I CHALLENGE YOU TO A DUEL!!!

I’ve been traumatized by my wife’s cousin and I can’t let it go. It ain’t even Halloween yet and I’m hearing Jennifer Tilly’s voice—(disclaimer: in no way is this a reference to severed vocal cords; I am not that insensitive)—yes, I’m hearing Jennifer Tilly’s voice whispering in my ear, Sorry your 24-hour short story entry didn’t do as well as mine. I’m feeling the spirit of Chucky. I’ve got to fight back. I’ve got to protect what little pride I have left. Did we, or did we not, offer suggestions to each others entry prior to the deadline? Granted, your advice was better than mine, but how dare you remind me of my failure! It's time you walk the plank!

We need to settle this once and for all. I’m calling it a two story contest—yours against mine—a duel to the end. "Promises" vs. "Ruth Mondo's Chance Encounter." Chicago vs. Detroit.

Here’s the deal: If you like her story better than mine, leave a comment on her blog (because I don’t want to hear about it). If you think my story is far more superior, then by all means leave a comment here. Since I’m already kicked and down, negative comments regarding my story are welcome too.

Positive canned statements worth copying and pasting:
1. I liked the conflict in your story better.
2. Your story’s ending surprised me the most.
3. The characters in your story seemed more interesting.

Of course this is all in fun. Winner-take-all (boasting rights I guess). If you don’t feel like participating, check out her blog sjawriter, vote on her TV Show proposals, or watch her friend on You Tube cozying up to Kevin Costner.

JOINING THE SCHOOL OF FISH

Do I? Or do I not return to school? There’s an extension program near my work site (Saginaw Valley State University) where a majority of educators earn their master’s degrees and siphon more money out of the public school systems. You can’t blame them; the certification rules, along with the “No Child Left Behind” policies, have forced them to. Do I fork over my money, or do I invest it elsewhere?

SVSU has a Masters Degree program in Instructional Technology. Seems interesting. I could become a curriculum development specialist for a public school system, or a trainer for a major corporation, or an animator for Pixar. (Okay, maybe not the latter.)

I’m studying the numbers—my age, tuition cost, salary schedules, the break-even point. It’s a personal sacrifice I’m not sure I’m willing to make. If I do do it, I’ll stretch it out over four or five years. If I don’t, then I’ll remain a small fish in a relatively large pond. I’ll remain a convict teacher that has already exceeded his shelf life. Then I’ll retire and continue with my writing.

I’m undecided.

28 YEARS LATER

When my brother handed over a misplaced sealed envelope addressed to me twenty-eight years earlier, instead of questioning how it came into his possession, or asking why I hadn’t received it in the first place, I concentrated on its mysterious content. Holding it to the light—the return address: Bruce Township Parks & Recreation (I had life guarded for them at my high school back when I had six-pack abs)—I noticed what looked like a family crest or coat of arms. We were sitting at the dinner table with our parents, and although they demanded I open it, I felt “no need” in hurrying. “Maybe it’s a royalty check,” I said, knowing otherwise, hoping my hesitancy would go unnoticed, whatever honor I had bestowed upon the family could wait.

My brother had his own twenty-eight year old sealed envelope; this one from Albion College. I suggested he open his first. He tore into it and started reading. It was a recruitment letter, June 1980, inviting him to tryout for their cross-country team. Back then my brother grew despondent regarding Michigan Tech’s rescinded offer for him to attend their engineering program; they withdrew their acceptance based on his poor test results in Physics.

My guess: he grabbed both letters and stuffed them into a filing cabinet; his dreams momentarily dashed, tucked away and forgotten. “Okay,” he said, “it’s your turn.”

Using the butter knife beside my dinner plate, I sliced into my envelope and peered inside. How ironic!—Where his letter offered a viable option, a promising alternative, mine documented a past event with a questionable, yet appropriate, symbol. I had registered for a long distance race, and to show that they received my entry form, Bruce Township Parks & Recreation cut along the dotted line and mailed back the top portion. That important family crest or coat of arms?—Pilsner Lite Beer—an obvious sponsor to a 10,000 meter race I had started and finished in our local high school’s parking lot.

So here we are now: My brother, the overachiever, the laid-off engineer with an MBA, and me, the underachiever, the overworked teacher of convicts, who three decades ago wrecked his vehicle in a drunk driving accident.

I Support Art, but not Always the Message

In seventeen years as a Michigan Department of Corrections employee, I have yet to witness any coworkers placing prisoners—no strike that—inmates—no strike that too—residents—let me start over: I don’t know of any coworkers that’ve hung residents on meat hooks. Oh sure, I’ve been on nuts & butts duty; someone’s got to make sure contraband isn’t passed from one resident to another before the keester checkpoint; hey, why not us teachers?

I do remember a certain resident, Prisoner... oops...Resident W., a fairly decent artist with his own art studio in the school building, throwing a fit when I wouldn’t let him take his last GED Exam. “You’re not ready,” I said. At that point I understood why he came back to prison; he was a rapist who didn’t understand the concept of “no.” He stormed out of my classroom in a tantrum.

Resident W. maxed out a few years back (doesn’t have to report to anyone) and found a nice place to live: an upscale condominium, living with a female art dealer who supports his artistic talent. It wasn’t long after that that the residents (this time I mean real residents) of the condo association distributed flyers regarding Ex-Felon W.: “Do you know a convicted rapist resides here?”

Maybe those meat hooks come from the real world, where we MDOC employees aren’t there to protect ex-convicts, ex-felons, ex-prisoners, ex-whatever-you-want-to-call-them. I say this without being mean spirited. I say this, knowing everyone deserves some kind of chance to do what’s right. And yes, I don’t have a problem with PCAP supporting artwork; I have a problem with the message from a majority of the artists.

Footnote: The male artist depicted here, the man with the walrus mustache who never picked up a paint brush until the age of forty-one, painted strange pink people prior to his release from my facility.

LOADED FOR BEAR

I’ll be damned, literally, with my feet to the fire, for doing my J-O-B. Fan those flames ‘cause I’m loaded for bear and ready to shoot. I’m camping out. I’m aiming for MDIT (The Michigan Department of Information & Technology). I’ll pull the trigger as soon as they’re in the crosshairs. Night vision too!

My work computer crapped out on June 10, 2008, and they’ve done nothing, absolutely nothing, to rectify the problem. I’ve survived a school audit in the process (no thanks to them) by pulling student files from regular rotation. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

But the saga continues. Without MDIT’s blessing (shit, I thought they were hibernating), I’m toast—like a backpacker leaving the food bag hanging too low. Still, I “found” myself a nice office computer and have every intention of keeping it. Through intelligence I learned that this computer (which is operable) was going to be discarded, thrown onto the scrap heap. Luckily, on behalf of myself, I intervened. “I’m taking this computer,” I said. “Sure,” the office worker acknowledged. “As long as it’s out of my area.”

I’m back in the game, taking attendance, tracking student progress, and scheduling and recording test scores. I’m doing it digitally instead of the old fashion stone-age paper and pencil way.

Now my operative has informed me that a MDIT computer technician intends to confiscate my “found” computer. Wow! They certainly can move fast! I thought the sleeping bear was—you know—sleeping. I thought the pot of honey was mine. Hey, you mess with my food; I’ll mess with yours. What’s a man to do? I placed my inoperable computer next to my “found” computer with a memorandum taped to it. Perhaps they’ll take a hint. Perhaps they’ll see the error they’ve made. If not, I’ll shoot, I swear I will … and if I miss … that’s okay … I’ve got dibs on another dormant CPU … one that’s used to pull in federal money ... the timing couldn't be better.

CAGED TOMATOES

From what I gather, Prisoner #1, pushed by Prisoner #2, stole vegetables (and fruit) from the garden, in the words of Kid Rock, all summer long. Prisoner #1 must’ve been quick, really really quick, and brazen. You don’t steal from another prisoner’s garden plot unless you’re prepared to do battle with the farmer, the grower, the nurturer of these food bearing plants. His accomplice—can I call him that?—had nothing to do with it. If you were to say, “You’re his accomplice,” he’d undeniably deny it. “I,” he would respond, “was merely doing my job.” Why else would he have been in there, in the cultivated dirt? I stand corrected, in the cultivated “soil.”

So, when it’s all said and done, when the Horticulture Teacher spots Prisoner #1 sitting there, leaning forward as far as he can, plucking tomatoes he has no business plucking, the short-lived race ensues. Unfortunately, those Wheels of Fortuna are spinning downward. Prisoner #1 is stuck, literally, and in a moment of frustration, he swings his arms into his laps. He’s caught, no doubt about it, and Prisoner #2 is sure to blame.

The Horticulture Teacher asks for Prisoner #1’s identification card, and writes the necessary information, his name and six-digit number, onto a piece of scrap paper before giving it back. “You,” he says, noticing six tomatoes, “have a theft ticket coming.”

After consulting with yours truly, the technical writer, the experienced ticket writer, it is determined that Prisoner #1 and Prisoner #2 earned two major infractions: a) Out of Place – there’s an off limits sign posted, and b) Theft, Possession of Stolen Property.

“How come you didn’t get Prisoner #2’s identification?” I ask.

The Horticulture Teacher explains that he only saw one inmate picking tomatoes; therefore, he didn’t think it was necessary to identify Prisoner #2. I inform him that an “Out of Place” ticket could’ve been written on the accomplice.

During lunch time, a day after the tomato incident, the control center staff phones the Horticulture Teacher, requesting a rewrite on the ticket. “Why did you use his alias?” the sergeant asks. Now, everyone’s confused, wondering whether Prisoner #1, who left the facility on a med run, gave the Horticulture Teacher a fraudulent I.D. card. “Yeah, that’s him,” he says into the receiver, “the guy in a wheelchair.”

The school corrections officer states the obvious: The Horticulture Teacher flipped the picture I.D. card to the backside, which lists a prisoner’s aliases. Later that day, the control center staff requests the tomatoes and gets them. Hopefully they aren’t too ripe since they’ll be stored in the evidence room for God knows how long.

A Wedding, a Knife; A Finger, a Death

I’m married. No secret there. Had my fifteenth wedding anniversary last month. If you were to ask about my, about “our” most memorable moments, there’d be a lack of uniformity in our descriptions. Our memories, for whatever reasons, seem fragmented, seem splintered. Small episodic events, unless photographed and studied, never quite achieving accuracy. Where to begin?

We both agreed about the cake, at least the cutting tradition, how someone from the kitchen grabbed an engraved knife (the names are lost on us, the proofs returned long ago) and helped stage the close-up hand shots for the inebriated photographer. What type of cake? How many tiers? These questions are better answered by my wife, her active role in the planning stage a clear advantage. She could quote the cost too, I’m sure. And what of the wedding date (definitely not ours) engraved on that silver knife with an off-white marble handle? (I do remember that.)

So why, you may ask, have I mentioned the knife? Why focus on what’s not “ours”? (Here’s the rub: what happens to be mine, my wedding ring, has another woman’s name engraved in it. I didn’t make that discovery until some ten years later.) So why reflect on the negative? Why not reflect on something positive? Why, after a month’s delay, have I decided to write about our wedding?

Here’s why: During Monday’s breakfast of Shredded Wheat (yes, my braces can handle it), while sipping coffee and reading the newspaper, I came across the photo of the Reverend Father Pasquale LoGrasso. He performed our wedding ceremony. I asked my wife, “What do you remember about him?” She mentioned her family’s moment of sadness, the grief, the sobbing heard inside the church, how Father Pasquale, against our wishes, dedicated the mass to her 92 year old grandfather who had passed away one day prior to our wedding (her Grandfather’s proclamation: I’m going to see my last grandchild get married). I asked again, “Yeah, I know all that, but what distinguishing characteristic do you remember about Father Pasquale?”

My question had been lost on her. She stated the obvious: He was a man of the cloth. He wore glasses. He spoke with an accent. It wasn’t until my leading question did she remember. “Wasn’t his index finger severed at the first knuckle?” I asked. “You’re right,” she answered, only to inquire as to why I would bring that up. “I’ve always wondered,” I continued, “what happened. Did someone pinch it in a car door? Did he shave it off with a table saw? Did he poke it through a chain link fence harboring a pit bull? What happened?”

Neither of us knew. I cut out his obituary. I read it again. He died at the age of 76. May he rest in peace.

POLAROID

Someone’s fingers are itchin’
to pull the trigger. Call it:
The chemical rub-out before
the sun does its work. Still,
a middle class family
appears (such a rarity
these days). The dull colors
frozen like a Ted Turner classic.
What happened that night is momentarily
forgotten; They are ready
to celebrate with two candles lit,
a four, a five, sunk into Mother’s
cake. The youngest boy emerges
from solitary confinement, his wish
exhaled, gone in a flash.

24-HOUR SHORT STORY CONTEST RESULTS

My last post—now considered “blog-fodder”—was my entry in the Writer’s Weekly Summer 2008 24-hour Short Story Contest. The topic (or prompt) was:

The bells on the door were still echoing as she stepped further into the old toy store. The owner winked at her and turned back to his black and white television set. She reached under the rack on the back wall and pulled it out. It was just where she'd left it last week. She approached the counter and put the item down. He turned to her, grabbed the item with surprise, and said, "This is NOT for sale..." ~~~~~ WORD COUNT Stories for today's topic must not exceed 900 words. (Your story's title is *not* included in the word count. We use MSWord's word count function to determine the final word count in submission.)

The judging process went something like this: 1) Whittle 500 entries into two categories: the finalists and what I’d like to call “blog-fodder”. 2) Rank the finalists to get the top 23 stories. 3) Reread top 23 and rank 1st ($300), 2nd ($250), 3rd ($200), plus 20 honorable mentions.

The main criteria: weed out stories that are the same, that lack originality; search for good endings. As usual, I got “zilch,” “nada,” “nothing.” I’m as excited as a senior citizen needing hip replacement surgery after Dance Dance Revolution.

Here’s the link to the winners: Top 3 Stories.

Lastly, comments or critiques of my story would be greatly appreciated. Where do you think I erred? What do you think of the top 3 selections? Also, would you enter this contest, and do you think I should enter the next one? Once again, be honest. Remember: I work in a prison, I’m used to negative feedback, and I’ve heard my share of “you suck.” Now if I could only engage in a game of Twister.

DANCIN' BABY EEL

I caught this bass on a Dancin’ Baby Eel and after studying the picture, a revelation hit me: I’ve never truly written much about fishing technique. Where’s the hook, the line, the sinker? Where’s the discussion about bait?

We had our school audit this week (bare with me, there’s a common thread here, trust me, you should, you really really should). Let’s start with a recap:

While Auditor #1 pulled every 10th student file in our school office, Auditor #2 stood in my classroom grilling me: “Why weren’t you at mandatory training last week?”

“Zero-point-nine,” I answered, a reference to the dismal amount of CEUs (Continuing Education Credits) teachers could earn for the two-day conference.

“Maybe you misunderstood me, the training was MANDATORY,” she said, as if I were brain dead, as if 0.9 were my blood alcohol level. “Why weren’t you there?”

I politely told her to discuss this matter with my boss.

She moved on, “I’d like to see how you keep track of each student’s progress?”

I showed her absolutely nothing, instead, I vocalized my dissatisfaction with MDIT (Michigan Department of Information Technology). “My computer crapped out on June 10, 2008,” I explained—as if she’d understand my deficiency in tracking student progress—“DIT never replaced my hard drive.”

“You are submitting the appropriate reports to the school office, aren’t you?” She asked.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her about my new hard-drive storage system; I answered with a confident “YES.”

After the auditors left, our boss called a staff meeting. “We did excellent,” she said. “We only had two student evaluations missing from all the files that were pulled.”

I couldn’t help myself. Since I was the senior teacher, the undesignated “mentor,” I asked for clarification as to which students had missing paper work. She indicated the students of the less experienced teachers.

“That’s not too bad,” I added as consolation.

A veteran teacher shot me an incredulous look; He knew why the auditors never found the missing information on my students. Whatever work I couldn’t finish prior to the audit, I simply pulled the appropriate files and stuck them in my filing cabinet. Call it my new “hard-drive storage system.”

Now back to that Dancin’ Baby Eel …

CONFIDENCE IS ...

My classroom oozes confidence. All eyes are on Prisoner Fahey. He inflates his chest, spouts off how he’s oh so ready to take the GED Exam, and if it weren’t for HIS TEACHER holding him back, making him do the required class assignments, he’d be done—“d – u – n”—done. He’s that confident; confident with a capital K.


Confidence doesn’t necessarily mean having a plan, sticking to it, and knowing that in the end it’ll work out. No sir. Confidence is making the right play at the right time and triumphantly talking about it in a controlled environment. It’s robbing a gas station and getting away with the loot, or snatching an old lady’s purse for her debit/credit card. Confidence is achieving your goal, even if the gas station attendant whips out his own handgun and aims for your torso; He’s a working stiff, Prisoner Fahey explains, a wannabe-hero but really a zero; he wouldn’t dare squeeze the trigger, and even if he did, he’d most definitely miss, he’d wet his pants. That’s confidence!

As for that old lady with the throaty scream, she can be out run, no problem there. Prisoner Fahey says, Focus on the direction you’re heading, blend in with the crowd. Confidence is knowing that most people will not make a citizen’s arrest. It’s knowing that even if you get caught, even if you’re standing in a criminal line-up, the victim will develop sudden amnesia and select the wrong person. And if for some fluke of a reason the victim does select you, confidence is realizing that you will get out of prison one day. Confidence is, after all, playing the odds to the nth degree.

Prisoner Fahey puts more thunder into his voice. "Just put me on the test,” he demands.

“When you’re in the chow hall,” I ask him, “how do you eat your hot dog?”

This throws him off, rattles him to his very core. He may or may not have a clue where I’m going with this. All eyes are on him. He tenses up. His voice starts to crack. “What’s that got to do with my taking the GED Exam?” he asks.

“Some guys,” I reply with a quick shrug of my shoulders, “will eat their hot dog from the middle.”

I'VE GOT INFORMATION ...

“There is no understanding of evil, only the recognition of what it is.” —Donna Pendergast, Prosecutor

On occasion, after an inmate discovers that I’ve published a few short stories, he’ll tell me bits and pieces of his past history. “You should write about my case,” he’ll offer, as if the general public would be fascinated with his criminal past.

He may be right.

The prisoners know all too well about the public’s morbid curiosity with the seedier side of life. I’d like to think I don’t fit that general mold; I’d like to think that any true-crime books I’ve read are not approached in the same manner as the general public. I sometimes wonder why I haven’t gotten my fill of them. Let me just say this: it heightens my sense of awareness when dealing with convicts. One such book, “Darker than Night” by Tom Henderson, hits close to home, serving up prison snitches throughout, as Detective Bronco Lesneski from the Michigan State Police (trained at the same DeMarse Academy as I) cracks an 18 year-old double homicide of two deer hunters. Although no bodies were found, certain perpetrators knew brothers Raymond and Donald Duvall killed their victims, hacked them up, and fed them to their pigs. In fact, there were probably more people involved in the actual killing, but only two were tried and convicted.

What I find most interesting, however, are the snitch kites, aka letters, used as desperate attempts at time cuts. For instance, in December 1998 (13 years after the murders), Inmate Bolzman from the E.C. Brooks Correctional Facility sent a letter to former Macomb County Prosecutor Carl Marlinga. He writes:

Hopefully, you could tell me if your office held a grand jury investigation hearing into the deaths of missing hunters … I wish to correspond with you on this because I have very important evidence of who was involved …

This information was forwarded to Detective Lesneski, and shortly afterward, Bolzman was transferred to the Thumb Correctional Facility where he could be interviewed regarding these matters.

Throughout his book, Henderson gives us detail after detail of prisoners willing to provide information on the double homicide. This is what peaks my interest. I often wonder how many of my current and former students are preoccupied with wanting to “drop a dime” on someone. I suspect most. It’s in their nature. It’s in their blood. They want their freedom. All I can do is sit back and listen.

MORE INFO

Cause-and-Effect (Making Inferences)

When a self-admitted crackhead—let’s call him Prisoner K—reads about a tropical rain forest, his mouth and index finger stumble over the words. He knows he’s set foot, temporarily, in unfamiliar terrain. “Can you pronounce this for me?” he asks.

“Photosynthesis,” I answer.

He’s learning about cause-and-effect relationships, where one “thing” can make another “thing” happen. More specifically, he’s studying the global effects of the rain forests. He repeats after me, “Pho-to-synnn-the-sis,” and continues to drag his finger across the page.

With guided practice and encouragement, Prisoner K is able to answer most questions. However, there’s one open-ended question troubling him to no end: What can you do to help prevent the destruction of tropical rain forests?

He smudges his first answer and starts over. “Quit chopping down trees,” he scrawls.

“Now Mr. K,” I ask, “when’s the last time you swung an axe or used a chainsaw?”

“Never.” He shows me where he found his answer—middle of page 84.

“You’re not a logger,” I point out.

“Nah, I’m just a former crackhead.”

I ignore his statement. “How about not wasting paper, how about recycling?” … “Paper comes from trees,” I add.

“Yeah,” he responds, “but nothing I do is gonna matter.”

... HEARSAY

I overheard two students discussing the cell extraction of a prisoner in their housing unit, and, as usual, one put his own spin on it, while the other agreed.

—They beat the livin’ tar out of a handicap person.

—Yeah, they should’ve let him be. I heard the screams.

—Beat his ass real bad.

—You guys don’t have a clue, I said. There was a slight pause, before they started up again.

—All in our Kool-Aid and don’t know the flavor, the younger student said.

—Yeah. Dippin’ and dappin’ and don’t know what’s happenin’.

I tried to redirect, to get them focused on their school work. It was a losing battle.

—That man wasn’t gonna hurt nobody.

—I heard they dumped him from his wheelchair.

—Guys, knock it off. It has nothing to do with you.

—They made us leave our unit, the older student claimed.

—Yeah. How’d you like to be gassed?

—He was stuck like Chuck.

I didn’t want to engage their conversation, yet I couldn’t help myself. I asked them if they knew about his staff assaults prior to arriving at our facility. I asked them if they knew about his shampooing the cell floor in preparation of a conflict. I asked them if they knew about the razor blade weapons he used on the officers. They were in denial. I gave them a direct order not to speak about it again. —Enough’s enough, I said. The class resumed its normal operations. Silence hung in the air. Such unbearable tension.

—They didn’t gas him. They wanted us out of the unit. They didn’t want witnesses.

—Okay, I said, remembering my days teaching delinquent youths, you better check yourself before you wreck yourself …

—‘Cause I’m bad for your health, they said in unison. Then they laughed.

MDIT WARNING

The Michigan Department of Information Technology (MDIT) is warning all state agencies not to open e-mail related to “CNN” or “The Beijing Olympics.” These e-mails ask for a “flash player” update and once given permission, download a malicious virus that will kill your computer. MDIT claims they’re dispatching technicians across the state to fix infected computers. They suggest calling their 800 number for assistance.

Maybe I should give them a ring. “My computer is infected,” I could lie, “can you send someone over here pronto?” What do I have to lose? I’ve been waiting two months for MDIT to fix my machine. Not that it’s a real emergency. I only use it for class attendance, student plotters, student evaluations, Adult Learning Plans, monthly reports (including the latest and greatest Offender Education Tracking System & boilerplate forms), TABE scores, half-test scores, GED scores, testing schedules, academic payroll, tutor payroll, and the occasional memo. None of this, you see, is top priority.

I’ve been cancelling classes too, wandering around like a nomad in search of a functional computer to keep pace with my job duties. My students are losing out on classroom instruction. Not that that matters either. With the constant “transfers” and “ride-ins,” our facility is a revolving door of human bodies. As long as enrollment stays at 20 per class, as long as my computer is fixed in time for our August 28th school audit, as long as my records are in order, then the Talking Heads will be content. That is—if I don’t say the wrong thing. Last time we had an audit, I informed the auditors that we had an academic teacher who never had a teaching certificate. Ouch!!!

In this photograph I’m sporting a 1996 Summer Olympic neck tie from Atlanta, Georgia. A former prison librarian gave it to me after the death of her ex-husband. As for her—she lost her job for doing some X-Rated activities with an inmate. Now they’re safely married. He’s doing his bit, while she’s working security at the Flint airport.

GONNA GET MY METAL

There are times where I have to remind my students of their current situation, “You’re incarcerated. Your choices are limited,” and to soften the blow, someone usually responds with something like: “I bet you was a real nerd when you was a kid.”

It’s always easier to deflect the pain, to switch the focus, to point the spotlight on someone else, especially an authority figure. I’m a good sport about it. I usually tell them about the neighborhood bully who made me do his school work, how it helped me get to where I am today. They’re not stupid; they see the hidden message in what I’m saying. Call it my ultimate revenge, even though I’m not a vindictive person.

On Monday, when I report back to my fishbowl, these types of comments will increase tenfold. It only takes one prisoner to peep the braces on my teeth. They’re a real pain in the ass. The inmates. The braces.

My sentence: three years. I’m already drinking buckets of coffee, which should yellow the ceramic appliances in no time. At least that’s what the orthodontist’s assistant calls them. And how the hell do you eat anything? In a few months I’ll probably start looking like Christian Bale when he starred in “The Machinist.”

On a slightly similar subject, I have jury duty in September. If I’m selected to participate in a trial, I promise to remain impartial, I promise not to take out all my past (and current) frustrations on some poor unfortunate soul. I’m just hoping for plenty of down time away from our facility, away from the convicted felons, so I can read a good novel or two, and perhaps practice my writing.

Song of the day: “Lunchbox” by Marilyn Manson

THIS OLD HEAD

Lately, due to my so-called uncooperative work spirit, I’ve been labeled an “Old Head,” which, if misconstrued, reeks of ageism. My boss says (as if I’m out of earshot), “The Old Heads won’t do it”—a reference to a modified work schedule.




I am here to say, “I am not an Old Head.” That is, unless you mean someone with work experience, someone who has been around the block, who has seen pit-near everything, who knows what does and does not make sense. For instance: I’ve been approached regarding a 2-day educational conference in Lansing. Since I need 18 CEUs (Continuing Education Units) to renew my teaching certificate, I asked, “How many CEU’s will I earn?”

After my question got kicked up the ladder (Lansing) and back down to the bottom rung (me), I received the following emailed response: We are, at this point based on the hours for both days a teacher can get .9 CEU’s. They will have to fill out a form and submit $10 as the department will not pay the processing fee. They will be able to sign up in the morning when they register. It is all or nothing, we cannot do a one day CEU amount, they must attend both days. (No corrections made to email.)

Hmmm… call it negativity if you will, but I will call it practical. Ten dollars is reasonable. No problem there. However, at this rate I’d have to attend 20 2-day conferences—the equivalent of 40 days of shutting down my classroom—in order to renew my teaching certificate. How absurd is that? What ever happened to 1 CEU meaning 1 hour of training or at least something remotely close?

Once again, this “Old Head” will refuse to do something that doesn’t make sense. Hopefully this will not lead to further name-calling, and if it does, I might have to fight back. I might have to call the powers that be, “Talking Heads.” Yippity-yap-yap-yap.

THE COPENHAVER RISK FACTOR

Some of us had been threatening our friend Colby for a long time, because of the way he had been behaving. And now he’d gone too far, so we decided to hang him.

From "Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby"

by Donald Barthelme


With what he had done, Ryan Copenhaver should’ve known his life would never be the same. Normalcy flew out the window the day he flipped his vehicle. But he was the lucky one; Two passengers did not fare so well. So much for—in the words of Prince—partying “like it's 1999.” August 6, 1999, to be exact. Injured: 1 Casualty: 1.

Copenhaver served 3 years and 7 months. Then he paroled. Then he experienced life as a semi-free man. Days rolled into months rolled into years. He worked two menial jobs. He’d been sober for God knows how long. (That was expected.) So why the change in events? Did he think his blatant disregard for the conditions of his parole would go unnoticed? Hadn’t he rules to follow? How careless could he be? Did he not read the fine print? Did he not listen to his parole agent? And only three months from becoming a truly free man! Three months! Shame, on, him!

Here’s his violation: Possession of weapons.

Here’s the punishment: Tack on 5 years. Reinstate his prison number. Retrieve his prison file. Stick a B prefix on the cover. Have the quartermaster fit him for his prison blues. He’s coming back. Second time’s a charm.

The Michigan taxpayers are much safer with Copenhaver off the streets. Face it, he didn’t pay enough in taxes. He’s much more valuable when locked up. He’ll create prison jobs. We’ll feed him, we’ll shelter him, we’ll supervise him. Do we have a choice? There’s no telling what mayhem he may have caused with two toy “air guns” found in the attic of his friend's parent's house. He could’ve robbed a fast-food joint. He could’ve robbed a gas station. Or worse—he could’ve robbed a liquor store and flipped another vehicle and heaven forbid killed another passenger.

PLEASE & THANK YOU

This is not a formal apology, nor is it an angry diatribe. I have no platform, no soapbox, from where to preach. I’m not sure the general public would understand my actions, my position, as much as my thought-out but never-acted-upon reaction.

I believe in saying “Please” and “Thank You,” and opening doors for others. It’s the right thing to do. It’s civilized. I’m sure you would agree.

“Let me get that for you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

That’s how our conversation went. He held the door open. I said, “Thanks.” An exchange of pleasantries.

So why did this small act of kindness become a festering wound? Why did I regret what I had said?

He entered the administration building from the back, while I exited. His destination: The courthouse for sentencing in the brutal rape and murder of a thirteen year old girl. My destination: The prison school building beyond the chow hall.

During our passing I didn’t know his identity, although I will admit he looked familiar. Then, after our kind words to one another, it dawned on me: I’d seen his mug shot in the Detroit Free Press.

I wanted to ask him: What you did—was it instinctual like opening a door? Or did you think about it? Did you plan it? But how would he answer? Would he say, “I don’t know,” or would he say, “You’re welcome.”

BLOG FODDER!

My first instinct for not posting in awhile was to hang my "Gone Fishing" sign, but truthfully I'd only went once and got skunked. Thus my Freyish pic falsely advertising victory, yet realisticly depicting too much blood on my hands (yeah, I know - gloves - work with me, ok?).



You see, my wife's cousin SA from Chicago, the one living downtown in an old building where they filmed a "Chucky" sequel with Meg Tilly, informed me of a "24 Hour Short Story Contest," and after much consideration and discussion, we both coughed up the 5-buck entry fee and took the plunge.

On Saturday, 12 O'Clock noon (Central time) we received the following emailed prompt:

The bells on the door were still echoing as she stepped further into the old toy store. The owner winked at her and turned back to his black and white television set. She reached under the rack on the back wall and pulled it out. It was just where she'd left it last week. She approached the counter and put the item down. He turned to her, grabbed the item with surprise, and said, "This is NOT for sale." WORD COUNT: Stories for today's topic must not exceed 900 words.

Twenty-four hours later, we were left picking up a million little pieces. I complained to SA that my entry (submitted in the body of the email) had the following (WINDOW-1252?) crap inserted throughout. Their confirmation, which included my story, showed this. I resubmitted.

SA in turn reminded me that my 2nd submission would be deleted. I quoted Rule No#9: If you find part of your story missing, try sending a text-only attachment.

Could I resubmit under Rule#9? Nope. Why? Because my story did not have any missing parts; IT HAD @#%$!!! ADDITIONAL PARTS!!! Instead, I retyped my short story in that stupid little email box (how many writers write this way?) and resubmitted. They acknowledged receipt of both stories.

SA, who followed the rules, who emailed her story much earlier (or should I say much later - Chicago time), never received confirmation, which in turn meant disqualification.

The only redeeming aspect of this whole screwed-up experience is: 1) they will read my first submission "as is," 2) it was worth the practice, and 3) I can always use my short story as blog fodder.

I'll know the results in a month.

CAUGHT IN THE POSSESSION OF . . .

If I were standing I’d’ve stumbled backward. But I was sitting, my hands comfortably intertwined and resting on the kitchen table. Still, her accusation seemed unwarranted, unprovoked ... un ... unAmerican. The conversation started something like this:

—You’re breaking the law.

—Huh? What? I had just shown her my catch of the day; one sheephead, one catfish, and one pike. I always snapped a few pics for proof then tossed the fish back into the water. It’s not like I demanded she clean the slimy bastards. I only wanted her to praise my skills as a fisherman.

—I checked the DNR site. It’s illegal. She was referring to the Michigan Department of Natural Resources’ website regarding a species of fish called the Goby. She needn’t say more, but she did —You are in possession …

—No I am not!

—If they’re on your hook, then you possess them.

I believe she was referring to page four of Michigan’s Fishing Guide. —It doesn’t make sense to catch a Goby then throw it back in the water, especially if it’s a highly invasive species.

—Do you keep them in your minnow bucket?

Now I felt like I was on trial. —Yes. Yes, I do.

—Are they swimming in your minnow bucket?

I’d had enough of this interrogation. I had refused to answer.

—Possession. You are in possession. Possession is illegal.

I knew not to argue. It wasn’t until later, after I had done my own research, that I had discovered my intentions were honest and I was indeed within the guidelines of the law. —I cut the Goby into two pieces and bait my hooks. They are no longer alive at this point; therefore, I am not in possession of them. It is perfectly legal to use a Goby for bait.

—But don’t you still have live Gobies in your minnow bucket?

True, I was ignoring this point; I could’ve been some crazed “save-the-Goby” lover. I decided to compromise. —From now on when I catch a Goby I will immediately cut him in half before placing him into the minnow bucket.

—Make sure your bait doesn’t have eggs on it.

I never knew fishing could be so damned complicated, so damned controversial. I refuse to let anyone take the fun out of it for me. How else can I relax after a hard day of working with convicted felons?

CHAIN SMOKING BABIES

Every educator has one—that student, that know-it-all perched upfront, intercepting every question lobbed toward the teacher’s desk.

“Spansky,” I said, “let me do the answering, not you.”

He volleyed back. “I’m trying to help. Can’t I help?”

“Spansky,” I rephrased, “I’m giving you a direct order: Mind your own business.”

Deterrence? I doubt it. Spansky knew everything AND I MEAN EVERYTHING. All you had to do was ask him.

As for respect, he never received it. No one appreciated his assistance. On that rare occasion when he was actually correct, the questioner questioned the origin of Spansky’s answer. “Thanks, Parrot Head,” the recipient of Spansky’s good deed would say.

“Don’t call me that.” Spansky didn’t appreciate the title.

“I saw Brookes whispering to you.”

“I already knew the answer,” Spansky claimed. He defended himself, justified his expertise on many topics, his mouth in continuous motion, a nervous chatter box. “I don’t need Brookes’s help or anyone else’s,” followed by some long-winded story involving Spanskyworld.

One day, Prisoner Evans asked, “What’s whooping cough?” and as usual Spansky beat me to the punch.

“Whooping cough,” he answered, “is what chain smokers get. It’s fairly common. I know a couple of inmates in our unit who have it. Officer Fowler has it too.”

Ignoring Spansky, Prisoner Evans repeated the question to me: “What’s whooping cough?”

I referred him to the World Book Encyclopedias.

“Fine!” Spansky interjected, “Don’t listen to me. See if I care!”

In a matter of minutes Prisoner Evans located whooping cough and read the passage out loud. “Hey Parrot Head,” he chuckled, “I didn’t realize how many chain smoking babies we got in this world.”

Spansky quickly changed his tune, “I never said anything about chain smoking.” Then he talked about his kids, how they grew up, how their mother left them at an early age, how he practically raised them on his own.

No one listened.

CLARITY OF NIGHT

Place a nursing home escapee on a motorcycle and let him ride into the night. That’s what I rolled with in the “Running Wind” short fiction contest. Three words shy of the maximum 250 and I’m not sure I hit all the right notes. Did I try to do too much in such a short space? Did this in turn lead to discontinuity? Would I have faired better with a simple chronological story? And then there’s word choice… Read my story here.

The self-doubt lingers, but I’ll move on.

Wait! One last thing—actually two—I revised my main character’s last line from “I had an accident” to “I didn’t make it.” Do you think it was the right decision?

Secondly, my odds on favorites to place in the top five are:

Henry Young “Bitch” - A biker gets his revenge on a relationship gone bad.

Charles Gramlich “Precious Cargo” – A biker makes a heartwarming rescue.

Sheri Perl-Oshins “GPS” – A daughter handles her Biker Dad’s navigation while simultaneously facing a dilemma of her own.

After reading 45 entries, my pick to win the whole enchilada is “GPS.” However, the contest is still open (click here: The Clarity of Night ), but you better be quick if you’re going to enter.

BUS STOP, 1970

Prisoner Wright positioned himself next to my desk, seeking the attention his cellmate could not give him. A cellmate in protective custody.

“Put my stapler down,” I said, trying to act indifferent.

“You know who my Bunkie is, don’t you?”

I stayed with my paperwork, checking to see if my students signed their work-evaluations. “Yeah, I know who he is.”

“He’s one stooopid motherfucker!”

I warned Prisoner Wright about insolence, that I could write him up. He rephrased his statement, again indicating his disapproval of his cellmate’s actions. “Why?” I asked. Prisoner Wright never told me, like some inmates do, that pedophiles should be castrated and left to bleed out.

“Why!” he shot back. “First of all, why would you reveal the whereabouts of the victim’s body after twenty-two years?”

“Maybe he wanted to clear his conscience, give the family closure.”

He shook his head. “He got no deal!”

I ignored him.

“You heard what I said didn’t you? He got no deal.”

I continued with my paperwork, thinking, is this what it’s all about?—manipulating the system, making it work for you—or is it about the sudden realization that a family has a right to give their little girl a proper burial? “Yeah,” I smiled, “he got no deal.”

To the family of Cindy Zarzycki, your daughter's coming home. May she rest in peace.

SHEEPHEAD

A student doing time for retail fraud and uttering & publishing, when confronted for the umpteenth time with the same procedural error: You cannot add the denominators of fractions, defended himself.

“I,” he said, “was a mathematical genius at my old school.”

What school? The school for dummies.

I asked, “What grade?”

“Fourth grade.”

I wasn’t in the mood to unearth the truth in his statement; after all, he internalized it, he believed it, and quite possibly, he’d stake his last dying breath on it. So maybe, just maybe, he had been the sharpest fourth grader in his class … his school … his district. He spoke with such conviction, such sincerity. He believed himself and that took precedent over all else.

“How old are you now?” I continued.

He started mean-mugging me, watery eyes and all. He knew where this conversation was headed. “Twenty-seven,” he answered.

Then I said it. I probably shouldn’t have. But I said it. “And you’re stuck at the fourth grade level.”

Then he did what most convicts do. He played with my emotions, he tugged at my heart strings, he announced that he had a closed-head injury which in turn led to short term memory loss.

“When was this?”

“Fifth grade,” he answered.

STAYCATION

I have nowhere to be, nowhere to go. It’s called a staycation—stay put, save money, burn less fuel. I’m not bellyachin’ about it, not like the bald, pot-bellied, middle-aged man I saw on the 6 o’clock news whining about his prized possession, his big azz boat, his mini-ocean liner, not leaving the marina.

The anchorwoman (not the snivelin' boat owner's wife, but the t.v. gal) reported that gasoline was $3.03 per gallon last 4th of July in Michigan. Most of us had complained, seems like a bargain now.

I wonder how many folks, such as myself, have decided to stay home. I wonder how many of these folks have joined carpools for work—that is—if they aren’t unemployed.

Have a safe, fun-filled holiday everyone. I’ll be thinking of you. Don’t be a gas-hog. Think GREEN.

IMAGINARY NONFICTION

I’ve taken up this new sport called “imaginary nonfiction,” my thoughts racing full-blast into the eye of a storm. I’ve been searching for the disappearance of a coworker, for a limb, for something to toss a lifeline to. He’s been submerged for far too long, the dark green water churning my thoughts.

In the school office in a plastic tray in plain view lay a copy of my Traverse City expense report, my social security number crossed-out, yet my address and phone number clearly visible. What if an inmate-porter intercepts this information? And if so, how will it be used against me? Perhaps he'll sell it to another inmate who will enter my phone number into a smuggled cell phone, and if caught, concoct an elaborate story of how I knew him in the “real world,” how I knew he was at our facility and didn’t report it, how I willingly keestered in a bag of dope every day of every month in exchange for a considerable amount of money.

Need I remind you, dear reader, that this is “imaginary nonfiction,” and, although it poses a real threat, only exists in the deep gray matter of one’s brain. We all have our price, but the inmates can’t afford me, and I sincerely believe they couldn’t afford my coworker as well.

A deputy warden, having done time himself, once said: It’s the prisoners’ job to ask and our job to say “no.”

—No, you can’t have a bathroom break.
—No, I’m not bringing magazines in for you.
—No, you can’t leave the classroom to go to the yard.

“No” breeds contempt. “No” breeds retaliation. The trick to longevity is to fight back with all your might. Fighting back means hiring the best defense lawyer money can buy. I’ll wait for my coworker to reappear. I’ll wait for someone to give me an explanation as to what happened. But I won’t wait to throw him that lifeline. It's the least I can do.

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.