LOST IN THE WORDS AND DETAILS

We were watching the 6 o’clock news, my wife and I, when she suddenly asked, “Do you know the reason behind the name?” She was referring to the five-year old girl everyone was searching for.

We’d been following the latest developments: the mom who met her boyfriend at a probation and parole office. Burglar meets sex offender, respectively—only in Michigan. He was in direct violation of his parole for associating with someone that has a child. Back to jail he went.

Investigators found children’s toys in his hotel room and a bloody knife. But the plot thickens. Mom’s van was on loan from another sex offender. Had she been too trusting? Or too stupid? Did she give a shit? What world is she living in? What kind of world are we living in?

Still, I didn’t know the reason behind the five-year old girl’s name. “Nevaeh,” I mispronounced.

“It spells heaven backward,” my wife said.

*** Latest Development ***

Last night’s 11 o’clock news informed us that Nevaeh was at the Lord Willing Campground the day before her disappearance and that the blood on the knife wasn’t hers.

LOW TECH MANUFACTURING IN DETROIT

I discovered the following video footage while cleaning my basement (see below). If my memory serves me correct, I narrated this piece in 1989. My wife might argue that it’s from the early 90’s. I do know this much: the company secretary operated the camcorder. She and I started dating a few months prior, even though I vowed never to mix pleasure with work. Three years later we married. She might argue that it was at least one year prior and four years later. We have our differences.

As for the video content: It’s a "How To" piece on making locker mirrors; something I knew all to well, having manufactured them for five years. My lines were not rehearsed, nor did I really care that much considering it was an assignment for an Instructional Media Class at Madonna College in Livonia, Michigan. In my opinion, a majority of the education courses were, and still are, a waste of time and money. I did what needed to be done in order to get my teaching certificate, that’s all that mattered.

I didn’t have too many fond memories of college, especially that IM Class. I remember standing around a film projector waiting for my turn to demonstrate that I could thread the film properly without damaging the equipment. I remember thinking, Isn’t that what those nerdy high school AV kids are for? Still, I kept my mouth shut and went through the motions, not knowing that my future students would do most of their learning the good old fashion way: a book, a pencil, and a sheet of paper.

It’s amazing how much junk I’ve accumulated over the years. I’m having difficulty letting go of the past, but each week an extra garbage bag full of videotapes, cassettes, books, and papers are dropped off at the curb. It’s like shedding an old skin; I should’ve been doing this all along.

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Yesterday morning, after one sip of hazelnut coffee, I unfurled the Detroit Free Press and read the front-page headline: Freed Felons, How Safe Are We? The article did not surprise me, nor did I question its objectivity. But I immediately grew suspicious because of the accompanying photograph. Why is it that all of a sudden journalists and photographers have easy access inside Michigan’s prisons? What happened to the media ban? Not that I ever agreed with a media ban.

Perhaps it was lifted a long time ago. Perhaps after Dr. Kevorkian, aka Dr. Death, was credited with time served and let go. Perhaps the Michigan Department of Corrections was forced to lift the ban after all those complaints from female prisoners. I’m not always on top of the latest news or policies - that’s for sure. For instance, one time a corrections officer questioned me regarding my multipurpose pocketknife. “The blade’s under two-inches,” I said, proud of myself for knowing the criteria. Unfortunately the policy had changed to “absolutely no knife of any kind.”

The intent for carrying a pocketknife had nothing to do with protection, and I certainly wasn’t going to loan it to an inmate. Once in awhile I’d unfold the mini-scissors to cut paper. As for yesterday’s article, I’m not sure of its intent. Inform the public? I guess so. Scare folks? Maybe.

One last thing: the photograph’s setting, if I were to take an educated guess, is in one of my old classrooms at Ryan Correctional Facility, Detroit. Which classroom I’m not sure—I taught in four different areas after various critical incidences, two of which I’ll never forget: the escape of ten inmates and the sexual assault on a female teacher. These are just added facts and not meant to sway public opinion. I’m certainly not saving any money through my words and actions.

SOME THINGS NEVER LEAVE YOU

Across the street, where the ditch was filled, my neighbor waters his seeded lawn. I look downward, into the new culvert. “Water table must be high.”

He says, “Yes,” notices the run-off, and moves his garden hose to another spot. “Summer’s finally here. You got any plans?”

“No. Not really,” I answer. He’s a civilian worker, an electrician at Selfridge Air National Guard Base. I ask, “How ‘bout you?”

“No. I’m looking forward to retirement in a few years.”

I don’t speak to my neighbors that often—opting to keep my distance with a friendly wave. Our conversation seems strained. I’ve been meaning to ask him about someone. I figure now is as good a time as any. “Do you know a guy named H?”

I have his attention. He says, “He worked for me. Good worker too.” He turns off the nozzle on the garden hose. “I never knew he was that way. We had a complaint from a female worker claiming that he was stalking her, but nothing really came of it.”

I tell him that yeah, he’s a good worker, tutored for me, helped the other inmates with their school work. “Whatever he did,” I add, “must’ve been extremely violent.”

My neighbor knows more about it than I do. “He raped his niece while on vacation up north. Never saw him again.”

Our conversation doesn’t last much longer. He goes back to watering his grass, and I return to my property. We’re minding our own business, like good neighbors do.

Rick Michael, my union rep, speaks out regarding the early release of Michigan prisoners.

SMALL TALK BEFORE THE WEEKEND

I don’t care how much money Jay-Z has, or how much Fifty Cents is worth, or whether Eminem is the better rapper. I don’t care about how Lil’ Kim got railroaded on Dancing With the Stars, or how sizzling-hot she looked in those sequin outfits. I don’t care about your previous sexual escapades or how you “hit a lick” at some liquor store on Six Mile. Obviously you care about these things because it’s all you talk about during GED Class. Sometimes you’re so passionate, so serious with your music, t.v. shows, and sports, that you disrupt the entire class to argue your point.

So why are you angry when I post the GED testing schedule and you discover that you’re not on the list? Why the concern now? If you really cared about finishing school you would shut your pie-hole and do the assigned work. My answer to your question,“Why ain’t I testing?” has never wavered: “It’s not important to you.”

Don’t act shocked. Your actions dictate my reaction, my explanation. Pick up a book once in awhile. They got words in them. Words lead to knowledge. Do a little schoolwork now and then. My perception will not change overnight, but if you continue to do the right thing (instead of shucking and jiving and posturing and talking about how many points LeBron James scored the other night) I’ll probably give you a shot at qualifying for the GED Exams. Until then, you got absolutely nothing coming to you. Your choice. Not mine. Think about. Choose. In the meantime, I’m going home to enjoy my weekend.

BACKYARD KITCHEN

Am I to stop what I’m doing when the neighbors power wash their Little Tikes Kitchen Set with all its accessories? Should I tell them ex post facto that it’s okay to line their plastic “Made-in-China” toys along my wooden fence to dry? I guess it doesn’t really matter; I’ve been looking at their Toys-R-Us collection all winter long, so why not “temporarily” encroach on my property? I should be comfortable with it by now: The previous neighbors parked a boat and trailer on my lawn without asking for permission. After they moved I hopped the fence and did a little celebratory “hot tubbing.” Unfortunately, the new neighbors did not repair it; instead, they hauled it away.

So I’m jabbing my Ryobi weed whacker (“Made-in-Canada”) along the fence-line and I guess I’m throwing a little grass and dirt here and there—it’s bound to happen no matter how careful I am—and the neighbor lady’s screaming for her husband to move their precious junk off my lawn. He, in turn, scrambles to please her. Am I sorry? Yeah, sure … for him.

With Memorial weekend fast approaching and warm weather forecasted, I’ll do some swimming in my pool, cook a few burgers and perhaps converse with this young couple across the chain link fence. It’s the neighborly thing to do. Anything is better than dealing with mentally disturbed prisoners; I just hope my neighbors can deal with me.

OBSERVATION

What do you do with a guy who won’t come out of his cell? What do you do when you make your rounds, peer into that slim rectangular window, and see a single empty bed with a semi-exposed mattress? Do you lengthen your routine beyond the usual intervals? Your partner draws nearer, squeezing her face into that same rectangular frame. She asks, “Do you see how the blankets are pulled in?” You nod yes. She tells you about another man who cuts himself open and pulls out his intestines. But this guy’s different; they call him the Cocoon Man. He’s in there, in the mattress, in his safe place where he relieves himself, where he sleeps. He’ll come out occasionally when he’s hungry.

What do you do? What does anyone do?

They keep him in prison. They feed him. They give him a foam mattress.

NO ID BADGE REQUIRED

When the Palace of Auburn Hills first opened, my wife (whom I did not know of at that time) was directed not to let anyone into the arena without the proper ID badge. She dutifully obliged. “You’re going to laugh,” she told me a few years afterward.

Detroit’s Bad Boys were winning NBA Championships (back to back) and she and I were dating (The Locker Room / Pizza & Pitcher of Beer or The Shamrock Pub / Burgers & Beer). I reminded her that a concierge needn’t be as concerned about security as, well you know, those Burns Security Guards.

“Are you kidding?” she asked, before recalling a NBA player’s gun incident in the parking lot (Dennis Rodman). “Besides,” she confessed, “I knew the basketball players because of their height.”

“So why am I going to laugh?”

She went on to described an older, more sophisticated gentleman, real slick, how he thought he’d waltz right by without flashing the appropriate credentials. She thought he might have been an autograph seeker. Turned out it was Chuck Daly, the Detroit Piston’s basketball coach; I chuckled. An ID badge isn't necessary to gain entrance into Heaven; May he rest in peace.

As for identification, I received a gold-plated nametag last week with the following engraved message “I make a difference.” Also, since it was staff appreciation week, I was given a free grilled hamburger for lunch and six days off without pay.

THOUGHTS

Stopping is the easy part for me. I’m not really conscious of it—saying nothing, writing nothing—it just happens. I’m not exactly paralyzed by it either. I don’t feel any outward pressure forcing me to do what I both enjoy and hate. I don’t feel the need to beat myself up over it. When the time presents itself, I’ll take advantage of it.

Lately I’ve been having difficulty constructing simple sentences, starting ideas. When you’re a jack-of-all-trades, master-of-nothing, your mind flits about, I think of all kinds of stories, yet I remain silent.

I’ll admit: I’m good at endings, but not so good at beginnings. It’s reaching that fugal state of mind that I miss. I need to become someone else, someone whose actions are deliberate, carefully planned, a confident person who knows the road he’s traveling on. But I’m not moving. I’m stagnant. Life’s funny that way.

My brother and sister-in-law are leaving Michigan (like so many others). It won’t happen overnight. They’ll need to sell their house and its furnishings. You can’t take everything across the Atlantic Ocean. I wish them well. There’s no telling when I’ll see them again.

As for me, I’ll stay put. I’ve already chopped up three book cases and tossed them to the curb. I have a garage full of novels and short story collections that’ll more than likely be thrown out as well. I’m thinking of renting a jackhammer and busting up the concrete floor in my basement. I even drew a diagram showing what I’ll replace the broken drain tiles with. I hate my leaky basement, but I love my home. I have no intentions of going anywhere, except for the occasional fishing trip.