I BRACE MYSELF

I once loved a woman who grew teeth all over her body. The first one came in as a hard spot in her navel. It grew quickly into a tooth, a real tooth with a jagged edge and a crown, enameled like a pearl.

from “Dentaphilia” by Julia Slavin, first appeared in The Crescent Review


I’ve ground down my teeth into tiny little nubs. My dentist has me chewing on a bite-splint. “It’ll protect your teeth from further damage,” she says. “Wear it when you sleep.”

A year later, after examining the mangled plastic, my dentist says, “JR, you’re a rather handsome young fellow, and you have such a beautiful smile, have you considered veneers?”

I massage my mandibles. Then reply, “Ask my wife. She’s the one who has to look at me.”

Another year vanishes. My dentist reminds me, “JR, you really should consider veneers. I’m afraid your bite pattern is shifting.”

I have no rebuttal.

I go home, discuss it with my wife. She talks. I listen. We agree. I need a mouth full of porcelain.

The dentist sends me to an orthodontist. The orthodontist molds me a retainer. Thus my lisp. I could never pronounce the orthodontist’s long Indian name anyway. Or spell it. I bet he’s a good speller. “Call me Kumar,” he suggests. “Dr. Kumar.” He says my teeth need straightening before I can have veneers. “You need braces first,” he says.

I’m not thinking about the added cost. I’m thinking about a movie with “White Castle” in the title. Somebody goes there. For sliders. Kumar, I think, and his friend, college buddies.

Dr. Kumar sends me to a gum specialist. The gum specialist says my gums are perfectly healthy. “In fact,” he warns, “you’ll probably need to have some excess tissue cut away.”—For the veneers, naturally.

More trips to the orthodontist.

“How’d it go?” my wife asks from Dr. Kumar’s waiting room, it’s the day after the Detroit Red Wing’s triple overtime defeat.

“I snored so loud, I woke myself up.”

“Is that why everyone was laughing?”

I tell her that Dr. Kumar should tighten the wires on all those kids mouths, shut’em up.

My wife reassures me that everything will be okay. “Three years will go by fast. At least you’ll have your braces off by the age of fifty.”

Thank God for that! I feel so young.

CONVERSION

As a sophomore in a new high school finding my way among strangers, I became acquainted with the metric system. The media had been warning us for God knows how long, and since I wasn’t a mechanic who would need two sets of tools, I embraced it like an aggressive, friendly girl—somewhat peculiar, yet easy.


During that period in my life, the school district resurfaced our high school track, painted an Olympic curved starting line near the first turn, and hung an empty record board of all the events on our gymnasium wall. Instead of running the mile and the 2-mile, I would run the 1600-meters and 3200-meters. I was filled with hope. There was a chance at name recognition. Just be the best that year in your event and own a record.

It never happened.

Twenty-eight years later and I’m puzzling over the metric system. Why didn’t it become popular?

At our annual catfish tournament, with a half-hour left, my old man landed a 12-lbs. 5-oz., 30 ½ in. catfish—enough to secure third place. Poor Dan Ingles was bumped to fourth place and out of the money. Little did he, or anyone else at the time, know that his catch should’ve remained in third.

Here’s the goofy scoring system (combining weight and length):

3rd Place: My Dad – 12.5 + 30 1/2 = 43.000
4th Place: Dan I – 12.11 + 30 1/8 = 42.235

Do you see the error? Dan would’ve been better off reeling in a catfish at 12-lbs. 9-oz. (12.9). Oh well, I’m sure he enjoyed the tournament. And once again, I never made the board.

SHARING SOMETHING SMALL

NANO Fiction has selected my short story “Pitch” for their fall issue.

Thank you Kirby Johnson, Fiction Editor, and the undergraduate students at the University of Houston. It’s been a long dry spell between publications.

Catfish tournament pictures coming soon.

GONE FISHING!

A PTERODACTYL IN MY YARD

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard. He—the male aggressor, the hunter, the gatherer of food—circles my house before landing on the rooftop, before landing on the chimney, before landing on the shed, before landing on the telephone pole. He watches. He waits.


I shoo him away. “Git,” I yell. “Go on, git!” I flap my arms to get his attention.

He glides above the treetops and disappears. I survey the damage, the carnage. It’s minimal. For now. His shadow darkens my spirit. He’s big, he’s huge, he’s stubborn, he’s predatory. He’s on the endangered species list, and if not, I’ll put him there. I’ll pay the hefty fine. I’ll justify my actions. I’ll call it self-defense.

My wife says, “Let’s buy some netting.” I’m not so sure this is the solution—covering beauty with ugly black nylon.

I’ll get my gun.

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard. I need to protect myself, my property, my toads, my frogs, my fish. My neighbor’s pond is decimated. “I’ll kill him first,” he yells.

“I’ll turn my labradoodle on him,” I compete. A pterodactyl’s lift-off is slow, cumbersome. My dog will pull him down, tear his limbs to smithereens. I’ll finish him off. I’ll ring his neck. I’ll get a heavy duty garbage bag and conceal the remains.

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard.

WOMEN DRIVERS

Now that I’ve gotten your attention with the title of my post, raised your dander so to speak, it’s only appropriate that I mention two crashes by two women at the Indy 500. But before I go into it, let me tell you about my experiences at Indy. As a young boy in the mid 70’s, I witnessed all kinds of inappropriate behavior leading up to race day. My family would make a long weekend out of it, camping in a field that funneled into the inner track where the real race began, where everyone jockeyed for position to get the best view. The third turn was preferable, statistically speaking, because that’s where most of the racing cars kissed the wall.

While we camped out, I witnessed enough drunken debauchery to last a life time. Men pooled their money together for women to pop their tops, and hey, since there was money to be made, there were mammary glands to be seen. Call it the mardi gras of racing. Another pre-race activity that wasn’t such a good idea were grown-ups playing a serious game of football, only one problem—there wasn’t enough ground—which meant passing, running, and tackling took place on the hood of cars. Of course injuries occurred, but I seriously doubt anyone felt any pain until days afterward; at least not like the drunkard who walked through someone’s campfire and was busy picking embers from the bottom of his feet. I observed him on race day drinking whiskey from a bottle, hobbling to the bathroom, sun burnt and dehydrated, his guttural moan less audible.

When the gates opened to the race track infield, the real competition began. Engines started. Fists waved. People swore. Horns blared. My uncle, who traveled by himself and camped out longer than most, warned a man in a corvette not to take cuts or he’d hit him. The man didn’t believe him and a fender bender ensued. Once inside, platforms were built on top of vehicles—our own private grandstands. Here’s a picture of yours truly in his early teens, shirtless, waiting for the race, and since my binoculars couldn’t possibly keep up with the blur of cars, I focused in on the spectator shenanigans instead.


















As for those women racers this year: Sarah Fisher finished 30th due to Tony Kanaan hitting the third turn wall and spinning out in front of her, and Danica Patrick finished 22nd because of a pit area collision with Ryan Briscoe. Danica wanted to teach him proper racing etiquette; fortunately, for his sake, security wouldn’t let her near him

This year, Milka Duno had the top women’s spot, finishing 19th overall. Not a very good Indy 500 for the women. Perhaps they should form their own racing team. Maybe then, the world of racing would change for the better. What do you think?

TRAPEZOIDAL, HEMEROIDAL

My moment of tranquility—if there is such an event (we’re told to never let our guard down, never)—had been inevitably interrupted. I had convinced an officer to unlock the door to the school principal’s office, a sacred place away from convicts; somewhere I could put my feet up and contemplate my significance in the greater scheme of the Michigan Department of Corrections. Peacefully seated in the Big Kaahoonah’s chair, the muffled sounds of Mutha-this and Mutha-that a distant memory, and the phone, that damned phone, ringing before the air left the cushion.

What? Did they see me on surveillance camera? Were they questioning my separation from the troops? Reluctantly, I picked up the receiver. “School Office. JR speaking.”

“You haven’t been punching in!” It was the Assistant Deputy Warden, his accusation flowing like tap water. I could imagine him with his rubberized thimble perusing the time-clock printouts. “Last Wednesday and Thursday you didn’t punch in.”

“I was sick,” I said.

“Well what about the previous week? You didn’t punch in at all.”

I wanted to slam the receiver back onto its cradle. I knew better. “I was in Traverse City for an Adult Education Conference.”

“Did you have prior approval?” He asked.

“What do you think?” I challenged. He decided he wanted to speak to my boss. “She’s not here,” I added.

Here we go again. Rule Number One: assume your employees are no better than the prisoners. Convoluted Interpretation: Dishonesty runs rampant in this department because the employees learn deviant behavior from the inmates.

He never questioned why I cancelled classes for the day. I guess it doesn’t matter, as long as I punch in ... and ... out.

DOGFISH

Once upon a time—Isn’t that how we begin things? We start out full of hope, full of potential, only to realize most of us are full of shit—once upon a time (repetition may help ease the pain) . . . once upon a time I was a rising star in the Michigan Department of Corrections. Call it the inside scoop to career advancement. Instead of seizing the opportunity, instead of saying, “Yeah, I’m your next school principal,” I transferred. A lateral move. For less money. So here I am—a veteran teacher, stuck in a classroom, my roster of rapists, murderers, drug dealers, thieves … you name it. And I’m perfectly comfortable in that environment.

Last week I represented my facility at the Michigan Adult Education & Training Conference at the Grand Traverse Resort & Spa in Traverse City. While sitting in the lobby, surrounded by cold marble with a fake fire crackling nearby, an acquaintance, a MDOC school principal, asked, “So … do you have a view of the bay or the golf course?” She must’ve been staying on site with all the other administrators.

I replied, “I have a wonderful view from my room.”

She waited for more details, her entourage of DLEG people, Department of Labor & Economic Growth, aka Michigan Works, whom I’d already informed that Michigan ain’t working, ignoring me.

“My room,” I continued, “has a lovely view of Sam’s Club and Cracker Barrel.” I told her I was twelve miles inland. I told her about the construction workers in front of the hotel drinking their six packs of beer before checking in for the night.

She questioned my choice of lodging. I explained that the state’s travel agency recommended I stay there. She shook her head, as if to say, You know better than to follow the state’s guidelines, there are ways around the sixty-five dollar per diem.

I knew I didn’t fit in with this crowd. I didn’t rub elbows with anyone; I didn’t hob-knob with all the right people. Instead, I took a back seat to their ambitions, their presentations. They said we, as educators, are changing Michigan’s landscape, that we can help others during this time of economic turbulence.

I wasn’t buying it. If this were a bass-fishing tournament, I’m sure they’d thumb their nose at the six-pound dogfish I had to offer. I kept my mouth shut.

LIFE IS PAIN

When I think of baseball, I envision my brother’s childhood friend, Craig, sprinting for a deep fly ball, his choppy strides tearing up the freshly mown grass, his outstretched arms reaching toward the sun. I hear the dueling voices, “I got it, I got it, I got it!” and I see the sudden melding of uniforms and ball caps in centerfield. This is the last inning, the last out, depending on the catch.

After the collision, the centerfielder shakes off the cobwebs and rises; Craig, on the other hand, writhes in pain, as if he’s convulsing. Still, the ball is tightly secured in his mitt, the game is over. But Craig isn’t getting up.

I’m not sure where Craig is today, what type of career he chose, or if he raised a family, but if it weren’t for the quick actions of his coach, if it wasn’t for the corkscrew in his gym bag, Craig probably would have died on that field.

“I opened his mouth,” the coach told us in P.E. Class, “and couldn’t believe it, he’d swallowed his tongue.”

No one questioned the coach’s instrument of choice; it didn’t seem to matter. What mattered was prying a kid’s tongue out of his throat.

I look back on the significance of that corkscrew, its purpose, its everyday use, and suddenly my Coach-Hero, my P.E. instructor, is transformed into some kind of wino—a nobody, uncorking a bottle of red to ease his own pain. I shouldn’t be so cynical. I shouldn’t. Seventeen years of working in a prison will do that to you.

I can’t ignore the stats either. We have a former major league pitcher at our facility serving time for his seventh DUI. According to the local paper, after the police arrested him, his blood alcohol level registered a .48. Most people would be dead with that much poison in their system. I’d like to ask him about the game of baseball and the use of a corkscrew. He’d probably tell me it’s for re-lacing an old glove or scraping mud off dirty cleats. I know better. I see the aftermath of that game every single day.

BRIDGES

A homeless man—not that I actually have the scoop on his situation (it’s much nicer than calling him a bum)—asks me, “Would you like to buy my Ugly Stick? I’ll sell it to you real cheap.”

“No thanks,” I reply. “I don’t have my wallet on me.”

I’ve heard about break-ins at the nearby marinas. As I continue along my journey, I imagine tackle-boxes and other expensive fishing equipment stolen by homeless bums leaving their shrink-wrapped lodging for shelter under the freeway. They do this while Michigan’s boaters revel in the morning sun, peeling off plastic, filling their tanks, and leaving the canals for a day of Coppertone, beer, and windburn.

But I get ahead of myself. As I walk my dog past the undercover cop reading the newspaper from a parked vehicle on our street, I remind myself that no matter how safe we try to be, we are all potential victims of crime. My wife refuses to take my favorite route under the bridges, so today, like most days, I walk alone. In no time at all I see the latest graffiti, the prophylactics, a few articles of clothing, the empty bottles of Robitussin, and one overturned plastic worm container.

This place has tremendous appeal. For the homeless searching for a place to rest. For teens experimenting with sex and drugs. For anglers dreaming of that record fish. I take this route as often as I can. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because it’s filled with hope and despair. I sit down. I let the man snap my picture. He smiles more than I. His teeth need work. So do mine. He hands my camera back.

MY FIRST READ INTERNET NOVEL

I've been asked more times than I’d care to count: What criteria do you use in deciding where to send your stories? Is there a method to your madness? Or do you use the wet-toilet-paper-approach, tossing malleable wads onto high ceilings in hopes of something sticking? Seems somewhat juvenile, somewhat aimless. Better to have a plan, a target, a something. I’m not certain what I have, or what approach I use, although I will say this: I’m not willing to pay to publish.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve already paid a price … in time, in frustration, in anger, in loneliness, in heartbreak, in _____, _____, and _____ (please feel free to fill in the blanks with all the afflictions currently available to middle-aged hacks such as myself).

I read a book review in the local paper this weekend announcing the debut novel of a young writer in my very own stomping ground. I didn’t oooh and aaah. Instead, I investigated her publishing history. What did I find? Not much. A fancy website. A poorly written excerpt from her book. Xlibris … such a dirty, dirty word … (the name of a self-publishing company). They chased after my money once. Why not? I’d gotten slighted in a writing contest with an honorable mention.

I received an email from George Dila, author of the impressive short story collection The End of the World. Here’s what he had to say about his latest publishing experience (or lack thereof): A couple of years ago I finished a novel called ‘The Big Bang Theory’ (before the bad sitcom of the same name). Following its completion, I spent a year or so looking for an agent to represent the novel (an ugly process at best, which I could discuss at length). Got a few nibbles, but no offers. Then I spent another year or so sending the ms out to independent publishers who don’t require agency representation. Got a few more nibbles, but ultimately, no luck there, either.

Not once did Dila sound bitter in his explanation. Instead, he offers us the fruits of his labor absolutely free on his no-frills website. I’ve read The Big Bang Theory (my first experience with an internet-based novel). I couldn’t put it d… I mean … I couldn’t stop scrolling and clicking until the very end.

The story’s main character, Lawrence Lesinski, a down and out carpet salesman, tries to leave his boyhood hometown with a tidy sum of money when a small time cop with a thumb size nose pulls him over and hands him a piece of paper. This leads Lawrence, aka Lucky, to a 60-something blind clairvoyant named Winnie Bussle, ten years his senior. Through a series of events, he discovers the fate of his childhood acquaintances (twins Kenny and Karen Kleeber), the murder of their father, the presumed accident of his younger brother Mel at Mongo Brick, and the mysterious disappearance of his high school teacher Riley Harrison. The backdrop for this story is Thompsonburg, a place where turkey vultures roost.

Most chapters start with the history of Thompsonburg, its townsfolk, and the mysteries of the Big Bang Theory, before transitioning into action and dialogue. Dila mixes it up too—changing the POV at pivotal moments: Winnie Bussle’s retelling of her long lost love (how it gave her momentary sight), and Karen Kleeber’s retelling of her father’s murder.

The only negative criticism I have regarding Dila’s novel is the endless notes left for Lucky. Dila’s smart enough not to use this vehicle near the end of each chapter (avoiding appearances of advancing his story with gimmicks). Yet my reaction at times: “Oh God! Not another note.” Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m jealous with envy.

Once again, Dila proves that a productive writer is someone who completes a project and moves on to something else, monetary gain or not. I hope that the right person comes along, some agent, some somebody, and contacts him. The Big Bang Theory is worth reading. Access it here.

WRITE WHEN YOU CAN'T

If I distance myself from writing, step back far enough into the pile of objectivity, I’ll feel the doodle on my heel. I say, “Doodle,” because it’s not just a visual thing, it’s an assault on my olfactory. Back up, back up, back up. Do the Igor slide. Drag your shoe along the grass. There are lines drawn through entire sentences. Certain words fight to untangle themselves. Here’s why:

Hello James,

Thanks for submitting your story. Solid work but we’re going to let this one slide. Came into the top four. I’m sure this’ll be placed with ease elsewhere. Keep up the good work and thanks for your patience. Cheers,

Kenneth Mulvey,
A Thieves Jargon Fiction Editor



Thanks so much for your submission, James. I enjoyed it, but it doesn’t seem like a good fit for Monkeybicycle. Best of Luck placing it elsewhere. And please keep us in mind if you have any other stories that need a home.

Eric Spitznagel
Website Editor, Monkeybicycle



Dear James,

We enjoyed your work in the past and would like for you to submit any additional stories you may have. Please submit for our last issue of the school year. Thank you,

M.D. Thomas
Foliate Oak Staff



Dear James,

We’ve received your submission. We will contact you as soon as possible to let you know whether we’ve chosen to publish your work. Please allow four to six weeks before inquiring as to the status of your submission. Typically, we will be in touch much sooner. Thanks again!

Dave Clapper
Editor, Smokelong Quarterly



Dear James,

Thank you for letting us read your story. After careful consideration, we’ve decided we won’t be able to use it in The First Line. Sincerely,

David LaBounty, Editor



Dear James,

Our apologies for the delayed response, but we would sincerely like to thank you for considering The Means worthy of publishing your work. After a careful reading and consideration, we feel that your submission does not quite fit our vision. With that said, we thank you for your support of the arts and wish you well in placing this piece elsewhere. And don’t be discouraged. What do we know anyway? Fondly,

Christopher Vieau
Co-Editor, The Means

TALKING ABOUT THE WEATHER

The voices in my head—if you count my thoughts (which I do)—mull about, like prisoners seeking treatment, like fingernails on a chalkboard. Men shuffle past, mumbling God-knows-what to God-knows-who. If you’re looking for an increase in meds, then scheduled appointments are mandatory. One inmate, who thought he heard someone telling him to kill his teacher, now goes to school regularly. He’s functioning quite fine.

The Secretary for Mental Health inhabits this area, this space; her three-walled cubicle faces the teachers’ office-computer where we occasionally check our email. She asks, “Do you think we’ll get more snow?” I ignore her. I delete my messages instead of reading them.

I’m sure she’s a nice lady. I’m sure a little conversation wouldn’t hurt. Even though there's no time for small talk. Maybe I’m too harsh; maybe I need to slow down, exchange pleasantries. But I won’t. I scan my thoughts, organize my tasks. I get sidetracked. I wonder if, instead of waiting for an answer, some sort of an acknowledgement, she thinks I’m one miserable son-of-a-bitch.

What disturbs me more than anything—and it’s no fault of her own—is the fact that a potted plant once sat on her desk, and buried beneath its soil had been the following treasures: a hunting knife, bullets, and a cell phone.

I don’t think about the weather outside. I think about how cold it can get inside.

Maybe She Asked For It . . .

Dear JR Thumbprints:

Thank you for submitting your piece, "The Better To See You With ..." to River Walk Journal. The editorial staff read your submission with interest. We apologize for the late response.

Overall, we thought this was pretty good, but we had some concerns. We realize this is CNF, but "how else"? could be answered fairly simply *if* the female corrections teacher had been in on things.

Stranger things have happened. Over the past seven years I've seen three (maybe four) of my teacher colleagues brought up on charges I * never * would have conceived of.

If this was all the other inmates' fault, that's perfectly fine....but if that's true then any other implications without corroboration should be removed. We just think some clarification would make the piece that much stronger.

Because of the above concerns with the piece, we offer a tentative acceptance at this time. This means that the piece will be considered for publication when a revised version is submitted.

Once again, we want to thank you for submitting your work to River Walk Journal.

Best Regards,


Joseph Koch
River Walk Journal

MOVING ON

It’s always a pleasure sharing prison stories, especially with new employees during lunchtime. Their incredulous stares, their “What am I getting myself into?” expressions as one veteran teacher says to another, “Remember the time Inmate Harris got his throat slit in the library?” Thus, the story begins … Harris-the-once-free-man had raped another inmate’s grandmother. He hadn’t anticipated that other form of retribution, until years later, after the plastic toothbrush with embedded razor slid across his jugular. We call it: Justice served twice.

Each memory spawns another.

“What ever happened to the new gal in personnel?” I ask. “Talk about rotten luck. Wasn’t it her first week here?”

No one remembers her name, as if she evaporated into thin air. Yet, everyone knows exactly what they were doing on that particular day. One of our very own, a sergeant, stressed out and angry, marched into the personnel office with a loaded shotgun and took everyone hostage.

The new employees in the lunchroom hear our laughter. An awkward moment arises. They try to concentrate on all aspects of the conversation, the bits and pieces, the added details.

“I can’t believe the door fell off the WDIV helicopter,” I remark. I wasn't at work. I had a doctor's appointment on the day it happened.

“The cameraman must’ve wanted a better shot of the facility,” another speculates.

Someone mentions the coroner’s office, how administration may have anticipated a body count. We remind the new employees that these stories are not the norm, that prison work is often dull. Still, I often think about that gal in personnel. Did she quit because of that one bad experience? Or did she simply move on to a different job?

There are more stories I’d like to share, and perhaps someday I will. But not for awhile. At least not in this venue. I’m shelving my blog and concentrating my efforts on a few writing projects that I hope to complete soon, or perhaps they will complete me.

It’s been fun. Have a safe and happy holiday.

Sincerely, JR Thumbprints

NAMING TEDDY BEARS

I’ve been a wee bit skittish lately, my fingers no longer clanging away at the keyboard like they once did; they’re more like the legs on a nervous spider, jittery, jumpy, wondering how to proceed without endangering itself. Not that I’ve spun a web of deceit, at least I don’t think I have. I haven’t violated any rules. I haven't named any Teddy Bears Mohammad.

I’ve searched my employee handbook for confirmation. Could my words, pictures, and video content be used against me? Is there any particular topic I should have stayed clear of? I certainly don’t want to flush sixteen years of my teaching career down the shit-hole because someone higher-up, someone who undoubtedly hates teachers, decides to make an example out of me.

Maybe I should have asked for permission to start a blog? This isn’t too far-fetched. According to my employer's rules, employees must ask for permission before they can work a second job. So maybe I’m teetering on the edge here, maybe I’m inadvertently misrepresenting the department of corrections through my image.

What brought all this on? How come I’m second-guessing myself? I’m sure the incident with the high school students from Belleville, Michigan, who posed with (fake) guns, (fake) dope, and money on MySpace heightened my sense of awareness. Shame on these “gangsta wannabes.” They got their just desserts—suspended/expelled from school. But who am I to judge what is appropriate and inappropriate in cyberspace?

So I’m rethinking my next move. Nowadays, information is readily accessible and if you’re not careful, it just might come back to haunt you.

COWBOY ETHICS

Before I went on vacation with a viral infection brewing in my body, a young African-American man in my morning classes along with his posse (for lack of a better word) discussed how they would rob a party store. Although somewhat rushed and loud—How else do you get a word in?—their talk seemed natural and unforced, as if they were planning what to pack for lunch that day.

But they weren’t arguing over making sandwiches or picking soda.

“Pop-pop-pop!” this youngster said. The others laughed hysterically.

I wasn’t amused. A week earlier he had told me how he robbed a Walgreen’s on the south side of Chicago and got away with it.

I reminded the group to quiet down, and as usual, the discussion grew to an excitable level. I threatened a seating chart, knowing damn well they would just shout across the room to one another. I also mentioned bad evaluations and tickets.

“So what,” one of them said, singling himself out, “what you gonna do, have us locked up? We’re already in prison.”

Running out of options, I made myself a mental note to get rid of the ringleader after my vacation … but not before administering him the TABE (Test of Adult Basic Education). You never know, his grade level equivalency may have improved meaning more federal dollars toward our educational program. No inmate left behind. At least on paper.

TOUCHING THE MOON

When confronted with his misconduct the psychopath has enough false sincerity and apparent remorse that he renews hope and trust among his accusers. However, after several repetitions, his convincing show is finally recognized for what it is—a show.


Nearly every type of treatment method has been tried with the psychopath. In general, the treatment . . . has not been rewarding or enlightening.

—Richard M. Suinn, “Fundamentals of Behavior Pathology”


In my world, regardless of the circumstances—whether it is a monumental task such as landing on the moon or something more routine such as tying shoelaces—failure will always be an option. I see it every day in the sunken eyes of murderers, rapists, and thieves, their transparent faces, those masks of invincibility, worse than any dollar-store panty hose they may have pulled over their heads.

After they’ve told me what they can do, I sit back and wait and in no time at all I feel the ripple effect caused from the blame-game. “It’s your fault I didn’t succeed,” or something of that nature. As if I deliberately stuck a defective rocket booster under their asses.

But don’t think you’ll clear up any misunderstandings, don’t think for a second you’ll be able to say, “You learn with your ears and not with your mouth.” Such canned statements are devoid of passion; they will spurn arguments faster than any blast-off ever would; besides, my ears are backed-up and my throat is unbearably sore—sure signs of weakness, of a communication breakdown.

Truth be told, I haven’t been to work in three days because I’m sick as hell. I’m sure I’ll hear about it from the inmates when I return, especially since a coworker informed me that only thirteen out of thirty-one students passed their GED Exams. But for now I need my rest … and a doctor’s note. Cause of illness: Wife forgot to give me a dollop of Purell after I touched the moon.

SOME THINGS YOU JUST CAN'T LEAVE BEHIND

I’m not going to turn this into a “what I did on my vacation” slideshow, where I stand in front of a lectern and give play-by-play accounts of the indoor garden and museums my wife and I visited. I’m sure you’re not interested in that anyway, and even if you were, without getting downright mean, let me just say, “None of it should matter.”

Instead, I’m going to swallow two teaspoons of codeine-laced cough syrup (yes, a double dose) and engage in a little bit of writing before checking in for the night.

It’s back to my daily routine: teaching Michigan prisoners in an environment I’ve tried my damnedest to forget about while visiting friends in Houston. True to my word, I stayed away from blogging for fear of writing about my job, yet, when my wife saw the true-crime novel I pulled out of my carry-on luggage, I might as well have confessed for having brought Michigan’s cold miserable weather all the way to Texas.

During our flight, I managed to read a considerable amount of “The Blooding” by Joseph Wambaugh, a former Los Angeles policeman; The book covered the first murder case to use genetic fingerprinting. Interestingly enough, the police had decided to get blood samples from as many men in town as possible. Is there a better way to weed out the innocent? Of course, the guilty party, a sicko, conniving-rapist-killer by the name of Colin Pitchfork, persuaded an acquaintance to give blood in his name after switching the picture on his passport.

By now you’re probably wondering why I’m steering you away from what happened on my vacation. Believe me, there’s an eerie tie-in here; It has to do with a sketch of Baby Grace I witnessed on my friend’s television for the very first time. They informed me about numerous parents and grandparents calling from all over the United States willing to give DNA samples to see if Baby Grace belonged to them. For those of you who may not know, Baby Grace’s badly decomposed body turned up in the Galveston Bay stuffed in a utility box. One grandmother, like many more before and after her, thought the sketch looked similar to her granddaughter, who she hadn’t seen since her ex-daughter-in-law left Ohio. To make matters worse, once located, the ex-daughter-in-law refused to give a DNA sample—a sure sign of guilt.

I swear to God, as my wife and I and our friends traveled to Moody Gardens in Galveston, I tried to find comfort in the cold drizzling rain of Texas. What bothered me, really really bothered me, had been the unraveling of the Baby Grace case.

When I finished my book, I learned that it wasn’t genetic fingerprinting that led to Colin Pitchfork’s arrest for murder, it was a conversation amongst coworkers in a pub a few years after the killings, an off-hand remark of “filling-in” for Colin on a simple blood test. As for the little girl discovered in Galveston Bay, the well-publicized sketch not only led to her killers, but also heightened awareness about many other missing children.

There’s not much I can say. In fact I’m speechless; it has nothing to do with a very sore throat. As for those friendly Texans that welcomed us into their home, they mentioned the death penalty in their state, and in the case of two-year old Riley Ann Sawyers, I’m beginning to think it’s not such a bad idea for the perpetrators. If it weren’t for the codeine, I’d probably go into a tirade over what the mother and her boyfriend did to an innocent child. As for me, it’s back to work dealing with Michigan criminals who must serve their times for a variety of offenses, including child abuse.

SUMMER OF 1972

Sometimes we lose sight of what’s important in life, the daily grind of work robbing us of precious moments spent with family and friends. Not so in the summer of 1972. My parents and grandparents packed their campers and we headed out West to see wild buffalo, prairie dogs, the Bad Lands, Mount Rushmore, and Yellowstone National Park, among other things.

It’s hard to imagine where thirty-five years have gone. I can still feel the warm breeze on my face as my brother maneuvers a miniature milk truck in a dusty parking lot. I was the loyal passenger, a nine-year old boy, waving to Dad while he filmed us; My brother making ever widening turns, our circles becoming larger and larger, as if we had known our freedom wouldn’t last forever.

It’s the silly things in life we cherish the most—like staying at a Flintstone themed park or enjoying the built-in swimming pool with mammoth slide (hey, that’s how I remember it). I may have chickened-out at going down the damn thing—I’d hear about it and regret it whenever Dad set up the projector and ran the film—but it didn’t traumatize me too much; I've learned to laugh at myself. And to see our late grandfather heading for the luxury showers with a towel in hand made us all smile.

Unfortunately, as I tried to duplicate my brother’s feat of feeding a fawn, I got a little extra something that I hadn’t bargained for. Seems to be the story of my life.

I hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving. I’m leaving for Texas and promised not to blog while on vacation. See you when I get back.

IF I ONLY KNEW THE MAKE & MODEL

There will come a time when I run out of childhood pictures, those grainy snapshots that have more meaning than any current digital photographs will ever have. I say to myself, “What will I do? How will I be able to recall past events without these visual clues?” Let me be honest here: my memory isn’t as keen as it once was. I need something to kick-start the ol’ noggin.

I’ve tried to peel those black and white pictures from the discolored pages of photo albums, some with success, others to no avail, their backs fused onto the sticky page. I’ve found more depth and more substance in those old black and whites where my brother and I pose in front of an old car or motorcycle, evidence of the time period we had once lived in, knowing mom or dad captured that specific moment with the best of intentions, with dreams of improving our family status.

In this shot, my brother and I are standing in our driveway off of 23 Mile, a two-lane road. Immediately behind us is dad’s Ford Falcon (or is it a Fairlane?). I have difficulty identifying the make, especially since I’m ninety-nine percent certain that the automobile in my last post, the one on the beach, was a Falcon, and this car, although similar, is not the same. Back then, our dad purchased a new American made automobile every two or three years. With less choices in styles and models, you would think that I’d be able to recall the specifics. I do know this: the picture was taken in 1968.

Or was it 1969?

GETTING PULLED OVER

A prisoner detail, otherwise known as an itinerary, otherwise known as a daily schedule, is the equivalent of a driver’s license. Each inmate is supposed to carry it on their person in case they get pulled over; it lists where they should be, where they need to go. Once in awhile I’ll hear an older prisoner, someone who has been to more places than the few blocks in his neighborhood, refer to it as a passport.

Today is just another day in the dime store, collecting identification cards for pencils, calculators, dictionaries, thesauruses, World Book Encyclopedias, staplers, headphones, toilet paper (yes, it's a precious commodity), anything not nailed down that can be concealed under clothing. Ironically, the prisoners will be the first to tell you, “I’m not a thief.” Funny thing is: objects disappear all the time; they grow legs, run away.

Me, accusation: “Where’s my pencils and paper?”

Inmate at my desk: “How would I know?”

Me: “Because you’re an opportunist.”

Inmate: “You better pump your brakes.”

Me: “No, you better pump YOUR brakes.”

So I change my approach. Get friendly. Chitchat with him after class. The normal small talk—the latest episode of “Prison Break” or “House.” Make him feel comfortable. Get him to let his guard down. Soon we’re near the officer’s podium. I step back and point. “This prisoner needs to be shaken down.”

The school officer: “What for?”

I list a half-dozen classroom items. Out they come from his jacket, his shirt, his pants, his sock. A routine traffic stop.

This is too easy. I write a theft ticket and drop him from enrollment. He can no longer travel to school.

WHAT'S MISSING?

I can’t seem to clear my mind of dismemberment—yes, human body parts—ever since reading Harry Hunsicker’s short story “Vivian and Bobby Ray” in the second issue of Murdaland. Bobby Ray’s a rogue cop who entrusts local business owners to show him their latest security measures. Little do they know, Bobby Ray’s casing their joint, desperately seeking funds for his girlfriend’s sick desire to have a perfectly normal leg amputated. She seems to think losing part of herself will make herself whole.

So I started thinking: What is it I hate about myself that I could stand to lose?

Later in the week I hear about a 2-year-old girl from Bangalore, India, with a surplus of limbs. Four arms and four legs to be exact. Surgeons removed the extras. They claimed to have given her a chance at a normal life. I wonder: Just how normal can she be?

Last night, compliments of Detroit’s Channel 4 news, I learned about some teenagers who severed the head of a 26-year-old man just for the thrill of it. I discovered that the victim was once a registered sex offender. Why wasn’t he hanging out with people his own age? Then I realize: losing something means gaining something—or vice versa—even if it’s ill-begotten recognition, dead or alive.

IT'S WORTH THE EFFORT

When the fishing’s rotten, after spending a fraction of my day casting and recasting my line, I reach into my five-gallon bucket of oxygen-depleted water and pick out a floater. By floater I mean that single fish, that pathetic looking mercury-laden perch dumb enough to swallow the hook on my initial cast some four or five hours ago. I’m thinking about throwing him back, about grabbing a late dinner.

A buggy eye stares back at me, and before I tighten my grip, in a desperate attempt to free itself from further torture, that faking-I’m-dead perch flaps itself out of my bare hand and onto the dock. I catch it under my boot, lean into it a little. The buggy eye bulges.

I see seagulls hovering above. I call them garbage birds, rat birds. I reattach the perch to the end of my line and cast it into the lake as far as it’ll go. I slacken my line. Somewhere out there, in the mesmerizing waves, my catch drifts away. It doesn’t take long: the seagulls glide above in diminishing circles. It doesn’t take long: my pathetic perch flies into the sunset.

I tighten my line. The startled seagull lets go. I cast my line again, not because I’m interested in catching birds, but because the fish aren’t biting. I have to do something.

***

I’d like to thank the editors of GlassFire Magazine for having faith in me. If you haven’t checked out their Fall issue, now may be as good a time as any (click here).

I’ve read their nonfiction pieces and can proudly claim that I’m in good company. In Mary Whitsell’s “On The Wrong Side of The Tracks,” she tells us about her sleepless nights in Tokyo with Keiko and Hatsue, two lesbians, friends of a friend, who agree to let her stay at their pet-filled apartment near a mass transit system. In “Love in the Time of Salmonella,” Stephanie Johnson reenacts her anger over a piece of raw chicken caught between the dish basin and the garbage disposal. Her live-in beau, Ben, a former professional chef, is sure to blame. Fortunately, her grandmother offers her some timely advice about finding the right man.

Enjoy the read and don’t forget to celebrate Veteran’s Day.

I'M NO SUPERMAN

With two new teachers aboard and endless routine questions lobbed my way, I’ve come to the realization that I’m one of those seasoned correctional employees oozing negativity. Don’t misunderstand me, my intent is to assist my peers in every way imaginable, it’s just that I’ve been involved in so many scenarios that my advice, perhaps the delivery of it, becomes somewhat simple and somewhat dull.

“How do I kick an inmate out of class?” one teacher asks me. He has a stack of student files in his arms, a sure sign of those he’d like to ditch.

“Show them the door,” I answer.

He points to the post-it-note on the top file. “I was told to see you as far as what procedures I need to take.”

First, I explain what “I” would do. Then I give him the flowchart, step-by-step version of drop kicking someone from the school roster. This includes CSJ-126 “Waiver of Rights” forms, which a majority of prisoners refuse to sign anyway. This leads to more questions, and once again, I explain what “I” would do.

A day earlier, the school corrections officer making rounds asks me to step into the hallway so I can look into another classroom. “Remember when you were that eager to teach?” he remarks.

I notice motivational posters on the walls and classroom rules on the bulletin board. We both laugh. He knows I’m unfazed by his observation. In prison it’s not so much about teaching inmates; it’s about their desire to learn. I see myself as a facilitator, a referee, giving them options, and if they make the right choices, they’re rewarded with a useless high school equivalency diploma, which I’m sure those who were victimized could care less about anyway.

A CAN OPENER

Dean Bakopoulos, author of “Please Don’t Come Back From the Moon,” recalling his Detroit prep school days in Mr. Bean’s Honors English Class:



When we finished reading “The Nick Adams Stories,” Mr. Bean gave us the task of finding the “perfect Hemingway sentence,” the one that summed up worldview of this writer that so many of us suddenly wanted to become. If we found it, we’d get an automatic A for the semester.

The next morning, our searches proved fruitless. We went around the room, making our best guesses, all of us wrong. Then Mr. Bean stood up in the center of his room and, in his booming voice, he turned to “Big Two-Hearted River” and read the perfect Hemingway sentence: “He liked to open cans.”

We were baffled. We groaned and complained and said that we’d been had. Seriously? That?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

So here’s Jimmy O, the one-eyed hunter, propped against a tree sound asleep. Like Roy Ferris before him, Jimmy O never wandered far from camp, whereas, those of us who pilfered cans of peaches, beef jerkey and toilet paper eagerly headed for the woods. We dressed in layers, and when nature came a calling, we begrudgingly propped our rifles against trees, peeled off enough clothing, and did our business.

I haven’t hunted in years, but if I decided to join my dad and brother, I’d be sure to pack my own can opener in my Pabst Blue Ribbon hunting box. With each ticking second ... minute ... hour spent in the woods, you never knew when that eight-point buck would come your way. We all wanted that one chance, that one shot, to be successful, to come back and retell our stories of how it all happened. Plus, it would be inexcusable to confiscate that designated can opener from hunting camp—that is, unless you dragged a trophy buck into the clearing.

My brother emailed the following picture below. Seems a buck is walking around with a tin bucket caught on his antlers.

I'LL TAKE WHAT I CAN GET

When you videotape a fawn peacefully walking across your front yard, dub in some heavy artillery followed by a crowd cheering for its successful escape, then post it on YouTube under the title “Ted Nugent Visits My House,” you’re bound to get a few NRA / Hunting Enthusiasts cussing you out. They assume you’re anti-hunting, anti-gun. I sometimes wonder: If I dubbed in a crappy new song by the Motor City Madman would they have given me the benefit of the doubt, that I’m poking fun of the Nuge?

I remember my first year of hunting, my uncle and I slung the hindquarters of a deer on our shoulders and headed back to camp. We explained that it was too difficult to drag the carcass out of the swamp. “We took what we could get,” I said.

My answer seemed plausible, dusk came quickly. However, my brother, not buying it—he never gave up on a potential kill, and a few days later, with ammo flying, made hamburger out of a spiked buck wheezing on the river bank—questioned our story.

We fessed up. It was a doe, like we had mentioned (the story wouldn’t have been plausible if we had imagined an eight-point buck), and we discovered it bloated and dead. My uncle suggested I practice gutting my first deer. When I stuck the knife in I punctured the sack, releasing a rotten egglike stench. We gagged. Then cut.

That night we cooked venison and ate it, hoping the next day would bring better luck.

THE ONE-EYED HUNTERS

The rusted-out husk of broken down Buicks and Farmalls sunk into Roy Ferris’s front lawn; His bygone possessions amongst the jimsonweed, dodder, and dandelion. His clapboard house never felt the bristles of a loaded paintbrush. The quack grass grew undisturbed, swallowing two mower decks—obstacles for feral cats chasing field mice across his postage-stamp lot. My late grandfather, forever the good neighbor (their socio-economic disparity as wide as the cornfield separating their homes) invited Roy to our Kalkaska hunting camp.

Roy Ferris had nothing in common with the well-paid Detroit autoworkers arriving in their new F-150s. Still, he became one of us, the camaraderie natural and unforced. The deer need not worry about Roy’s marksmanship either; he tended the campfire, never wandering too far from the heat in his thin layer of clothing, his glass eye rolling inward, his good eye darting back and forth from smoke and flame to the surrounding forest, waiting for us to reappear from the swamps, waiting for someone to drag a freshly gutted buck into the clearing.

I’m not exactly sure how many times Roy stayed at our camp before his death, but my grandfather soon found someone else to converse with on the ride to and from camp. Enter Jimmy O, another poor chap, a younger version of Roy, collecting disability and working odd jobs whenever the opportunity arose. He had a lisp, his tongue smacking against the back of his upper incisors with more frequency after each swig of Jack Daniels. If my memory serves me well, we only had one one-eyed man per hunting season and not two.

The above photograph shows Jimmy O taking a much-needed rest. The prisoner drawing, aptly titled “The Eye in the Sky,” is a belated tribute to Roy Ferris.

ONE LAST GOOD MEAL

“Isn’t that always the way?” the old pathologist had said, yanking the tray out with Elena’s body on it. “It’s love sickness. A man kills his wife then kills himself. A woman kills her man then does her nails.”

—“Blood Sport” fiction by Thomas Lynch

Thomas J. Kuzmak, wanted for the fatal stabbing of his ex-wife, poured maple syrup on his dollar-size pancakes, chewed and swallowed each forkful slowly, and said, “Yes please,” to the passing waitress when she asked if he’d like a refill on his coffee. At least that’s the way I envision it. He didn’t kill himself like so many others; his weapon of choice had been a knife. Having done time in an Ohio penitentiary, the only trigger he considered pulling was whether he should turn himself in or continue to flee. But not before having one last decent meal. County jails, he must have known, have lousy food, and the prison’s meals aren’t much better.

After that last bite, after that last bit of coffee, Kuzmak stepped up to the cash register to pay his bill and, as a matter of fact, confessed his sin. He was apprehended shortly afterward and is awaiting extradition to Michigan.

The waitress working the register, a woman by the name of Sandy, told the Detroit Free Press that he had the Kings Country Breakfast—pancakes, eggs, home fries, ham and wheat toast—a $10 special at the Kings Family Restaurant in Claysville, Pennsylvania.

There’s always a slight possibility that I’ll see Kuzmak at my facility. I say, “slight,” because there are so many more just like him, living, breathing, taking up bed space. They only view the world as it revolves around themselves, and I, along with my coworkers, am considered their newest enemy. Its unfortunate Kuzmak’s ex-wife never had the opportunity to paint her nails, even if for one last time.

THE ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT MAN

Prisoner Minnifield refers to himself as “The One-Hundred Percent Man,” a nineteen year old kid who will accept nothing less than perfect. He broadcasts his achievements to the others after each checked assignment. “I’m the Hunerd-Percent Man,” he says, regardless of all those cheating accusations hurled his way. When confronted about having answer keys hidden under his folder, he says, “The Hunerd-Percent Man don’t cheat.”

He has completed all his class work on fractions, decimals, and percents. Fifth grade material. There are absolutely no mistakes on his paper; he doesn’t have time to show all the steps.

I ask him, “One half is what percent?”

He answers, “Fiddy-percent.”

“One,” I continue, “is what percent?”

After a slight pause and scratch of his head, he smiles, then says, “One percent.”

The inmate tutors start referring to him as “The One-Percent Man.”

He corrects them.

My shipment of new FX-260 Solar Calculators arrives. I carry the rather small box across the room to my locked storage area.

One-Hundred Percent Man, a.k.a., One-Percent Man, asks me, “What’s in the box?”

“I know what I’d like to put in the box.”

“What’s that?” he asks.

“I’d like to put your brain in it and ship it off for research.”

“You got jokes,” he says.

A tutor adds, “Boss, I’m not sure we have enough packing material.”

I can’t help but agree.

TRAINING OTHERS

When you’ve been dead for far too long, your eyes turn to stone and the new archaeologists studying the lines on your face determine that you’ve become another common fossil, compressed and hardened, as far as you can go.

—Do you ever look up your students’ criminal records?

—I’m not here to judge them. Our judicial system has already done that.

—Have any fights broke out in your classroom?

—Nope.

sigh

I try to be more entertaining. I tell them about the gay convict in my last class, how he giggled and told another student that he was acting like a little schoolgirl.

—What happened? What did the other guy do?

—He said he’d beat his muthaf*^%*ng ass, and I told him to do it on his own time.

silence

—How many years have you been working for the department?

—Too many.

—Do you let them take books back to their cells?

—It depends. If they work in class, I don’t have a problem with it.

I walk around the room, as if I’m truly interested in making my students smarter, as if they’ll some day become productive citizens. I’m trying to show the new teachers what to do.

—Have you ever heard about one of your students paroling and turning his life around?

—No. I only hear about the ones who return.

I’ve piqued their interest. They want to know more about the failures, as if my story, my longevity, doesn’t count. I give them what they want.

OLD NAVY WITH ATTITUDE

In my early college days I’d catch and heave cases of durable items racing down a Spartan semi-truck’s metal rollers to the next stock boy in line. It didn’t matter if I tossed cream corn, green beans, or applesauce in jars—I instinctively plucked them off those rollers and put some air beneath them. At three-thirty every Thursday morning the nature of my game had been to bury the corner of the box into an unsuspecting chest. The faster I could choreograph inconsistent hang times, the more likelihood I’d achieve my goal.

“C’mon tough guy,” I’d say to the sleepy stock boy massaging his sternum (high tosses) or solar plexus (low tosses). I had suffered from little man’s complex and my coworkers bore the brunt of my mental anguish. “What’s a matter, box to light for ya?”

Same modis operandi with the Pepsi. I knew when to man the handcart. I never claimed forearms like Popeye. If we were unloading case loads of bottles, I’d call “dibs” on one of the dollies and wheel Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, and Mountain Dew into our warehouse, positioning the six cases against my right shoulder. Once I established where to park my load, I’d lean the other way, and slide the dolly out with my right foot. The not-so-bright dweebs in the warehouse would stack them twelve high, even if their arms looked like spindles. As for me, I kept wheeling more their way.

After days of searching for a mean, scary Halloween costume, I settled on today’s picture. Please, no YMCA jokes.

Have a Happy Halloween everyone.

FOG JUICE & BAD DECISIONS

There are times in our lives where we forget the boundaries of common decency, where we push the envelope beyond reason, and when we do that, when the fog clears, we realize the error of our ways. I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life time, but what I overheard in the employee lunchroom regarding a prisoner’s mail almost made me choke on my chicken sandwich.

“Excuse me,” I said. “A teacher did what?”

Nothing really shocks me anymore. Or so I had thought. I remember a young, married, female corrections teacher with two toddlers leaving her husband for an inmate doing “all day.” I saw her sitting in the prison visiting room with her new man. I wondered whether it was worth it—to sacrifice her marriage, her family, and her job to listen to a prisoner making empty promises of how their life together would be some day. I’m sure the conversation ended with “can you put some more money in my account?” This is the same old story, a real yawner if you ask me.

But what I overheard in the employee lunchroom, if the media got a hold of it, would shock an entire community. This isn’t anything like the gay prisoner I once knew who corresponded with a male elementary school teacher on a regular basis. “Oh look,” he said to me, “Richard sent his latest picture. Isn’t he sweet?” I thought to myself, what would the parents of Richard’s students do if they discovered his love correspondence? You could argue that Richard is entitled to his private life, and I’d respect your opinion, no need to argue. Again, a real snooze fest as far as I’m concerned.

But what I overheard in the employee lunchroom is very much different. The correctional facility’s mailroom opens all incoming envelopes and packages. Legal mail is opened in front of the prisoner. Personal mail, on the other hand, is unsealed and examined prior to delivery. So when the large manila envelope addressed to an inmate arrived, the mailroom worker followed protocol. What she found was a bunch of letters from a teacher’s fifth grade class. It had been an assignment. Some of the students claimed they were being forced to write the letter, that they really didn’t want to do it. A few fifth graders included their personal addresses. Luckily, none of the letters made it inside.

I’m not sure what the relationship is between the fifth grade teacher and this particular prisoner, but I’m willing to bet the school district will be notified. Do you think they’ll pass this information on to the parents? Or will they keep a lid on it? Time will tell. At least the Michigan Department of Corrections intercepted it. Please feel free to share your outrage.

PROCESS OF ELIMINATION

In my endless pursuit of that one scary childhood Halloween costume, I found the above silly photograph. I immediately felt sorry for the “Teddy Bear” Masked Man with his humongous, orange plastic, pumpkin pail. And why shouldn’t I? “Gritty” must have traveled down my mom’s ear canals as “glitzy” before the brain processed it into the word “grizzly” thus resulting in my being dressed out as a cute and cuddly Downy-type bear. (Snuggles? I’m guessing.) But this can’t be the case. It isn’t me. Who it is I don’t know.

My brother and I, although one year apart in age, were often mistaken for twins due to wearing matching clothes. If he wore plaid pants and a striped shirt, I wore plaid plants and a striped shirt. Our parents theorized that being fair meant giving us the same things. However, at Halloween we were able to pick and choose our costumes within reason.

If my brother said, “I want to be an Indian,” then I’d think of something within the same theme and say, “I want to be a cowboy.” But as we grew older, both of us took a more convenient route and became standard hobos, mixing and matching whatever we saw fit.

So which kid am I? Both hobo-like characters have matching Little Caesers Trick-or-Treat bags. It wouldn’t be fair if one of us had a larger sized bag that held more candy. Am I the tall, lanky, down-and-out red-nosed pharmacists advertising Hall’s cough drops, or the big-eared, big-nosed, white-collared pilgrim hobo? It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had once participated in Disco Elementary’s “Thanksgiving Day” extravaganza. My mom had stitched together the black robe with white collar just for me. It must've been a positive experience, why else would I wear it again? I’m grateful that I didn’t have to wear a hunter’s orange reflecting vest that night, or if I did, that my dad never snapped the picture.

ONCE AGAIN, TRAUMA BEFORE HALLOWEEN

Why is it, after sifting through endless family photos in search of yours truly sporting at least one bad ass Halloween costume, I end up reliving the trauma of my youth? The amateur photographer—and I do mean “amateur” because of the wayward digit in front of the camera lense, which, by the way, would’ve been more convenient on the left hand side—did not have a clue as to commanding the shot. Hypothetically speaking, if the photographer calls for a gritty cowboy, and the inattentive wardrobe assistant mistakenly hears “glitzy,” he should correct her regarding anything resembling Gene Autry. If the photographer requests a great warrior chief, and the wardrobe assistant, in her infinite wisdom, thinks a squaw would be a much better choice, then the photographer needs to redirect and communicate his vision. This photo should be no different.

After taking a much closer look, I wonder if this is some type of cruel hoax, the literary equivalent of the poem “Leonainie.” Had someone suggested replacing Raggedy Andy with Raggedy Ann would make the photo more identifiable? A piece of Americana? And at whose expense? I’m almost certain that this isn’t my toy. As you can clearly see, my brother is standing there, wringing his hands as if he were an accomplice to this crime (and at such an early age). If we had just banded together, then maybe Raggedy Andy would’ve joined his sister in the Toy Museum Hall of Fame.

Unfortunately, when the wardrobe assistant does the cooking, house cleaning, and laundry, the photographer contentedly snaps the damn picture without thinking of its damaging effect.

"I'm gonna get you, Bom-baaard!"

This morning I read the extra sports section of the Detroit Free Press and reminisced about my cross-country coach, who, in an effort to foster team spirit and unity during practice, calculated staggered starting times for his runners. If you were the slowest on the team, you got a head start based on some crazy formula he had worked on the night before. If you were the best runner on the team, you had to wait … and wait … and wait for your turn to go.

Coach said, “In theory, the whole team should finish this six-mile run simultaneously.” Then he encouraged us to encourage one another as our turn came to run. The varsity squad grew tired of cheering, “See you at the finish.” It was evident we had our work cut out for us.

A teammate by the name of Keith Bombard became my victim that day. I set my sights on him instead of Matt Dorflinger, a tall lanky geek who thought running meant shuffling your size twelve’s in the dirt, because—how do I explain it?—if Keith were playing poker, everyone at the table would know his hand. His form was all wrong, he lacked fluidity, with each uneven stride, with each pump of his arms, he’d wobble his head as if water seeped inside and needed draining … and then he’d do the unimaginable … he’d look back to see if anyone was catching him.

When it was his turn to start, I shouted, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” Those of us standing around couldn’t help but laugh. Coach wasn’t too pleased, but it gave me something to do on my journey. By the time he called my name, Keith Bombard was a speck on the horizon.

It wasn’t until the third mile that he finally heard me again. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” From that point forward, as I controlled my breathing and lengthened my stride, he’d glance back and I’d yell, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!”

By the fourth and fifth mile, I maintained a distance of one hundred feet behind him and started breaking his spirit. At increased intervals I’d say, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” He waited for me to pass him, but I wouldn’t. If he slowed down, I slowed down. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” If he went faster, I went faster. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!”

It wasn’t until that last mile, when I blew by him going up a hill, that he finally caved in and started walking. We didn’t say anything to each other in passing. Our roles had reversed. I became the speck on the horizon.

As I sat there having breakfast, I wondered whether he was doing the same, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the fine print of all those runners who participated in the Detroit Marathon. It doesn’t seem fair to run twenty-six miles and have your name reduced to such tiny font. I misplaced my reading glasses, so I had to squint real hard, and if somehow by chance I stumbled across the name “Keith Bombard,” I’d turn my head … and smile.

Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share

Since the Metro Detroit area public schools are sanitizing their buildings in an effort to protect their students and staff from MRSA (methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus), I’ve become increasingly aware of the inmate-porter in our school building. At first, I thought he was obsessing over keeping everything clean, but the more I watched him the more I wondered whether he was trying to gain access to locked areas where a cache of supplies could be bartered away in general population. I noticed an even layer of dust on my classroom computers and bookshelves; it's been that way for years.

Then I started wondering if he might be a vindictive s.o.b., smearing God knows what on every doorknob in sight. This isn’t paranoia, I’ve heard about those random shakedowns of prison kitchen workers, where corrections officers find hidden Baggies of special sauce.

Prisoners are opportunists. They have very little to lose. One crazy porter gravitated toward the GED testing material. Whenever the GED Examiner walked the corridor with his locked brief case full of exam booklets, a dust mop surely followed. Telling the porter to “push-off” meant rethinking the next move—that is, until the GED Examiner requested his transfer to another facility.

Then there’s the Level I inmate-porters who, on occasion, clean the employee lunchroom from 1100 hours to 1300 hours. They will conveniently stay out of your way, hoping you will forget they’re in the vicinity, hoping you will unknowingly reveal something personal, something they can share with the rest of the inmate population. Although their ears are burning, I say, “Trick No Good.”

LET ME CHANGE THE TITLE

Not too long ago I was encouraged to apply for a teaching position with Montcalm Community College. They had acquired grant money for a Youthful Offender Program (YOP) and were attempting to infiltrate the Michigan Prison System. The warden at my current facility pooh-poohed the idea. Not that it mattered; other facilities were interested.

In an effort to discourage over familiarity with inmates, Montcalm, under MDOC advisement, was allowed to hire prison educators for YOP night classes, if, and only if, the facility differed from the teacher’s regular gig. In other words, after eight hours of teaching GED classes at one prison, I could pull up stakes, drive to another prison (Ryan Correctional Facility), and put on my college hat.

No thanks. Even though thirty-three smackaroos an hour is very enticing.

On a similar note, in Wednesday’s Detroit Free Press I saw a picture of my old classroom (Ryan Correctional Facility, 1992 – 1997) jam packed with college students and prisoners. According to the article, they were discussing race, class, and gender in the criminal justice system. The University of Michigan-Dearborn, through Comerica and private donors, paid for the inmate’s course materials, including textbooks, while the free-birds paid for the whole enchilada.

Hmmm … now the wheels are turning. In order to renew my teaching certificate, which expires in 2011, I need 6 credit hours. Perhaps I could enroll in this class. Do you think I could handle the course work? Do you think the Michigan Department of Education will allow it? And what about the Michigan Department of Corrections? They wouldn’t block me from such an important task as the renewal of a very important credential—or would they? Besides, I think I can beat an inmate out of his books.

Isn’t it interesting how I went from convict teacher to college instructor to college student to classroom bully in no time at all, how I went from making $33 an hour to paying for the privilege to hustle an inmate? Hmmm … decisions, decisions.

THE THREE-LEGGED SPIDER

I’m perusing and rubricating thirty GED essays written by prisoners from the Michigan Department of Corrections. Although I realize each essay is graded on logic and clarity, and points are not deducted for spelling, mechanics, or grammar, I am compelled to make a few—oh, what should I call it?—a few minor adjustments here and there, with a spackling of suggestions for good luck. My comments, for the most part, are as welcome as a police officer working undercover. The inmate-writers grow suspicious. “I done just like the book says,” Inmate Coleman defends.

I’m losing steam. “How about a rewrite?” I ask.

He shows me that dreaded "idea map" most writing textbooks promote, but I see a three-legged spider instead. Before the argument heats-up, we itemize the main ingredients: #1 introductory paragraph with topic sentence, #2 the body, including three supporting statements, and #3 a conclusion. It’s all there; he killed it; he hit all the major arteries. Give the man a gold star!

After his refusal to listen to my advice, he kicks rocks while I mutter to his back, “needs a rewrite.” I grab the next piece of drivel from the pile and think about Coleman. The whole scenario is actually quite funny considering his insistence on structure, form, and other things I’d consider mundane. He follows the same recipe; he clings to the same cookie cutter pattern; he likes that systematic process for writing essays. I, of all people, should know when to stay out of his kitchen.

If he were graded on the honesty of his words—how he changed his opinion regarding anarchy—then I’d have to give him two gold stars for not deviating from the text and for practicing what he preaches. Maybe his three-legged spider will rejuvenate its limbs afterall, or mutate into something entirely different. One can only hope.