IN THE MIND OF RUSSELL SLEVKOVITCH

His name is Russell Slevkovitch. As a young man, he did a brief stint in a correctional facility. If you were to question him about it, he’d tell you he served time in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior. He would sprinkle it with a few “Hallelujahs” and “Praise the Lords.” He’d say, “God gave me a second chance.”

Two decades earlier, after his parole, he'd meet a young girl, take a liking to her, and force her into his rusty van. He'd show her his Biblical tattoo and quote scripture. He'd say, “We’re destined to be together. You and me.” He'd wipe away her tears with his meaty hands and promise not to hurt her. Over the years he'd provide her with food and shelter; He'd have sex with her regularly; He'd even bathe and clothe her.

A few years after her abduction, she'd bear him a child. He'd preach about the God Almighty, how their special bond was a gift from Him, how through the Lord’s work they were able to produce a beautiful baby girl.

Russell Slevkovitch never doubted his actions. He believed he had a positive influence on the inexperienced mother. “Do not wander beyond this fence, beyond these hedges,” he'd often say. “There are evil forces out there.” She, in turn, did her best to watch over their child, to make sure she did not slip into the valley of darkness.

The days rolled into weeks, the weeks rolled into months, the months rolled into years. The midday sun, in its infinite brightness, offered very little in the way of guidance — that is, until Russell Slevkovitch refocused his attention on their lovely preteen daughter.

Physically, escaping consisted of squeezing through the bushes, scaling a relatively small fence, and yelling for help; but mentally, mother and daughter doubted their efforts. Luckily, at that instant, a passerby rescued them.

The only saving grace about this whole ordeal is that Russell Slevkovitch is make believe, he’s fictional; yet, he’s out there every time a pedophile is released from prison. He’s out there preying upon innocent children. It’s our job to make sure that he’s put away for life. No more chances, no more victims, no more Russell Slevkovitches.

PRISON JUSTICE FOR ALL

In my next to last post I reported how Prisoner M opened a can of whup-ass on Prisoner V. Prior to this incident I had spoken with Prisoner M:

“Is something bothering you?” I had asked. “You look pissed.”

He approached my desk, sat down, and spoke softly. “My family sent me a money order to buy headphones. I just got them and one of these mother-fuckers stole them.”

Although Prisoner M is a low functioning student with an IQ of approximately 70, he does mind his own business and tends to his school work.

“Sorry to hear that,” I said. I scanned the room, then added, “Look, if it’s someone in this classroom, you need to settle your differences elsewhere. Understood?”

“Oh no,” he said. “I wouldn’t do anything in here.” He claimed to have spoken with his counselor back in the unit to see if she could help.

Two days later, he cold-cocked Prisoner V; Pieced him up real good.

Here’s the irony: I claimed an assault took place in my classroom; the Hearings Officer, on the other hand, concluded that it was a fight. That’s how Kangaroo Court works I guess.

As of today, Prisoner M is back in his unit; while, Prisoner V is still in segregation. I can think of two possible scenarios: 1) custody staff shook down Prisoner V’s cell and found the missing headphones, thus letting Prisoner M out. Or 2) both were let out of segregation, but Prisoner V elected to stay there until he’s transferred.

MOVING TO A BETTER PLACE

There’s a mentoring program at our prison where seasoned veterans (old heads) train new employees how to survive. I’m not part of this program. And for good reason. If I were, I’d tell the new teachers: “Get out. Don’t stay here. You’ll never get the experience needed for the public schools and chances of getting promoted are next to nil.”

Most new teachers figure this out and leave within the first few years. Here’s why: Try interviewing with a public school district and having to bite your tongue when they tell you your prison gig isn’t “real” teaching, that for all practical purposes, it’ s not teaching at all. Try telling a panel of public school administrators that there wouldn’t be a need for all those years in a correctional education setting if they’d done a better job policing their at risk students instead of expelling them. Try telling the public school personnel director that your current job requires you to be certified by the State of Michigan just like the teachers in their school district. Try all you might, you’re wasting your breath. Doesn’t matter to them. Doesn’t even matter that you’re certified in an area of need (Math & Science). None of it counts.

I bring this up because we lost a good educator this week. Someone certified in Science at the Secondary Level. Someone holding an advanced degree and School Administrator’s Certificate. Although none of his so-called “prison teaching” counts toward his new job, I believe he gained invaluable experience. He got out with approximately one year under his belt. I wish him well out there in the free-world. Sometime in the near future he’ll become a highly effective school principal, someone who knows first hand where a student’s last resort educational opportunities might be, someone who knows just how stressful teaching in a prison really is. Good luck with your new job, Mr. Woodman! We’ll miss you!

FIGHT WITH AN "A"

This may surprise some of you, but for the past eighteen years as a Michigan Department of Correction’s educator I have never (as in “NOT ONCE”) had a fight in my classroom.

Today though, the prisoners in my “area of control” would argue otherwise.

But I’m hear to tell you (and this isn’t some Detroit bullshit where the police write in their report: Assault with a ‘G’)—THERE WAS NOT A FIGHT IN MY CLASSROOM.

Here’s what happened (in my eyes): Prisoner M quietly approached the backside of seated Prisoner V and sucker-punched him. Prisoner V fell from his chair and landed flat on his back where Prisoner M poured it on, punching him again and again and again, harder and harder and harder.

I stepped into the hallway and summoned help. The first responder pulled Prisoner M off of Prisoner V and I, in turn, escorted Prisoner V into the hallway. Both were handcuffed and taken to segregation.

As for my other convict-students, they were all shits and giggles; just another day in the joint.

The laughter stopped when a Sergeant appeared and asked “What happened?” and I answered, “Prisoner M assaulted Prisoner V.”

“That ain’t what happened,” my convict-students protested. “Both were throwing punches.”

“Yep,” I repeated, “It was an assault.”

The classroom fell silent. Fighting tickets are easier and less work then writing an assault ticket which includes a critical incident report and possible charges. The bottom line: You’re supposed to fight back in prison.

After the dust settled, the sergeant returned. “We’ll do the paperwork,” he said.

SURVEYING THE DAMAGE

We haven’t been getting our mail regularly, and it isn’t until a pine tree falls on our neighbor’s house that we learn why. He’s an old southern gentleman, a retiree; he stays pretty much to himself, tending his garden. Today though, with a limb stabbing into his roof and a few neighbors milling about admiring the damage, he asks, “You keeping an eye on Mrs. D across the street?”

My wife and I look at each other, as if to acknowledge a loaded question.

“She’s been stealing everyone’s mail,” he says.

We’re quite familiar with Mrs. D’s condition, her Alzheimer’s; she gets a little confused.

He tells us how she walked into Pete’s house the other day. Luckily, Pete’s biker tenant didn’t panic; he simply informed her that her house was across the street and waited for her to process the information, to form a logical conclusion as to her whereabouts.

Mrs. D continues to wander our neighborhood. Her 92-year-old husband comes over to the downed tree, surveys the damage, and apologizes for his wife’s illness. He’s a bit rough around the edges. He says, “Just kick her in the ass and send her on her way.”

Of course we know he doesn’t mean it. Afterall, it is he who sprung her from a brief stint in the nursing home, after having heart surgery himself.

I take a deep breath and listen to the numerous conversations; the smell of pine, for whatever reason, has me thinking about how fragile we truly are.

DETROIT DREAM CRUISE 2009

Review of Ocean of Pearls at Motor City Burning Press.

WHAT YOU'RE UP AGAINST

I sometimes think it’s easier to write a novel if you don’t know what you’re up against. Our correctional facilities are full of such people; they have nothing but time.

But it also helps when you’re encouraged to pursue your dreams, regardless of your predicament...

It doesn’t matter that you killed your best friend, rolled her up in a rug and dumped her body two counties away. You were sixteen. Your life careened out of control when you left your home at the age of twelve—not that your home life was a Norman Rockwell painting. Injecting heroine at an early age, sharing needles with your mother, undoubtedly steered you down that path of disturbing wrong.

A female corrections officer (whom I met not too long ago) had encouraged you to keep writing. It did not matter that you were involved in a 100 million dollar lawsuit against the State of Michigan for the sexual abuse of female prisoners, it did not matter to this female corrections officer that some of her peers would lose their jobs (even when she didn’t know whether they were guilty or innocent). She became your surrogate mother. She took an interest in you. In return, you acknowledged her.

In 2006, Triple Crown Publications accepted and published your book. Whether you or your daughter see any money from the settlement is not important. Sure, it would be nice to have the money, to help your daughter lead a better life, but what really matters is that the profits from your book, the fruits of your labor, will go to your daughter. I’m sure she’s proud of your accomplishment.

ANOTHER MANUSCRIPT

Once again an inmate has plunked down a handwritten manuscript for me to read. He’s a self-admitted crack-head doing time for murder.

“This is dope,” he says. His swollen tongue droops from his toothless mouth. “You gotta read it.”



I tell him as politely as I can that I’m not interested. He leaves it on my desk anyway and takes his place amongst the row of prisoners working on their computer assignments.

There was a time when he wasn’t allowed to attend classes in our building. The healthcare professionals advised against it due to his prescribed medications. Our department created a class inside his cellblock, but for reasons unknown (“That teacher,” he told me, “was a real motherfucker.”) they decided certain individuals would be allowed to come to the school building instead. I think he likes working on the computers, a luxury he didn’t have in his housing unit. He’s steadily clanging away on the keyboards and pointing and clicking the mouse.

At the end of class I try to ignore him; I’m hoping to sneak his manuscript into his student folder when he’s not looking. His brain isn’t always firing on all cylinders.

“Did you read it?” he asks.

“No.”

“I’ll get it from you tomorrow.”

So I perused ten handwritten pages and found something mildly entertaining:

Boyfriend Skeet made her take off all her clothes in front of everybody so that made me feel sorry for her. I told her come on we jumped in my Cadillac and I took her shopping. I bought her bra, panties, stockings, shoes, coats, hats and a diamond ring. That was my Baby now.

Strange assortment of purchases - from undergarments to accessories to marriage proposal. At least he showed some compassion during their courtship (I think).

TIMELINE FICTION

MIXED BLESSINGS

1987: Hospital delivers Dudley (hidden complications).
1990: Dudley disappears.
1995: He's on milk cartons.
2002: His body's exhumed. DNA matches parents. Funeral.
Today: Numerous sightings.


I'm not sure whether "Mixed Blessings" fits the Hint Fiction category. It does meet the 25-word limit. How about Clue Fiction, or better still Timeline Fiction?

Some may argue that it's not a story at all, that it doesn't fit the criteria. Your thoughts?

VAMPIRISM & CONSUMERISM

In my younger days I was a long distance runner. I knew how to put my head into a race and finish. It’s different now. I no longer run (jarred a few too many kidney stones loose) and although I have clear goals in mind - it’s for something I never intended doing in the first place: retiring from a career as a convict teacher. The road ahead is long, if not risky, but I’m determined to complete my working-stiff-career.

This brings me to the following point:

It amazes me how Jaye Wells can take a 250-word story and turn it into a fantasy/horror novel complete with vampires, demons, faeries & mages. In fact, she got a three book deal out of it. For me, after a story is complete, the words stop flowing and I go back to studying my UAW calendar, counting the years and months until it’s mathematically possible for me to retire, to do something different, to perhaps write something more than a short-story or flash-fiction piece.

Enough sadness.

I just finished Wells’ novel “Red-Headed Stepchild.” She did exactly what I’ve never been able to do. She turned her flash-fiction story into a novel. I’ve read a few vampire books in my day—David Sosnowski’s “Vamped,” Elizabeth Kostova’s “The Historian,” and Anne Rice’s “Interview with a Vampire.” Each novel had a different take on vampires. Wells’ interpretation, although very much different than the others, reminds me somewhat of Sosnowski.

From “Vamped” in regards to the Benevolent Vampire Society:

Our motto was pure hubris: “There’s a sucker born every minute.” The problem was, the closer we came to making that true, the more obvious it became that we were the real suckers. “Normal” meant “tamer.” Vampirism became … domesticated. Industrialized. Commercialized. The hunt for victims and benefactors was replaced by the sorts of jobs we thought we left behind. We had to work for a living again—or after-living, as the case may be.

His vampires went grocery shopping for name-brand plasma. His vampires were easily identifiable because of their human consumerism traits.

Wells uses human beings as backdrops for feeding time. However, Sosnowski’s main vampire character decides to adopt a human girl, which in turn means becoming a responsible parent. It’s an interesting premise, especially when she becomes a teenager and starts dating vampire boys.

In Wells’ book, the main vampire character, Sabina Kane, is an assassin of mixed blood. She’s caught between her two races: vampires and mages.

It’s funny how Sosnowski takes a domesticated approach to vampire life, while Wells depicts warring factors fighting for world dominance. What I find most interesting in Wells’ novel is the vineyards, how the blood of mages is propagated for its magical powers.

Who wouldn’t purchase a drink that makes them stronger? I’d chug it before I hit the checkout line.

Maybe I should shop for an agent. See if I can turn a flash into more than a dash. What do you think? It’s not like I’m going to quit my prison job any time soon.

JUST A LITTLE SMOKE

Smoke this over: Seven-block inmates/patients have taken to religion by ordering the best selling book of all time—the Bible. Regardless of whatever psychotropic medications they’re on (Parnate, Nardil, Marplan, Eskalith, Tragatol, or Depakote), regardless of how these mood-stabilizers work, one thing is for certain: their intentions are genuine. With the prison ban on tobacco products, including matches (shorted a few electrical outlets), they’ve been rolling yard grass and dry tea in ultra-thin Holy pages. May not be the normal thing to do, but when you’re cuckoo and have a nicotine habit you got to inhale something. Hallelujah! Amen! Praise the Lord!

Oasis' filter works just right,
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I found the above advertisement in a 1957 University of Detroit football program. U. of D. vs. Xavier University (another institution of the Society of Jesus).

Nowadays us football fans here in Detroit can look forward to the Budweiser Bowl, or perhaps, when—(you know it’ll happen)—when the Detroit Lions get desperate the Ford family will recruit Michael Vick. There are certainly enough Chihuahuas for him to take in, to do a little public relations work with. How about a truck full of dogs barreling down the highway? Built Ford tough.

G.O.G.I. (Garbage Out, Garbage In)

I’ll sometimes walk past parolees sitting a few electronic gates away from their freedom. Some are nervous; most are anxious. It’s not uncommon to hear side conversations regarding which prisoners “might” make it and which ones will “definitely” return. No one knows for sure. It’s up to each parolee to make the right choices. Survival in the real world, they’ll soon discover, is probably harder than inside the joint.

I can’t seem to remember Inmate Anthony-Bey. Did I wish him good-luck the day he left? Or had he been the defiant one, demanding state clothing at the taxpayers’ expense before leaving in someone’s new Cadillac? I remember asking myself, “If someone can pick up an ex-felon in a fancy car, why can’t they bring him clothes?”

The newspapers say Glen Patrick Anthony (the “Bey” removed) paroled in September of 2008. The date of his original sentence for Second Degree Murder began on November 6, 1989. His minimum sentence: 10 years. His maximum: 30 years.

But if I had seen him, it was after two more sentences involving drugs. Those sentences took place in October of 2006. His minimum sentence: 5 months. His maximum sentence: 20 years.

So when the newspapers identified him as the lead suspect in a series of rapes and questioned why he had been let out, my employer, The Michigan Department of Corrections, stated that he had served well over his minimum. I’m not sure which minimum they’re referring too, or whether it matters. What matters is whether his DNA matches the Detroit Serial Rapist.

“Sad thing,” an elderly prisoner in my classroom said, “is that a majority of prisoners will embrace him. They’ll welcome him back. Might even see a few high-fives.”