JOINING THE SCHOOL OF FISH

Do I? Or do I not return to school? There’s an extension program near my work site (Saginaw Valley State University) where a majority of educators earn their master’s degrees and siphon more money out of the public school systems. You can’t blame them; the certification rules, along with the “No Child Left Behind” policies, have forced them to. Do I fork over my money, or do I invest it elsewhere?

SVSU has a Masters Degree program in Instructional Technology. Seems interesting. I could become a curriculum development specialist for a public school system, or a trainer for a major corporation, or an animator for Pixar. (Okay, maybe not the latter.)

I’m studying the numbers—my age, tuition cost, salary schedules, the break-even point. It’s a personal sacrifice I’m not sure I’m willing to make. If I do do it, I’ll stretch it out over four or five years. If I don’t, then I’ll remain a small fish in a relatively large pond. I’ll remain a convict teacher that has already exceeded his shelf life. Then I’ll retire and continue with my writing.

I’m undecided.

28 YEARS LATER

When my brother handed over a misplaced sealed envelope addressed to me twenty-eight years earlier, instead of questioning how it came into his possession, or asking why I hadn’t received it in the first place, I concentrated on its mysterious content. Holding it to the light—the return address: Bruce Township Parks & Recreation (I had life guarded for them at my high school back when I had six-pack abs)—I noticed what looked like a family crest or coat of arms. We were sitting at the dinner table with our parents, and although they demanded I open it, I felt “no need” in hurrying. “Maybe it’s a royalty check,” I said, knowing otherwise, hoping my hesitancy would go unnoticed, whatever honor I had bestowed upon the family could wait.

My brother had his own twenty-eight year old sealed envelope; this one from Albion College. I suggested he open his first. He tore into it and started reading. It was a recruitment letter, June 1980, inviting him to tryout for their cross-country team. Back then my brother grew despondent regarding Michigan Tech’s rescinded offer for him to attend their engineering program; they withdrew their acceptance based on his poor test results in Physics.

My guess: he grabbed both letters and stuffed them into a filing cabinet; his dreams momentarily dashed, tucked away and forgotten. “Okay,” he said, “it’s your turn.”

Using the butter knife beside my dinner plate, I sliced into my envelope and peered inside. How ironic!—Where his letter offered a viable option, a promising alternative, mine documented a past event with a questionable, yet appropriate, symbol. I had registered for a long distance race, and to show that they received my entry form, Bruce Township Parks & Recreation cut along the dotted line and mailed back the top portion. That important family crest or coat of arms?—Pilsner Lite Beer—an obvious sponsor to a 10,000 meter race I had started and finished in our local high school’s parking lot.

So here we are now: My brother, the overachiever, the laid-off engineer with an MBA, and me, the underachiever, the overworked teacher of convicts, who three decades ago wrecked his vehicle in a drunk driving accident.

I Support Art, but not Always the Message

In seventeen years as a Michigan Department of Corrections employee, I have yet to witness any coworkers placing prisoners—no strike that—inmates—no strike that too—residents—let me start over: I don’t know of any coworkers that’ve hung residents on meat hooks. Oh sure, I’ve been on nuts & butts duty; someone’s got to make sure contraband isn’t passed from one resident to another before the keester checkpoint; hey, why not us teachers?

I do remember a certain resident, Prisoner... oops...Resident W., a fairly decent artist with his own art studio in the school building, throwing a fit when I wouldn’t let him take his last GED Exam. “You’re not ready,” I said. At that point I understood why he came back to prison; he was a rapist who didn’t understand the concept of “no.” He stormed out of my classroom in a tantrum.

Resident W. maxed out a few years back (doesn’t have to report to anyone) and found a nice place to live: an upscale condominium, living with a female art dealer who supports his artistic talent. It wasn’t long after that that the residents (this time I mean real residents) of the condo association distributed flyers regarding Ex-Felon W.: “Do you know a convicted rapist resides here?”

Maybe those meat hooks come from the real world, where we MDOC employees aren’t there to protect ex-convicts, ex-felons, ex-prisoners, ex-whatever-you-want-to-call-them. I say this without being mean spirited. I say this, knowing everyone deserves some kind of chance to do what’s right. And yes, I don’t have a problem with PCAP supporting artwork; I have a problem with the message from a majority of the artists.

Footnote: The male artist depicted here, the man with the walrus mustache who never picked up a paint brush until the age of forty-one, painted strange pink people prior to his release from my facility.

LOADED FOR BEAR

I’ll be damned, literally, with my feet to the fire, for doing my J-O-B. Fan those flames ‘cause I’m loaded for bear and ready to shoot. I’m camping out. I’m aiming for MDIT (The Michigan Department of Information & Technology). I’ll pull the trigger as soon as they’re in the crosshairs. Night vision too!

My work computer crapped out on June 10, 2008, and they’ve done nothing, absolutely nothing, to rectify the problem. I’ve survived a school audit in the process (no thanks to them) by pulling student files from regular rotation. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

But the saga continues. Without MDIT’s blessing (shit, I thought they were hibernating), I’m toast—like a backpacker leaving the food bag hanging too low. Still, I “found” myself a nice office computer and have every intention of keeping it. Through intelligence I learned that this computer (which is operable) was going to be discarded, thrown onto the scrap heap. Luckily, on behalf of myself, I intervened. “I’m taking this computer,” I said. “Sure,” the office worker acknowledged. “As long as it’s out of my area.”

I’m back in the game, taking attendance, tracking student progress, and scheduling and recording test scores. I’m doing it digitally instead of the old fashion stone-age paper and pencil way.

Now my operative has informed me that a MDIT computer technician intends to confiscate my “found” computer. Wow! They certainly can move fast! I thought the sleeping bear was—you know—sleeping. I thought the pot of honey was mine. Hey, you mess with my food; I’ll mess with yours. What’s a man to do? I placed my inoperable computer next to my “found” computer with a memorandum taped to it. Perhaps they’ll take a hint. Perhaps they’ll see the error they’ve made. If not, I’ll shoot, I swear I will … and if I miss … that’s okay … I’ve got dibs on another dormant CPU … one that’s used to pull in federal money ... the timing couldn't be better.

CAGED TOMATOES

From what I gather, Prisoner #1, pushed by Prisoner #2, stole vegetables (and fruit) from the garden, in the words of Kid Rock, all summer long. Prisoner #1 must’ve been quick, really really quick, and brazen. You don’t steal from another prisoner’s garden plot unless you’re prepared to do battle with the farmer, the grower, the nurturer of these food bearing plants. His accomplice—can I call him that?—had nothing to do with it. If you were to say, “You’re his accomplice,” he’d undeniably deny it. “I,” he would respond, “was merely doing my job.” Why else would he have been in there, in the cultivated dirt? I stand corrected, in the cultivated “soil.”

So, when it’s all said and done, when the Horticulture Teacher spots Prisoner #1 sitting there, leaning forward as far as he can, plucking tomatoes he has no business plucking, the short-lived race ensues. Unfortunately, those Wheels of Fortuna are spinning downward. Prisoner #1 is stuck, literally, and in a moment of frustration, he swings his arms into his laps. He’s caught, no doubt about it, and Prisoner #2 is sure to blame.

The Horticulture Teacher asks for Prisoner #1’s identification card, and writes the necessary information, his name and six-digit number, onto a piece of scrap paper before giving it back. “You,” he says, noticing six tomatoes, “have a theft ticket coming.”

After consulting with yours truly, the technical writer, the experienced ticket writer, it is determined that Prisoner #1 and Prisoner #2 earned two major infractions: a) Out of Place – there’s an off limits sign posted, and b) Theft, Possession of Stolen Property.

“How come you didn’t get Prisoner #2’s identification?” I ask.

The Horticulture Teacher explains that he only saw one inmate picking tomatoes; therefore, he didn’t think it was necessary to identify Prisoner #2. I inform him that an “Out of Place” ticket could’ve been written on the accomplice.

During lunch time, a day after the tomato incident, the control center staff phones the Horticulture Teacher, requesting a rewrite on the ticket. “Why did you use his alias?” the sergeant asks. Now, everyone’s confused, wondering whether Prisoner #1, who left the facility on a med run, gave the Horticulture Teacher a fraudulent I.D. card. “Yeah, that’s him,” he says into the receiver, “the guy in a wheelchair.”

The school corrections officer states the obvious: The Horticulture Teacher flipped the picture I.D. card to the backside, which lists a prisoner’s aliases. Later that day, the control center staff requests the tomatoes and gets them. Hopefully they aren’t too ripe since they’ll be stored in the evidence room for God knows how long.

A Wedding, a Knife; A Finger, a Death

I’m married. No secret there. Had my fifteenth wedding anniversary last month. If you were to ask about my, about “our” most memorable moments, there’d be a lack of uniformity in our descriptions. Our memories, for whatever reasons, seem fragmented, seem splintered. Small episodic events, unless photographed and studied, never quite achieving accuracy. Where to begin?

We both agreed about the cake, at least the cutting tradition, how someone from the kitchen grabbed an engraved knife (the names are lost on us, the proofs returned long ago) and helped stage the close-up hand shots for the inebriated photographer. What type of cake? How many tiers? These questions are better answered by my wife, her active role in the planning stage a clear advantage. She could quote the cost too, I’m sure. And what of the wedding date (definitely not ours) engraved on that silver knife with an off-white marble handle? (I do remember that.)

So why, you may ask, have I mentioned the knife? Why focus on what’s not “ours”? (Here’s the rub: what happens to be mine, my wedding ring, has another woman’s name engraved in it. I didn’t make that discovery until some ten years later.) So why reflect on the negative? Why not reflect on something positive? Why, after a month’s delay, have I decided to write about our wedding?

Here’s why: During Monday’s breakfast of Shredded Wheat (yes, my braces can handle it), while sipping coffee and reading the newspaper, I came across the photo of the Reverend Father Pasquale LoGrasso. He performed our wedding ceremony. I asked my wife, “What do you remember about him?” She mentioned her family’s moment of sadness, the grief, the sobbing heard inside the church, how Father Pasquale, against our wishes, dedicated the mass to her 92 year old grandfather who had passed away one day prior to our wedding (her Grandfather’s proclamation: I’m going to see my last grandchild get married). I asked again, “Yeah, I know all that, but what distinguishing characteristic do you remember about Father Pasquale?”

My question had been lost on her. She stated the obvious: He was a man of the cloth. He wore glasses. He spoke with an accent. It wasn’t until my leading question did she remember. “Wasn’t his index finger severed at the first knuckle?” I asked. “You’re right,” she answered, only to inquire as to why I would bring that up. “I’ve always wondered,” I continued, “what happened. Did someone pinch it in a car door? Did he shave it off with a table saw? Did he poke it through a chain link fence harboring a pit bull? What happened?”

Neither of us knew. I cut out his obituary. I read it again. He died at the age of 76. May he rest in peace.

POLAROID

Someone’s fingers are itchin’
to pull the trigger. Call it:
The chemical rub-out before
the sun does its work. Still,
a middle class family
appears (such a rarity
these days). The dull colors
frozen like a Ted Turner classic.
What happened that night is momentarily
forgotten; They are ready
to celebrate with two candles lit,
a four, a five, sunk into Mother’s
cake. The youngest boy emerges
from solitary confinement, his wish
exhaled, gone in a flash.

24-HOUR SHORT STORY CONTEST RESULTS

My last post—now considered “blog-fodder”—was my entry in the Writer’s Weekly Summer 2008 24-hour Short Story Contest. The topic (or prompt) was:

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. (Your story's title is *not* included in the word count. We use MSWord's word count function to determine the final word count in submission.)

The judging process went something like this: 1) Whittle 500 entries into two categories: the finalists and what I’d like to call “blog-fodder”. 2) Rank the finalists to get the top 23 stories. 3) Reread top 23 and rank 1st ($300), 2nd ($250), 3rd ($200), plus 20 honorable mentions.

The main criteria: weed out stories that are the same, that lack originality; search for good endings. As usual, I got “zilch,” “nada,” “nothing.” I’m as excited as a senior citizen needing hip replacement surgery after Dance Dance Revolution.

Here’s the link to the winners: Top 3 Stories.

Lastly, comments or critiques of my story would be greatly appreciated. Where do you think I erred? What do you think of the top 3 selections? Also, would you enter this contest, and do you think I should enter the next one? Once again, be honest. Remember: I work in a prison, I’m used to negative feedback, and I’ve heard my share of “you suck.” Now if I could only engage in a game of Twister.