AT THE END OF NARDONE STREET

I’m no Richard Attenburrough, or Leonard Nemoy, or James Earl Jones, but it only seems fitting that I try my hand—I mean “voice”—at narration. I’ve been organizing my childhood photos for a Christmas DVD that I intend to give to my grandmothers.

Please feel free to comment. Your suggestions are greatly appreciated. I already know that a better microphone is needed; Reading from under a heavy comforter, sheltering my voice from the steady hum of the computer, seems downright silly.

Also, I plan on sharing an email correspondence I had with Bonnie Jo Campbell, author of Women and Other Animals, and Q Road, regarding her soon to be released short story collection American Salvage.

Peace.

TURKEY DAY

Barb F., my very first prison boss (1992-96), was roasted in the most unusual way. It started in the employee lunchroom the week prior to Thanksgiving amongst the overtaxed microwaves.





The Athletic Director had been conversing with the Librarian, and although they spoke quietly, other employees couldn’t help but join in. Truthfully, I can’t even remember the gist of their conversation. Perhaps it had something to do with a critical decision our boss made, a decision that had negatively impacted us. It’s a widely known fact that in corrections everyone tries to protect their turf by searching for easy non-confrontational ways to handle specific duties; maybe, on this particular occasion, we couldn’t find one.

I guess the most memorable part of the conversation, the part that triggered a series of <<<gulp>>> unfortunate events, happened at approximately the same time as the School Psychologist’s arrival for lunch.

“Barb’s a real turkey,” the A.D. complained. “I wouldn’t be surprised if her birthday’s on Thanksgiving.”

“Someone should get her a birthday card,” the Librarian added.

“Whose birthday is it?” Irene, the aforementioned School Psychologist, asked. She headed straight for the vending machines in search of a low-cal meal.

“Barb F’s,” someone must’ve answered.

I thought nothing of it. People need to blow off steam. It wasn’t until the last work day before Thanksgiving that I discovered what had happened. My boss called me into her office. “I’m a bit puzzled,” she said. She slid a Hallmark card across her desk. “For some reason, Irene thinks it’s my birthday.”

I knew not to laugh. I tried to act just as puzzled as her. “That’s bizarre,” I said.

Next came the steeple—that gesture with the hands used to show superiority. “Why would she think that?”

I did what a majority of us would do in this type of situation—I played stupid and waited for the perfect time to excuse myself, and then I booked.

At the close of my workday, Irene visited my classroom. “You’re not gonna believe what I did,” she said. Her face was all hot, as if she’d been exercising; which couldn’t be further from the truth.

“You gave Barb a birthday card and it's not her birthday.” I told her about my private meeting.

“Why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you say something?”

“Hey, if you would’ve passed the card around, then maybe I would’ve put a kibosh to it.”

“You mean it never got to you?”

I guess my boss had tried playing the odds by interrogating someone who hadn’t actually signed the card. I knew how the rest of it went: each explanation centering on Irene’s request of their signatures.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving everyone, and if it happens to be your birthday, don’t get offended, it’s time to cook a turkey!

POLISHING APPLES

When an automobile is shrink-wrapped and you’re not
in on the joke (no time with a half-hour lunch),
it’s okay, because the owner supports the UAW.

It’s in the purchase;
It comes from word of mouth:
Tell so-and-so to tell so-and-so to tell so-and-so
that they can attend their local union meeting
as long as they ask for permission first.

You’re not immune; you’re not a straw boss;
you’re not a snoopervisor; they don’t need to beg
they’re hand fed and led by the navigator

of the sealed-tight vehicle, the one with
the passengers who’ve rolled down their windows
& finger-punched holes through cellophane
gasping and peering down a desolate highway.

So you highjack the steering wheel and crash
through a white picket fence, into an orchard,
your hands deflecting flying bark and York Imperial fastballs.

It’s called a U-Pick, which U-Do, placing the forbidden
fruit on the jokester’s desk to help fight his addiction
& keep him busy, polishing apples, polishing apples …
until they shine blood red, until the blue ink dries,
before the Chief Union Steward mouths his pre-ordained speech.

Austin Combs

I’m not too sure how this goes, whether my wife volunteered my services or whether Angie, our neighbor and good friend, mentioned it. It doesn’t matter; the details that night aren’t as important as the tribute to a talented musician. What I do know is Angie brought over a VHS tape of her father, who had passed away unexpectedly, and she needed it digitized for his funeral.

I’d done this type of work before, scanned photos of my father-in-law at various stages of his life, spliced in some family video footage, and added piano music. It helped with those awkward moments at the funeral home where everyone tries to engage in conversation without coming off as—how do I put it?—unsympathetic. The project before me that night was relatively easy: download several songs by A.C. and the Kentucky Fox Band; create a menu with chapters, and render and burn a DVD.

I didn’t attend Austin Combs’s funeral. Yet, I’ve come to know him as a free-spirit who lives on in the memories of his family, especially his grandchildren. From what I’ve heard, they’ve become particularly fond of his song, “Damn, the TV’s GONE,” an autobiographical account about a man’s propensity to smash television sets when he comes home, however, on this particular night, as the grandchildren might say, Grandma hid it from him.

I hope you enjoy it, and if you have time, check out the other songs.

SIMON SAYS

I’m not singing George Michael. I don’t have faith, faith, faith. There’s no glitch in my circuitry. It was a simple request. I knew fairly well how it would work. “Mr. White,” I said, “I’m giving you a direct order to sit down.” He’d been digging trenches in my carpet for ten minutes now—a true poster child for ADHD.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” he replied. He stopped pacing. Yet he stood there, fidgeting in place. He raised his voice, wanting everyone to hear what he had to say, which, in my opinion was a whole lot of nothing. “You can’t treat me like I’m some little kid.”

I upped the ante. “Mr. White, I’m giving you a direct order to stay seated until class ends.” I knew this task would be impossible; if he would’ve done what I’d told him in the first place, then I would’ve cut him some slack.

He stood his ground, ready to test me. “What’re you getting mad for?”

I held firm. “I want you seated, Mr. White.”

“You can forget it. Ain’t gonna happen.”

After seventeen years of these types of scenarios, of developing my “playbook,” it still amazes me how each young inmate thinks he’s going to make a name for himself, and at my expense nonetheless. “Okay Mr. White,” I continued. “Now I’m giving you a direct order to leave my classroom.”

“Look everybody, he’s getting upset ‘cause he can’t get his waaaay.”

I repeated myself.

“What’s your problem?” he asked.

It was time for my last maneuver. “Everyone,” I announced, “in the hallway.” My students dropped whatever they were doing and filed out of the classroom. As for Mr. White, anyone with little kids could figure out his next plan of attack—He. Sat. Down. What to do? What to do? Doesn’t really matter to me. I get paid by the hour.

It wasn’t long and Mr. White joined his peers. I guess he thought he could blend in, make himself invisible. Not much of a plan. I locked my classroom door and summoned an officer.

Mr. White, I’m sorry to report, is no longer a student of mine. Like so many others before him, he’s been replaced. I’m just wondering how long until the next youngster makes his move.

CLASS REUNION

The invitations are snowballing—“20-Year College Reunion.” The reply-to-all email addresses are growing exponentially. Without naming names, the list is quite impressive: Former Oakland University Student President turned successful surgeon; Social Worker/Musician who once had a gig on the Conan O’Brien Show; two former college soccer players – a successful engineer married into the Briggs family, the other (last I heard) putting his business degree to good use as a goat farmer in Mexico.

Who else? Another former O.U. Student President turned minister. More engineers (Delphi, Ford …) some jobless, ready for networking. A former pharmaceutical sales representative turned lawyer and perhaps lobbyist. Teachers, yeah, lots of them—those who “can’t” – teach. A marketing manager, his son, a participant in the Joey Travolta annual children’s movie making project. Trivial, I know, yet, I keep in touch.

More emails. More addresses. The excitement, the eagerness. Everyone wants to get together. The emails are growing out of control.

“How many reunion emails can we expect?” my wife asks before walking away from the computer, before leaving the house.

I type my response: “My parole officer said I could attend. See you there.” I click reply-to-all.

Just like that—no more emails cluttering up the inbox. Problem solved.

Wife comes home. I tell her what I did. She thinks I’m crazy. “People will talk. You’ll be the topic of discussion.”

“Yeah, I suppose I will. I hope it makes for interesting conversation.”

“Are we going?” she asks.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And I mean it.

WHAT KIND OF FISH IS THIS?

Forget the fish for a minute; it’s not a Perch.


I am begging that our government bail out our colleges and universities—at least the Michigan institutions of higher learning. THEY DON’T WANT MY BUSINESS.



I tried to register for a Media & Communication on Arts class at a local community college—I figured since my state is handing out huge tax breaks to the movie industry, I’d start learning digital photography, rendering, advertising, and digital video layout—but once again I was told that I needed to re-register. This community college has my high school diploma and college degree on file, yet, because I haven’t taken a class in over two years, they want me to “re-file” or “re-apply” due to my “un-declared” status.

Give me a break.

Isn’t Michigan hurting? If they had my transcripts on file, why would they deny me access to registering for classes? Last time this happened I had to speak to some pimply faced college kid at the registrar; she advised me that I needed to get a certain college professor’s permission to take a creative writing class (Hello Michelle!)—It did not matter that my Bachelor of Arts Degree in English had been on file. What the ... ??? … Bureaucratic horse manure crap is this?

So here I go again. Every five years I need six credit hours worth of coursework to renew my teaching certificate, however, no one—and I mean absolutely no one—understands this. Teachers, they think, have this torturous desire to spend every Goddamn minute of their fricking lives in a classroom.

Sorry. Not me.

Can anyone tell me what type of fish this is? I’d greatly appreciate it.

NO MORE SQUARES

My employer is weaning the inmates from their tobacco addictions in preparation of the 2009 smoking-ban. The prison commissary continues to stock less and less Bugler, rolling papers, and matches. Come January 1st, the shelves will have more space for healthier items. Tofu perhaps. Or carrot sticks. Come February 1st, all tobacco products will be considered contraband. Not even prison employees will be able to light-up.

My employer has issued eight memorandums so far to cover a multitude of hypothetical situations. The latest: staff and visitors arriving on prison grounds via public transportation, motorcycle, bicycle, or moped … will be given the opportunity to secure their cancer sticks in the visitors or staff lockers. This, of course, is the only exception. Those who drive trucks or cars must secure their squares in their vehicles. Also, no smoking will be allowed on state grounds, this includes cigarette breaks inside parked cars. Can’t do it; they have cameras monitoring the parking lot.

It’ll be interesting to see what transpires from a complete smoking ban. Even the Native American prisoners will no longer be able to keep tobacco in their medicine bags. Instead, they will be given the opportunity to use medicinal herbs. Matches and lighters are included on the banned list as well.

Of course, none of this will keep the inmates from smoking God-knows-what. I’m sure there’ll be a few torched electrical outlets. But hey, it’s for the greater good of everyone.

I’ll need to review all the self-defense pressure points and nerve motor points of the human body. You never know when an irritable inmate will try you. I’m already getting sick of all the sticky chewed sucker sticks tossed on my classroom carpet.

SMALL TALK INSIDE THE PEN

(Mutual greeting between two prisoners)
— What up Dog?
— What up?

(In Unison)
— What up Teach?

(A white female corrections officer walks by the classroom window.)
— Checkout that flat screen.
— Ooooh yeah, I’d like to book that. Get up close and personal.
— (Laughing) You ain’t got no HD. You analog.
— (Agitated) Quit false flaggin’ you pump-fakin’ mutha.
— (Speaking to the empty corridor) I’m high def, Baby. Check-out my digital.

(A few minutes later a black female employee walks by.)
— Ooooh wee, she got two midgets on her back.
— (More Laughter) You couldn’t handle a round ticket.
— (More Agitated) Man, I’ll roll any dice table come my way. Black or white.
— No you won’t.
— (Puffs out chest) Yes I would.
— (Puffs out his chest too) Quit stuntin’ on me.
— (Clenches his fists) I got a two piece combo for yah.
— (Waves him off) Okay Little Caesar. Okay Little Man.
— I got five for five.
— Don’t make me put a tilt in your halo.

(They stand up, ready to lock horns. Their teacher approaches.)
— Do your schoolwork.
— I don’t want no smoke.
— Yeah, me neither.

(They sit back down.)
— You see Obama’s oldest daughter on TV the other night?
— Don’t even go there, my niece her age.
— She gonna live in the White House.
(They high-five one another.)
— Got that right.

ONE SQUARE AT A TIME

I threatened the Food Tech Teacher. “One square at a time,” I said. “One square at a time.” He knew what I meant based on previous conversations regarding the new carpeting in his classroom. He also knew that in order to resolve my computer problem I had cabbaged a CPU from an office area. What he didn’t know is whether or not I was serious.

Two months ago during a staff meeting, we were informed about the innovative explanation used for getting carpet approved in the Food Tech dining area. In order to simulate a pleasurable dining experience, the argument went, carpet needed to be installed. It didn’t matter what type—sculpted Berber, shag, plush, indoor, outdoor, industrial strength—as long as we were eternally grateful for management’s ingenuity. On behalf of the teaching staff, I say, Thank-You, from the bottom of our hearts.

Maintenance had no qualms laying the carpet either. Once they received the work order, their inmate-workforce opened the boxes and tackled the project as if it were a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle. They were done within an hour.

I stood in the dining area, admiring its appearance. Nothing beats the smell of new carpet. And I’m sure the smell would’ve been even stronger had they used glue. Maybe management couldn't justify purchasing it.

“I’m thinking about re-carpeting my classroom,” I said to the Food Tech Teacher.

“Oh yeah?” he said, his suspicions warranted.

I kicked at the floor, toed an edge. “One square at a time.”