KILLER PRAISE & ABSOLUTE LEMONADE

The Swish Man surely knows the difference between soft returns, hard returns, and extra hard returns; he wouldn’t confuse “extra” to be the qualifier of “hard” and not the qualifier of “returns.” Sounds confusing, I know, but I learned a little something about “returns” in Adobe InDesign class today.

MAC: Shift + Return = Soft Return.
Windows: Shift + Enter = Soft Return.

At any rate, the Swish Man, a former meth-head and connoisseur of cheap vodka and Kool-Aid (grape, orange, or lemonade) would know all about “returns.”

“Hey Swish Man, when’s your parole date? When you gonna get your drink on?” I’d ask.

He’d pat down his cat-licked hair, flash me his rotten meth-mouth, and proudly slur that he was discharging. “I’m doing my whole bit,” he’d say. “No ERD,” meaning Early Release Date.

The Swish Man’s gone though. Assimilated into the free world, yet trapped in his addiction. He’ll be back, his return inevitable.

How’s that for gratitude?

On a similar note, I was given a lemonade stand; unfortunately, there’ll be no drinks. We’re all sold out. Shut down for the Swish Man. No posted rules. No violations. Instead, I’ve added a permanent link. Go to it. Check out the high quality documentary, the professionally trained voice, the nice crisp narrative at: Catvibe . We all need a little culture now and then. Even a convict teacher.

Reading suggestion: Bitter Lemons by Lawrence Durrell.
Place to submit your crime fiction manuscript: Bitter Lemon Press.

*Minor announcement in February.

THE FLY SWATTER

With fly swatter in hand and beehive at foot, I back pedal.

All I wanted was the college’s computer lab hours. Nothing more. Nothing less.

My wife hands me the phone, says, “It’s the Department Head. I’m running late.”


“Yeah?” I’m speechless. Don’t know where to begin. “Hello?”

“I understand you’re having problems with your professor.”

“All I want,” I say, “are your computer lab hours.”

He continues. “We’ve had a few other complaints about her. Let’s see if I can switch you to a different instructor.”

“That’s okay, really. I’ll figure it out.”

“Oh wait, you’re in Adobe InDesign. Quite popular. Those classes are full.”

“That’s okay. I just need to learn the Apple shortcuts and familiarize myself with the program.”

I just want this conversation (which I did not initiate) to end.

He likes to talk. “Your wife tells me you teach in a prison …”

Wonderful. Just wonderful. I’m sure my instructor-in-the-business will be waiting with open arms for my Saturday morning arrival. I may need to bring that fly swatter.

SLUGS AND BLEEDS

I wish it were that simple—slugs and bleeds—a primitive solution to an aggravating circumstance called: Adobe InDesign Digital Layout. The introductory college course consists of one instructor “in the business,” a room full of graphic design students (including a few emos), and me, a convict teacher who once supervised an inmate newspaper.

You wanna talk graphic design? My layout man could work a thumbtack like there was no tomorrow (like he had all-day) cutting and pasting articles, pictures, cartoons, captions, you name it; his work exceeded my expectations. Nobody messed with the layout man—unless you wanted to be “laid out.”

Slugs and Bleeds.

I’m attending a class for six hours every Saturday morning. So far, two class sessions down, more torture on the way. “I retained about 30% of what you said,” I told the instructor.

While the others were perfecting their gutter space, their columns, their font-size, I was busy trying to learn the Apple icons, the shortcut keys, and the software menus. Not an easy task: taking notes, clicking here, clicking there, studying the barely visible screen up front for in-depth guidance.

While the others were busy organizing their assignment, putting the finishing touches on their project, I sat, my hands intertwined on the top of my head. A wounded slug. My way of saying, “Hey you, instructor lady, instructor-in-the-business, could you slow down, I’m not sure what I’m suppose to be doing.”

When class ended (forty minutes early), I waited for the instructor to approach. I told her my problem. I thought she’d help. Instead, she powered down my machine. I guess it’s the last step that counts. She informed me of their computer lab hours.

Hey, look on the bright side, I could’ve taken a harder course.

NO VACANCIES

You ain’t rentin’ no space in my head.

There’s a whole new breed of inmate coming to our facility. I’ve been told we will treat them no differently than g.p. (general population). If that’s the case, then why is five-block, where they’re double-bunked, shutting down, and seven-block, where they’re single-bunked, opening up? And why will their g.p. activities be restricted to school and religious services? Why will they have their own yard? Their own doctors from the Department of Mental Health?

They haven’t been enrolled in school yet, although I’ve seen a few of them near the control center. “Hey,” I joked with a coworker, “someone should wipe the drool of that guy’s face.”

We laugh. We brace ourselves for the inevitable. How bad will it get?

We already have a serial killer going to school, but as luck would have it, he’s in the classroom down the hall. He used to be homeless, now he’s at home. He killed seven prostitutes near Detroit’s Cass Corridor. Beat them with a brick. Returned to the scene of the crime to have his way with them. Repeatedly.

He’s not part of this new breed of inmate. He’s in general population, coping with his own personal demons.

MY FAVORITE FLASHES

It probably costs you nothing to write a short story but I find that it costs me as many false starts--and therefore failures--as does a long one. Mark Twain

To get the right word in the right place is a rare achievement. Samuel Clemens


Here are my favorite entries (in no particular order) from Jason Evan’s “Ascension” Short Story Contest (keep in mind that I have no money):


Son Games Mother by Catherine Vibert

A Balanced Life by Wayne Scheer

Up is Fine by Victor Bravo Monchego, Jr.

Static Ellen by Dottie Camptown

The Yes Man by J. Scott Ellis


Lastly, in my opinion (for what it’s worth and not much) my personal favorite:

So What if She Has No Feet? by Linda Courtland.

I couldn’t help myself on that last one. Hey, everyone’s a winner for participating.

PREDATOR OR PREY?

When you hate the world and have no way to express yourself because of the number on your back, you’ll do anything to disrupt the system. If I’ve got to endure this misery, most convicts think, then everyone else should too.

Only one problem: That elderly gentleman doing all-day (20-some years and “not” counting). He’s quiet. He’s polite. He’s articulate. He walks with a cane. He has my entire class on edge—killers, rapists, dope-dealers, and thieves alike.

“You’ve got to do something about him,” one of the younger inmates tells me in confidence.

“Why?”

“Why? You know why! He’s a predator!”

I must admit, he’s given me the heebie-jeebies more than once. The zippers running down the inner part of each pant-leg certainly are an oddity. I’ve been informed that he wears leg braces. Whether he needs these special pants, or the braces, I’ll never know.

When he enters the classroom, he hangs his cane on my filing cabinet near my desk, as if he’s marking his territory, then he walks across the room to his seat. The classroom gets quiet. No one dares steal his cane.

I confront him. “JR,” he says, “In here you’re either predator or prey. I’m a predator. You notice how no one bothers me.” His point is duly noted.

“Deal with it,” I advise a few of my students.

Their latest tactic, “He loves you JR.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. In prison it’s not a good idea to show your fear. I turn it into a joke. “As long as he does it from a distance, what do I care.”

This week I will advise him not to leave his cane hanging from my filing cabinet.

* * * * *

Tonight (after 8:00 p.m.) I will post my favorite entries from Jason Evan's "Ascension" short story contest. If you would like to read mine or view the vignette, scroll downward.

IF YOU'D ONLY PAY ATTENTION

Jason Evan's "Ascension" Short Fiction Contest at Clarity of Night.

Written form, Entry #8: If You'd Only Pay Attention (2nd Place)

Muffin Monster demonstration below.

ESCALATORS & MUFFIN MONSTERS

I haven’t participated in a prison orientation in years. This event usually takes place in a gym with row upon row of tables staffed by non-custody employees explaining the intricacies of prison survival. Whether it’s the quarter-master handing out bed rolls, the classification director dispensing advice on various programs, the principal explaining enrollment procedures/school rules, or the resident unit managers handing out pamphlets on the Prisoner Rape Elimination Act, it’s clearly too much information to process. Especially for those A-prefix inmates (first-timers). B, C, & D-prefix inmates already know the protocol and get a little irritated by the whole process.

The reason I’m bringing this up has to do with Jason Evan’s latest writing contest based on a photograph of an escalator. For some reason, when I initially saw those corrugated, metallic steps, I thought of an unfortunate child getting his hand maimed. I read about it in some newspaper long ago. It’s funny how we recall such things; Here’s an invention that transports people, it’s meant to be helpful. Did the child know of the dangers involved? Had he ever been on an escalator before? Or was this his first time? Was he under adult supervision when it happened? The questions kept coming.

Our brains work in mysterious ways. I went from thinking about that child, that horrible incident, to thinking about an A-prefix inmate being told how prison life would be, how he would need time to adjust. I hadn’t envisioned any one particular inmate. No, in my minds-eye he remained as faceless as my child did. Before I picked up my legal pad of paper and pen to write my story, I felt an underlying danger “in” (or perhaps “on”) that escalator.

There are so many things we just don’t know about. The title of my story is If You'd Only Pay Attention. There’s a treasure trove of wonderful stories in the competition. Also, if you read mine, you'll see how I incorporated the Muffin Monster.

CHOICES & CONSEQUENCES

Three students, three children trapped in men’s bodies, were having a heated discussion over the female anatomy, arguing over the best way to please a woman. As an educator I could’ve turned this into a much needed biology lesson; however, considering the environment and the serious offenses of each man-child (rape, murder, theft … you name it) I decided to redirect them to their individualized lesson plans.

One student in particular had difficulty changing course. Energized and vocal, he wanted everyone to know about his experiences, his expertise as a “Lady’s Man.”

“Enough,” I said. “Do your math assignment or leave.”

Maybe it’s instinctual, maybe they're too institutionalized, because like Pavlov’s dog salivating at the sound of a bell, Mr. Lady’s Man Man-Child made a bee-line for the door.

“Just remember,” I continued, “Leaving the classroom means receiving a ‘Disobeying a Direct Order’ ticket for refusing to do your work.”

“I didn’t refuse anything,” he summarized. “You gave me a choice.”

“And with choices are consequences,” I explained.

He stood in the doorway as if it were a huge gaping hole in the perimeter fence, contemplating whether now was the time to escape. I kept silent, stood my ground, my weapon of choice: a ticket form and ballpoint pen.

Mr. Lady’s Man Man-Child sat back down, stared out the window. You could tell he was thinking about what to do. I guess he needed some alone time to reflect on his predicament, his imprisonment. After his momentary reflection he started violently punching himself in the head. I ignored him, figuring he’d stop when he felt the punishment were enough to fit the crime.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF VIOLENCE

Every year since 2006, I hold Prisoner Lewis (an older gentleman approaching fifty) back, while everyone leaves the classroom. I ask him, “Is this going to be the year?” He diverts his eyes, looks at the floor or his feet. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. Three years straight (2006, 2007, 2008) he has put very little effort into learning the required material. He could no more pass a GED Exam then walk out that front door a free man. But this isn’t about him. He doesn’t have that pent-up anger some of the younger inmates have.

This should come as no surprise: I worked over the holidays. During that short interval between Christmas and the New Year a youngster told me he would turn it around; he would behave in the classroom and study regularly. We mapped out a plan. He signed the required quarterly work evaluation. He even asked if he could take a Science book back to his cell to study during “down” time.

I was a bit hesitant, yet agreed.

At his very next class session he arrived late, went to the bathroom five or six times, and basically did nothing for the remainder of class. In fact, at one point, I found him sleeping behind a bookshelf. He had torn the covers off a textbook so he could have himself a soft pillow.

I stood over him, stared at a tattoo of a cross on his right bicep, read the words “God’s Son,” then I made him get up. “Where’s the book I gave you?”

“It’s back at my cell,” he answered.

I told him to bring it to class the next day.

“I’m going to throw it in the trash when I get back.”

I could go on and on with his antics, his insolent words, his refusing to give me his ID card, but I won’t. Why should I? Instead, let me give you the brief history of this eighteen-year old man-child:

1) On May 27, 2006, he killed someone.
2) On June 11, 2007, he was sentenced for 2nd Degree Murder.
3) His ERD (Earliest Release Date) is January 23, 2022.
4) His Maximum Discharge Date is July 23, 2078.

Need I say more? How about Happy New Year!