Where have all the years gone? I need to concentrate on a lengthier writing project, perhaps a novel. I've been thinking about it since 1983 when Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli autographed her debut novel for me. Wish me luck.

Also, thanks for all those encouraging words. Have a happy and safe New Year.

Cheers!

GOOD PEOPLE ARE OUT THERE

Unlike our public and/or private school teachers, I reported for duty. Not that I saw any action; Classes were cancelled for the holidays. I started my yearly online computer training—real repetitive stuff, accompanied by sleepy elevator music. Had to remove my headphones after the first hour so as not to yawn.

Not all of it was dull. In my Hostage Awareness Course I’d been warned: The program you are about to complete IS NOT to be discussed with persons other than Michigan Department of Corrections employees. Guess I won’t speak about the Scott Freed incident where Prisoner Zane Sturgill held him hostage with a skillfully made shank. I won’t even tell my wife. I’ll spare her the details.

Instead, I’ll pay tribute to the kind-hearted family who read about my Grandmother in the Fall 2009 Issue of “Faith” (The magazine of the Catholic Diocese of Saginaw). This family sent my Grandmother a letter explaining how every year they send a gift of money to someone in need. For Christmas she became the recipient of their generosity.

When I visited her, you could see the joy in her eyes. “Grandma,” I said rather jokingly, “whatever you do, don’t report it as income.”

*Update: I visited both Grandmothers this past weekend. My other Grandmother has been released from the nursing home.

DELMA JANE

My Grandmother isn’t doing too well. She had to be placed in a nursing home right before Christmas. A few years back, after the death of my Grandfather, she gave me some handwritten stories, asking if I’d edit them for her. I never got around to it—until now. I thought I’d share my personal favorite. Here it is:

Once upon a time—as all good stories should start (but this isn’t just a story, this is something that really happened to your Grandfather)—this family living on a farm near Kinde, Michigan in the 1920’s, had six children: Doris, Katherine, Ollie, Roy, Leland, and Delma Jane. Delma Jane was the youngest at 3 months old and she had been very very sick. Roy and Mary, the parents, knew their baby was dying and sheltered their other children as best as they could from the inevitable.

It was a nice day, around 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Roy and Mary told their children to go into the field and bring the cows back for milking. So off the children went down a long lane, through some woods, and into an open field. They gathered the cows and drove them through the woods. But as they entered the lane the cows stopped. The children thought that maybe something had startled the cows. They looked around, but couldn’t see anything. Then, one by one, each child looked up over the fence line. They weren’t sure about what they were witnessing; it looked like a young man with golden hair and a gown; and if so, he didn’t speak.

They prodded the cows to keep moving, which they did, and the person near the fence glided along, keeping pace. As they approached the barn yard to milk the cows, their acquaintance began to fade away. By this time, the children were so excited that they ran to see their mother and father.

When they entered the farm house, they found both of them crying. They learned that poor little Delma Jane had passed. They were too little to understand the permanence of death, or perhaps their anxiousness outweighed their sadness; they wanted to tell their parents about the flying person.

After a brief moment of silence, once their mother and father stopped crying, Doris, Katherine, Ollie, Roy and Leland retold their story, each adding a bit more detail. When they had finished taking turns describing the flying person, their mother and father informed them that God had sent an Angel for Delma Jane; that she had went to Heaven.

This happened a long, long time ago. These children have grown old; some have gone to heaven themselves. But whenever there’s a family get-together, someone always mentions the beautiful Angel and Delma Jane.

-The End-

Merry Christmas everyone!

ANIMA & ANIMUS

“The animus is the deposit, as it were, of all woman’s ancestral experiences of man—and not only that, he (man) is also a creative and procreative being, not in the sense of masculine creativity, but in the sense that he brings forth something we might call … the spermatic word.”
—Anima & Animus, Carl Jung’s Collected Works

“What we women have to overcome in our relation to the animus is not pride but lack of self-confidence and the resistance of inertia. For us, it is not as though we had to demean ourselves, but as if we had to lift ourselves (up).”
—Animus & Animal, Emma Jung, Carl’s wife.

After I wrote three quick flashes (“Animus,” “Cocoon Man,” and “Still Life in Detroit”) and muddled through the edits, my classroom tutor, a thirty-year member of the National Lifer’s Association, someone who confided in me that during movies he occasionally bursts into tears for no apparent reason, perused each flash and ranked them accordingly. When he picked “Animus” as his personal favorite, I asked for a reason. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say “beats me,” but after a moment of reflection he said, “It’s different … unique … sort of odd, yet understandable. Nature, you know, is one of life's great mysteries.” He did not offer to elaborate beyond that and I knew not to ask for more.

“Animus” is posted at Staccato.  If you’d like to leave a comment regarding the story, please do so at their website; in fact, I’d greatly appreciate it. Also, there are forty-four previous stories worth examining, with a new one appearing every three or four days—a treasure trove of interesting material.

Thanks for reading—in advance.

CFL AWARDS CEREMONY

Someone from Programs invited me to a CFL Awards Ceremony. “They’re having hot wings and fries. It’s okay if you cancel class. Your tutors can come too.”

When is it not okay to cancel class? How many students in the prison would actually complain? “CFL,” I repeat. “What’s that?” And before an answer is provided, I take a stab, “Canadian Football League?”

During our laughter, she says, “Chance for Life.” Prisoners, I’m told, are trained to be mediators. They deal with their hostile peers. It’s an intervention type program where inmates iron out their differences. The mediators are advisors, referees, and Mommy and Daddy all rolled into one; they offer brotherly advice. I’m also told that they’re allowed to have these types of meetings without custody staff standing over their shoulders. Closed door sessions? I raise an eyebrow.

So I bring my posse of tutors to the shindig. Five to be exact. As we approach the greeting table, two prisoners start filling out our name tags. A third prisoner, his hands gesticulating in the distance, runs up to the table. “We’re not going to have enough food,” he says.

“That’s okay,” I reassure him. “I already ate.”

He’s referring to the posse. He rephrases his statement, turns it into a question, as if he’s having trouble with his eyesight. “How many tutors do you have?”

I can take a hint. I turn around and instead of using my index finger to count, I point. “You, you, and you, leave.” Then I tell him, “Two.”

As my lower seniority tutors exit, one of them says to the uptight-don’t-know-how-to-count inmate, “You’re a whiny little bitch.”

I walk toward the seating area, wondering if a closed door session is needed before the CFL Award Ceremony begins. I’m sure they’ll work it out at a later date.

DON'T HATE THE PLAYER, HATE THE GAME

I often get angry when it comes to heated discussions regarding education issues, especially when our public schools and teachers become political footballs. Not that long ago our former Michigan Governor, John Engler, waived Detroit Public School’s low test score result in front of the television cameras and threatened a state takeover. Little did his viewing audience know that he was instrumental in lowering the certification requirements for new teachers. And why not? Flood the already saturated market with inexperienced, fresh out of college rookies, create competition, lower salaries—it’s all good. Anything to keep taxes from rising, along with a school funding shift from property taxes to state sales tax.

Two governors ago (during James Blanchard’s reign) the politicians, under the guidance of our fine teacher colleges, created a new law eliminating the Continuing Teaching Certificate; replacing it with Provisional and Professional Teaching Certificates. These new fangled documents would need to be renewed every five years by taking additional college coursework. So our young rising stars, the lucky ones to get hired, figured out ways to boost their salaries by earning master’s degrees online or through college extension courses. Higher salaries, although good for the teachers, meant tighter school budgets (not the only contributing factor), layoffs, increased class size, etc. As the prisoners would say, “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

It’s a sad vicious cycle, a power grab for money by the teachers, by the colleges, and now by the State of Michigan Education Department in the form of Federal stimulus dollars. How can they get some of those greenbacks? Simple. Make it easier to obtain a teaching certificate. Hmmm…. We’ve been down that road before.

As for the Detroit Public Schools, their teachers have nothing to negotiate and are being asked to loan their employer $10,000 each. What about those downtown casinos? Are they not helping out? If so, how much per year?

Our public schools are a microcosm of society, of their surrounding neighborhoods. There are some bright spots. At the beginning of this week Detroit Public Schools asked for volunteers to help teach children how to read. Guess who immediately answered their call? Mark Durfee, aka The Walking Man. He’s quoted in the Detroit Free Press: “I have to have faith that the coming generation can make Detroit, Michigan, the nation, and the world a better place than the one we are leaving behind. If the coming generation of kids cannot read, they will fail in bringing that change. That is why I volunteered.”

Mark, you’re a better man than I. I guess I’ll do what I can from the inside, from those concertina-wired fences and gun towers.

EMPOWERMENT

Last Month: A young Vice Lord says, “I’m gonna get you fired.” He’s waving a torn sheet of paper in the air. It has one lousy word written on it. “They (custody staff) will know it’s your handwriting.”

“Who really cares?” I reply.

“You’re gonna look mighty stupid once they find out.”

I shrug my shoulders.

“What you gotta say for yourself, Teach?”

I choose my words carefully, giving him a clear understanding of the aftermath. “First of all,” I explain, “it was inappropriate of you to ask me to spell the M-word. I could’ve written you a 057 Sexual Misconduct ticket. Instead, I remained professional and spelled a word similar in meaning. Second, the nature of your felony (Criminal Sexual Conduct) should be enough for you not to press this non-issue. And third, it’s not as big a deal as you’re trying to make it, especially since I can make it bigger.” Then, for added emphasis, “It’s your move.”

He stuffs the scrap paper back into his shirt pocket. “I’m keeping it,” he says, “for insurance purposes.”

I tell him it’s okay, everyone needs a security blanket once in awhile.

The controversial word that’s such a non-issue: onanism.

Today: A young Vice Lord, still carrying around that scrap sheet of paper, qualifies for his GED Exams. He does it the good old fashion way—by studying and doing well on his standardized tests.

Old Pic: Fisher's 666 in Detroit

Level IV, II, I

“So,” I interrupt, I’m dealing with a surly prisoner’s temper tantrum, “are you a ‘true’ Level II or an ‘actual’?”

He knows what I’m getting at. IV’s and II’s refer to security levels; the higher the Roman numeral, the bigger the risk factor. A ‘true’ security level is where an inmate is ‘supposed’ to be; it’s based on a classification point system determined by the type of crime committed, staff assaults, tickets, and so forth; whereas, an ‘actual’ security level is determined by bed space. If a facility’s Level IV cells are at capacity, an inmate is placed at a lower security level, allowing him more access, more freedoms within the confines of the prison environment.

Level I’s are supposedly less of a threat. They sometimes work jobs out in public.

Two days ago a corrections officer supervising Level I prisoners on a work crew (roadside work) was stabbed with a pitchfork and left for dead. His assailant made a short-lived getaway in a state van full of his peers. The corrections officer is currently in the hospital. Everyone in the Michigan Department of Corrections is praying for his recovery.

“So,” I remind my student, “what’s your ‘true’ security level?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he shouts. “I’m going home!”

BURNING BRIDGES

Once again I’m receiving complaints regarding Christmas music in my classroom and there’s no reason for it. I understand that being locked-up during the holidays can be downright depressing: no loved ones to gather around the Christmas tree with, no spiked eggnog to drink and no mistletoe for … (on second thought, because the prisoners are known to improvise, strike those last two). As I was saying, the radio station, I changed it, changed it last week to an easy listening format. Dick Purtan in the morning. Sure, he sandwiched “Jingle Bells” between Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” and The Monkee’s “I’m a Believer,” but still, it’s better than Christmas music on the airwaves 24-7.

Prisoner H, a 20-something-year-old, is the biggest cry baby. “Turn that shit off! I hate Christmas.”

“There must be a few fond memories from your childhood that you can reflect on and smile,” I suggest.

“Not a one.”

I’m not so sure about his claim, but I know not to press certain issues; He may have burned every bridge, every connection to his family. I ignore him instead.

Within a half-hour “Frosty the Snowman” hits the rotation.

“Look,” he says, pounding his fist on the table, “if everybody in the room is warm, but one person says they’re cold, you gotta close the window.”

“That’s a bad analogy,” I reply. I’m hoping for Aaron Neville’s version of “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire),” I think that’ll warm him up.

RIGHT HAND CLUBBING

Dale,
I haven't heard back from you regarding "The Trigger Man and his Accomplice," so I decided to take the bull by the horns and do a rewrite (see RTF attachment).

I hope it's the right fit for Left Handing Waving. I've also attached a JPEG file for your convenience.

In closing, I'd like to say that my favorite piece (so far) is by CL Bledsoe. Keep up the good work.

Sincerely, JR

*****

John,
I'm sorry I didn't get back to you.

I showed this to the other 2 editors and I'm afraid we just can't use it. Thanks for trying (twice!)

Dale

*****

Dale,

Name's JR, or Jim, or James, but not John. I'll keep an eye on LHW, see if I can come up with something better.

Thanks, JR

LEFT HAND DRINKING

Attention Dale:

Attached in RTF format is my story, "The Trigger Man & His Accomplice." I hope you will consider it for Left Hand Waving.

Sincerely, JR

*****

Hi JR,

Thanks for submitting. We've had a look at the story (and the photo). We can't use it as it is but I wonder if you'd consider a rewrite and resubmission. One of my greatest weaknesses as an editor, and there are many, is providing direction on rewrites, but I'm going to give it a shot, because we like the story and love the addition of the photo. Interested?

Dale

*****

Hey Dale,

I was a bit hesitant in sending this piece because my left hand isn't waving in the photo, so any advice on a rewrite or tidbits of what you're thinking would be greatly appreciated. Tell me what you did or didn't like about the piece (working with prisoners, I can take the criticism) and I'll try an edit.

Thanks, JR

*****

I absolutely love Right Hand Pointing and their sister publication, Left Hand Waving. So why am I waiting … waiting … waiting, I think it's still my move. *BTW, this isn't the picture.

ENDORSEMENTS? WHAT ENDORSEMENTS?

I think I know how we got on the conversation; I think it had something to do with Tiger Woods and accusations of domestic violence (his wife’s “rescuing” him with a golf club); A few students thought the media should leave Tiger be. I disagreed. Their rebuttal: Because he married “white,” and not “black,” because he had affairs with “white” women, he’s being held to a higher standard. Twisted, faulty logic, straight from the penitentiary: Yeah, he should’ve married and cheated within his own race, that way we’d all feel much better. What race is he anyway?

I pointed out Tiger’s squeaky clean image, how he, and he alone, tarnished it. More talk about race. Blah blah blah. At some point during the discussion I said, “I have no people.” Before I could finish with the standard line: “I am my own person,” a student of African-American persuasion interrupted, “We are your people.”

“Oh really?” I replied.

“Yeah, you’re our teacher, Tommy Boy.”

“That so?” I paused, waiting for further explanation. None was offered. I continued, “So, if I came over to your house for a family barbecue, I’d be welcomed with open arms?” This elicited laughter from all my students, White, Black, and Hispanic. “If, between passing the potato salad, I asked your sister out, you would be perfectly comfortable with that.”

“You’re a funny man, Tommy Boy.” More laughter.

“Do you see,” I said, “how the setting changes the group dynamic?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, Tommy Boy.”

“But it is, isn’t it? Especially when you’re making statements about interracial relationships.”

*For the record: I do not golf; this is my wife’s golf club.

A SMALL CORRESPONDENCE

After the rejection of “Cocoon Man,” I decided to try Staccato Fiction again. Here is my correspondence with the editor:

Matt,

I absolutely loved the voice in "Whatever Happened to Sue Ellen?" One of my favorites so far. You know you're picking good stories when other writers are envious.

I humbly submit "Animus" and hope you will consider it.

Thanks in advance,
JR

*****

JR-

We absolutely loved "Animus" and would be thrilled to publish it on Staccato. Is it still available? If so, can you send a short bio?

Also, I hope you won't be offended if we suggest a small editorial change: the name "Old Man Baker" sounds a bit out of place here and reminds us of old episodes of "Lassie." Would you consider changing it to Mr. Baker? It's a small objection, but in an otherwise pitch-perfect story, I think it really jumps out.

Let me know what you think.

Best,
Matt
Staccatofiction.com/

*****

Matt,

You just made my day. I love the layout of Staccato Fiction, as well as the stories. Also, you are absolutely correct on the editorial changes.

Incidentally, Staccato was my first and only choice for "Animus," and it would be an honor to have my story on your website.

Sincerely,
JR

GOBBLE GOBBLE HEY

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

—"Pinhead"
by The Ramones




Every Thanksgiving I pose for a blog photo, me smiling (sort of) with a turkey pulled from the oven, a turkey that I did not cook. Afterward, while examining the pic in its unaltered digital form, I try to come up with something witty to write, or serious, the usual we-have-so-much-to-be-thankful-for message.

And we do.

But this year, while greeting my wife’s family at the front door, I did what I’ve been doing for most of November: I checked on the Praying Mantis hanging outside our living room window. I felt the brick for warmth to see why he (yeah, I assigned a gender) did not succumb to the cold weather. And, in nontraditional form, the wife snapped a picture.

I’m no longer involved with the elementary schools’ Science Olympiad insect program; therefore, I no longer order Mantid egg casings from the North Carolina biological society. Not that it matters, these mantids have been reproducing for the past four years anyway. I wonder why this little critter is still alive. It’s as if he’s making a statement about Global Warming, about our changing climate.

Al Gore may have raised awareness regarding this issue; however, my concerns are more immediate. Did I install the nine windows on my house correctly, or is there warm air seeping through the caulk, giving this little guy more life than he deserves?

ANTICIPATION: OVERCOOKED TURKEY

Can it be true? And just in time for Thanksgiving? I’m thinking “Buy Out.” Wife’s telling me to report to personnel after the holidays. Last time I dealt with the personnel department, they were campaigning to have me escorted from the prison grounds for what they thought was an expired teaching certificate (you can’t always believe what you read—especially if it’s from a website that hasn’t been updated in months. Incidentally, I update my blog on a semi-regularly, non-intermittent basis).

But this is different … or maybe not. Maybe it’s a subtle hint for me to “push-on.” I’m examining what appear to be official looking documents sent by the State of Michigan Civil Service Commission. There’s an application too, with an assigned policy number. It says:

Dear JR,

As an eligible State of Michigan defined benefit retiree, you are being given an additional opportunity to apply for Retiree paid Benefits …

What does this mean? I’m too young to be mistaken for a retiree. I’m not even a half-century old. Is this the State of Michigan’s way of chipping away at my future pension? I need to start planning. I need to investigate what type of shenanigans the Civil Service Commission is up to. I need to do it now. I need to crunch the numbers. Or perhaps I’ll wait; perhaps I’ll do it during the Detroit Lions’ Thanksgiving Day football game. At least some things never change.

A TIME OF CHEER, TWO MORE DAYS

Maybe it’s too early, or too depressing, or whatever. I see the anguish in their faces.

“You’re killing us,” one of my tutors says. They sit in a “tutors only” area, near the GED books, answer keys, and locked storage closet. They seldom lift their asses from their cushy chairs for fear of the students swapping out their hard chairs.

I console them. “It’s only for two days.” They are not happy about the situation. “Besides,” I continue, “maybe I can flush you out of the pocket like a Detroit Lions quarterback.” This is my indirect way of suggesting they work the classroom floor to see if anyone needs help on their assignments.

“You got to be kidding,” the other tutor says. “I’ve been sacked one time too many.” He has a valid point; in here, if you try to help someone and it doesn’t go well, fingers get pointed and accusations fly. “He’s the son-of-bitch told me to do it that way,” a student might tell me.

“Today and tomorrow,” I remind them. They’re worried about the month of December.

A student joins the revolt. He enters the “tutors only” section. He’s mad as hell. He’s rattling the door handle to the storage closet.

“I’m not changing the radio station,” I respond.

“Anything but Christmas music. Anything. Even if it’s country.”

“Nope.”

A female sings, “I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me,” and ends on a high note, “if only in my dreams.”

**I’d like to thank former prison educator Mr. Woodman for donating his boom-box. Also, our deepest apologies for not having a going away party for you.

YOU'RE NEVER ALONE ...

There once was a time where I held semi-normal conversations with inmates—current events, sports, the weather (small talk really)—but not so much anymore; Now it’s all gibberish and drool and impassive stares.

 Coming back from the lunchroom, I witness stacks of boxes being wheeled into the facility on a daily basis--just like clockwork. Last I heard, approximately thirty-four thousand dollars a month is spent on various skittles which are dispensed, swallowed, regurgitated, bartered, and swallowed again.

 Two days. I need to get through two more workdays. Then I can relax, eat some turkey (wife’s going to stuff it with some lemons per Rachel Ray’s recommendation) and watch some football.

 In those two remaining workdays, I need to calm down a new student, a forty-three year old man with Schizoaffective Disorder. He seems to think the Michigan Department of Corrections will honor a worn & tattered memorandum from 2005; it’s from the United States Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Prisons, granting him permission not to attend school based on his combined limited intellectual ability and serious illness. He was as proud as a nervous, ultra-hyper, peacock showing me this document.

 I guess he’s never read the Schizophrenics Anonymous Steps for Recovery:

1. I SURRENDER … I admit I need help. I can’t do it alone.
2. I CHOOSE … to be well. I take full responsibility for my choices and realize the choices I make directly influence the quality of my days.
3. I BELIEVE … that I have been provided with great inner resources and I will use these resources to help myself and others.
4. I FORGIVE … myself for all the mistakes I have made. I also forgive and release everyone who has injured or harmed me in any way.
5. I UNDERSTAND … that erroneous, self-defeating thinking contributes to my problems, failures, unhappiness and fears. I am ready to have my belief system altered so my life can be transformed.
6. I DECIDE … to turn my life over to the care of God, as I understand Him, surrendering my will and false beliefs. I ask to be changed in depth.

I’m afraid he’s stuck on steps number one and two. His choice not to attend class will result in “00 Status”—no prison job, no pay, no nothing. After thirty days, per the school operating procedure, he’ll be re-enrolled in school and subsequently placed back on “00 Status.”

MY PERSONAL PROTECTION DEVICE

There seems to be confusion regarding PPD’s (Personal Protection Devices)—that’s how the meeting starts; As if those of us on the front line of the battlefield, those of us who spend a majority of our workday with prisoners, haven’t a clue about when to use them. What’s your perception of the PPD? When should it be used?

There’s been a rash of fights/assaults at our facility, and now someone wants to play Monday morning quarterback; wants to review the tapes and tell us—strike that—wants to “imply” what we’re doing wrong. The meeting room falls silent; no one is willing to step up to the plate and offer an interpretation. And why should they? To be gutted and filleted like some young fish?

You CAN USE your PPD when two inmates start fighting. IN FACT, we encourage you to do so.

I’m holding back my opinion on this; there’s no sense in stirring up controversy. It’s a “no-win” situation.

During the forced discussion, I decide to interject some humor. “The last fighting incident in my classroom,” I say, pausing for emphasis, “… at least they waited until after everyone finished testing.”

A few chuckles, nothing more. I did not use my PPD during this incident. I honestly didn’t feel it to be necessary; I wasn’t in harms way.

Later in the afternoon, I approach two corrections officers. I say, “Look, if I pull my PPD, it’s for me, I’m getting hurt, okay?”

They understand the message and reassure me that they’ll come running; I’ve made it personal.

TESTED. CONGRATULATIONS, YOU QUALIFY.

After seven days in the box (otherwise known as segregation), Prisoner Smith reappears in my classroom. Last time I had seen him, he was writing an essay.

“That’s some real bullshit,” he announces upon entry.

He’s referring to the fighting ticket I had written on him. I acknowledge his claim of injustice. “You had an opportunity to get out of the situation, but you chose to fight instead.”

“He sucker-punched me.”

This is a valid point. During a GED half-testing session—where they try to qualify for the actual GED exams—another prisoner took his best shot at the side of Smith’s head. Smith quickly stood his ground, as if the glancing blow hadn’t fazed him, and said, “So you wanna go again do yah?” Then he put up his dukes. I yelled for him to exit my classroom immediately. Another teacher in the hallway assisted; He opened the classroom door so Smith could make his escape.

He’s laughing now. “What you’re saying,” he sort of asks, “is that you wouldn’t have wrote the fighting ticket if I had ran out of your classroom.”

“Well …” I hesitate. “Not exactly.”

He waits for an explanation.

“The way it was explained to me,” I continue, “is that when you got into your boxer’s stance, you were showing an outward sign of aggression. Per policy and the Prisoner Rule Violation book, this fits the description of fighting.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Then I did the right thing?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” I say. He’s referring to his decision to serve up a five-piece combo, backing his opponent into a corner of my classroom with his superior boxing skills. “You qualified for the GED exams and you’re scheduled to take them next week,” I add.

He doesn’t seem to care about the GED, but he's no dummy; he understands perfectly clear how to survive in here.

A POTENTIALLY EXPLOSIVE SITUATION

It hasn’t happened … yet. But in the foreseeable future someone’s going to get slapped with a sexual harassment claim, someone’s going to get burned. And why not?

Yesterday, I’m making copies of worksheets when a coworker says, “This is the best weekend to hit the bars.” He’s not speaking to me, but to another coworker, a female. Still, the conversation is meant to be an open invitation for anyone to participate.

“This weekend?” she asks, somewhat puzzled. “What about …”

Before she can finish, he starts up again. “It’s the beginning of deer hunting season. While all those husbands are in the woods looking to shoot Bambi, their wives will be in the bars looking for some action of their own.”

He laughs; she laughs.

I’m not amused. He’s married. She’s married. I’m married.

On another occasion, I’m waiting my turn to speak to this same female coworker when a male coworker steps out of her office, and for reasons I’m not sure of (maybe he thinks I’ll be impressed) he leans back inside the door frame and says, “You can put your shirt back on now.”

He laughs; she laughs.

I do what is starting to become routine: I turn and walk away. No sense in being part of the situation. It’s hard to believe this type of behavior takes place inside a prison. It’s no different than playing with matches inside a place that manufactures fireworks. Soon enough, sparks will fly; soon enough, there will be a chain reaction of explosions; soon enough, there will be depositions and lawsuits. What started out as innocent banter between the sexes will careen out of control. It always does.

OVERWHELMING NUMBERS

When you’re looking for something, searching with all your might, and when you put your finger on it (in this case: a childhood photo circa 1973), the reality behind the search and the reality behind the subsequent discovery, can leave you speechless.

On March 8, 1973, I was a 9 year old boy. (Here I am, posing with my brother.)

On March 8, 1973, a Detroit teenager learned his fate.

Twenty-five years later we would meet: I, the convict-teacher, and he, the convict-student. He would earn the nickname “Speedboat” due to his learning difficulties, for what was written in his court transcripts, that he would never earn his high school equivalency diploma, that with an IQ of 75 he was mildly retarded. However, he proved the experts wrong; he passed his GED after studying mathematics in my classroom. This was approximately 10 years ago; It took him 17 years to complete.

Last week, he gave me a rather large envelope and requested that I look at its contents. In it I saw an official looking document with an embossed gold seal. Here’s part of what it said:

To the Michigan Department of Corrections,

Whereas, in the Circuit Court for the County of Oakland, (______) was convicted of the crimes of First Degree Murder and Conspiracy to Commit First Degree Murder. He was sentenced to imprisonment for two life terms;

And Whereas, the Michigan Parole Board has recommended . . .

Now Therefore, I, Jennifer M. Granholm, Governor of the State of Michigan, do hereby commute the sentences of (______) to terms of thirty-seven years, four months, fifteen days minimum to life maximum and thirty-seven years, four months, fifteen days minimum to life maximum, thereby making him eligible for parole on February 27, 2009.

You are hereby required to make your records conform to this commutation.

With approximately 18 years correctional education experience, this is the very first Letter of Commutation I’ve seen. Speedboat made the following announcement to my students: “Never give up hope. Keep trying.”

I remained speechless, overwhelmed by the numbers.

ATTEMPTED ESCAPE

It’s true, I’m going through the motions, putting in my time—aren’t we all? And because of my complacency our facility almost had an inmate escape. Here’s what happened:

Every weekday at fifteen-hundred twenty hours I hear the following announcement: “Building 300 is closed. All prisoners return to your housing unit.”

My students file out, that’s the routine—lock-up and be counted.

“See you tomorrow Teach,” someone says.

I load up my cart: pencil box, stapler, three-hole punch, class binders, and dictionaries, and I roll the cart into a secured storage area. I give an A-O-K nod to the corrections officer making one final round. I power down my computer and lock my desk drawer and filing cabinets.

Nothing beats getting out of prison at the regular scheduled hour. No emergency situations. No sirens. No extra duty.

I put my coat on and just before I hit the light switches, I notice a young man sleeping in the back of the classroom.

“Hudson,” I yell. “Get the ##@$% out of my classroom!”

Hudson rises for a hot second, long enough to shake his dream world. His sleepy left leg doesn’t cooperate and he falls to the floor.

“You’re gonna miss count!”

He stands again, falls again—more encouragement from me. Soon he’s dragging his left leg down the hallway like Egor. He knows that if he doesn’t make it back to his cell on time he’ll be charged with an attempted escape. There are no excuses. He knows better.

THE SOMEWHERE ELSE HOME

JR,

First, thanks so much for sending us "Cocoon Man." After a healthy discussion, we have decided to pass on it. Know that we both agreed the story is efficient, tightly wound, and all the details and dialogue work toward the ending. We worried about the story lacking a wider or heavier sense of implication. There is the "descent while she watches from above" - which one might describe as an allusion to the archetypal circles of hell, which in turn are a consequence of sin, which in this story pertains to the threat of adultery - but it might arrive too loosely at the end. It is clear you know what you're doing as a writer, but in the end, it just wasn't a fit for us. We wish you the best of luck finding a home for it elsewhere. We're confident you will.

Sincerely,

The Editors
-----------------
Previous blog posts:
Reflecting Forward
Here in a Flash, Gone in a Flash

OFF CENTER WITH A LOSS OF APPETITE

I just haven’t been “feeling it” lately, and I’m not sure whether the approaching holidays are affecting my otherwise bland routine or what. Not even the lunatics—too numerous to count—are able to shock me out of my doldrums; I’m afraid they’ve become the norm.

A rather large student, on the heavier side of two-hundred fifty pounds, approaches me in the corridor. Most days I can’t shut him up, but today he remains awkwardly silent. He invades my space, leaving little room to maneuver around the girth of his stomach.

“What’s your problem?” I ask. I’m not interested in whatever bullshit he’s going to pull.

He remains tight-lipped. A few inmates laugh.

“What? You’re not speaking today?” I ask.

He opens his mouth wide, exposing his dry chalky tongue (daily medication will do that); a grasshopper hops out, landing on the tiled floor.

“You need some Hershey’s chocolate syrup,” I suggest.

He bends down, picks up the grasshopper, and places it back in his mouth. I’m perfectly content with this arrangement; anything to keep him quiet.

ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT ATTENDANCE

It’s etched in stone, signed by the powers that be, (been that way since October 5th): Prisoners are no longer allowed to “sign off” and not attend their call-outs. So I held my own, students came to class sick—runny noses, coughing up mucus—rolls of toilet paper torn and wadded up, honking into tissue then discarding inside computer hutches and bookshelves, on top of desks and of course the ever-popular floor. Swine flu? No reported case, not in prison; kind of like: no one ever dies in here—you might exit in a body bag but you’ll be handcuffed to prevent an escape.

Naturally, when your freedom is taken and you’re forced to do things you don’t want to do, the polite, considerate “cover you mouth when you cough” rule is tossed out the window.

“If you’re so concerned about getting my cold,” one under-the-weather inmate says, “then you should let me go back to my cell”—aim, cough, cough, cough.

It’s not long after that and I’m getting a scratchy throat followed by a fever. A few days later I’m being accused of bringing God-knows-what into the prison and contaminating everyone I’ve had contact with. See what happens when you follow protocol? But I’m better now. It’s November. Memo? What memo?

*Cartoon illustration of my classroom.

MORE COWBOY CONFLICT

Happy Halloween!

HALLOWEEN SPECIAL

REFLECTING FORWARD

There’s another hip on-line lit journal called Matchbook that I admire (read it here). If they accept a flash-fiction piece for publication, they request a critique of sorts, some type of insight into the writing process. As I hold out hope for “Cocoon Man,” I reflect on what I believe is its significance. Here are my thoughts:

My wife’s into scrapbooking. She sticky-tapes family pictures into expensive albums, dresses them up, makes them visually appealing. In “Cocoon Man,” I try to do the opposite. I take a snapshot in time, something from that slim rectangular window of life and try to make it uglier. I dress it down. I examine its anorexic body. I focus on the blemish. I make that blemish fester and grow on skeletal remains.

I don’t think a story can have a lasting impression on its readers unless they’re made to feel uneasy—at least flash fiction anyway, where the plot needs to develop quickly. So why not challenge the reader in the beginning? Why not ask a series of questions that will present the conflict and setting as well as place the reader in an uncomfortable situation.

Forget Hallmark. Forget Norman Rockwell paintings. Let’s have guts, let’s show an exposed foot, and let’s have blatant lies and infidelity and manipulative behavior.

“Cocoon Man” is stripped down to these barebone essentials. The reader, like a moth flying into the flames, is drawn to the light, to its origins, to those initial questions. As for resolution of conflict—what of it? There’s no fancy gift-wrapped packages here to open. There’s no expensive ribbon to untie. And if there were? You wouldn’t be able to see beyond the beauty, beyond the presentation, and that’s not what I’m aiming for.

HERE IN A FLASH, GONE IN A FLASH

I’m still a novice when it comes to writing and reading flash fiction. It’s definitely an art form suitable for the internet. You can focus on the backlit words without straining your eyes for long lengths of time, and there’s not much scrolling to break your concentration.

Some of my written flashes have come to me relatively quick, the words spilling onto the page; whereas, others have tormented me for days. I’ve been submitting various pieces to my favorite on-line literary journals—not much luck there. One story in particular has raised a few eyebrows. Here’s the latest “favorable rejection”:

Hi JR,

Thanks for submitting “Cocoon Man.” Unfortunately, we’re going to pass. This was an exceptionally difficult decision for us because we liked so much about the piece (the ominous atmosphere, the back and forth dialogue between the characters, the haunting details), but something about it didn’t resonate as much as we hoped it would.

We really want to read more, though, so please keep sending stories our way.

Best,
Matt

How cool it that? I’ll keep writing, reading, trying. I strongly recommend http://www.staccatofiction.com/. They publish a new flash fiction piece every 4 or 5 days. And their stories really are that good.

REALITY CHECK

On Wednesday, as I walked past the hallway podium where prisoners' IDs are checked, I heard Officer Milk Dud say into the phone, “Yeah, he got his Mickey blowed out.” I picked up my daily call-out report (a list of inmates I will see for the day) and headed straight for my classroom. I knew not to expect an emailed explanation or debriefing regarding the staff assault.

From what I’ve heard, Officer Milk Dud became our hero, saving the day from a convict-punk who sucker-punched a teacher. Another corrections officer described it like this: “He (Milk Dud) tore off his shirt and a big ‘S’ appeared.” I chuckled a bit, but soon realized that any one of us could be assaulted at any given time, or worse—murdered. In eighteen years (knock on wood) I’ve remained relatively safe. No punches thrown my way; Never been pushed; Only the occasional verbal threats.

Prison employees are such a rare breed. We laugh and joke about those close calls as if it’ll bring us closer together. Although this may be a false assumption, we're reminded of the risk we take in dealing with prisoners. A good day at work is a day when you make it out, when you’re in your car and driving home to your loved ones.

Officer Milk Dud knows I have a history of talking sharp to the inmates. He reminds me about my orthodontics, about all that money I have invested in my mouth. “Protect your teeth,” he says. I smile a bit, my rubber bands adding tension to my jaw. “I’ll try,” I tell him. “I’ll try.”

IF BIRTHPLACE MATTERS ...

Maybe it’s just me, but it seems inherently wrong for a convicted murderer to run for Detroit City Council. You could argue that he paid for his crime, that he did twelve years for killing a man, however, if a foreign born citizen cannot lead our country, cannot become our President, then it stands to reason that Raphael Johnson should not have an opportunity to run for city council. Yet here he is campaigning.

I’ve talked about Johnson in the past, and perhaps I was a bit envious of his accomplishments: Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees from the University of Detroit Mercy, successful businessman, and speaker and author (how many times does he have to be on Maury Povich?), however, after learning more about his upbringing, I’m convinced that he would’ve been successful regardless of his crime. Prior to his conviction he attended the University of Detroit Jesuit High School on a scholarship, and before his trial he graduated with a 3.6 GPA at Cass Tech High School.

From my experiences as a correctional educator, a person of this caliber wouldn’t fit the typical prisoner mold. He says he’ll curb violence in Detroit by trimming back large trees that block the street lights. He says he’ll continue talking to our youth about making bad choices. His platform includes creating a task force that will reach out to at-risk teens—not that he was ever “at-risk.” He never grew up on the wrong side of the tracks; instead, he elected to go there.

You can’t choose where you were born, but you can make choices later on in life as to where you want to be. In Johnson’s case, he returned to a party with a gun and shot a 40-year old man to death. Hopefully he will not get elected to the council. The citizens need to take a stand.

STEWED

I’ve dealt with all kinds of misguided anger over the years (where students simmer, waiting for those inevitable triggers to boil over); I keep a lid on it.

“My last teacher,” a new student says, “was enthused about teaching.”

He’s sitting in the front row, eyes the size of saucer cups, tattooed forearms: fallen pillars, one on each side of a mathematics competency exam I placed in front of him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Are you passionate about teaching?”

Perhaps he’s crying for help.

“My last teacher at Muskegon,” he continues, “loves his job.”

“Good for him. What’s his name?”

“Selbig.”

“Selbig’s a woman.”

“Sir, you’re mistaken. Selbig’s a man.”

Now I know he’s a loon. After class I pull his school file (just in case he gave me the wrong name)—sure enough, his last teacher was Selbig. Ann Selbig. Female.

A week later, he’s still working on the same fifty-problem test; He’s on number ten. His brain’s stuck in the mud, spinning on perfectionism. His meaty guardrails protect his paper. I’ve already helped him on basic fractions and assigned him a fractions book; He refuses to do it. He thinks he’s mastered fractions.

“My last student,” I comment, “was enthused about learning. Are you enthused about learning?”

He’s rubbing the middle of his forehead with his knuckles, circling, circling, circling; his face looks like an overripe tomato. He’s left a bruise.

I end my sarcasm.

DECORATIVE DRIFTWOOD

The following numbers are for a work in progress, a flash fiction piece titled, “Getting out From Under a Rock”:

Readability Statistics:

Words – 100
Paragraphs – 9
Sentences – 11
Passive Sentences – 0%
Flesch Reading Ease – 68.0%
Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level - 6.1

I’m sending my prose to the Driftwood, formerly known as The Driftwood Review. They’re looking for 100-word stories for an upcoming “Earth” themed issue. Twenty pieces will be chosen and you must be from Michigan.

Heck, I’m from Michigan. Do you think a scenario involving an undercover convict trying to get his cellmate to mention where he buried the bodies, qualifies as “Earth” themed? I hope so.

For the website click: Ludington Writers.

EXIT CONVERSATION

Our exit conversation went from whether the Detroit Tigers would get rained out to whether the ambulance near healthcare would interfere with us leaving at our regular scheduled time. Some state employees had brought umbrellas for protection against the drizzle, but the sun had poked through the clouds, radiating its warmth on our backs.

By the time we reached the Administration Building, I asked a custody staff person about the ambulance. Turns out, two of my students were involved in an altercation; or to be more direct, an assault occurred.

“From what I gather,” my informant said, “Prisoner B. stabbed Prisoner E. in the ear with a piece of metal and sliced him downward along the jaw-line. B. thrives on violence. E. was holding his face together and blood was going everywhere.”

A maintenance worker, corrections officer, and sergeant, focused on finding the weapon, passed us, heading in the opposite direction toward the crime scene area.

As I write this from the comfort of my home and reflect, I’m remembering that part of our exit conversation regarding umbrellas, how those metal-extension rods would make great shanks.

CRUEL & UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT

He sits in a wheelchair, my classroom tutor, and he talks real sharp to everyone because, as he’s stated many times before, “I’m going to die in prison, so I’ll speak my mind.”

He missed two weeks of work due to segregation, due to running his mouth in the chow hall when another inmate cut in front of him. He says the guy sucker-punched him, that he fell out of his wheelchair, had a seizure, blacked-out.

“You’re gonna pay me,” he says.

“How do I know you weren’t found guilty of fighting?” Segregation, after all, is a revolving door—seven days in, then back to general population. My classroom tutor did fourteen days; I’m a little suspicious.

He says, “That’s absurd,” and quotes policy, “through no fault of my own I was unable to report for duty.” Then I hear about how he’s going to slap a grievance on my ass, how Carl Marlinga (ex-Macomb County Prosecutor turned convict lawyer) is already defending him in a legal case against the Michigan Department of Corrections … blah, blah, blah … the mouth in perpetual motion.

I actually enjoyed not having him in my room. I’m not sure whether he showers regularly or has a colostomy bag or both, but he stinks up my classroom and the smell lingers. I know this might sound terrible, but I think I'll write an evaluation regarding his personal hygiene and have him thrown out of my class. Between the mouth and odor, I’m tired of him.

SWEATHOGS

“They’re not people … they’re Sweathogs!”

So why should the Michigan taxpayers, or more specifically—our state legislators, earmark money for a bunch of underachievers? Cut, cut, cut! They’re convicted criminals to boot! The hell with them!

The economy’s in the toilet. Hey, while we’re at it, let’s slash Early Childhood and College Scholarship Money, and drastically reduce general education funds. The Michigan Constitution requires a balanced budget by October 1st. The financial markets have driven state revenue to a 40-year low when adjusted for inflation.

I might not be teaching for a brief while—a short temporary lay-off until the budget is determined. If so, when I return it’ll be “Welcome Back, Welcome Back …”

In other news: Congrats to Mr. Woodman for bailing from a sinking ship called the Michigan Department of Corrections and for obtaining a public school teaching job. Also, he’s started an educational blog for his students. Wish him luck here . I’m sure his boat will stay afloat. Someone said he didn’t lend anything to our prison school, but I know better. Good luck Mr. Woodman!

LIQUID PROOF COVERALLS

We had a programs staff meeting. They fed us pizza, chicken wings, salad, pop. Actually, our employee club purchased the food and we were allowed to eat it during their meeting. The agenda items were briefly kicked around while we ate. I use the terms “briefly” and “kicked around” because the discussion on hand, the dialogue, seemed so minimal, so unimportant. Perhaps it had something to do with all that chewing and digesting of food.

Later in the day, a coworker, a Danny Glover Look-A-Like, asked me, “Is it true that all male staff have to wear neckties starting October first?” I had heard the same thing; the announcement had caught me by surprise; No one contested it. I didn’t contest it. I was in-between bites. We asked around and discovered it wasn’t meant for us.

Before I left for home, I received an interesting email, something about “liquid proof coveralls.” It was sent by the ERT Commander (Emergency Response Team) and said: “I have placed 15 sets of liquid proof coveralls in the cell rush cabinet in Housing Unit 7. These are to be used in the event of a cell rush where bodily liquids or feces might be involved. They should be big enough to put on over the cell rush gear so that the gear does not become contaminated.”

I don’t think I’ll be joining ERT anytime soon. In fact, I’m more receptive to the idea of wearing that necktie.

ROW 27, SEAT 18

Admission:     $110.00

Ticketmaster:     $5.75

Parking:           $20.00

Bud Light:        $15.00

Total:             $150.75

Yesterday, my brother and I watched the Detroit Lions lose their 19th straight football game. During our outing I had a drunken idiot (one of many) spill his beer all over the back of my shirt and on my chair. When I turned around to see if he would at least sober-up long enough to offer an apology, I got nothing. His drunken buddies kept their pie-holes shut as well. The lone woman with them (hopefully their designated driver) suggested an apology. Still, nothing.

As the Lions 10-point lead slipped away, these jerks became more primitive, fueling their mouths with more brew in-between shouted profanities. “F-this” and “F-that.” At one point, I did hear an apology to the father next to me, who had brought his young son. The father replied (rather sarcastically), “It’s not like he hasn’t already heard it about 100 times.” They didn’t get it.

Fights broke out at various places inside the stadium, but not where Eminem sat—he must have bought out an entire section—and thankfully, I didn’t lose my cool. Near the end of the game these drunks started calling everyone “pussies” for not cheering for the Lions. By then I’d had enough, but knew not to say anything.

I won’t be back to Ford Field anytime soon. Not until the Detroit Lions get a new owner. As far as I’m concerned, this football franchise has invited mediocrity. I see it in the low-life drunks interspersed throughout the stadium. Losers, losers, losers.

WHAT'S IN A TITLE?

Dear Krisma, Editor:

After our initial email exchange regarding the acceptance of my short story, and after your request for a different title, I conducted a classroom survey. My convict-students were asked to read the story and choose from the following:

1. Ruth Mondo’s Chance Encounter (original)

2. Small Steps for Ruthie

3. FindYourMate.com

During this process, in which I witnessed a heated debate between murderers, rapists, thieves, and drug dealers, I discovered that there’s more to this story than Ruth’s desire to find a companion; I discovered that the story conveys a message of “missed opportunities.”

One prisoner, a man doing “all day” for murder, said, “No matter how hard you try to do the right thing, no matter how prepared you think you are, there’s always a possibility of the wrong outcome.” He went on to say how difficult it is to make the correct choices when you’ve had negative experiences all your life. “Our reactions,” he continued, “aren’t always based in reality.” Ruth and Old Man Gordy’s insecurities, he pointed out, lead them to believe they're making fun of each other’s appearances. I couldn't agree more.

In the end, my students reached a general consensus that “FindYourMate.com” should be the title of the story.

I hope this information serves you well and best wishes on the next issue of Diverse Voices Quarterly.

Sincerely, JR.

A GAME OF LEAP FROG

I’ve been told (or should I say “warned?”) that the politicians in Lansing have been keeping a spreadsheet of my monthly enrollment. I don’t have the slightest clue as to why—my numbers, after all, will have little effect on the decisions they make in the Puzzle Palace. I’ve already been warned about the possibility of a lay-off come October 1, 2009.

The Michigan House and Senate are ready to dump a budget plan on Governor Granholm’s desk, a budget with deep cuts. She’ll probably “veto” the damn thing, which in turn will bring about those lay-offs. Either way, I’ll feel the pinch.

I’ve also been told (via television) by the two main players, Andy Dillon (Democrat) and Mike Bishop (Republican), that the Governor is not instrumental in the budget making process. Hmmm… I guess they’re playing leap frog, they’ve pushed her aside, deemed her a bad leader. How’s that saying go? “Lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way.” I guess the blind is leading the naked. I’m trying to figure out just who is groping whom.

JUST DOING WHAT I'M TOLD TO DO

Per the Puzzle Palace, a.k.a. Lansing (the State Capitol of Michigan), I’m to administer another series of standardized tests. My students should have the Test of Adult Basic Education memorized by now. They take it every three months to check for grade level improvements. If you were to ask me about its reliability I’d say, “The TABE is inconclusive and no longer valid for determining aptitude or chances of success.”

“Why do I need to take this when I’m scheduled for the GED Exams next week?” a student asks.

“So we can capture some of that Obama money,” I answer.

Ah yes, educational funding, such a fickle endeavor. Anyone who has taken a Probability and Statistics class knows there are ways to twist the data in your favor.

A special education student approaches my desk in the middle of testing. “The judge says I need to get my GED before he’ll consider a time cut.” He’s wondering whether these tests will help.

“That’s between the two of you," I say, "leave me out of it."

He sits back down. He’s all pissed off, as if I’m holding the keys to his freedom. I’m a dutiful prison educator; I’ve learned not to question the powers that be; I’m like that guy in those old pizza commercials on television: “Make the dough Daryl. Make the dough.”

YARD TIME

On Friday morning when custody announced “Yard is over. Return to your unit” my students did something out of the ordinary: they flocked to the classroom windows.

“Is there something I need to know about?” I asked.

After an awkward moment of silence, one student replied, “Just because a guy was killed doesn’t mean administration should mess with our yard time.”

They have difficulty dealing with schedule changes. And how dare custody restrict their movement!

I walked over to the window, looked out over the prison yard. “So they’re having themselves a sit down,” I commented.

“Yard is over. YARD … IS … OVER. RETURN TO YOUR HOUSING UNIT IMMEDIATELY.”

The prisoners continued with their yard activities as if the public address system were malfunctioning. Then the immobilization siren blew. My students cleared the building, went back to their cells for lock-up, for an emergency count.

It wouldn’t be long and those protesters would be identified, loaded onto buses, and scattered amongst the higher security level prisons in Michigan.

If it were up to me, I would’ve left them out on the yard and prayed for rain. Besides, they’d be begging to come in by suppertime.

Today’s picture: Bro, myself, and the neighbor kids enjoying our freedom.

REEXAMINING THE EVIDENCE

Please don’t prosecute me for something you’ve probably read years ago. I presented my tale, "A Creative Nonfiction Escape," to demonstrate how close I actually came to being arrested. Then I deleted my incriminating statement, and my accomplice, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine lost my 2008 statement on their server.

Once again, here is the real evidence in the form of a picture. Notice the busted windshield. Do you see its flaw? Do you see its cracked web of deceit on the passenger’s side? Ask yourself, "Is the writer telling the whole truth, or is something missing?" Maybe he should’ve been sent to prison. Where is his original statement?

Here it is, freshly typed from an old chapbook:

A CREATIVE NONFICTION ESCAPE

 I deliberately ran down a construction worker with my Ford Pinto as he sprinted along the shoulder of the road. I saw the whites of his eyes as he glanced back long enough to do the Fosbury Flop across the hood of my car. He landed somewhere in the weeds, and all I kept thinking was don’t stop now, keep going. I had been partying at Oakland University that night with my friend Scott. He rolled down his window and stuck his head into the wind to see if the guy was moving. Then, with a real sobering look, he said to me, “I think he’s hurt.”

I eased up on the gas. The other construction worker (there were two of them) ran into the ditch and helped his friend to his feet. He had a noticeable limp. “Now what?” Scott asked.

When you make split second decisions out of anger there are no long-term solutions to rectify the situation; there are only short-term fixes, last minute scramblings to avoid going to prison. I’ll admit things did not look good for me. I had a busted front windshield and would more than likely be charged with a hit and run, and if I begged to explain myself, I’m sure my defense attorney would cringe and advise me not to say a word. But here’s what really happened:

We traveled in silence along Rochester Road, heading back to my parents’ house. I had been driving the speed limit, when out of nowhere this truck appeared behind us, its bright lights invading the interior of my car and disturbing the night’s tranquility. “Who is this jerk,” I said into my rearview mirror. The truck passed us, and for some unknown reason, perhaps on impulse, I switched on my brights. “See how they like it,” I said to Scott.

They didn’t. They slowed their vehicle to a crawl, and every time I tried to pass, they sped up or veered towards the centerline. Then, as luck would have it, Scott recognized them. They were brothers, he explained, Joe and Bubba Hartley. “Pull over, Jim. I’ll talk to them.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

Just to be safe, I hit the electronic door locks. When they approached on foot, Scott started talking. They knew him, but they weren’t in the mood for friendly conversation. Bubba placed himself behind my car, while Joe stood in front of it. “Get out of the car!” Joe said.

“You obviously don’t know these guys very well,” I said to Scott.

They kept yelling at me, so I turned my stereo on real loud to drown out their demands. Then it happened. Joe, the guy in the front, took his hard-hat and smashed my front windshield. “Oh man,” I said, “you’re gonna pay for that!”

“That’ll teach you to mess with us,” he said.

I’ve already told you what happens next. It’s all creative nonfiction as far as I’m concerned.

When we arrived at my parents’ house, I decided to call the Michigan State Police. I felt I had no other choice. It was a risky decision, but hopefully I’d survive unscathed. Of course, like most criminal minds, my story changes.

“So, you accidentally hit the one guy because you were trying to get away?” the senior officer asked.

“That is correct,” I said.