PLEASE & THANK YOU

This is not a formal apology, nor is it an angry diatribe. I have no platform, no soapbox, from where to preach. I’m not sure the general public would understand my actions, my position, as much as my thought-out but never-acted-upon reaction.

I believe in saying “Please” and “Thank You,” and opening doors for others. It’s the right thing to do. It’s civilized. I’m sure you would agree.

“Let me get that for you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

That’s how our conversation went. He held the door open. I said, “Thanks.” An exchange of pleasantries.

So why did this small act of kindness become a festering wound? Why did I regret what I had said?

He entered the administration building from the back, while I exited. His destination: The courthouse for sentencing in the brutal rape and murder of a thirteen year old girl. My destination: The prison school building beyond the chow hall.

During our passing I didn’t know his identity, although I will admit he looked familiar. Then, after our kind words to one another, it dawned on me: I’d seen his mug shot in the Detroit Free Press.

I wanted to ask him: What you did—was it instinctual like opening a door? Or did you think about it? Did you plan it? But how would he answer? Would he say, “I don’t know,” or would he say, “You’re welcome.”

BLOG FODDER!

My first instinct for not posting in awhile was to hang my "Gone Fishing" sign, but truthfully I'd only went once and got skunked. Thus my Freyish pic falsely advertising victory, yet realisticly depicting too much blood on my hands (yeah, I know - gloves - work with me, ok?).



You see, my wife's cousin SA from Chicago, the one living downtown in an old building where they filmed a "Chucky" sequel with Meg Tilly, informed me of a "24 Hour Short Story Contest," and after much consideration and discussion, we both coughed up the 5-buck entry fee and took the plunge.

On Saturday, 12 O'Clock noon (Central time) we received the following emailed prompt:

The bells on the door were still echoing as she stepped further into the old toy store. The owner winked at her and turned back to his black and white television set. She reached under the rack on the back wall and pulled it out. It was just where she'd left it last week. She approached the counter and put the item down. He turned to her, grabbed the item with surprise, and said, "This is NOT for sale." WORD COUNT: Stories for today's topic must not exceed 900 words.

Twenty-four hours later, we were left picking up a million little pieces. I complained to SA that my entry (submitted in the body of the email) had the following (WINDOW-1252?) crap inserted throughout. Their confirmation, which included my story, showed this. I resubmitted.

SA in turn reminded me that my 2nd submission would be deleted. I quoted Rule No#9: If you find part of your story missing, try sending a text-only attachment.

Could I resubmit under Rule#9? Nope. Why? Because my story did not have any missing parts; IT HAD @#%$!!! ADDITIONAL PARTS!!! Instead, I retyped my short story in that stupid little email box (how many writers write this way?) and resubmitted. They acknowledged receipt of both stories.

SA, who followed the rules, who emailed her story much earlier (or should I say much later - Chicago time), never received confirmation, which in turn meant disqualification.

The only redeeming aspect of this whole screwed-up experience is: 1) they will read my first submission "as is," 2) it was worth the practice, and 3) I can always use my short story as blog fodder.

I'll know the results in a month.

CAUGHT IN THE POSSESSION OF . . .

If I were standing I’d’ve stumbled backward. But I was sitting, my hands comfortably intertwined and resting on the kitchen table. Still, her accusation seemed unwarranted, unprovoked ... un ... unAmerican. The conversation started something like this:

—You’re breaking the law.

—Huh? What? I had just shown her my catch of the day; one sheephead, one catfish, and one pike. I always snapped a few pics for proof then tossed the fish back into the water. It’s not like I demanded she clean the slimy bastards. I only wanted her to praise my skills as a fisherman.

—I checked the DNR site. It’s illegal. She was referring to the Michigan Department of Natural Resources’ website regarding a species of fish called the Goby. She needn’t say more, but she did —You are in possession …

—No I am not!

—If they’re on your hook, then you possess them.

I believe she was referring to page four of Michigan’s Fishing Guide. —It doesn’t make sense to catch a Goby then throw it back in the water, especially if it’s a highly invasive species.

—Do you keep them in your minnow bucket?

Now I felt like I was on trial. —Yes. Yes, I do.

—Are they swimming in your minnow bucket?

I’d had enough of this interrogation. I had refused to answer.

—Possession. You are in possession. Possession is illegal.

I knew not to argue. It wasn’t until later, after I had done my own research, that I had discovered my intentions were honest and I was indeed within the guidelines of the law. —I cut the Goby into two pieces and bait my hooks. They are no longer alive at this point; therefore, I am not in possession of them. It is perfectly legal to use a Goby for bait.

—But don’t you still have live Gobies in your minnow bucket?

True, I was ignoring this point; I could’ve been some crazed “save-the-Goby” lover. I decided to compromise. —From now on when I catch a Goby I will immediately cut him in half before placing him into the minnow bucket.

—Make sure your bait doesn’t have eggs on it.

I never knew fishing could be so damned complicated, so damned controversial. I refuse to let anyone take the fun out of it for me. How else can I relax after a hard day of working with convicted felons?

CHAIN SMOKING BABIES

Every educator has one—that student, that know-it-all perched upfront, intercepting every question lobbed toward the teacher’s desk.

“Spansky,” I said, “let me do the answering, not you.”

He volleyed back. “I’m trying to help. Can’t I help?”

“Spansky,” I rephrased, “I’m giving you a direct order: Mind your own business.”

Deterrence? I doubt it. Spansky knew everything AND I MEAN EVERYTHING. All you had to do was ask him.

As for respect, he never received it. No one appreciated his assistance. On that rare occasion when he was actually correct, the questioner questioned the origin of Spansky’s answer. “Thanks, Parrot Head,” the recipient of Spansky’s good deed would say.

“Don’t call me that.” Spansky didn’t appreciate the title.

“I saw Brookes whispering to you.”

“I already knew the answer,” Spansky claimed. He defended himself, justified his expertise on many topics, his mouth in continuous motion, a nervous chatter box. “I don’t need Brookes’s help or anyone else’s,” followed by some long-winded story involving Spanskyworld.

One day, Prisoner Evans asked, “What’s whooping cough?” and as usual Spansky beat me to the punch.

“Whooping cough,” he answered, “is what chain smokers get. It’s fairly common. I know a couple of inmates in our unit who have it. Officer Fowler has it too.”

Ignoring Spansky, Prisoner Evans repeated the question to me: “What’s whooping cough?”

I referred him to the World Book Encyclopedias.

“Fine!” Spansky interjected, “Don’t listen to me. See if I care!”

In a matter of minutes Prisoner Evans located whooping cough and read the passage out loud. “Hey Parrot Head,” he chuckled, “I didn’t realize how many chain smoking babies we got in this world.”

Spansky quickly changed his tune, “I never said anything about chain smoking.” Then he talked about his kids, how they grew up, how their mother left them at an early age, how he practically raised them on his own.

No one listened.

CLARITY OF NIGHT

Place a nursing home escapee on a motorcycle and let him ride into the night. That’s what I rolled with in the “Running Wind” short fiction contest. Three words shy of the maximum 250 and I’m not sure I hit all the right notes. Did I try to do too much in such a short space? Did this in turn lead to discontinuity? Would I have faired better with a simple chronological story? And then there’s word choice… Read my story here.

The self-doubt lingers, but I’ll move on.

Wait! One last thing—actually two—I revised my main character’s last line from “I had an accident” to “I didn’t make it.” Do you think it was the right decision?

Secondly, my odds on favorites to place in the top five are:

Henry Young “Bitch” - A biker gets his revenge on a relationship gone bad.

Charles Gramlich “Precious Cargo” – A biker makes a heartwarming rescue.

Sheri Perl-Oshins “GPS” – A daughter handles her Biker Dad’s navigation while simultaneously facing a dilemma of her own.

After reading 45 entries, my pick to win the whole enchilada is “GPS.” However, the contest is still open (click here: The Clarity of Night ), but you better be quick if you’re going to enter.

BUS STOP, 1970

Prisoner Wright positioned himself next to my desk, seeking the attention his cellmate could not give him. A cellmate in protective custody.

“Put my stapler down,” I said, trying to act indifferent.

“You know who my Bunkie is, don’t you?”

I stayed with my paperwork, checking to see if my students signed their work-evaluations. “Yeah, I know who he is.”

“He’s one stooopid motherfucker!”

I warned Prisoner Wright about insolence, that I could write him up. He rephrased his statement, again indicating his disapproval of his cellmate’s actions. “Why?” I asked. Prisoner Wright never told me, like some inmates do, that pedophiles should be castrated and left to bleed out.

“Why!” he shot back. “First of all, why would you reveal the whereabouts of the victim’s body after twenty-two years?”

“Maybe he wanted to clear his conscience, give the family closure.”

He shook his head. “He got no deal!”

I ignored him.

“You heard what I said didn’t you? He got no deal.”

I continued with my paperwork, thinking, is this what it’s all about?—manipulating the system, making it work for you—or is it about the sudden realization that a family has a right to give their little girl a proper burial? “Yeah,” I smiled, “he got no deal.”

To the family of Cindy Zarzycki, your daughter's coming home. May she rest in peace.

SHEEPHEAD

A student doing time for retail fraud and uttering & publishing, when confronted for the umpteenth time with the same procedural error: You cannot add the denominators of fractions, defended himself.

“I,” he said, “was a mathematical genius at my old school.”

What school? The school for dummies.

I asked, “What grade?”

“Fourth grade.”

I wasn’t in the mood to unearth the truth in his statement; after all, he internalized it, he believed it, and quite possibly, he’d stake his last dying breath on it. So maybe, just maybe, he had been the sharpest fourth grader in his class … his school … his district. He spoke with such conviction, such sincerity. He believed himself and that took precedent over all else.

“How old are you now?” I continued.

He started mean-mugging me, watery eyes and all. He knew where this conversation was headed. “Twenty-seven,” he answered.

Then I said it. I probably shouldn’t have. But I said it. “And you’re stuck at the fourth grade level.”

Then he did what most convicts do. He played with my emotions, he tugged at my heart strings, he announced that he had a closed-head injury which in turn led to short term memory loss.

“When was this?”

“Fifth grade,” he answered.

STAYCATION

I have nowhere to be, nowhere to go. It’s called a staycation—stay put, save money, burn less fuel. I’m not bellyachin’ about it, not like the bald, pot-bellied, middle-aged man I saw on the 6 o’clock news whining about his prized possession, his big azz boat, his mini-ocean liner, not leaving the marina.

The anchorwoman (not the snivelin' boat owner's wife, but the t.v. gal) reported that gasoline was $3.03 per gallon last 4th of July in Michigan. Most of us had complained, seems like a bargain now.

I wonder how many folks, such as myself, have decided to stay home. I wonder how many of these folks have joined carpools for work—that is—if they aren’t unemployed.

Have a safe, fun-filled holiday everyone. I’ll be thinking of you. Don’t be a gas-hog. Think GREEN.