LACKING EVIDENCE, LACKING PURPOSE

When I first started blogging about my experiences as a limousine driver, I searched every family photo album readily available and came up empty handed. I found zero evidence to support my claim of driving a white Lincoln Continental or Volvo stretch limousine. There were no visual clues of myself standing near a limo, no pictures of me wearing a chauffeur's cap slightly tilted forward, no black leather gloves used for opening and closing doors and clutching the steering wheel, no mirrored sunglasses showing traces of former clients. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

As we all know, on the internet you can be anyone you want to be. I could be a swimming pool installer if I so choose. Not much glamour in that. I've found it easier to write about current events in my life, stuff that’s fresh in my mind, instead of recreating events from the past. In this picture, I’m trying to find a leak in my pool, running my fingers along the seams. Unfortunately none were found, so I’ll have to buy a new liner, and soon, very soon, with Memorial Day fast approaching.

But let me back up here. Let me take you into the past, into a large, muddy parking lot. I’m speaking on the phone: “It says here that I’m picking up my clients at a carnival at 23 Mile Road and Van Dyke. I hope I’m not dealing with a bunch of carnies.”

My instructions were unclear; my client’s background vague. No one in the office knew much about it. It was too late anyway. They descended upon me like a pack of rabid dogs, cash in hand and coolers fully stocked; carnies ready to party until morning. I asked them for their destination. “Just drive,” I was told.

After an hour of cruising, I had to pull over on M-59. My clients were hanging outside the sunroof, launching empty beer bottles into the air. I refused to drive until they promised to behave. Then we continued on our journey with nowhere in particular to go.

THE GATES OF HELL

It never fails. I'm in a hurry. I'm trying to escape the daily grind of prison. I'm standing near the sliding glass door, waiting for it to do what it should do--SLIDE--but it doesn't slide. And if I tap on the glass I'll only piss off the officer in the enclosure. I'm not in control of this situation; she is. She says, "Gate 1" to the officer handling the electronic switches.

Now I'm mad. I'm ready to pull my hair out. Why not Gate 2? Visitors are entering the neutral zone. They have to go through a metal detector and be patted down. The officer makes them take off their shoes. We're talking a good three minutes. Tack on another two for the elderly. Tack on another five if a baby's involved.

"Hello darling," Ricco says from the prison yard phone, "bring Junior with you, and remember to hide the drugs in his diaper."

I shouldn't be this way. Even though I'm not paid by the hour. I'm salaried. The time clock, I've been told, is for my safety. But administration isn't fooling anyone. They monitor our time with computer generated printouts. Time in, time out. It's all there, in black and white.

I'll never forget the day I arrived for work and set the metal detector off, not once, not twice, but three times. "I can do this," I told the gate officer.

"Let me pat you down," he said.

I assumed the stance. He started with my ankles and worked his way up. He scrunched my shirt pocket. "What do we have here?" he asked.

Then I realized: my wife and I had gone to a party. She decided to let her hair down. Put this in your pocket, she said, handing me a pink barrette. It must've went through the wash. "It's my wife's," I said.

"Sure it is," he said.

Gate 1, Gate 2, it doesn't matter. When you're between them, the officer is in control. And now there's a security camera to prove it.

HOW TO AVOID AN ATTACK

I'll never let my guard down, especially with the Indiana prison riot still fresh in my mind. I don't think I'm in any imminent danger; I'd like to think that I'm just as safe working in a correctional facility as say a Wal-Mart. What's really troubling is the higher percentage of alcoholism and divorce rates among my fellow coworkers. Perhaps our jobs are more stressful than I'd originally thought.

Every year I participate in a prisoner management course, which includes practicing various defensive techniques. Last Thursday, we concentrated on fighting off knife attacks. After a demonstration by our trainers, one of them said, "In these types of situations, regardless of how well you defend yourself, you're going to get cut."

I don't exactly know why, but I became interested in learning the basic slashing techniques used by the inmates, instead of stepping in close to the knife-wielder and disarming him. When it was my turn to practice, I quickly grabbed a plastic tent stake (a makeshift knife) and assumed the role of the attacker. It just seemed easier to do.

I thought about my previous prisoner management trainer, a former sergeant at our facility. For some reason, he walked off his job one night; he'd had enough of this line of work. I'm not sure whether he came back the very next day, but when he did, the personnel manager informed him that he could not have his job back, even though he had a certain window period to change his mind and take whatever suspension he had coming.

So he left the facility, only to return with a loaded weapon and a gym bag full of goodies. He held the personnel manager and her workers hostage. With helicopters hovering, state employees hiding, police (including snipers) and the news media waiting to make their moves, the situation worsened. The county coroner arrived; someone had obviously called him, indicating that the snipers were ready to shoot the hostage taker if necessary. Luckily, he surrendered and no one got hurt.

I witnessed most of this on my television while eating lunch with my wife. It may be easier to do the attacking, but it just isn’t worth the headache. In this case, the former sergeant did four or five years in prison and, from what I've heard, recently paroled.

REMEMBERING A SCENE

After attending a Prisoner Rape Elimination Act (PREA) training session, a coworker reminded me of the time I cracked a joke about a student sleeping in my class. I had forgotten all about it, but then I remembered using it in a story. Here's the excerpt from "Discounted" which appeared in The Furnace:

Blake slept in his cell, his state-owned jacket squished into his face, a sullen Frankenstein, a mistaken troglodyte, primitive and green, not quite ripe. He turned the dayroom peach. A corrections officer noticed a cellophane-wrapped brush placed on an open paint can with a layer of skin floating, hardening. On the PA he announced: "Harris, 5-9-1-2-6-3, report to base." Someone told Blake to wake up, to get out of his cell. He hustled to the podium.

"Why aren't you working?"

"I had to take a piss."

"What are those?" A trigger-finger tallied each mark. "Are those lines on your forehead?"

"What lines?"

"Were you sleeping?"

"No sir."

"Then you must've been doing something else!"

Blake didn't understand. The corrections officer and the inmates laughed. The predators took notice.

"Hey man," Inmate Rosnowski said, "You got zipper lines on your forehead."

*Note: Imran Sheikh, a graduate of the College for Creative Studies in Detroit, did the magazine's cover artwork shown above.

MY BIG DETROIT RIG (OR IS IT GIG?)

I stand to be corrected yet again. Detroit has buses, maybe not a bus system, but buses that pick up and drop off people at limited bus stops. Imagine that.

I remember reporting to the East Warren bus depot at the beginning of my workshift. Not that I was a bus driver or a mechanic. Nope. I was, and still am, a teacher.


A Catholic priest had fired me, or as others had witnessed—I was let go. While at St. Matthew’s School on the East Side of Detroit, with my income below the poverty level, I had a job lined up teaching for the Michigan Department of Corrections. Then came a hiring freeze, so my honesty came back to bite me. My current employer, via the priest, "wished me well."

There was no sense in trying to correct the situation. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to teach here," I said and walked away, my pride wounded and no idea where my next teaching job would be. Also, during this time the Detroit Catholic Schools were complaining about not getting their fair share of Federal dollars for Title I students. For some odd reason, Detroit Public Schools acquired all the Title I money and were told to service the Catholic schools in the district. And so the wheels on the bus went round and round. DPS spent their Title I money on 24-foot long motor homes equipped with student desks, computers, and chalkboards. All they needed were teacher/drivers. Guess who they hired?

I parked my classroom on wheels in the St. Matthew’s School parking lot and headed for the school office. I ended up teaching some of the very same troubled youths I had before, and my rate of pay increased almost twofold! The look of surprise by the administration made it worthwhile, even if it didn't last past the summer.

If there's a way to improve Detroit's bus system with Federal money, I could get the appropriate CDL driver's license and start a whole new career. What do you think?

THE WHEELS ON THE BUS GO ROUND & ROUND, ROUND & ROUND, ROUND & ROUND

While I’m on the discussion of transportation and/or lack thereof, I’d like to mention that our errors help define who we are. Yesterday, I mistakenly claimed that Detroit has a bus system, which it clearly does not. People mover yes, bus system no. My curt blog comment and indirect acknowledgment of the blunder demonstrates a poor understanding of mass transit systems and disregard for alternative methods for getting from place to place. Furthermore, it shows that I do not live in the city. I am, for all practical purposes, what you would call a “suburbanite.” Enough! I shall move forward.

Prior to Mr. Grimmett joining our teaching staff, my boss decided to hire a substitute teacher. She introduced me to Miss Ortland, a heavy-set, fair-complected, red-headed white woman. “Show her how your classroom operates; she’ll fill-in while you’re gone.” To be honest, I did not want a complete stranger running my program. I had visions of all my answer keys, resource books, and pencils and paper missing. But what choice did I have?

Miss Ortland didn’t stray too far from my desk, and you could see she had a genuine concern for her safety. It didn’t help that the inmates were flexing their pecs and complimenting her on her peculiar sense of fashion. Miss Ortland, you see, wore plain white blouses buttoned all the way up and knee-high plaid skirts. If she had been younger, I’d describe her outfit as something a Catholic schoolgirl wears. But it wasn’t so much her choice in clothes that made her appearance strange; it was what she wore underneath her skirt. Please do not rush to conclusions, it isn’t like I or my convict-students were stealing glances every chance we could get—at least not me anyway. What she had underneath was so damned obvious that nobody said anything about it.

Without my having to ask, she offered the following explanation: “I’ve been riding my bicycle to work.” We were in the middle of autumn, so I understood her wanting to keep her legs warm. I informed her of the employee lockers in the administration building. Still, I’m puzzled as to why she didn’t just wear slacks; it seemed like less of a hassle and a more practical way of concealing her long-johns.

THE RELIABILITY FACTOR

It wasn’t always that way—Mr. Grimmett arriving and leaving the prison via bus, cab, or my 1992 Ford Tempo. After six months on the job he had bought a brand new Oldsmobile Achieva and his punctuality soon improved. He took me to lunch one day to the Nevada Coney Island on the corner of Ryan and Nevada Roads; ironically, the restaurant was within walking distance of our facility (if you chose to travel by foot and risk your safety). I’d heard that Mr. Grimmett walked there often, prior to purchasing his new set of wheels.

I complemented him on his wise choice in vehicles and he expressed a sense of relief for not having to rely on cabs or Detroit’s never-on-time bus system.

“Whatever you want, JR. My treat,” he said.

I didn’t mind him paying for my lunch, after all, I did offer him rides now and then, however, the menu had nothing but greasy, unhealthy, artery-clogging food. Yet, I felt compelled to celebrate with him.

I’m not sure how much time elapsed, but one day I saw him getting into a yellow checkered cab outside our facility. I thought nothing of it until it became part of his normal routine once again.

“Grimmett,” I said, “where’s your car?”

He told me that he no longer drove it to work for fear of it being repossessed. At first I thought he was joking until he informed me of his elaborate plan of moving it around from house to house. “The repo man will never find it,” he said.

It seemed all too complicated to me. I offered a simple solution, “Why don’t you continue making your car payments?”

He railed against the ineptness of the car dealership, how they never fixed a reoccurring problem, and how he threatened and made good on forgoing future payments. I didn’t pry any further, although I suspect he’d spent most of his money on having a good time with several of his lady friends.

THE LAW OF AVERAGES

After seeing the teaching staff turn over twice at my first prison job, and after waking up morning after morning after morning and reporting to work, steadily increasing the average shelf life of a correctional educator, and after dealing with stable and unstable coworkers alike, I'd have to say Mr. Charles M. Grimmett will always have the honorable distinction of being the most free-spirited, happy-go-lucky, convict instructor I've ever had the pleasure of working with. Prior to his termination, which came at a time when I was his temporary boss and he served as my union representative (go figure), I had to deliver a message. "Grimmett," I said, noting his punctuality problem on a computer printout generated from our time clock, "administration wants to fire your ass. Try to get here on time." I felt perfectly comfortable telling him this because I knew he'd feel perfectly comfortable hearing it.

"JR, I've been fired from better shitholes than this. Do you think I care? Do you think I'll have trouble finding work? I'm a black teacher certified in math and science."

Grimmett and I had swapped students on a regular basis, tossing the race card onto the table every opportunity we could. "JR, I got a white boy for you. Says he can't learn from my kind," and "Grimmett, I got a Melanic for you, says he ain't workin' for the man."

At one point in our working relationship, after observing Mr. Grimmett regulary waiting for a cab, I offered him a ride home. Soon enough, I discovered that "home," depending on which day of the week it was, meant driving to various locations. One such place he teased me about regularly. "My lady friend keeps asking why a white man's bringing me to her house."

I never pried into his living arrangements, but I do remember him wanting me to cover for him while he checked on one of his so-called "lady friends" during lunch time. Apparently, he had spoken to her on the lobby payphone and she seemed incoherrent. So off he went. I could see the genuine concern in his face. He never returned that day, or the next.

She had been badly beaten and the Detroit police (whom he called) arrested his ass for domestic violence. When she regained her faculties and left the hospital, he was exonerated. Still, once I had warned him about losing his job, it was only a matter of time before Mr. Grimmett was escorted off the premise. At least I never steered him wrong, I kept it real. Unfortunately, some numbers are just meant to lower the average.

MY HEARTBROKEN MURMUR

Sarah Anne Johnson: What would you say to someone working on a first novel?

Elizabeth McCracken: If you think, "Is this a novel? How do I know that I'm writing a novel? How do I know it's not just one damn page after another?"--that's how it is. Most of my advice has to do with preparing yourself for depression and heartbreak in the actual writing of the book. You must be prepared to break your own heart.

I'm not a big-dreamer-kind-of-guy. I'd rather scale back my writing, downsize it into smaller manageable pieces. Less words, less heartache--easier for me to swallow rejection. Why punish myself? Why stay indoors and brood? Why not enjoy the day?

I'm a realist. I play the odds, finding the tiniest of the tiniest literary journals to submit my work. The more obscure the better. I've sold myself short many times, once giving a now defunct literary magazine the 1st North American Serial Rights to a short story, then reneging when something better came along. How do you do that? Very simple: I hereby rescind my initial offer ...

I remember contacting Eric Novak, the founder of Elitist Publications and author of "Killing Molly." He and his cohorts were assembling an anthology of short stories and poetry by Detroit writers. I'd read his first novel, thought it sucked (to put it mildly), and decided they might be impressed with my work. Eric got the idea for his novel while placed under house arrest for a drug conviction. Talk about irony: A correctional educator seeking the help of someone who almost went to prison.

After several emails back and forth (including an attached short story), Mr. Novak leveled with me. They were interested in posting fiction and poetry on their website prior to making selections for their anthology. I felt like I was being conned. Anyway, Elitist Publications no longer has a website and probably no longer exist. I wonder if Mr. Novak slipped into a deep depression and no longer writes. I did unearth an old review of "Killy Molly" at The Detroiter.com, and here's the last bit of info regarding Elitist (click here). Hope I didn't torch another bridge.

RIDING THE BULL

I’m having trouble here. Certain images are hard for me to process. “Are those bike helmets?”

My brother tries correcting me, “They’re more like lacrosse helmets.”

He may be partially correct. Some have grills across the front. Still, it doesn’t seem right, the whole image slightly off center, like a twisted Tour de France where half the cyclists wear cowboy hats.

I keep thinking about a prison rodeo I saw on cable television. Four convicts sitting around a card table playing bluff poker. Statuesque, their cards cemented to their hands, while an angry bull paces and snorts nearby. Three of them scramble for safety; the other stays seated for what seems like eternity—even after the bull tosses the card table into the air.

For some reason, I thought we were going to a rodeo. We’re at the Palace of Auburn Hills, home of the Detroit Pistons. My brother asks, “Do you know what PBR stands for?”

I haven’t a clue. “Pabst Blue Ribbon,” I answer.

My power of suggestion is too much for him. He’s parched. He offers to buy me one of those $8 beers. I decline.

When the event gets underway, they introduce approximately three dozen cowboys. “We’ll be here all night,” I complain.

My brother laughs. “They only have to ride the bull for 8 seconds.”

I look at the program and decide to cheer for only those wearing cowboy hats.

BEHIND ENEMY LINES

General Biscuit had a long standing policy: In order to be a cookie/cracker sales representative, you had to start out as a swing man. You had to prove to management that you could handle a variety of accounts and increase the sales volume of each person you were subbing for. It seemed realistic, within my grasp.

I learned that the easiest way to ruin a perfectly healthy relationship with the regulars is to not order enough product. No one likes to return from vacation and look at barren shelves. A lull in product-movement is the equivalent of flat-lining commissions. “Folks can’t buy it,” Clayton Middleton, our district manager, used to say, “if it ain’t on the shelf.”

“I’d rather have you order too much,” Dick said, “than too little.” Not only did he have the highest sales volume, he also wrote the most store credits. At first I attributed this to stock rotation, or lack there of, and rodents chewing through packages. “You hungry?” he asked once. We were jamming cookies onto an endcap display. “I’m buying.”

Before I could answer, he tore into a package of cold cuts and a loaf of bread; the store owner, hot on his trail, kept yelling in broken English, “You pay for that, Dick, you pay for that.” Such was Dick’s way—give the store owner a generous credit and fix yourself a sandwich, condiments included.

The suburbs, on the other hand, didn’t operate in this manner. There were certain rules that must be adhered to. Call it payola for shelf space. National Biscuit commanded a sizeable lead, with General Biscuit and Keebler a distant second and third, respectively. Each company had their linear footage, their beach front property; their land surveyed and marked for all to see.

I remember stocking the shelves of a Meijers and facing a dilemma—too many cookies, not enough space. Remembering what Clayton had told me, I decided to face off the Nabisco cookies and slide my extras in behind. No harm done. The National Biscuit rep still had his beach front property, his house was still standing. Of course, I knew the steady erosion would soon give way to General Biscuit and I’d infiltrate his loyal customers.

Later in the week, a National Biscuit rep confronted me. He grabbed a box of my Salerno Butter Cookies and started stomping on them in the middle of the aisle. As much as I wanted to reciprocate, I lied instead. “This is the first time I’ve been in this store.” The women grocery shoppers looked at him like he was a raving lunatic.

Short story recommendation: Seth Taylor’s “What You Want But Can’t Buy”

BUBBA, aka HAMBURGLAR, SPEAKS

My client, JR Thumbprints, does not engage in friendly competitions without my say so. As his agent, publicists, personal trainer, and bodyguard, I have advised him not to comment further (or is it farther?) regarding this matter. He's a bit traumatized by the whole ordeal and after reading today's drafted-post, I can understand why. I suggested he tone down the cookie-war milieu.

"JR," I said, "show the destructive personalities of your competitors and quit telling us about the grocery food business."

One last thing: Hey Grouchie, you want some candy?

OUR PLATOON LEADER

Clayton Middleton, our platoon leader for General Biscuit, conducted monthly meetings at our district warehouse off Tireman Road on Detroit’s west side. He’d review our sales quotas, scrutinize our expense reports, inform us of new stores coming to our areas, and introduce new products. In a highly competitive cookie/cracker market, Clayton reminded us how to: 1) use point of purchase displays to maximize profits, 2) take advantage of chain stores advertising GB products, and 3) convince store managers to include us in their weekly flyers during special rebate offers.

Clayton was the embodiment of a professional. Only once did I see him lose his cool - during the unveiling of a new cookie. Giddier than a little school child, his fingers gripping a white bed sheet draped over a large display, he started talking about "Barney" and "The Land Before Time." Clayton-the-Matador ready to wow us, ready to razzle-dazzle us into a selling frenzy, however, his secretary whispered in his ear that he had an urgent phone call from corporate. He apologetically excused himself from the room.

While he was out, Dick, our number one cookie/cracker sales rep, reached under the sheet and grabbed a package of Dinosaur Grahams. The package quickly worked its way around the conference table, each of us biting into a cookie.

"I don’t want’em on my route," Dick said. "They taste like cardboard."

Soon everyone was in agreement. Shitty tasting cookies with a rip-off Tony-the-Tiger slogan—Dinosaur Grrrrrahams—Phooey!

When Clayton returned, he threw a tantrum. I saw tears welling up in his eyes. "You had to wreck the surprise didn’t you? You had to take the fun out of it." He reached for the half-eaten package and chucked it against the wall.

Within two months Dick was outselling everyone. "Kids just love them dinosaurs," he said.

SAVING PRIVATE THUMBPRINTS

I would've much rather been thought of as a first class private, a soldier on the front lines for General Biscuit, instead of "Angel Cakes," the rookie with no apparent goals. After talking to an experienced cookie/cracker sales representative named Dick, a veteran who covered the inner city of Detroit, I sometimes felt like I might be preparing for battle without a weapon. I knew to listen to his advice; he had the highest volume of product sold for the past ten years. Ironically, no one wanted his territory. The other sales reps offered their condolences when they heard I'd be covering Dick's stores. But hey, he deserved a vacation just like everyone else, and I was the anointed swingman.

He had some simple rules for me to follow:

"Always park your car near the front door of each party store," he began. "Leave all your signs and samples inside the car and not in the trunk, unless you want to be stuffed in it." I nodded, showing him I understood. "Never rotate the stock, regardless of what the store manager tells you." He saw that I looked puzzled; as a stockboy I knew that you always rotate the stock. "Rats," he explained. "Also, don't stay on the route past two in the afternoon because the crack heads wake up by then and they'll pester the shit out of you."

He convinced the district manager to let me ride shotgun with him for a few days before giving me complete reign of his turf. I learned some valuable lessons about shoppers in the hood. Store after store, customers would interrupt me--excuse me sir, they'd apologize, my eyes are bad, could you tell me what it says on this here box? After awhile, Dick shook his head. "His eyes aren't bad JR, the poor bastard can't read." It never occurred to me how helpless, how uneducated, some folks were.

I also learned that you could purchase one or two cigarettes instead of the whole pack. I once asked a man why he didn't buy a whole carton of eggs instead of the two he had in his hand. "This is my breakfast," he said, "I can’t be buying for everyone."

What bothered me the most was all the questionable merchandise—stereo equipment, boom boxes, television sets, watches, jewelry etc.—in the back storage rooms. I discovered that a few party store owners fenced items for a handsome profit. I can only imagine, as Michigan's economy declines, that this will be on the rise.

ANGEL CAKES, THE GLORIFIED STOCKBOY

I've been called all sorts of names over the years, from Tee-Tee, short for Tiny Tom, a chubby little speedster tearing up the elementary school playground, to Tom-Tom or Tommy Gun on the prison yard. Names have never really bothered me. Except once. And it came at a difficult time in my life where I had serious doubts about becoming a teacher.

Disillusioned about the whole state teacher certification process, I decided to leave Oakland University. They could stick my worthless degree in the mail, and I'd transfer my educational credits elsewhere. Of course, even though teachers are certified by the state, each school has a different program, which meant most of my educational credits were no better than a dog turd on the sidewalk--You had to step around it and move on.

Lacking the necessary funds to continue with my coursework, and waiting to be accepted at Madonna College, I decided to become another working stiff in America. I figured my past experience as a stockboy for four years would help me find something in the grocery business. It wasn't long and I struck out on the road as an official swing man, the new kid on the block, substituting for different cookie/cracker sales representatives as they took their much needed vacations.

Armed with a telezon unit--a nifty calculator-looking-device with a magic wand attached to it, I read bar codes and communicated cookie and cracker orders over the telephone. One computer communicating with another. I blazed a trail from Port Huron to Detroit. My new job title seemed laughable--What do you do for a living?--Oh, I'm a cookie/cracker sales representative. I wasn't selling anything. I was merely filling orders, stocking shelves, and building mammoth displays. I felt more like a glorified stockboy.

After covering a few routes, I earned an embarrassing nickname. I allegedly ordered too many of those pink marshmallow-coconut treats. Stores called the district manager wanting credit for them. At our monthly sales meeting, coworkers complained about having a shitload of Angel Cakes at their stores. I explained that perhaps it was a computer glitch. "My parents have a rotary phone," I said, as if that had anything to do with it.

I suspect, no matter where I appeared, the store managers, cashiers, and even the stockboys were told to call me "Angel Cakes." Here comes Angel Cakes. How are we doing today, Angel Cakes? I knew it was time to toughen up and re-enroll in school and finish what I had started. I guess an Angel was looking down on me.

MURDALAND ON FRIDAY THE 13TH

Dear JR,

First off, I wanted to apologize for taking so long to get back to you and to thank you for giving us here at Murdaland the opportunity to read your stories.

There is much to admire about each. In both, the narrative voice is immediately engaging and flows well throughout. Your protagonists are compelling, as are the overall plots. Finally, the faint sense of menace that builds is quite affecting. The thought and craftsmanship that goes into your writing is obvious.

As enjoyable as they are to read, however, I’m afraid we’re going to have to pass on them at this time. The reality of the situation is that for each story we accept, we’re forced to reject over forty, and tough decisions must be made.

By the way, if you choose to submit again ( keep an eye on the Web site for our next reading period, which should be some time this summer!), I guarantee you a more timely response in the future.

Thanks again for thinking of Murdaland, and best of luck placing your stories elsewhere.

Yours,
Dennis Flynn
www.murdalandmagazine.com

THE HARDEST FALL

I’m not sure why I had the bottom bunk when my brother, prone to tossing and turning and talking in his sleep, occasionally fell to the hardwood floor. I’d hear a loud thud, open my eyes, and see him sound asleep, curled into the fetal position trying to stay warm, his teeth grinding, muttering incomprehensible words that kept me awake for hours on end. Maybe my fear of heights had something to do with my lower level sleeping arrangement, or at least my willingness not to challenge my brother for the top bunk.

Getting my knee wedged in Old Man Barker’s maple tree and my dad suggesting they amputate my leg instead of damaging a perfectly healthy branch amplified my fear. He stood on the ladder’s top rung, placed a saw blade on my exposed thigh, and asked Old Man Barker, “What do you think? How about here?” Poor Mr. Barker, seeing the terror in my eyes as I struggled to free my leg, gave my father permission to cut the tree limb instead. As horrible as this may seem, I never climbed another tree.

I learned a valuable lesson that day, but not as harsh as an inmate receiving a blanket party in the middle of the night. A few years back, some prisoners convinced a corrections office to open their cell doors and let them have access to another prisoner’s room. Wielding bars of soap in socks, they pinned the prisoner under his blanket and went to work. Call it a prison hazing if you will, a reminder to stay clean, to lead a crime-free life, to not come back at all. The next morning the beaten down inmate limped through the front gates, his time served.

Unfortunately, some messages have repercussions. The ex-felon met with his parole officer. “What the hell happened to you?” his P.O. asked, probably thinking his newest client was involved in some type of bar brawl. However, as the story unraveled, and a lawsuit filed, a certain corrections officer took the hardest fall of all.

THE HERITAGE HOUSE & HEIRLOOMS

I’ve seen family members recover swiftly from burying their elderly only to continue fighting and arguing over who gets the family heirlooms. In doesn’t matter what the probate judge says. His verdict—the deceased’s possessions are to be sold through an Estate Sales Service and the proceeds divided evenly among the surviving family members—is just another obstacle. If you could measure each person’s grief in terms of entitlement, it would be fair to say that nasty, mean-spirited people would recover much sooner only, and I do mean ONLY, when they amass all the valuable items listed in the will.

During my lengthy stretch as a professional college student, I worked for Heritage House Estate Sales Services inventorying and pricing the items of dead people. I worked under the steady eye of a middle-aged woman chain smoking unfiltered Pall Malls and barking orders as if I were as dumb as the day is long. I’d follow her from room to room stickering everything in sight, including the deceased person’s underwear. She was a shrewd businesswoman. She knew the intricacies of dealing with family members, real estate agents, and collectors. She had a loyal following of collectors that subscribed to her monthly newsletter, and a showroom where she stored crappy used furniture on consignment.

At first I couldn’t believe the inflated prices on some items. But it wasn’t long and I understood that you needn’t be a funeral director to profit off someone’s death. After prepping a house for a weekend sale, my boss routinely opened a day early for her loyal following of collectors and newsletter subscribers. Family members were invited at this time as well. I had the unfortunate task of working the front door, allowing a handful of people in at a time. First come, first served. One in, one out.

Quite frequently a disgruntled customer would challenge her authority. “Do you know who I am? This was my sister’s lamp, passed on from generation to generation. She wanted me to have it. I’m willing to give you a fair price. Why are you being so unreasonable?”

My boss waved a lit Pall Mall at her. “Put the lamp down. It’s an antique. I have collectors who may be interested in it.”

A few days later, after the preview sale, the house would open to the general public. Family members would come back, still hoping to get that one cherished item. In the case of the lamp, the same person returned and offered even less than before, just to prove a point. But my boss stood her ground, even refusing the initial offer. Sometimes I’d see these sad-looking heirlooms collecting dust in her showroom on top of a piece of crappy furniture.

Short story recommendation: “Heirloom” by Pamela Stewart

BELT-TIGHTENING 101

There’s a whole lot of belt-tightening going on in Michigan government as we face a $968,000,000 deficit. Each state department is scrambling for ways to cut the fat, or trim the waistline, or justify their existence. As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, The Dept. of Technology (DIT) has decided to gouge The schools in The Dept. of Corrections (MDOC) with a $200 increase in service fees per computer. The MDOC school director in turn issued a memorandum with a computer reduction solution—academic classrooms (1 teacher & 4 student computers) and vocational classrooms (2 computers). No more, no less.

Today, after dragging my feet for two weeks, I cancelled my morning classes and added 5 perfectly functional computers to the storage room bone-yard. The other academic teacher (“other” meaning there are only 2 of us left due to attrition) added 4 perfectly functional computers from the Level I housing unit and 4 more from his classroom. The computers are piling up in the bone-yard.

You’ve got to love all this belt-tightening. I’ve also been given a new copier password delivered with the following message from the business office: school staff is making way too many copies. This so-called fact came from a lady upset about not being able to pilfer a printer from our school building.

Michigan Attorney General Mike Cox has taken belt-tightening to a whole new level. He’s decided they need a gym in his office building, preferably on the 7th floor so he won’t have to walk very far. He’s willing to spend $58,000 on exercise equipment. Hey, got to watch that waistline, you just never know when you’re going to have another extra marital affair.

Then there are all those Michigan judges. It’s nice to know they’re buckling up in their state issued cars. Call it: Seat-Belt Tightening. Speaking of vehicles, I was able to fix the tail light on my van with a small strip of duct tape. Total cost: 2 cents. Out of my own damn pocket.

CONGRATULATIONS, YOU ARE A WINNER ...

Depending on what you win, you could end up one big fat loser. You could receive a congratulatory letter, an invite of sorts: “Pick up your free Sony flat-screen television at the Marriott.” So you’re seated in a large conference area, waiting to hear a spiel—there’s always a spiel, nothing’s ever truly free, you don’t mind, let me hear the spiel—and a spokesperson announces “this is a police round-up, put your hands on top of your head.” You get that sinking feeling, you realize you should’ve paid all those parking tickets, that not paying all those parking tickets has landed you, like a fly on shit, in the middle of a room full of dangerous criminals. They, in turn, think the same thing … they’re the fly, you’re the shit.

During my chauffeuring days, my boss donated his limousine service for a fundraiser. His two spoiled children attended Cranbrook Schools and for reasons not related to cash flow (the school district is one of the wealthiest in Michigan), they sold ten-dollar raffle tickets offering a plethora of prizes.

My clients, a husband and wife duo, won the limousine package, thus winning my services. After traveling two blocks, the back tires started rubbing against the wheel wells and the Wifey asks, “What’s that noise?”

“What noise?” I say, turning quickly onto Woodward, trying to ignore the warning signs, heading for the Whitney restaurant in Detroit, the smell of burnt rubber and small plumes of smoke beating us around the corner. I know what to do. I reach under the dash, push a little orange button, the steady hum of air pumped into shocks, separating wheels from wells.

No more problems. The old Lincoln stretch crawling along like an old thirsty dog; The Detroit Zoo water tower approaching the horizon; Coleman A. Young in bold print, a symbolic warning to behave in the city or hit the other side of Eight Mile. We hear a gunshot. But we’re far from the dividing line. My clients want to know why I’m scrambling to the shoulder of the road. What was I to say, “Because you and your wife are extremely obese and you blew the shocks on the car.” Instead, I apologize, offering my standard, “I-don’t-know I-haven’t-a-clue” explanation.

“We have dinner reservations,” the Wifey says. “Can you get us another car?”

What they need, I’m thinking, is a heavy duty crane to haul their asses to Weight Watchers. I play it safe, “It’s a one car operation.”

I’m mad. They’re mad. I call a tow truck. They call a cab. The evening’s a total bust. For them. For me. There are no winners here.

THE BIG FOOT AWARD

I am now the recipient of The Island Grove Press Big Foot Award for not being so abominable. Although I’d like to set the bar a smidgen higher, I officially accept this Canadian award bestowed upon me. Unlike other awards that grow exponentially and perhaps download malicious spyware and/or adware onto unsuspecting computers, this award, The Big Foot Award, is firmly planted at one’s doorstep. It can only be granted by none other than Ivan Prokopchuk, author of Ontario’s number one best selling novel “Light Over Newmarket” and soul creator/editor of The Island Grove Press.

This prestigious award does not involve any money and there are no strings attached. You will not find a burning bag of shit on your front porch—no sirree—this is an authentic writing award. Therefore, I would like to say that any recognition for my efforts is better than no recognition at all. It’s no different then if Joey Harrington, the former quarterback of the Detroit Lions and Miami Dolphins were to be awarded MVP of the CFL. I’m sure he’d graciously accept his trophy, all the while keeping his eye on returning to the NFL.

I would like to personally thank Ivan Prokopchuk for making me the first recipient of this soon-to-be-coveted award. I. P. freely (Bart Simpson eat your heart out) offers sound advice on the harsh realities of becoming a full-fledged writer. Here’s what he had to say about my recent series of chauffeur stories:

I can't get over the intelligence of you guys. Like JR half-anticipating what I was composing this morning, addled as I am with the sunriser.

I was going to write about the weirdest assignment I ever got from the TORONTO SUN, a review of a transvestite comedy club called SHE-RADE. This was some years back, long before the political correctness of today. A portion of my story:

High-heeled MC to a front-row patron:

"And what do you do for a living, sir?"

"I drive a limo.

"You drive a homo?"

"No, no. I drive a limo."

"No way. You drive a homo. I can tell. Something's eating away at you."

And so it went.

Moral of story: Never sit in the front row of a gay comedy club.

...Better still, don't go at all if you were once a straight limo driver like JR.

Ah well. Ladies certainly enjoy reading your limo stories, JR.

Ivan (4/07/2007 7:35 AM)

His encouraging words have led me to my next short story project titled: “The Narrative Compendium of an American Chauffeur,” where the first person narrator shares his smorgasbord of experiences as a limousine driver. So let me use this award as a stepping stone to get back to my former self, to get back into one of those small literary journals that have so often rejected my work. Hey, Joey Harrington is still a quarterback, and I am still a writer, and a horse is a horse of course, unless, that is: his head is severed and used for a scene in “The Godfather.”

BRAKE DANCING

On the way home from work yesterday, the county boys pulled me over. I'm not too sure how long they'd been following me, but once I saw the flashing lights, I knew to stop. I kept my hands at the 10 and 2 position until the cop approached my driver's side window. I didn't want a repeat of last summer where a policewoman approached my vehicle, her hand on her holster, yelling, "Sir, keep your door shut, keep it shut!"

Seems I've been experiencing electrical problems with my eggbeater of a van. Again, I explained to the county boy tapping on the glass, "My power windows don't work. Is it okay if I open the door?"

He nodded yes. "License, driver's registration, and proof of insurance."

I gave him everything but the proof of insurance. He went back to his patrol car to do a background check while I rifled through my glove box. Still, I couldn't find what I was looking for. A few minutes later I saw him getting out of his vehicle and approaching, so I put my hands back at the 10 and 2 position. He opened the door.

"Your brake light's out on the driver's side," he said.

I acted surprised. Last summer the policewoman handed me a ticket. This time was different.

"Are you related to Dennis?" he asked.

If I'm not mistaken, Dennis is either a judge or a politician. I lied, "Yes. Yes I am."

He handed my license and registration back, the proof of insurance he'd forgotten about. "Get your tail light fixed."

"Thank you officer. Will do."

INTO THE GREAT WIDE OPEN

Our predecessors were fired for hiding a case of beer inside a dumpster at the local grocery store during closing time. As I mopped aisle six, another stock boy discreetly passed me, muttering, “Do you think it’ll work?”

“Hell yeah,” I answered, confident that if it didn’t, I was at least far enough removed from the situation so as not to be implicated. He was referring to my suggestion that they hide a case of beer under the dumpster instead of in it.

I’m not sure why the store manager decided to make dumpster diving part of his routine, but he had the lid flipped open and both arms rummaging through the cardboard. I had stuck my mop in the mop bucket and approached the backdoor where we unloaded the Spartan trucks. “Are you looking for something?” I asked.

The manager turned around and acted like nothing was out of the ordinary, a case of Old Milwaukee clearly visible behind his feet. That night, I and two other stock boys drank that beer. I remember their praise for my suggestion and my disdain for their obvious mistake—stealing cheap warm beer.

I’ve always known that the best method for getting away with something is to do it out in the open. These very same stock boys, after getting caught trying to sneak into the Armada Fair beer tent, doubted me again. “It’ll never work,” they said.

I found a large commemorative plastic beer cup in the parking lot and poured a can of beer into it. I deliberately walked by a state policeman checking i.d.’s at the entrance. “Hey,” he said, “you can’t be on the midway with that.” He nodded toward my beverage.

“Sorry,” I apologized and strolled through, my peers watching in amazement as I disappeared into the crowd, heading straight for the beer-ticket booth with a pocket full of money.

You’ve got to have confidence in yourself. You’ve got to not know any better. It’s called youth.

When Prisoner Gonzalez, a former school clerk, transferred to my current facility, he tried to continue his ruse. The school principal enrolled him in my class. “There must be some kind of mistake,” I told my new boss. “This guy had an office job when I was at the Ryan prison.”

“I don’t care,” he said.

I dug deeper. I’m not sure whether I wanted to impress my new boss or prove him wrong. I did neither. Here’s what happened:

Prisoner Gonzalez went from having a cushy job pulling student files to a GED student struggling with fraction computation. He did fess up, saying to me, “I’ve been right under your nose for years. No one thought to look at my school records.”

I shook my head, not in disbelief, but in admiration, afterall, he used a method from my very own playbook, a playbook I hadn't looked at in years.

RATS!!!

Approximately two months ago Prisoner Vander, a first hour GED student, requested a “Release of Educational Records” form. “My Bunkie’s been helping me with my reading assignments,” he claimed, before explaining that the school office warned his cellmate of the inevitable: produce a high school diploma or go to school.

Unsure of what to do, besides claiming his high school graduate status and helping my student with his fractions, I’m afraid this prisoner chose a stalling tactic. (It’s our policy to use universal precautions and assume everyone’s a liar.)

“My bunkie filled out that form and sent it off,” Prisoner Vander said, “but he hasn’t been notified regarding the verification of his diploma.”

I asked him whether his bunkie was subsequently enrolled in school and he said, “No.” I figured that the diploma must’ve been verified and a copy of his transcripts shoved into a school office file.

“If the principal hasn’t contacted him,” I said, “then everything is copacetic.”

“Could you check?” the student asked. By now I was getting a little perturbed.

The next day I told him, “Your bunkie must have an overdue library book because his Ecorse High School transcript indicates that he did not have the necessary credits to graduate.”

Perhaps both inmates are delusional. I’m wondering just how much help my student is getting from this guy. Probably not much. I guess it’s time to rat him out.

HERE'S THE LATEST PRISON SCOOP

I remember a coworker, a correctional educator, calling one of the housing units and asking the unit officer why Prisoner Mead wasn’t in school.

“Gee, I don’t know,” the officer replied. “I set his clothes out and packed his lunch. I wonder where he went.”

I’m fairly certain the telephone receiver was slammed back onto its cradle. There’s nothing wrong with being concerned as to an inmate’s whereabouts. Nine times out of ten, they’re on that massive playground called the prison yard, and the odds of them planning the great escape are slim to none. The real problem, at least psychologically, is that they’re a walking liability. If they stab someone, the following question often arises: “Why was he out on the yard when he should’ve been in your classroom?”

On the other hand, I recall years ago strolling across the prison yard at Ryan Correctional Facility in Detroit. The sergeant accompanying me said, “Take a look around you.” He pointed toward the perimeter, the concertina wire. “They’re not going anywhere. Trust me.” A year later, someone tossed bolt cutters and guns over the fence resulting in ten inmates escaping. Soon afterward, the librarian was put under investigation (the escaped prisoners should’ve been in his area), a second security fence including gun towers were erected, and our former fat governor was doing a photo op showing his concern for the community. I remember tip-toeing around the compound, wondering whether all the guns were accounted for. In our debriefing, we were informed that no one knew how many weapons were thrown over the fence.

Thirteen years later, I’m hearing about a less successful escape attempt at Kinross, a facility in Michigan’s upper peninsula. Some inmates were within a few feet of their freedom. Imagine that. Kudos to the staff person who discovered the tunnel. I wonder which state employee(s) will be held accountable for the big dig?

THE DIZZY DUCK & OTHER FINE PLACES

Contrary to popular belief, the best clients a chauffeur can have are not celebrities. I learned quickly that celebrities, at least the local ones, are cheap bastards. As if their presence alone should make up for any short comings in the tipping department. Arthur P., a popular Detroit rock-and-roll disc jockey with a deep baritone voice known for his trademark way of saying “Baby,” never tipped. At first I thought maybe I was doing something wrong, but then I came to realize that chauffeurs are mere extensions or accessories of their limousines.

The real money came from your average middle class person that wanted a fun night out on the town. “Take me to the best strip club in Windsor,” a client might request. If you were quick with an answer, “Okay, we’re going to Cheetah’s,” they were usually satisfied. “What about Jason’s?” someone might challenge. “They’re overcrowded and the service is crappy,” I’d explain. Never mind that Cheetah’s took care of the chauffeurs, fed them and looked after their cars, whereas Jason’s did none of this. And don’t forget those other demographics. My answer for a car load of women: “Okay, let’s go to Danny’s.” Or gay men, “I’ll have you at Menjo’s in no time.”

Ironically, low class folks were generous with their money too. I sat in The Dizzy Duck, a former local dive and after-hours joint on 8 Mile Road near the I-75 underpass, while my clients disappeared into a back storage area. A toothless, tattooed client of mine reappeared. “We paid for you too,” he exclaimed. I looked at the haggard woman under his arm and politely said, “No thanks.” She frowned, and after a slight argument, he retrieved the money and gave it to me. “Spend it however you’d like,” he said, “She wasn’t really that good.”

Then there’s the business people, perhaps the best tippers of all. One gentleman in particular made it worthwhile. He brokered deals between companies, researching businesses for sale and finding prospective buyers. I’d pick him up, then his clients, and we’d go to Sinbad’s in Detroit. While they hammered out a deal in the restaurant, I sat at the bar crushing cockroaches with my beer mug. The bartender always put my order on my client’s tab. I always had my fingers crossed that the deal went smoothly. If it did, I got paid handsomely.

DO THE HUSTLE

A typical Monday in the joint with nothing shocking to report. No fights. No shanks. No major misconducts. I’m afraid reminiscing about my chauffeuring days is inevitable. . .

I spent most evenings sitting in the back of that Lincoln Continental stretch absorbing the glow of a small television screen or reading under the soft interior lights; my clients wining and dining in expensive overrated restaurants—some of which did not allow chauffeurs the use of their bathrooms.

It wasn’t long and I had figured out various methods for making the night as productive and painless as possible—my most popular distraction: videotaped movies (DVD’s hadn’t been invented yet). During my “down time” I thought about ways to maximize my profits.

Since I never punched in or out (I signed a log book, picking the car up and dropping it off at the owner’s automated car wash) I devised a plan for hustling more cash. In those days the standard rate for a limousine was fifty-dollars an hour for a minimum three hours. A majority of my clients were bar hoppers, hopping from pub to pub, presumably looking for a little companionship over music and drinks. If they found a particular watering hole to their liking and exceeded their time limit on the car, they’d send someone out to negotiate with me. I’d act like I was sticking my neck out, that I was doing them one hell of a favor. “I could lose my job,” I’d claim before cutting them a deal.

We’d usually agree on fifteen or twenty dollars an hour, money up front, cash only. As long as the car didn’t leave the parking lot everybody was happy. Seemed like a win-win situation. I wasn’t driving around burning up gas and oil or risking damage to the car, and my clients were enjoying their evening. I’d log in the three-hour minimum once I returned to the car wash. I did this for one reason only: I needed the money to help pay for my college classes.

Only once did I take a calculated risk. I overheard some female college students arguing in a lecture hall over whom their designated driver should be on that particular Friday night. I suggested a limousine. They thought it would be too expensive; I convinced them otherwise. It’s the only time where, after replenishing the gas tank, I pocketed all the money. As far as the limousine owner was concerned: the car never left the car wash. Do I have any regrets about it? Nope. Back then I felt invincible. Nowadays, I’m too afraid to take risks, too afraid of what I might lose.

VOLUNTEERING FOR PROMS

Thirty-one days in March is just too damned long, so I took a day off from blogging. What the hell? —30 out of 31 posts ain’t bad. Seems I’ve been switching gears lately, from prison talk (God, I sound like Alan Alda’s “Pillow Talk” radio show) to limousine talk. Trading one confined space for another. And as always, such awkward timing, after Johnny Yen's rave review regarding my prison writing. I’m quite sure I’m not on the same level as Erik, but if Johnny says I am, then who am I to argue? Initial reinforcement of my writing (or was it the photos?) came from the The Thinker in the form of a chain-letter-type-award. Thank you Johnny and thank you The Thinker. I've got that gold emblem on my template, minus all those rules and links. Chains are meant to be broken, at least that's what the inmates tell me.

Speaking of youth, I remember being the only chauffeur enthusiastic enough to do those prom nights. “Kids’ll tear up your car,” I heard other chauffeurs complain. “They’ll burn up the interior with cigarettes and pot. They’ll puke on the floorboard.” Not long after that the other drivers were asking me, “Why are you so eager to do proms?”

My answers: “Because the tips are good.” What can I say? The young inexperienced guns wanted to impress their dates by greasing my palm.

One night wasn’t so easy though. My client and his date stood outside the limousine getting their pictures taken—I often wonder how many prom photos I’m in? —when the boy’s father asked me if I’d let them drink in the car. Before you pass judgment on me, let me just say that back then I’d do almost anything for a fast buck. “Sure,” I said to the father waiting for him to slip me the twenty he had in his hand.

Was it worth it? Probably not. I became the father that night. There weren’t any messes to clean up. Everything went fairly smooth. Until I dropped the kid off at his house. Before backing out of the driveway, I noticed him keying up a car, or should I say, trying to unlock it. I got out and asked, “What’re you doing?”

“I’m taking her home,” he said turning to the girl leaning against him.

“The hell you are,” I replied.

He tried to wait me out, hoping I’d just leave instead of blocking the driveway. I rang the doorbell and explained to his father that my duties were finished. “They’re all yours,” I said.