THE STORY

This is not my story to tell; if it were, I’d start with closing time at the local Chicken Shack and the lone worker mopping up. I’d warn my readers of the early release of thousands of inmates and how this lone worker should’ve known better then to leave the back door of the restaurant unlocked. I’d build up to that moment of uncertainty where a man walks into the back entrance of the Chicken Shack...

But this isn’t my story to tell, a story I’d first heard this past weekend when the narrator stepped up to the microphone and in a barely audible voice told everyone she was looking for a sign, any sign, that everything would be okay. I wasn’t in the same room as her; in fact, I was in a room just outside where she spoke. I’ll not forget that moment either. I, along with everyone else, needed to hear her voice, needed her reassurance, just as much as she needed a sign, any sign, that everything would be okay. She had our attention the moment her breath hit the microphone. Silence swept over the place as we waited to hear her speak.

The man at the back door, the one who took the lone worker by surprise, was her husband. She and her high school daughter waited in the car. Their daughter, tired and hungry, had made the following request: “Mom, would it be okay if we stop at the Chicken Shack?” It was 9:15 p.m. and they hadn’t had dinner. The man, the father, walked into the back of the restaurant and spoke, “I know you’re closed,” he said to the lone worker with the mop, “but I just lost my son. My wife and daughter and I just came from the funeral home. Do you have any leftover chicken?”

They fed their daughter that night, thanks to the kindness of one lone worker at the local Chicken Shack. I, along with so many others, was fortunate enough to hear the mother's story the very next day.

There is kindness in this world, even during the saddest of times, even for a grieving mother who lost her son at the age of 24.

CONFUSION (or how he clung to the frog)

I had pulled the file (like I always do) in hopes of finding decent TABE scores, an indicator of reading, writing, and arithmetic grade level equivalencies. The new student had complained (like they always do) that he had a high school diploma, that he, of all people, needn’t waste his time nor take up space in my sad-ass-excuse-of-a-classroom. I let it slide, his comment (I always do), and reassured him of my commitment to “get to the bottom of this.”

The very next day, with thin file in hand, I showed him that yes, he indeed may have a high school diploma. “See,” I indicated, “your transcript. Says right here you graduated.”

He relaxed a bit, let the tension fall from his shoulders, reacting as if I had shit on myself, reiterating that he hadn’t been bullshitting and that he had heard how F’d Up our school is.

“Uh-oh,” I continued, giving him just enough time for his I’m-right-you're-wrong dog-and-pony show. “Houston we have problem.”

“What?”

“Your transcript doesn’t have the required amount of class credits needed for a high school diploma.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Your sorry-ass school made an error.” He was getting pissed. “It’s time you start studying for your GED. Have a seat.”

He scanned the classroom, looked at my students as if they were all victims. “Go ahead and write a ticket then, cause I’m not staying.” He slammed the door on the way out.

LIFE, DEATH

There’s this student of mine, an older convict, he sits in the back of the classroom, keeps to himself; he’s cheated death more than once. He survived a shotgun blast to his abdomen. He lifts his shirt, explains, “Shoot out with the police.” He used to drag race as well—illegally, on the streets of Detroit. His car careened out of control. “I lost my right-eye, broke my neck, C7 vertebrae, I had reconstructive surgery to my skull.” He smiles, a crooked, busted-jaw smile. “I was in a coma for two months.” He talks as if he’s proud of it all, as if he knows he’s blessed for beating such odds.

I’m not impressed. Should I be? He’s lucky to be alive … even if he is in prison.

***
There’s this family of four—husband, wife, son, and daughter—the nicest family you’ll ever meet. We consider them our friends; we’ve known them for seventeen years. Last Saturday they were preparing for their uncle’s funeral when the 24-year-old son complained of a headache. He stayed home while his Mom, Dad, and Sister went to pay their respects. He died that day. Peacefully. In his sleep. No guns blazing. No drag racing. Was it a hemorrhage? Was it bacterial meningitis? Who knows? There’ll be an autopsy.

We’re stunned. Everybody who knew him is stunned. Life, at this moment, doesn’t seem fair, doesn’t seem kind. Friday’s the wake. I’ll take the day off from work, pay my respect, fight my emotions … it won’t be easy … I’ll be wearing sunglasses.

FACING THE ROCK

These frogs are huddled together, facing the rock. And for good reason: The Screaming Toads have taken over.

"Oh my!" the neighbor lady says, "There goes the neighborhood."

But let's not get carried away. Let's just say the neighborhood's a changin'.

The prisoners shuffled their feet ever so slowly on the walkway, curious as to why a double-wide trailer had been delivered to the compound. Someone was busy extracting razor-sharp concertina-wire from the top of an interior fence so maintenance could remove a section and cut down a pole before one-half, then the other-half of the trailer could be parked in front of the mentally-ill prisoners' housing unit.

Rumor has turned into fact, has turned into truth. More deeply troubled, deeply disturbed, higher-security level inmates are coming our way. More healthcare professionals are needed. More office space is needed. This is a temporary fix.

While the work is in progress a corrections officer spreads false hope. "The trailer," she tells the inmates, "is for conjugal visits."

Sarcasm and the mentally-ill don't mix. Some prisoners don't know whether to believe this or not. They'll need time to reflect.

I'm at home, It's late. I can't sleep. I'm listening to the screaming toads outside my bedroom window. The weekend is almost over. It'll be back to the prison, back to the madness. I don't know why I'm thinking of it, but I'm wondering about those juice boxes, whether they'll be eliminated from the facility. From what I've heard, those sippy straws have become scaffolding, have become erector sets for some of the mentally-ill as they torture their way to pleasure.

GOD WANTS ME TO SIT

“Do you want your chair?”

That’s what I’d been asked as I pulled my fishing gear from the trunk of my car; It was a fold up chair tucked in a nylon-canvas bag. I had already pulled three fishing poles, the Taj-Mahal of tackle boxes, and a five-gallon bucket from the back seat. I had worked all day, was tired (more so mentally then physically) and hemmed-and-hawed about whether I should carry one more item a half-mile from the dead end street where I had parked to the fishing hole near the I-94 overpass. I certainly wouldn’t overburden my coworker with a luxury item that I alone would use. I knew I could lug it. Or not.

Here was my real dilemma: Do I fish standing up? Or do I fish sitting down? Do I use fishing lures, spinners, dancing baby eels? Or do I fish the bottom with a Carolina Rig and worms? And what about my telescopic fishing pole? — I’d use that with a bobber attached to the line. Definitely something I could watch from a sitting position. After a day of multi-tasking in a prison, you would think I’d choose one way to fish and stick with it. Hey, fishing’s supposed to be relaxing, however, in the back of my mind, if the fish were biting I would be standing, and if the fish weren’t biting, I’d be pacing back and forth wondering what to use, what to do next.

I knew the answer, it was based on my desire to increase my chances of catching fish—blue gills, perch, catfish, sheephead, dogfish, bass, pike, you name it—I’d put forth a monumental effort at reeling in a genuine, bonafide, whale-of-a-fish. I gave him the most logical answer I knew, “I’m going to skip the chair. I won’t be needing it.”

After two hours of catching absolutely nothing, my coworker hit a snag, and after tugging and pulling from every angle imaginable, he caught a #$&&@^* chair!!! We quit soon after that. I wasn’t about to sit down.

HOT CHOCOLATE & MICROWAVES

Once upon a time there was an 85-year-old woman who made a cup of hot chocolate for a neighbor because he was such a nice young man, always helping out around her house, always shoveling her driveway, doing nice things, such a wonderful wonderful young man. So she invited him into her home, served him hot chocolate, but her frail shaky hands couldn’t hold the cup steady enough and she accidentally spilled its contents. The young man, looking forward to warming up, didn’t take too kindly to having a hot liquid dumped on him so he beat her with his fists and he beat her and he beat her bad. Now he’s in prison for it. Let’s call him Prisoner H.C., short for Hot Chocolate.

I’ll get back to him.

Here’s the jump cut (you may start to laugh while reading this paragraph, but you won’t for long, in fact, now that I’ve warned you, you may not laugh at all): They sell petroleum jelly, or should I say lubricant? —No, no, no—let’s call it by its trademark name: They sell Vaseline in the men’s prison. It’s on the store list.

So is instant hot cocoa mix.

Before you jump to conclusions regarding a relationship between Big Bubba and the young man of our story, before you visualize him in a compromising position or think he deserves whatever’s coming his way for beating an 85-year-old woman to within an inch of her life, I’d like to talk about the dangers of microwaves. We have microwaves in the inmate housing units; something the MCO (Michigan Corrections Organization) has been trying to get removed for a long time now. Some prisoners, you see, mainly those with a history of assault, have been known to cook-up a mixture of Vaseline and water in their plastic coffee mugs. Several months ago a 49-year-old officer at Huron Valley Men’s Facility suffered 2nd degree burns to his face plus long-term damage to his eye from the deliberate actions of a cowardly inmate and his premeditated actions. Unfortunately, no one has made a decision on moving the microwaves out of the units.

Back to Prisoner H.C. - one of his peers, a fellow convict, someone who obviously knew why H.C. came to prison, someone who respects his elders, assaulted H.C. with a piping hot mixture of Vaseline and water. I can only imagine what the attacker said, “What’cha gonna do now, Bitch?”

I’ll bet the microwaves are history soon. What do you think?

CAFLISH DANCING

I’d like to buy a vowel … or two … or three. A few consonants wouldn’t hurt either. And for the price …“There is a charge, a very large charge,” Sylvia Plath …

...I should get a little extra something-something. How about a few numbers as well? Does anyone have Vanna Whites’ phone number, how I can get in touch with her? Not that I’m a stalker or anything. I haven’t oogled … spell check: googled … her—it’s just that I’m laying out my graphic design final, a slick Hawaiian Clothing Catalog and I can’t get the correct font on my computer. I need Caflish Script Pro. It’s priced at thirty-five smackaroos. If I’m going to unload that kind of cheddar I better damn well be entertained. Seriously, put me in the peanut crunching crowd, show me what you got. If it’s good, I mean really really good, I’ll come back for more. Closer, get a little closer, let me whisper in your ear: If I’m not satisfied with the purchase, can I get a refund?

BRICK, HOME

This might sound crazy, or you might think I’m crazy, but I’ve been staying away from myself. What I mean is: I’m distancing those mental images of who I am from my thoughts—my identity, how I see myself—those etched in stone markings dictated by what I’ve observed around me.

We’re like bricklayers, building our walls and I, like so many others, have surrounded myself. I’m too tired, too comfortable to tear down those walls. I’ll not step away from any rubble any time soon.

This week we had an immobilization. The siren whirred at the end of our shift. We were placed on lockdown. We followed protocol. I went to the school office. I read my email. The first email offered me a Costco membership at a discounted group rate. The second email informed me of a particular student’s STG status. (For those of you who don’t know: STG stands for “Security Threat Group.”) The email informed me that he’s a Vice-Lord and that with the Deputy Director’s approval, he can attend school; however, his out-of-cell movement will be limited to one hour per day. Currently he’s waiting for a verdict on a non-bondable ticket for stabbing another inmate. Rumor has it he stuck his friend, a fellow Vice-Lord who "supposedly" had a shank tucked in his waistband. As the story goes, they were horsing around when his friend “accidentally” stuck himself, or so he says “Cuz you don’t rat on nobody in here.”

Outside our prison, two men in a stolen car made a break for it. With the police hot on their tail, they turned off I-94 and into a golf course where they ditched the car and ran on foot. Little did they know they were running toward our ERT (Emergency Response Team). Our corrections officers were armed and ready. How’s that for irony? Two men trying to get away from the police, not wanting to be arrested, yet approaching what they did not desire.

Our immobilization didn’t last long. The men were apprehended. We were free to go. As for that Costco Membership, it wouldn’t do me any good. I don’t travel their way.