OLD NAVY WITH ATTITUDE

In my early college days I’d catch and heave cases of durable items racing down a Spartan semi-truck’s metal rollers to the next stock boy in line. It didn’t matter if I tossed cream corn, green beans, or applesauce in jars—I instinctively plucked them off those rollers and put some air beneath them. At three-thirty every Thursday morning the nature of my game had been to bury the corner of the box into an unsuspecting chest. The faster I could choreograph inconsistent hang times, the more likelihood I’d achieve my goal.

“C’mon tough guy,” I’d say to the sleepy stock boy massaging his sternum (high tosses) or solar plexus (low tosses). I had suffered from little man’s complex and my coworkers bore the brunt of my mental anguish. “What’s a matter, box to light for ya?”

Same modis operandi with the Pepsi. I knew when to man the handcart. I never claimed forearms like Popeye. If we were unloading case loads of bottles, I’d call “dibs” on one of the dollies and wheel Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, and Mountain Dew into our warehouse, positioning the six cases against my right shoulder. Once I established where to park my load, I’d lean the other way, and slide the dolly out with my right foot. The not-so-bright dweebs in the warehouse would stack them twelve high, even if their arms looked like spindles. As for me, I kept wheeling more their way.

After days of searching for a mean, scary Halloween costume, I settled on today’s picture. Please, no YMCA jokes.

Have a Happy Halloween everyone.

FOG JUICE & BAD DECISIONS

There are times in our lives where we forget the boundaries of common decency, where we push the envelope beyond reason, and when we do that, when the fog clears, we realize the error of our ways. I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life time, but what I overheard in the employee lunchroom regarding a prisoner’s mail almost made me choke on my chicken sandwich.

“Excuse me,” I said. “A teacher did what?”

Nothing really shocks me anymore. Or so I had thought. I remember a young, married, female corrections teacher with two toddlers leaving her husband for an inmate doing “all day.” I saw her sitting in the prison visiting room with her new man. I wondered whether it was worth it—to sacrifice her marriage, her family, and her job to listen to a prisoner making empty promises of how their life together would be some day. I’m sure the conversation ended with “can you put some more money in my account?” This is the same old story, a real yawner if you ask me.

But what I overheard in the employee lunchroom, if the media got a hold of it, would shock an entire community. This isn’t anything like the gay prisoner I once knew who corresponded with a male elementary school teacher on a regular basis. “Oh look,” he said to me, “Richard sent his latest picture. Isn’t he sweet?” I thought to myself, what would the parents of Richard’s students do if they discovered his love correspondence? You could argue that Richard is entitled to his private life, and I’d respect your opinion, no need to argue. Again, a real snooze fest as far as I’m concerned.

But what I overheard in the employee lunchroom is very much different. The correctional facility’s mailroom opens all incoming envelopes and packages. Legal mail is opened in front of the prisoner. Personal mail, on the other hand, is unsealed and examined prior to delivery. So when the large manila envelope addressed to an inmate arrived, the mailroom worker followed protocol. What she found was a bunch of letters from a teacher’s fifth grade class. It had been an assignment. Some of the students claimed they were being forced to write the letter, that they really didn’t want to do it. A few fifth graders included their personal addresses. Luckily, none of the letters made it inside.

I’m not sure what the relationship is between the fifth grade teacher and this particular prisoner, but I’m willing to bet the school district will be notified. Do you think they’ll pass this information on to the parents? Or will they keep a lid on it? Time will tell. At least the Michigan Department of Corrections intercepted it. Please feel free to share your outrage.

PROCESS OF ELIMINATION

In my endless pursuit of that one scary childhood Halloween costume, I found the above silly photograph. I immediately felt sorry for the “Teddy Bear” Masked Man with his humongous, orange plastic, pumpkin pail. And why shouldn’t I? “Gritty” must have traveled down my mom’s ear canals as “glitzy” before the brain processed it into the word “grizzly” thus resulting in my being dressed out as a cute and cuddly Downy-type bear. (Snuggles? I’m guessing.) But this can’t be the case. It isn’t me. Who it is I don’t know.

My brother and I, although one year apart in age, were often mistaken for twins due to wearing matching clothes. If he wore plaid pants and a striped shirt, I wore plaid plants and a striped shirt. Our parents theorized that being fair meant giving us the same things. However, at Halloween we were able to pick and choose our costumes within reason.

If my brother said, “I want to be an Indian,” then I’d think of something within the same theme and say, “I want to be a cowboy.” But as we grew older, both of us took a more convenient route and became standard hobos, mixing and matching whatever we saw fit.

So which kid am I? Both hobo-like characters have matching Little Caesers Trick-or-Treat bags. It wouldn’t be fair if one of us had a larger sized bag that held more candy. Am I the tall, lanky, down-and-out red-nosed pharmacists advertising Hall’s cough drops, or the big-eared, big-nosed, white-collared pilgrim hobo? It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had once participated in Disco Elementary’s “Thanksgiving Day” extravaganza. My mom had stitched together the black robe with white collar just for me. It must've been a positive experience, why else would I wear it again? I’m grateful that I didn’t have to wear a hunter’s orange reflecting vest that night, or if I did, that my dad never snapped the picture.

ONCE AGAIN, TRAUMA BEFORE HALLOWEEN

Why is it, after sifting through endless family photos in search of yours truly sporting at least one bad ass Halloween costume, I end up reliving the trauma of my youth? The amateur photographer—and I do mean “amateur” because of the wayward digit in front of the camera lense, which, by the way, would’ve been more convenient on the left hand side—did not have a clue as to commanding the shot. Hypothetically speaking, if the photographer calls for a gritty cowboy, and the inattentive wardrobe assistant mistakenly hears “glitzy,” he should correct her regarding anything resembling Gene Autry. If the photographer requests a great warrior chief, and the wardrobe assistant, in her infinite wisdom, thinks a squaw would be a much better choice, then the photographer needs to redirect and communicate his vision. This photo should be no different.

After taking a much closer look, I wonder if this is some type of cruel hoax, the literary equivalent of the poem “Leonainie.” Had someone suggested replacing Raggedy Andy with Raggedy Ann would make the photo more identifiable? A piece of Americana? And at whose expense? I’m almost certain that this isn’t my toy. As you can clearly see, my brother is standing there, wringing his hands as if he were an accomplice to this crime (and at such an early age). If we had just banded together, then maybe Raggedy Andy would’ve joined his sister in the Toy Museum Hall of Fame.

Unfortunately, when the wardrobe assistant does the cooking, house cleaning, and laundry, the photographer contentedly snaps the damn picture without thinking of its damaging effect.

"I'm gonna get you, Bom-baaard!"

This morning I read the extra sports section of the Detroit Free Press and reminisced about my cross-country coach, who, in an effort to foster team spirit and unity during practice, calculated staggered starting times for his runners. If you were the slowest on the team, you got a head start based on some crazy formula he had worked on the night before. If you were the best runner on the team, you had to wait … and wait … and wait for your turn to go.

Coach said, “In theory, the whole team should finish this six-mile run simultaneously.” Then he encouraged us to encourage one another as our turn came to run. The varsity squad grew tired of cheering, “See you at the finish.” It was evident we had our work cut out for us.

A teammate by the name of Keith Bombard became my victim that day. I set my sights on him instead of Matt Dorflinger, a tall lanky geek who thought running meant shuffling your size twelve’s in the dirt, because—how do I explain it?—if Keith were playing poker, everyone at the table would know his hand. His form was all wrong, he lacked fluidity, with each uneven stride, with each pump of his arms, he’d wobble his head as if water seeped inside and needed draining … and then he’d do the unimaginable … he’d look back to see if anyone was catching him.

When it was his turn to start, I shouted, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” Those of us standing around couldn’t help but laugh. Coach wasn’t too pleased, but it gave me something to do on my journey. By the time he called my name, Keith Bombard was a speck on the horizon.

It wasn’t until the third mile that he finally heard me again. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” From that point forward, as I controlled my breathing and lengthened my stride, he’d glance back and I’d yell, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!”

By the fourth and fifth mile, I maintained a distance of one hundred feet behind him and started breaking his spirit. At increased intervals I’d say, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” He waited for me to pass him, but I wouldn’t. If he slowed down, I slowed down. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” If he went faster, I went faster. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!”

It wasn’t until that last mile, when I blew by him going up a hill, that he finally caved in and started walking. We didn’t say anything to each other in passing. Our roles had reversed. I became the speck on the horizon.

As I sat there having breakfast, I wondered whether he was doing the same, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the fine print of all those runners who participated in the Detroit Marathon. It doesn’t seem fair to run twenty-six miles and have your name reduced to such tiny font. I misplaced my reading glasses, so I had to squint real hard, and if somehow by chance I stumbled across the name “Keith Bombard,” I’d turn my head … and smile.

Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share

Since the Metro Detroit area public schools are sanitizing their buildings in an effort to protect their students and staff from MRSA (methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus), I’ve become increasingly aware of the inmate-porter in our school building. At first, I thought he was obsessing over keeping everything clean, but the more I watched him the more I wondered whether he was trying to gain access to locked areas where a cache of supplies could be bartered away in general population. I noticed an even layer of dust on my classroom computers and bookshelves; it's been that way for years.

Then I started wondering if he might be a vindictive s.o.b., smearing God knows what on every doorknob in sight. This isn’t paranoia, I’ve heard about those random shakedowns of prison kitchen workers, where corrections officers find hidden Baggies of special sauce.

Prisoners are opportunists. They have very little to lose. One crazy porter gravitated toward the GED testing material. Whenever the GED Examiner walked the corridor with his locked brief case full of exam booklets, a dust mop surely followed. Telling the porter to “push-off” meant rethinking the next move—that is, until the GED Examiner requested his transfer to another facility.

Then there’s the Level I inmate-porters who, on occasion, clean the employee lunchroom from 1100 hours to 1300 hours. They will conveniently stay out of your way, hoping you will forget they’re in the vicinity, hoping you will unknowingly reveal something personal, something they can share with the rest of the inmate population. Although their ears are burning, I say, “Trick No Good.”

LET ME CHANGE THE TITLE

Not too long ago I was encouraged to apply for a teaching position with Montcalm Community College. They had acquired grant money for a Youthful Offender Program (YOP) and were attempting to infiltrate the Michigan Prison System. The warden at my current facility pooh-poohed the idea. Not that it mattered; other facilities were interested.

In an effort to discourage over familiarity with inmates, Montcalm, under MDOC advisement, was allowed to hire prison educators for YOP night classes, if, and only if, the facility differed from the teacher’s regular gig. In other words, after eight hours of teaching GED classes at one prison, I could pull up stakes, drive to another prison (Ryan Correctional Facility), and put on my college hat.

No thanks. Even though thirty-three smackaroos an hour is very enticing.

On a similar note, in Wednesday’s Detroit Free Press I saw a picture of my old classroom (Ryan Correctional Facility, 1992 – 1997) jam packed with college students and prisoners. According to the article, they were discussing race, class, and gender in the criminal justice system. The University of Michigan-Dearborn, through Comerica and private donors, paid for the inmate’s course materials, including textbooks, while the free-birds paid for the whole enchilada.

Hmmm … now the wheels are turning. In order to renew my teaching certificate, which expires in 2011, I need 6 credit hours. Perhaps I could enroll in this class. Do you think I could handle the course work? Do you think the Michigan Department of Education will allow it? And what about the Michigan Department of Corrections? They wouldn’t block me from such an important task as the renewal of a very important credential—or would they? Besides, I think I can beat an inmate out of his books.

Isn’t it interesting how I went from convict teacher to college instructor to college student to classroom bully in no time at all, how I went from making $33 an hour to paying for the privilege to hustle an inmate? Hmmm … decisions, decisions.

THE THREE-LEGGED SPIDER

I’m perusing and rubricating thirty GED essays written by prisoners from the Michigan Department of Corrections. Although I realize each essay is graded on logic and clarity, and points are not deducted for spelling, mechanics, or grammar, I am compelled to make a few—oh, what should I call it?—a few minor adjustments here and there, with a spackling of suggestions for good luck. My comments, for the most part, are as welcome as a police officer working undercover. The inmate-writers grow suspicious. “I done just like the book says,” Inmate Coleman defends.

I’m losing steam. “How about a rewrite?” I ask.

He shows me that dreaded "idea map" most writing textbooks promote, but I see a three-legged spider instead. Before the argument heats-up, we itemize the main ingredients: #1 introductory paragraph with topic sentence, #2 the body, including three supporting statements, and #3 a conclusion. It’s all there; he killed it; he hit all the major arteries. Give the man a gold star!

After his refusal to listen to my advice, he kicks rocks while I mutter to his back, “needs a rewrite.” I grab the next piece of drivel from the pile and think about Coleman. The whole scenario is actually quite funny considering his insistence on structure, form, and other things I’d consider mundane. He follows the same recipe; he clings to the same cookie cutter pattern; he likes that systematic process for writing essays. I, of all people, should know when to stay out of his kitchen.

If he were graded on the honesty of his words—how he changed his opinion regarding anarchy—then I’d have to give him two gold stars for not deviating from the text and for practicing what he preaches. Maybe his three-legged spider will rejuvenate its limbs afterall, or mutate into something entirely different. One can only hope.

IT'S NOT ALWAYS AS IT APPEARS

I know what you’re thinking, and if you had one of those web cams perched atop your computer monitor, I’d trace the movement of your eyes and discredit your observations. First, it's not an errant tooth you’re staring at; it’s a salted shell I cracked between my molars and rolled around my tongue in search of its buried treasure. I always bring a large supply of sunflower seeds to share with my fellow anglers at our annual Bayport, Michigan, Catfish Tournament. It’s the thought that counts, even if they refuse my offer. “Too much sodium” and “I have to watch my blood pressure”—from men swigging Jim Beam or Jack Daniels from shared bottles circulating the campfire. They chase it with the beer of their choice and flick twist-off caps into the flames for entertainment.

I know where you stand on this sharing thing. I most certainly agree. Alcohol, no matter how wicked the proof, doesn’t kill every germ and bacteria on contact. So why are your disapproving eyes gravitating toward my midsection, toward the t-shirt my wife shrunk in the wash? You think I gave up on exercise, that I let myself go? Rest assured, my lifestyle hasn’t changed all that much. It’s true, I let my health club membership expire; I haven’t been running outside; I’m drinking at the higher end of the moderate level. Hey, we all have our vices.

Let me explain my Buddha-like posture.

Why are you shaking your head? I see you’re laughing too. Did I say something funny? Can we be serious for a moment? Appearances are deceiving. You, of all people should know that. Stop it! Click HERE for a perfectly logical explanation regarding my physique.

IMMERSION

In order to avoid learning a second language in college—a dreaded prerequisite—a counselor advised me to take Linguistics 101, The Study of Language, followed by a communications course of my choosing. I jumped at the opportunity. Anything to get out of my Intro to French class where everyone had two or three years of French in high school.

There isn’t too much I remember about that Linguistics course besides the professor’s homosexuality, the older divorcee’s willingness to share her notes, and the TA’s controversial lecture on Black English, or Ebonics, or whatever the hell you want to call it. As for my other elective, Speech 101, or 251, or some other insignificant triple digit number, I learned an invaluable lesson: When writing a piece, consider your audience. Proper English doesn’t matter as much as being able to communicate your thoughts.

Which brings me to my next point. The lovely Spanish lady pictured above came to the United States to learn how to speak and understand English. I’m not sure how her family felt about her living in the Metro Detroit area, but her immersion into our dialect must have been somewhat of a culture shock. "I don’t understand," she repeated often.

My dad, a toolmaker by trade, thought that if he spoke a little louder and a heck of a lot slower, then maybe her comprehension would improve. "Haaaaave sooooome coooorn," he said at the dinner table, thrusting a plate of cobs her way.

I remember her waking up one morning and saying, "I dreamt in English!" and from that point forward her ability to speak and comprehend the language improved immensely. You see, the poor girl had been appalled watching us eating corn on the cob at the dinner table, and after learning a few select words and sentences, she explained, "In Spain we feed it to the pigs."

Immersion is the best way to learn. I say this, knowing that one-week from now, I’ll be training two new teachers the "do’s" and "don’ts" of prison culture. They’ll become my shadows, my understudies, and every thing I say will finally have some validity (or not). As long as they don’t have nightmares, I’m sure they’ll do fine.

SOMEONE GETS AN OSCAR

My classroom, with its elongated rectangular ironclad windows, has a panoramic view of the prison yard, where, at this time of year, if you peer beyond the convicts kibitzing and beyond the razor-wired double fences and the gun-towers, you will see a few innocent deer high-tailing it through an open field. Whether bow-hunters have inadvertently pushed the deer out of the nearby woods, I’ll never know; The hunters, I’m guessing, would want to stay a reasonable distance from our compound. But this isn’t about venison or the two-legged beasts standing at a wooden octagon-shaped picnic table, high-fiving one another over dominoes.

Hunters at deer camp? You ask.

Nope. Convicts.

Nor is it about the flag football game taking place near the 220-track. Tackling isn’t allowed, yet everyone gets bruised and muddied. I was going for the flag, the guilty party always explains.

Yesterday, I heard about bomb sniffing dogs frantically zigzagging the corridors and classrooms of my alma mater. Someone had called in a threat the day of their homecoming game. Although inexcusable, perhaps that someone was from the opposing team.

Whatever happened to those harmless pranks, like opening the high school exit doors so a few students wearing dark-visored helmets could navigate their dirt bikes through the busy hallways? At least afterward, when tongues were loosened, the culprits were nabbed and did their penitence. No prison time. Just a good old fashioned three-day suspension and an increase in popularity.

In the above picture, I, my date, and Grouchy (he certainly has been around) enjoyed our 1980 High School Homecoming Dance.

WAITING IS BETTER THAN TRYING

That revolving door of students, those 360 degrees of perpetual motion, will spin a teacher silly with keeping score. As soon as I get rid of one … two … or three via discipline/behavioral problems, transfers, paroles, and sometimes untimely death, there are more potential walking disasters lined up three and four deep desperately claiming to be ready for testing, not because they’re remotely close, not because they actually want to learn, but because they’re up for parole, they can taste their freedom. Take a number, stand in line, and play the waiting game. It has more validity, more significance, than enrollment status.

And why shouldn’t it?

The policy directive (based on The Rubber Band Theory, where you stretch and twist the rules and procedures to fit your needs) clearly allows school exemptions based on the following: Through no fault of his own, Prisoner So-and-so was unable to obtain his GED; therefore, he should be waived from the requirement for parole purposes.

It’s not easy getting your GED when you’re on a waiting list for enrollment. It’s much harder showing up for class.

Ask Inmate Simpson, he will tell you just how effective the system works. After missing the first three weeks of my class, I wrote him a major misconduct ticket—“036 Out of Place.” His failure to set foot in classroom #82 (it’s on his itinerary)—aka classroom #70 (it’s above my door)—instead of studying in another classroom (how dare he!), has put him on the hot seat.

“Can I speak with you?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. He was holding the goldenrod copy of the ticket I’d written on him. “You’ve been terminated from my class. Go away.”

“But …”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I was in the wrong classroom.”

Hmmm … why the mix-up? Is it my room number?

Upon Teacher A’s verification, the most reasonable thing to do would be to “pull the ticket” and keep Prisoner Simpson enrolled in school. No need for him to appear in Kangaroo Court.

But not so fast! The authorities have determined that on the day in question, Teacher A was conducting classes elsewhere, in a different building! Therefore, Prisoner Simpson, in theory, could have attended my class. The ticket and termination would stand.

What could I say? “Sorry. Better luck next time.”

But the plot thickens.

A day later, after speaking to Prisoner Simpson, the “powers that be” decided I needed to “pull the ticket.”

“The ticket has been reviewed,” the Hearings Investigator told me. “He’s going to trial. That is, unless you’re willing to write a memo to the Warden, explaining your stance.”

I’ve spent too much time and energy on nonsense. I’m sure it will be sorted out. The way I look at it—guilty or not guilty—he’s still in prison, he’s still waiting for a parole, but after the ticket, he may be waiting a little longer.

STRICTLY BUSINESS

Date: July 22, 2007

Attention Mr. Matt Randall & Mrs. Kristina Brooks,
Editors of GlassFire Magazine:

First, I’d like to thank you for your timely rejection of my short story. Your comments were greatly appreciated. Secondly, I am submitting a creative nonfiction piece as an attachment. Please let me know whether this is a better fit for your magazine. As always, I look forward to hearing from you. JR Thumbprints, Convict Teacher


Date: October 7, 2007

Hi JR, Congratulations! We would like to publish this second piece in our fall issue of GlassFire. Attached are our proposed edits to the story. Please look over them and let us know if they are acceptable. If so, we will email you the official contract to sign. Please let us know if you have any questions. We look forward to working with you. Matt Randall / Kristina Brooks, Editors of GlassFire


Date: October 8, 2007

Attention Mr. Matt Randall & Mrs. Kristina Brooks,
Editors of GlassFire Magazine:

Thank you for the good news. Your edits are perfectly acceptable. As for the prison terminology, how about some footnotes at the end? If so, here they are—1) mall area – a centralized location of intertwined sidewalks connecting the housing units to the chow hall, 2) toplock – specific cell doors that will not electronically open for mass movement of prisoners, 3) “032 Out of Place” – numerical code for prisoner rule violation when an inmate isn’t in his assigned area. Please let me know if this is acceptable. I look forward to hearing from you. Sincerely, JRThumbprints, Convict Teacher


Date: October 9, 2007

Hi JR, Footnotes are an excellent idea! You’re right—that will keep the flow intact. I’ve attached the official contract for you to sign. If you have access to a scanner, feel free to scan a signed copy and email it back. If not, please mail it to: PegLeg Publishing. Once we have it, we can release your payment. Would you like a check, a paypal transfer, or an Amazon.com gift card? Thanks, Matt Randall / Kristina Brooks, Editors of GlassFire Magazine.


The Contract:

This letter of agreement shall formally confirm and define the terms of our agreement regarding publication of your work in GlassFire Magazine.

1. You grant GlassFire Magazine/PegLeg Publishing one time Internet rights to publish The Work online in the English language available for viewing in all countries throughout the world. The Work may also be archived. However, the Author has the right to resell the Work at any time after publication.

2. All rights not specifically granted herein are reserved by Author for Author’s sole use and disposition.

3. You hereby warrant to us that The Work has been created by you, that you are the sole and exclusive owner of the rights to your work for The Work conveyed to us under this agreement, and that you have the full power to grant the rights herein conveyed to us.

4. You hereby grant GlassFire Magazine/PegLeg Publishing the right and authority to use your name on The Work and in all promotion and publicity.

5. In consideration of the rights granted to us to produce The Work, you shall receive $5.00.

6. The provisions herein shall bind and inure to the benefit of the parties.

7. Regardless of its place of execution, this letter of agreement shall be interpreted under the laws of the State of Oklahoma.

8. The foregoing supersedes any and all previous understandings, constitutes our sole and complete agreement, and may not be altered except by mutual consent in writing.


Date: October 10, 2007

Attention Mr. Matt Randall & Mrs. Kristina Brooks,
Editors of GlassFire Magazine:

Where do I sign? Also, does this mean I give up all merchandising rights? I know JK Rowling didn’t. Sincerely, JR Thumbprints.

"NEXXXXT!"

Although my popularity is waning due to a recent uptick in “guilty” verdicts on the MDOC docket (Michigan Department of Corrections) and due to a list of potential witnesses regarding allegations of how I targeted a few select inmates, it stands to reason that I am not a corrupt, power hungry, authoritative figure. When you’re a “no show” for a testing date and I write you an “Out of Place” ticket, when you fail to attend your Kangaroo Court investigative hearing because your yard activities are more important, then what makes you think sniping at me from the back of the classroom will change anything? Besides, your list of witnesses collaborating your claim that I said, “Class will be cancelled tomorrow”—as unreliable as they are (murders, rapists, drug dealers, you name it)—these witnesses of yours, they showed up on the day in question.

Furthermore, no one’s paying me to be “popular.” I have a job to do—I teach—and if you don’t like it, if you can’t respect that, if you can’t have the common decency to keep your mouth shut and your ears open, then perhaps I should use sign language. (Stage Directions: Narrator points to the door and says, “Get the &#*@! out of my classroom!”)

So there you have it—my typical workday in the joint. And I still think it’s much better than the public schools. At least in here I have the best classroom management a teacher could ask for. Kick one out. Bring one in.

NOTHING LEFT TO GAIN

Contrary to popular belief, it’s not true that you feel most alive when you’re closest to death, when you’re taking chances, when you’re risking life and limb, when you’re letting yourself go, hands in the air, screaming skyward. My wife calls it fun. I’m not sure what she means: Riding the roller coasters? Or watching me white-knuckling the downward drops, tucking my head between my shoulders and arms, and gritting my teeth?

“Relax,” she says. “Quit fighting it.”

Easier said then done. I’m worried about decapitation, about smacking my head on a crossbeam, about having a massive heart attack. I’ve heard about roller coasters malfunctioning, about people hanging upside down for hours on end, praying for the fire department to come to their rescue, about some poor soul having an aneurysm from all that blood rushing to his brain. On the television I believe I’ve seen and heard about seatbelt buckles, or whatever so-called safety restraint they’ve designed, breaking and people plummeting to the ground. And once again, I’ve witnessed the Cedar Point paddy wagon hauling someone away on a stretcher. My wife says, “They probably have a heart condition and shouldn’t be on the rides in the first place.”

I want to tell her, “I have a heart condition,” but she knows this to be untrue because I only visit the doctor when she schedules the appointment.

I’d rather watch everyone else on the rides; unfortunately, my wife reminds me of the time she roller-coastered solo; about the drunk man on the Mean Streak sitting next to her, how he almost puked on her. And I wouldn't? I’m not very sympathetic. Other than my wife, the majority of the people I’ve observed, who enjoy this kind of thrill, have tattoos, body piercings, mullets, and whatever chosen abnormality they think will make them stand out from everyone else.

Let me make myself clear: “I hate roller coasters. They scare me. I hate Cedar Point. I hate dealing with the crowds. I hate standing in line. I hate it I hate I hate it.”

One last thing: When my wife worked for the Stroh’s family in Detroit, someone stole her debit card from her purse, which she stored under her desk at her office cubicle. Whoever it was treated their friends to Cedar Point and rang up about $1200. I know it shouldn’t matter, that it’s been years since this incident, but in my mind, that lowlife scumbag and his or her posse were walking around that amusement park, smoking cigarettes and sneering at me.

THE ULTIMATE REVENGE

WHEN HILLS HAVE EYES

When you become part of a system, no matter how screwed up it is, you assimilate into its structure. You become one of the many pillars dodging the wrecking ball. And when the dust settles, you realize there are others—not many—just a few who are left standing—they brush the dust off and rebuild.


So it goes. I’m continuously fighting an uphill battle. My educational structure changing with each passing year, with every demolition. Public School. Private School. Youth Home. Correctional Facility. Teaching is teaching. It doesn’t matter. I say, “bullshit.”

I remember escorting my Troy High School freshmen class to an assembly. As soon as the lights dimmed and the wine-colored velvet curtains slid open, a video montage flashed hip scenes and glitzy photos across a large screen accompanied by Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.” The kids cheered wildly. In my day, students in AV Club were geeks, nerds, squares. But not at this presentation. The company, Yearbook Video, promised to provide video equipment to the school. Let the kids, those not so cool AV dorks, shoot footage of all the major events. Whether football games, homecoming, prom, or band recitals, Yearbook Video would edit this material into a slick video, splicing in world news along with current music.

As my students filed out, they were given a brochure to preorder their very own Yearbook Video. I recognized the salesperson, name of Mark Lemke (if my memory serves me correct). Through him, I discovered it was Neal’s latest start-up company. I never did find out whether he turned a profit. I do know this, he went from school to school, charming the socks off of administration; How else could he have convinced them to reduce the number of instructional hours in the classroom? And for what? To make a buck.

I didn’t stick around long enough to find out whether those kids were happy with the final product. The following year I was teaching in a Catholic School. While there, the principal chastised me for turning off the classroom television during attendance. A program called Channel One piped in the latest news from around the world, along with Pepsi commercials and other crap.

“I’ve heard you’ve been unplugging Channel One. Leave it on.”

“Yes sir,” I assured him. I don’t know whether he trusted me, afterall, whenever he clicked on the intercom system to eavesdrop on my class, I’d count to three and on cue, my students would say, “Good Morning Mr. Miller.”

Nowadays, the only televised footage I hear about comes from the security cameras. I’ve probably been taped and recorded more times than I’d care to think about.

Recommended short story: “Videotape” by Don DeLillo

AN EMAIL CORRESPONDENCE

The prisoners will tell you: Making an apology in the joint is an admittance of guilt. You’ll be perceived as soft. Therefore, never apologize, and never ever take the rap for anything or for anyone. It’s part of the prison culture. It’s a given. Better not to talk, not to say anything.

Last Friday, through a memorandum, I was labeled “non-essential” and told not to report to work next week. After a fun-filled weekend of uncertainty, of not knowing whether I’d be earning a paycheck—“earning” being too strong a word considering my “non-essentiality”—I discovered that the following Monday morning, via the 6 o’clock news, that I had to report back to work. It was business as usual. Hallelujah! No apologies necessary; just keep making those direct deposits into my bank account so I can pay my bills.

The same day as my “non-essential” status I received a response to a year-old email I had sent to an acquaintance, a friend from the past. I hadn’t seen nor heard from him in a very long long time. Here’s our correspondence:

September 08, 2006:

Hey Neal,
I received one of Terry’s yearly emails (yeah, about one a year), and I started scrolling through the list of names and saw yours. I thought, since it’s been … oh … what? … 20 years, maybe more, or less … I thought I’d give you a ring (email anyway). How have you been? Give me an update. In case you haven’t heard, I’ve been in prison for the past 15 years (working that is).

September 28, 2007:

Hey JR,
I was just going through old emails and realized that I had never responded to you. I tried to visit your blogspot just now but it looks quite different from what I remember a year ago, so I assume it is no longer a correct address. I think you are right that it has been about 20 years. A lot happens in that period of time. Here is my sequence of events:

Moved to AZ in 1991. Bought a t-shirt business. Did a lot of product for the Disney theme parks and Silicon Valley companies. Spun off a subsidiary called Burlesco that provided merchandise to 200 touring strippers. I mean exotic dancers.

During the Internet boom/bust, I started an online celebrity website. I made the official websites for John Travolta, Brad Pitt, Jennifer Aniston, Denzel Washington, Mel Gibson, and about 100 others. Got wiped out in the end.

My claim to fame, I snubbed advances from actress Diane Lane and one of my business partners is the person that the character of Ari on the HBO show Entourage is based on. Other claim to fame: Had a daughter in 1997. Turning 10 in December. I am going to the Hannah Montana concert in a couple of months and I know all the songs from High School Musical.

Went into gaming in 2000 by purchasing some intellectual property with my former net partners. We license casino games to the online gaming industry. Business is based out of the UK. It’s a small business with just 5 employees but it pays the bills and gets me to Europe a few times a year. Building a couple of web based businesses here in Phoenix. Tom Waring lives about an hour from me, so I see him from time to time. I am still rooting for the Detroit Lions. I talk to Terry about twice a year I guess. My mother passed away about 10 years ago and my father followed a year and a day later.

I suppose that is it. Nothing too crazy, just living life. By the way, thanks for writing. It was nice hearing from you.

My reaction:

I guess there’s a price one must pay for stability, for being “non-essential.”