophiles? "Be honest?" I'm not so sure they'd stand a chance.

THE INEFFECTIVE SPEECH WRITER

No pandemonium at today's graduation ceremony. In fact, I'd call the whole affair a real yawner. The greatest controversy (one that few staff members knew about) was probably the school principal's speech. Just the other day she said, "Jim, you're a writer, how about writing me something? You know, not too long, but make it interesting."


I'll admit, I wasn't very enthused about it, but after ten to fifteen minutes banging away at my computer keyboard, I reappeared in her office. "Here," I said, placing the finished copy on her desk, "Make it your own."

She quickly read through it and got all excited. "This is good," she said, "I'm going to use it. How'd you come up with it so quickly?"

"I dunno. It just happened."

So I sat upfront with the warden, teachers, and guest speaker, waiting for the school principal to deliver the speech I had written. I wanted to study the reactions on the inmates; I wanted to hear her spin on it. I finally had a genuine interest in the whole ceremony, and for what? She wrote her own speech. A real snooze-fest. Here's my speech (and feel free to tell me if you would've used it in front of a bunch of GED graduates/convicts):

Richard Bach, best known for his inspirational novels, mainly Jonathan Livingston Seagull, once wrote: "Learning is finding out what you already know."

Think about it—“Learning is finding out what you already know.”

Perhaps what he had meant was that each individual has an infinite amount of possibilities, that each individual is capable of learning whatever they choose—that the sky is the limit. Although very inspirational, this may not be grounded in reality.

I'm sure when those test scores first came back—whatever self-doubt you were feeling changed to a sudden sense of accomplishment. You might have felt vindicated, you might have realized, “Hey, I knew this material all along.”

“Learning is finding out what you already know.”

Yet, there's another saying that puts everything back into perspective. Something I'm sure you've probably heard many times before. Perhaps your teacher or a parent told you this: “The sign of an intelligent person is the person that realizes that he doesn't have all the answers.”

So here we are, everything has come full circle. Two rather profound statements that contradict one another. So what should we do? I think that answer’s quite evident. Continue to learn.

THE GRADUATION WINDMILL

Administration called an emergency meeting the other day in regards to our prison graduation ceremony. A staff member overheard a few inmates jaw-jacking about turning the screws on someone during the event. Prior to this, and mainly due to a mediocre response on the participation forms, we decided to combine two security levels into one. What does this mean? Not much—a mixture of Level IV inmates (a higher security level of rapists, pedophiles, murderers, drug dealers, and thieves) with Level II inmates (a lower security level of rapists, pedophiles, murderers, drug dealers, and thieves). Anyway, a couple of the Level IV gentlemen are allegedly targeting some of the Level II gentlemen for a little extracurricular activity, otherwise known as “opening a can of whup ass.”

The Warden alerted our school principal of the potential for a melee and allowed her the opportunity to make the decision. She, in turn, had us teachers, the school officer, and the school secretary vote on whether to proceed as normal. Seven staff members, five “yays,” one “nay,” and one “looks like my vote doesn’t matter.”

Personally, I’ve seen how some of these youngsters fight, their so-called boxing technique—something I refer to as wind milling, where they throw a flurry of wild punches hoping something lands before the exhaustion sets in—it’s downright laughable. If mayhem breaks out, it’ll be over as soon as it starts.

I’m only guessing as to why other staff members were unaffected by the possibilities, the potential hazards. The Horticulture teacher, why should someone who hands out shovels be concerned about a slight misunderstanding or disagreement between inmates? The Food Tech teacher, no shovels here, only knives. As long as those critical tools are on the shadow boards when the ceremony begins everything should be fine. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow … hopefully … that is ... if a riot doesn’t jump off over graduation photos.

THE OBSERVER & ECCENTRIC

During my senior year in high school my role as captain of the cross country team had been diminished to co-captain status. Something about setting a bad example for the others, something about too much partying on the weekends and getting into mischief even though I did fairly well come race day. On Mondays we had this after school ritual where, as we stretched for our practice run, our coach would ask us how many miles we put in over the weekend. Whoever had the most mileage made the local newspaper under the headline, “Runner of the Week.” I caught on to the method to his madness and strategically placed myself last, that way when my turn finally came, I could report the most miles. After having my mug shot in the local “Observer & Eccentric” a few times, I grew tired of my own antics and let things play out as they should.

At work we had this inmate tutor, obviously a middle-child craving for attention, skating the hallways, waiting for opportunities to talk with the women staff members. He used to read those small town newspapers, faithfully searching for female “student athletes of the week," or other human-interest stories involving teenage girls. He’d find out as much information as possible and phone them with congratulatory messages. From there, he’d try arranging secret places to meet. Needless to say, his predatory methods landed him in prison.

I used to observe this sad, pathetic human being outside my classroom. He knew the exact time our female classification director arrived for work. One day I confronted him. “I don’t want to see you out here,” I said from my classroom doorway. “In fact, I don’t want to see you period. If I do, I’m writing you a ‘Temporary Out of Place’ ticket and you can explain yourself to the hearings investigator.”

Soon afterward he disappeared from our facility. However, some habits are definitely hard to break. In his spare time I heard he had fallen back into his old ways—reading various newspapers and writing and calling young teenage girls. I guess some people can never out run their personal demons no matter how many restrictions are placed on them.

SPRING TRAINING

It's called "Adult Education," however, to the outside observer it might as well be kindergarten—you know, that special time when your teacher handed out those small cartons of milk and graham crackers as you sat quietly on your little rug right before nap time. Here's a news flash to anyone visiting my blog as a first timer: these are "groan" men (no spelling error here), G-R-O-A-N, groan men taking up space in my classroom.

One particular man-child complained that I wasn't teaching him; I had just given him his TABE results (Test of Adult Basic Education) and he was quick to say, "You cheated me out of my time."

"Yeah," I said, "I guess it's my fault you showed up late." Then, believe it or not, he accused me of "not caring," in which I pointed out, "Well you obviously don't."

Spring is finally here. Once the warmer weather arrives some of my students will lose interest in school (if they haven't already). They'll skip class for a quick game of basketball, volleyball, horseshoes, and shuffleboard. I'll see them from my classroom window—easy marks for "Out of Place" tickets. I'll pick one from the crowd and lace him up—“You got to start somewhere,” I’ll tell him when he asks why the others didn’t receive tickets. So the rest will feel lucky and will forget about my negative influence on them. They’ll sit back and enjoy the air conditioning—that is, as soon as summer arrives.

Technically speaking, the attached video was taken on the last day of winter. Refreshing, isn't it? Some dogs are easier to train than others.

THE TWO-EYED CLICK BEETLE

Once again I've been slightly preoccupied with our county's Elementary Schools' Science Olympiad program. My wife and I, along with some children from our neighborhood, attended a workshop on Sunday at the Stony Creek Nature Center. While there, I observed some highly energetic youngsters willing to learn as much as they could in preparation for the "Don't Bug Me" insect identification competition this spring. (My wife and I are the event coordinators.)

One rather enthusiastic boy approached me and asked, If you could be any bug in the whole wide world what would it be and why? And after staring out the window, thinking about a man dragging his children's sled through these very same woods, his wife's body parts neatly stacked on top, I gave him my answer. "Sometimes," I said, "I wish I were hinged at the neck like a Two-Eyed Click Beetle. They have a special joint, something that resembles the fittings holding a train's boxcars together. A quick audible snap and it's not only able to right itself, but it can also scare away any would-be predators." He told me he had seen one at Station #14 neatly pinned to some Styrofoam in a display case. "What's your favorite?" I asked in return.

"I don't know," he said. "It's a toss up between the assassin bugs and the ambush bugs."

After the workshop, I asked my wife if she'd like to walk the nature trails and she quickly said, "No. I'm ready to go home."

BRAIN FREEZE

I'm having one of those flashbacks that defy all rules. There's no real action or drama here; there's no vivid scenes running through my mind's eye. No, the flashback I'm encountering--the reenactment actually--is being played out in today's Detroit Free Press. Unlike my partner in crime (my wife), who would've taken the brunt of any punishment without an admittance of guilt from me, this criminal, a prisoner at the facility where I work, sent a notarized letter to the 35th District Court implicating himself in a stolen snowblower incident.

Oh sure, they had his DNA--turns out the home owner bloodied his nose before he escaped--so this convict, this guy (hey, why not give his actual name, afterall, it's in the newspaper), this Timothy Hynes, white male, 41 years old, explained in his letter that his female companion tricked him into taking the snowblower. How dumb is he? Is there ice crystallizing in his brain? Did an icicle puncture both hemispheres? I wouldn't even admit to receiving and concealing stolen property. "Officer," I'd explain, "I thought she got it at a garage sale."

Now this inmate's facing one count of first degree home invasion and one count of unarmed robbery. As for his lady friend--nowhere to be found. Of course, my situation is totally different and if someone were to ask me if I'd care to elaborate, then I'd probably panic and direct him or her to the following link: Here's how a masked man obtained a free snowblower.

Short Story Recommendation: "The Cold, Cold Box" by Howard Fast

MY OWN PRIVATE ... HELL I DON'T KNOW

I think good short-story writers have to go down a lot of dark alleys--spiritually and psychically. You must have nerve to do that, but sometimes it's just what your fate is.
Charles Baxter

Well once again I'd like to report on my failures as a short-story writer. Let me start with a bang--I had one editor (no need in naming names or literary magazines) tell me the story I submitted was a "jumbled mess." My reaction, perhaps a tad bit defensive, bordered along the lines of something Raymond Carver once said about writing short stories and not novels. Something about having a short attention span. Of course RC had been joking. The short story requires much more in the form of devotion and concentration. Anyway, this very same story received "positive rejections"--if there is such a monster.

I sometimes wonder if my not having an MFA (I mockingly refer to it as the "My Friends Association") has something to do with it. Of course I know this isn't true. There's a coworker at my facility with an MFA who has published less then I. But does that make me feel any better? Oh hell no! I'm a “convict” teacher and I'm trying to set my bar a little higher than that.

Let's be honest here. I've had this inner dialogue with myself about honoring my blogging commitment--one year--that's what I had said to a former creative writing instructor--"I'll give it one year." Mid-May is the deadline. But whose counting? Two or three posts ago I had my 300th post--I think it showed a picture of dog shit. I'm not saying that I'll pull a JD Salinger and become a recluse, but the Wheels of Fortuna seem to be spinning downward.

Peace out and enjoy My Own Private 8 Mile which will be at the East Lansing Film Festival.

UNSCRIPTED: THE MONEY GRAB

Some Yahoo standing in my classroom doorway tried to divert my attention from the script, "Open your test books to the Language test. The page should look like this. Find the Language section on your answer sheets…"

He knew that I knew he was there. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then back again. "Are you Jerry?"

"No I’m not," I answered without looking up. "…We will begin by doing some sample items together."

"Do you know when he’ll be in?"

I tossed the script onto my desk, approached the stranger, and pointed to the unlocked classroom across the hall. "Jerry must be in, his door is open."

But before I could turn away and get back to the business at hand, he responded, "No he isn’t. I had someone unlock the door for me."

"Then have a corrections officer page him for you."

"Do you know if he uses all those computers?"

Before you think I’m one callous son-of-a-bitch, let me just say, an introduction would have been nice. For all I know, he could’ve been Jack Brandenburg or some other politician looking for an excuse to slam the Michigan Department of Corrections (okay, maybe not Jack—I’ve seen him wandering our hallways before). "I have no idea," I answered. "Ask Jerry." I returned to my classroom and the script.

Here’s what I found out about the mystery man. He works for the Michigan Department of Information Technology; DIT for short. Not too long ago our fearless leader of the Prison Educational Programs cancelled our outside vendor contract—no more JST Technologies—instead, DIT would service our computers for cheaper. Unfortunately, now that DIT has our attention, they raised their service fees by $200 more per computer per year. As a counter to this latest development, our fearless leader sent us a memo stating that we should decrease the number of computers in our classroom to 5 (one teacher station & 4 student stations) and the rest of the computers should be moth-balled. Perhaps as a counter to her counter, the DIT man—you guessed it—counted the computers so they can bill us accordingly. So the shell game continues. Incidentally, Jerry does not fall under the educational programs, although he’s been using the school’s computers—hmmm, who will sort that mess out?

"For Sample A, read the sentence and look at the punctuation marks below the sentence. Decide which punctuation mark, if any, has been left out …"

SHOCK THERAPY

“Ask your tutor if he plays the slots,” a coworker suggested to me a few years back while we sat in the employee lunchroom.

“Which tutor?” I asked.

“Mr. P,” he answered.

I guess he thought I’d just fallen off the turnip truck. Or perhaps he witnessed how a former corrections-officer-now-turned-rapper played a dirty trick on me:

“I shook down one of your students and found this.” It was a shiny silver Zippo lighter, something prisoners aren’t allowed to have.

“What student?” I asked.

“Oh, I can’t remember.”

Slightly puzzled—he must have written a ticket on the person, his short-term memory couldn’t be that horrific—I said, “You found contraband on a prisoner and can’t remember his name?”

By this time he suggested I feel the weight of the lighter and slipped it into my hand. “I don’t know if it works,” he said.

I flipped the cover over and flicked the small metal wheel with my thumb and couldn’t let go of it fast enough, a surge of electricity shooting through my fingers. Everyone laughed as I cussed him out. “How many volts did you hook up to this thing?” I asked once I had calmed down.

Call it “shock therapy.” A lesson well learned. I know better. Think before you do anything around here.

“Go on, ask Mr. P if he plays the slots.”

So I’m thinking Mr. P has some type of gambling debt and wants to lay low until the next pay period. I’ve been to “Anatomy of a Set-Up” training. I wouldn’t want to create a situation in my classroom and have blood all over my carpet. “Nah,” I responded, “I’m not asking him diddly-squat.”

Here’s the real shocker, something I found out later: Mr. P, for reasons only he and the Almighty Lord will know, inserted coins into his granddaughter. His nickname in the facility—The Quarter Man. How disgusting is that?!

PCAP, PINK PEOPLE & A PASSING SHIP

If you’re interested in finding an affordable piece of artwork for your living room and you don’t mind giving money to a convicted bank robber, murderer, or rapist (perhaps a pedophile), then the Prison Creative Arts Program (PCAP, Prison Art ) is the place to shop. Every year the PCAP Administrator, Suzanne Gothard, and Project Director, Buzz Alexander, visit various Michigan prisons and collect artwork ranging from graphite sketches, acrylic paintings, and pencil drawings. Once they’ve chosen the best work, they organize an exhibit at the University of Michigan’s Media Union Gallery.

I remember them examining artwork at my facility and leaving with a treasure trove of goodies. Not all the inmates were happy though, some questioned why their pieces weren’t selected. “Look,” I told one crybaby, “your painting’s quite pleasing to the eye, however, it lacks originality.” When an argument ensued, I suggested he leave the magazine clipping of the nature scene he replicated off the matted frame. “It shows that you have no vision to call your own.”

Ironically, Gothard and Alexander must have been enamored with a series of acrylic paintings depicting pink people—the flesh tones all wrong and the illustrations something you might see a child scribble in his grade school notebook. I’d heard that these paintings were very popular with the art crowd, yet they reminded me of “South Park.”

In the above photo, I’m holding a 2004 1st place graphite sketch. The artist (don’t ask about his criminal past) worked on it for well over a year. I paid $0.00 for it, but I’m sure it’s increased in value since then. Hey, all of a sudden my mother-in-law’s oil painting, “Passing Ship on a Dangerous Sea,” doesn’t look so bad. How about I sell both of them to you?—a two-for-one deal. Or how about a trade? I’ve been looking for a Kevorkian pastel to brighten up my day and of course: my living room.

RUNNING WITHOUT SOCKS

No scissors. No socks.

Today was one of those days where nothing seems to go according to plan. As I emptied the contents of my gym bag into an empty locker—a morning ritual consisting of hanging my dress shirt, corduroys, and belt on metal hooks—I noticed that I forgot to pack dress socks. Faced with a dilemma, and already in my jogging suit, I decided to run without socks. Six miles later, I had blisters on my feet.

At least I have one of those cushy jobs where I don’t have to walk around much. In fact, if I so choose, I can remain seated during each class session. There was a time where I monitored each student’s progress and instructed the class from the chalkboard, but for reasons unknown to me, every time I turned my back someone would say, “Motherfuckin’ Honky.” To borrow that popular Burger King phrase, I said, “Fine. Have it your way,” and smashed the chalk against the ledge.

If my students are genuinely interested in pursuing their education, I have them approach my desk. As long as I don’t lean back in my chair and get too comfortable, not today anyway, wouldn’t want them to discover my white tube socks and dress shoes and start in with the Michael Jackson “Moon Walking” jokes. Hell, if they’ve been down too long they might ask, “What’s with the bobby socks?”

PLACING BLAME FAR AWAY

There’s been much ado about nothing regarding the 19-year-old German au pair and her relationship with Stephen Grant, the creep who murdered his wife and scattered her limbs throughout the Stony Creek Nature Center. So what if this au pair’s role went beyond the usual housekeeping chores, so what if she slept with an older man. Is it really necessary for our local media to hound her and her family? I’m sure there’s a mixture of emotions running through her head: sadness for the victim’s children, shock from knowing what a person is capable of, and relief for being back home where she can try to get on with her life.

This has me wondering about a Portuguese tramp my parents had living at our house when I was a free-spirited, free-loading, college student. Her parents sent her to our country through a foreign exchange program as a last ditch effort to separate her from an elderly Portuguese gentleman. This had disaster written all over it (for my family anyway) the moment she arrived at our front doorstep. Her attitude sucked. She’d walk around the house naked—yes, naked—and let me tell you, from what I saw, she was very hairy. I don’t know if Madonna made it popular or not or whether it was a cultural thing, but this gal didn’t shave her armpits.

My parents had rules, not many, but still they were simple to follow: Tell us where you are, who you’re with, and how long you’ll be gone for. Easy enough. Yet, she would disappear for an entire weekend and reappear Sunday night as if nothing were out of the ordinary. It wasn’t until my parents threatened to have her sent home that they learned about her situation. Still, they were patient, hoping she’d wise up.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was when she told a high school counselor that her host family abused her. I’m not sure if she hinted at anything sexual in nature—oh sure, I’ll admit to an incident with a girl from Columbia whose underwear ended up in my sock drawer. It was merely a laundry mix-up. The girl was a friend of another foreign exchange student living at our house at the time; Sleepovers were the norm. “Is this yours?” I had asked her, holding up the underwear in front of my parents during breakfast. She denied it, even though the word “Columbia” was printed across the elastic. But I digress. The high school counselor called my parents and the Portuguese gal was soon boarding a plane back to her country and probably into the arms of her sugar daddy.

Side Note: Live Forum regarding /Blogging Ethics, What does it mean to you?

SOME THINGS SHOULDN'T MATTER

I don't know if it's because I work in a prison, but I've always been cautious around folks that are being extra extra nice to me. It doesn't matter one way or the other whether you get along with them, there's usually something behind their gestures. When I get a compliment at work my typical response is: "What do you want?" My next door neighbor, the guy who thought it would be okay to store his boat and trailer on my property (until my wife informed him otherwise), started waving to us every chance he could get--not the kind of wave that would draw you into a conversation along the fence line, instead, the kind of wave and forced smile that said "Good riddance to you." As proof of this, whenever we simultaneously walked out to our mailboxes and pulled down the latches, he'd act so engrossed in his junk mail that any acknowledgment would have been sacrilegious. Waving came mostly in the form of passing us on the street, his Toyota going one way, our Safari Mini-Van going the other way.

I've mentioned before how his live-in girlfriend sent us one of those obnoxious musical cards with a note of apology regarding his boat--the words written in her hand with his name scribbled off to the side and a transistor distorted “Sweet Home Alabama” assaulting our ears. You would've thought this meant returning to our old neighborly ways. I'll admit, the waving and friendly gesturing multiplied two-fold and even three-fold once a POD (portable on demand storage) box was delivered to his driveway. For about a month they hauled their miscellaneous items into that box. It wasn't long after that and they and their POD were gone.

Our neighbors across the street informed us that they had moved to Arizona. I truly wish them well and hope their new neighbors aren’t so territorial. Hey, it's been three months now and their house is still on the market. I know they wouldn't mind my using their hot tub because, after all, I did wave back from time to time.

EVERYBODY POOPS (Even Shittie Muslims)

Once upon a time (Hey, why not? Isn’t that how most children’s stories begin?) … Once upon a time an inmate approached my desk to inform me about a school/religious conflict he had. "Wait a minute," I said slightly confused, "the Melanic’s primary service isn’t today."

He smiled that big ugly grill of his and said, "Yeah, I know. I switched my religion. Check my itinerary, my detail, you’ll see that I am now a Muslim."

Real slick bastard. Anything to avoid going to school. He chose religions as if he were at Baskin Robbins picking an ice cream flavor--"What will it be today, sir?" the woman with the religious-ice-cream scoop would ask. Unfortunately, some religious affiliations you can never quit; You’re a lifetime member--good for the lifetime of the member and not the religious group.

The Melanics were instrumental in pummeling a former inmate beyond recognition with a baseball bat right outside the prison weight-pit. When the victim was discovered, the corrections officer began CPR, blowing into a pulverized face, her uniform and CPR mask soaked in blood. He was already dead, overkill, if you asked me.

One week later, this flavor-of-the-day worshipper unintelligibly asked me if he could be excused from class. His explanation: The spotter in the weight-pit forgot to "spot" him and the weights fell on his face. His jaw was obviously broken.

"So are you a Melanic or a Muslim?" I asked. We both knew the answer to that one.

The prisoner kites and Labradoodle shit on my wood deck are somewhat related and not meant to be offensive in any way. I’m tolerant of all religions. It's just that I need to train that damn dog to go in the yard.

THE WAY FORWARD

Where’s the loyalty and commitment to an American company nowadays? Have we lost our minds for not supporting and buying American products? Or is it too late, as most of us continue to cut costs and budget our money by purchasing foreign made goods. Perhaps our income dictates our decisions. There was a time when I would not step foot inside a Wal-Mart. Then my wife (I can always blame her, right?) coaxed me into one of their stores. I jokingly said, "I’ve never seen so many people with tattoos and rotten teeth as I have at Wal-Mart."

So I exaggerate. I’ve seen lots of tats and bad grills on the inmates I have contact with on a daily basis. But back to blind loyalty and a sense of pride for a job well done at an American company. Hey, prisons in the United States count too, don’t they? I remember an inmate tutor (D-prefix, meaning fourth time in the joint) with a Satan tattoo prominently displayed on his neck, braided horns sticking out like knobbed moth antennae, and long finger nails like Robert DeNiro in some bad movie I can’t recall--Angel Heart? I think--telling me a story. He said:

"The brothers at the Muskegon Correctional Facility was fighting over stumps, you dig? Administration had the maintenance workers cut down the trees in the prison yard and gave the inmates details guaranteed for so many hours work getting those stumps out of the ground. Well, they reached their maximum hours of pay, you dig?--and them stumps was still anchored into the earth. Soon, other brothers came to help and fights ensued. ‘This is our stump muthafucka! Get your own stump!’ So they worked for free. I don’t know what it was--boredom or wanting that feeling of a sense of accomplishment, but theys got them stumps out and that’s all theys talked about for six months straight."

We need to stand united and support our American workers. I leave you with a Ford song that says it all: The Way Forward.

TENSEGRITY (Excerpt from Corktown Press)

They sell crack-cocaine across the street from Mr. G's, so when the shivering bum in the pajama top and hair net asked for some money to buy two eggs and a half-loaf of bread, he received not only a generous amount but a suspicious look.

Once inside, he headed straight for the coolers and plucked a single can of Colt 45 from it holster. His flip-flops cut into a pair of uneven, gray, wool pillars that blossomed brown polyester dress pants under a buttonless, navy-blue, corduroy coat. He slapped three crisp George Washingtons inside the mini-turnstile, next to the malt liquor, and spun it toward Mr. G.

"Can I get three squares with this?" He nodded toward his good fortune.

"For you, since you're a regular, I give you two."

The bum did not hesitate. "Awright then." His words meandered through the seams in the mini-turnstile, around the scratched bulletproof glass. Two unfiltered Lucky Strikes pre-wrappped in cellophane. One Colt 45 served in a brown paper bag. You don't get a receipt at Mr. G's. You don't even get change. This is the neighborhood of disposable income, where during the summer children hear merry-go-round music blasting from Old Man Floyd's fleet of restored Good Humor trucks, where the drivers--all decked out in sterile cotton--carry concealed weapons and sell red, white, and blue Bomb Pops for ninety-five cents each. Let me tell you: Business is better here, better than in the suburbs, where parents force their children indoors, and serve them ice cream from five-quart pails. "We belong to Sam's Warehouse," they explain.

"Hey Homey," I said, "You're not getting any more money from me, not a dime." He ignored me, so I drove the words into the back of his neck. "Hey Homey, I'm talking to you. Do you understand? ... Zilch."

He turned to face me while patting his pockets. "Haven't I looked out for you, Cookieman? Watched your car?"

Was he threatening me? Or was he merely defending himself from the exposed lie? Where were the eggs, huh?--The half-loaf of bread?

He vanished out the front entrance, leaving a thin cloud of smoke drifting toward us and a spent match on the sticky floor.

"Cookieman, he's harmless," Mr. G said from his fishbowl. "I got security cameras, Look, real reality t.v."

Sure enough, the bum reappeared as he stepped off the curb. He traveled from each quadrant of the monitor at varied time intervals and slightly different angles. Once he reached the blurred centerline, his flip-flops sunk into the slush. But he didn't seem to care. His head snapped back as he gulped his beverage; his chin folded into his chest as he sucked large quantities of nicotine into his lungs. He was a bona fide human tragedy jaywalking the cold-patched streets of Detroit, and since I was remarrying and considering adoption, it occured to me: kids shouldn't have to see people like him. He reached the other side by sheer willpower, gripping the brass knocker on the crack-house door. Then a woman--what seemed to be an apparition of my lovely wife Lorna--opened the door and beckoned him inside, into a world most middle income folks could never imagine. Strange as it seemed, I found this comforting.

TENSEGRITY

I'M JUST TRYING TO HELP

Once again I’ve been asked to perform the school principal’s duties when my current boss goes on maternity leave. And once again I’ve stood my ground, telling her, “I’m not qualified.” The last time I assumed the acting principal role personnel did not want to pay me for working out of my classification.

Oh I’m sure administration was eternally grateful for the extra duties and responsibilities I assumed (and I’m sure that if something went seriously wrong I’d’ve been held accountable), but cutting me a check meant an admittance of guilt to a civil service rule violation. Plus, no one in prison wants to be perceived as soft, even the folks up front in their cushy little offices working on the outside of the prison walls.

I could have followed the appropriate channels and filed a grievance, but when the principal at that time returned from sick-leave, I told him not to worry, I’ve got a trick up my sleeve.

Every year we’re required to have a TB test—a simple needle prick under the skin. Within 48 hours we take our results from healthcare to the Personnel Department. Not me. I kept my results. After numerous threats of placing a “Stop Order” on me (meaning I could no longer be on prison grounds and would no longer get paid), I called the personnel director and in typical Monte Hall Let’s Make A Deal fashion said, “I’ll give you the TB results when I receive my extra pay.” Not long after that the check was in the mail, procedures for the submittal of TB results were changed (nurses are now responsible for the delivery of test results to personnel), and the regional director reinforced the “no working out of classification” rule with yet another memo.

My recommendation this time around: There’s another teacher who could do the principal’s job while she’s away. Although he too would be working out of classification, his qualifications to oversee the entire Michigan prison system’s educational programs should supercede any requirements not met. What do you think?

BAILEY THE LABRADOODLE

For the past three months I’ve found my wife frequenting a website that I disapprove of. Although I had my suspicions and checked the web history on our computer, my wife denied the allegations by saying she wasn’t ready to get a dog. Hallelujah! But when I confronted her further—“Why are you visiting www.petfinder.com every day?”—she smiled and confessed, “I’m looking for a Labradoodle.”

She had access to every Humane Society in the United States and I couldn’t stop her from searching. I told her, “I’m not driving all over Timbuktu for some dog.” So she promised to limit her search to the lower half of Michigan. I knew I had increased my chances of not getting such a creature. The Labradoodle (a cross between a Labrador retriever and a standard-size poodle) is an extremely popular allergen-free dog. It’s also extremely expensive—dog breeders charge $800 and up.

On the internet Friday night she found a Labrador retriever/Poodle mix at the Cascade Township Humane Society in Jackson, Michigan.

“It’s not a Labradoodle,” I said.

“Yes it is,” she countered, showing me a picture of a sad-looking puppy.

After a one-sided discussion (she talked, I objected) we agreed to make the 1 ½ hour drive the following morning. The Humane Society opened at 11 a.m. We didn’t leave our house until 11:30. My way of thinking, if it were indeed a Labradoodle someone would adopt her before us.

Not so. We beat another couple there by ten minutes. Meet Bailey, a three-month old, micro chipped pup. She’s been neutered and her shots are up to date. I’m only $150 in the hole. I’ve already discussed the option of selling her for a handsome profit, but . . .

THE GOLDEN SMOCK

Now that Stephen Grant, the prime suspect in the murder of his wife Tara Lynn, has been apprehended, the Hackel Hotel (Macomb County Jail) will be patiently awaiting his arrival. I'm sure they will keep him healthy by outfitting him with a Golden Smock made by Ferguson Safety Products. Here's what the company says about their specialty item:

Safely provides warmth and modesty for suicidal individuals in locked facilities. This garment is designed to eliminate features that make other clothing potential weapons of self-harm.

This will guarantee that Mr. Grant is brought to trial, and if found guilty, sentenced accordingly.

Will I be seeing him any time soon? I hope not.

IF I HAD JURY DUTY

Only twice in my life have I received letters from our judicial system informing me that I may be chosen for jury duty. Both times I've filled out their general questionnaire regarding my occupation and place of employment. Yet, I've never been called to fulfill such an important role. Why is that? Is it because I work for the Michigan Department of Corrections? Is it because my profile indicates that I'm too one-sided, that I couldn't possibly weigh all the evidence before making my decision, my vote, as to "guilty" or "innocent"?

During the past week I've been mulling over the possibilities regarding the disappearance of Tara Lynn Grant. I wanted to believe, as tragic as it may seem, that she found a Puerto Rican lover and left her family. I wanted to believe that her husband (yes, I've heard that he cheated on her) was devastated, that he kept a solid front for the sake of his children. However, I knew, deep down inside, that he had killed her. When they started searching Stony Creek and the surrounding area, I kept wondering whether they would send a dive team over to the dam, a place I used to sneak off to and fish and drink beer.

I grew up approximately a half-mile away from where they found Tara's torso. Some of my high school friends lived in the subdivision the police cordoned off. My brother and I jogged the same trails that Tara had. It's been said over and over, by many people, I can't believe something like this would happen in my neighborhood. Well guess what? It does. In fact, where I currently live, just two streets over, a young man was badly beaten at a houseparty and thrown outside. He was discovered the next morning. The person responsible for his murder (I truly believe there were more culprits) is doing time at the Adrian Correctional Facility.

In the case of Tara Lynn Grant, I wish my intuition were wrong. Now the question is: did someone help her husband with the dismemberment and disposal of the body? Lastly, how many years in prison will the husband serve? Or will he get lucky, like the Freezer Man, and do less than ten years for a crime of passion? I don't know. I'm just hoping, for his sake anyway, that I'm not summoned for jury duty.

HOW MAY I HELP YOU?

When my late grandfather worked with trustees at the Jackson prison farm system in the mid-seventies, he would often tease my grandmother about her religious volunteer work at the county jail. “She’s cheering for the wrong team,” he’d say. I never questioned my grandmother’s intentions—I’m sure there are folks out there awaiting trial in need of prayer (currently she writes to an inmate who murdered his ten month old baby and is having difficulty coming to terms with what he had done)—however, my grandfather’s oversimplification of “us” versus “them” seems somewhat appropriate, to me anyway.

Speaking of people wanting to help the down-and-out, we had a middle-aged lady who donated her time and energy at our facility with the Catholic services and programs. From what I’ve heard, her daughter would sometimes accompany her. I’m not too sure what happened to this lady. It was rumored that she took a liking to a prisoner nearing his out date and that she disappeared shortly thereafter. Also, it was rumored that her daughter became romantically involved with an inmate of her own. You know what they say, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

What is known is that this middle-aged woman’s husband, a successful businessman in the area, had been found in his vehicle with a zip-tie around his neck. His death was ruled a suicide. I guess he strangled himself because of his marital problems. I’m still unsure whether they found his wife. Or the ex-felon. The years have been rolling by and I guess it’s no longer newsworthy.

I wonder how long it will take for the media to lose interest in the disappearance of Tara Lynn Grant, the young mother from my area?

MY BROTHER, THE ONLY CHILD

As I observe the inmates around me, I can’t help but think that religion is for those who need it the most. I’m not trying to create controversy or imply that I don’t need God in my life—I do—it’s just that some of the most religious people I have known have done some very heinous crimes. Yet, I try not to sit in judgment of others. Maybe that’s why I don’t like talking about religion. Why should I impose my views on others? Too much arguing and fighting comes from discussions of faith.

I remember attending a Department of Corrections training session in Lansing. I can’t recall exactly what we were being trained for, but I do know that they had jelly-filled donuts, bagels and cream cheese, and juice and coffee, and you were to help yourself at any given time during the presentation. When I had arrived, I recognized a prison athletic director from another facility. I’d seen a much younger version of him on the television playing basketball for Michigan State University. He’d been quite the college partygoer, but I had heard that he gave up drinking and took to the Lord. I often wonder whether it had anything to do with his NBA dreams never materializing.

As I sat down next to him, he offered me a religious pamphlet and said, “Peace be with you.” I looked at him. I looked at the pamphlet. I looked at the sweat rolling off my glass of orange juice and, without much thought, decided to use the pamphlet as a makeshift coaster. I didn’t mean to offend him, really, I didn’t. But I also didn’t feel it was the appropriate time and place for his offering.

Same goes for the inmates. I try not to undermine their faith, or make a big deal out of it. It's a fine line. There are always one or two deeply religious convicts that want to rope me into their theology. I often wonder where their core beliefs were when they decided to rape God’s children. What type of faith did they have when they firebombed a home full of people? What made them sit in judgment the day they put a gun to the back of someone’s head and pulled the trigger? I’m sorry, but there are too many inmates that’ll use religion to focus on what they think are your weaknesses, when they really should be looking inward at themselves.

Instead of engaging prisoners in conversations about religion, instead of arguing the Bible, I’ve learned to say the following: “Did you know that ‘God’ spells ‘dog’ backwards?” It shuts them up every time. They leave me alone. They think I’m a heathen.