WHAT KIND OF FISH IS THIS?

Forget the fish for a minute; it’s not a Perch.


I am begging that our government bail out our colleges and universities—at least the Michigan institutions of higher learning. THEY DON’T WANT MY BUSINESS.



I tried to register for a Media & Communication on Arts class at a local community college—I figured since my state is handing out huge tax breaks to the movie industry, I’d start learning digital photography, rendering, advertising, and digital video layout—but once again I was told that I needed to re-register. This community college has my high school diploma and college degree on file, yet, because I haven’t taken a class in over two years, they want me to “re-file” or “re-apply” due to my “un-declared” status.

Give me a break.

Isn’t Michigan hurting? If they had my transcripts on file, why would they deny me access to registering for classes? Last time this happened I had to speak to some pimply faced college kid at the registrar; she advised me that I needed to get a certain college professor’s permission to take a creative writing class (Hello Michelle!)—It did not matter that my Bachelor of Arts Degree in English had been on file. What the ... ??? … Bureaucratic horse manure crap is this?

So here I go again. Every five years I need six credit hours worth of coursework to renew my teaching certificate, however, no one—and I mean absolutely no one—understands this. Teachers, they think, have this torturous desire to spend every Goddamn minute of their fricking lives in a classroom.

Sorry. Not me.

Can anyone tell me what type of fish this is? I’d greatly appreciate it.

NO MORE SQUARES

My employer is weaning the inmates from their tobacco addictions in preparation of the 2009 smoking-ban. The prison commissary continues to stock less and less Bugler, rolling papers, and matches. Come January 1st, the shelves will have more space for healthier items. Tofu perhaps. Or carrot sticks. Come February 1st, all tobacco products will be considered contraband. Not even prison employees will be able to light-up.

My employer has issued eight memorandums so far to cover a multitude of hypothetical situations. The latest: staff and visitors arriving on prison grounds via public transportation, motorcycle, bicycle, or moped … will be given the opportunity to secure their cancer sticks in the visitors or staff lockers. This, of course, is the only exception. Those who drive trucks or cars must secure their squares in their vehicles. Also, no smoking will be allowed on state grounds, this includes cigarette breaks inside parked cars. Can’t do it; they have cameras monitoring the parking lot.

It’ll be interesting to see what transpires from a complete smoking ban. Even the Native American prisoners will no longer be able to keep tobacco in their medicine bags. Instead, they will be given the opportunity to use medicinal herbs. Matches and lighters are included on the banned list as well.

Of course, none of this will keep the inmates from smoking God-knows-what. I’m sure there’ll be a few torched electrical outlets. But hey, it’s for the greater good of everyone.

I’ll need to review all the self-defense pressure points and nerve motor points of the human body. You never know when an irritable inmate will try you. I’m already getting sick of all the sticky chewed sucker sticks tossed on my classroom carpet.

SMALL TALK INSIDE THE PEN

(Mutual greeting between two prisoners)
— What up Dog?
— What up?

(In Unison)
— What up Teach?

(A white female corrections officer walks by the classroom window.)
— Checkout that flat screen.
— Ooooh yeah, I’d like to book that. Get up close and personal.
— (Laughing) You ain’t got no HD. You analog.
— (Agitated) Quit false flaggin’ you pump-fakin’ mutha.
— (Speaking to the empty corridor) I’m high def, Baby. Check-out my digital.

(A few minutes later a black female employee walks by.)
— Ooooh wee, she got two midgets on her back.
— (More Laughter) You couldn’t handle a round ticket.
— (More Agitated) Man, I’ll roll any dice table come my way. Black or white.
— No you won’t.
— (Puffs out chest) Yes I would.
— (Puffs out his chest too) Quit stuntin’ on me.
— (Clenches his fists) I got a two piece combo for yah.
— (Waves him off) Okay Little Caesar. Okay Little Man.
— I got five for five.
— Don’t make me put a tilt in your halo.

(They stand up, ready to lock horns. Their teacher approaches.)
— Do your schoolwork.
— I don’t want no smoke.
— Yeah, me neither.

(They sit back down.)
— You see Obama’s oldest daughter on TV the other night?
— Don’t even go there, my niece her age.
— She gonna live in the White House.
(They high-five one another.)
— Got that right.

ONE SQUARE AT A TIME

I threatened the Food Tech Teacher. “One square at a time,” I said. “One square at a time.” He knew what I meant based on previous conversations regarding the new carpeting in his classroom. He also knew that in order to resolve my computer problem I had cabbaged a CPU from an office area. What he didn’t know is whether or not I was serious.

Two months ago during a staff meeting, we were informed about the innovative explanation used for getting carpet approved in the Food Tech dining area. In order to simulate a pleasurable dining experience, the argument went, carpet needed to be installed. It didn’t matter what type—sculpted Berber, shag, plush, indoor, outdoor, industrial strength—as long as we were eternally grateful for management’s ingenuity. On behalf of the teaching staff, I say, Thank-You, from the bottom of our hearts.

Maintenance had no qualms laying the carpet either. Once they received the work order, their inmate-workforce opened the boxes and tackled the project as if it were a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle. They were done within an hour.

I stood in the dining area, admiring its appearance. Nothing beats the smell of new carpet. And I’m sure the smell would’ve been even stronger had they used glue. Maybe management couldn't justify purchasing it.

“I’m thinking about re-carpeting my classroom,” I said to the Food Tech Teacher.

“Oh yeah?” he said, his suspicions warranted.

I kicked at the floor, toed an edge. “One square at a time.”

ANGELS' NIGHT IN DETROIT

I’m all tapped out.
Hollow on the inside.
But face still intact.

In order to fight the evil spirits of the night,
I am requesting that all comments be left at:

"I am Batman"

Everyone should be a superhero.

Have a Happy Halloween!

HALLOWEEN TRAUMA

Mothers should not, I repeat SHOULD NOT, make their children's Halloween costumes. Nor should they be able to accessorize. Let the kids come up with their own attire.

Many moons ago (not long enough to forget) I had wanted to be a brave warrior, one with war paint, a tomahawk, and a feather. Do you see a feather? Do you see war paint? Do I look fierce? Does the ring on my right hand scare you? Does it make me more Native Americanish?

My brother (the old white man/traditional hobo) and I may have scored plenty of candy that year, but at what cost? At what damage to my psyche?

"Trick or Treat!" We'd yell. "Trick or Treat!"

It didn't matter who was behind the door; The reactions were pretty much the same. "Here's a Bit O'Honey for you little man, and here's one for your little sister."

The rabbit's foot around my neck did not bring me one ounce of good luck. Everyone thought I was a squaw! A SQUAW! The make-up on my face didn't help either.

HALLOWEEN TRAUMA (Part 2)

Here’s why mother’s shouldn’t let their sons grow up to be cowboys, or should I say dress them to be cowboys? Look! Just look at my outfit! Oh sure, at the time I was smiling. Wouldn’t you?—I’d just opened a present, the camera was pointed at me. But I think my smile was forced. Or at least I’m now wishing it were forced. I’m pretty sure I wanted to be a cowboy. A Clint Eastwood type of cowboy, not a Gene Autry type of cowboy! Not to be disrespectful, Mr. Autry did serve in World War II, but I’m not a musical type of guy. What happened to A Fistful of Dollars (1964), For a Few Dollars More (1965), The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (1966), Hang’em High (1968), and The Outlaw of Josie Wales (1976)? I know, the last one was seven years after this photo, but so what—these were spaghetti westerns filmed in Italy and no one complained.

Now the complaints. Where’s my gun holster? Where’s my six-shooter? I’ll tell you where—there isn’t any! I had a guitar instead. I’m posing with it in another picture. My brother’s by my side. Guess what he is? A damned Indian Chief with complete headdress. Tons of feathers too. What was I to do? Shoot him with my six-stringer? Sing him to death?

So there you have it—another Halloween trauma. Like a Rhinestone Cowboy. Hell, I’d rather be in West World, a Malfunctioning Robot Cowboy, not a Village People “YMCA” Cowboy. I think you understand—a Macho Macho Man type of Cowboy! Or do you think I’m confused?

HALLOWEEN TRAUMA (Part 3)

I’ve been damaged beyond repair. I’ve searched every closet and every photo album of my childhood for that scary evil costume and came up empty. Let’s face it—there aren’t any. I’ve come to the conclusion that my mommy—yeah, might as well say it (even at this age)—my mommy selected my costumes.

Here I am, not as a ferocious animal of the Wild Kingdom; I’m no King Kong (If I were, I would’ve been dressed like Curious George); I’m no King of the Jungle (If so, I would’ve been Kimba the White Lion); I’m not even a Hippopotamus, which is by far the most dangerous creature on the planet (If so, I would’ve been a Ballerina Hippo from Disney’s Fantasia). No, I’m none of these. Yet, I’m traumatized.

Perhaps at an early age I knew my mother’s influences, her motives, her maternal instincts, how she’d soften my costumes, how she’d transform them from evil to good, from that killer instinct to something of beauty and grace.

“What do you want to be for Halloween this year?” she always asked.

The answer’s obvious, just look at the picture: A giraffe! How’s that for sticking my neck out? —A store-bought costume. Only problem, did I truly choose this animal? Or was I trying to play it safe? And even more puzzling—I’m standing next to (not Smokey-the-Bear) but a nasty growling bear! Grrrrr!!!

INSPIRE (HALLOWEEN FLASH)

The basketball’s leather exterior, porous as it may be, did not dampen the free throw line. Leonard made sure of that; it’s surface coat smooth as a pumpkin’s rind.

Leonard hid in the trees, waiting for an unsuspecting baller (that’s what he called the little boys, sometimes stressing the first syllable in a mock-anxiety-tone: “BAAAWLER”), and to pass the time he polished his Church retreat rock, given to him by Father Joe, their mutual do-not-tell-a-soul relationship long expired once Leonard figured out there had been others.

As the wind sighed, Leonard noticed a frazzled tendril of leather dancing atop his basketball and this annoyed him to no end. “I should cut it off,” he kept thinking, but to do so meant climbing down the large Maple tree. He decided against it. He’d wait, alternating his time between polishing his rock and whittling a small snapped branch.

Eleven-year-old Jamaal, on his way home from school, decided to cut through Welter Park, and when he reached the basketball court, Leonard’s heart spoke through his ears, the same reassuring message pounding into his head: Inspire, inspire, inspire... He preferred someone a bit older, someone around the same age he had been when Father Joe touched him with a speech about “Inspiration.” However, this younger boy would have to do. “I will lead the way,” Leonard whispered. “I will lead the way through the valley of darkness.”

Once Jamaal reached the top of the key, Leonard shouted down to him, “Hey there, you. Yeah, you.”

Puzzled as to where the voice came from, the gentle breeze manipulating its origins, Jamaal did a clumsy pirouette.

“Up here,” Leonard shouted. “Toss me the ball.”

Jamaal proceeded with caution.

“Come ‘on, I don’t have all day.”

Jamaal dropped his backpack and quickly picked up the ball. With both hands, he tossed it with all his might.

“You gotta do better than that,” Leonard shouted.

No matter how hard the boy tried, he could not throw the ball high enough. “I’m sorry Mister,” he said. “I’ve got to go home.”

Leonard had hoped to deliver his own version of the “Inspiration” speech, and as luck would have it, Jamaal wiped the salty sweat from his eyes.

A SECOND CHANCE

I had asked my father what he had asked his surgeon, “Prakash. Why does that name sound familiar?” The young phlebotomist (half my age) ignored us, content on searching for a good vein.

“His niece,” my father answered, “is a news reporter for a TV station. I can’t remember which one.”

“That’s right. Anu Prakash,” I replied. The name stuck with me—don’t ask me how?—but I couldn’t recall her face. A week ago my father was changing the plugs on his four-wheel drive truck, preparing for his annual Wyoming hunting trip when he doubled-over in pain. In forty-some-odd-years he’s never missed that trip. My mother rushed him to the hospital where he underwent a major operation. Now he’s home, still bed-ridden, but healing.

“I asked the Doc, ‘Where did the name Anu come from?’” My father never did have a problem striking up a conversation. “The Doc told me when his niece was born the hospital requested a name from his brother. His brother held the baby high in the air for everyone to see and said, ‘A new Prakash.’ So the name stuck—with a variation in the spelling of course.”

I never met my father’s surgeon; I’m sure he fabricated the story, reconstructed it to perfection. My father had one set back on his road to recovery: His surgeon redid his navel, re-cored and tied it; however, due to a lack of blood flow, the skin died back. As for the origin of my father’s name—I refuse to make something up.

TICKLE ME ELMO

On my desk cradled in a tape dispenser sits a lacquered wooden paddle. It’s a grab-and-go bathroom pass. My way of saying: This is adult education, where you don’t have to ask for permission to tinkle. However, Posted Rule Number 8 clearly states: The school bathrooms will be closed during the last fifteen minutes of each class session. It’s a non-issue because I lock the pass in my desk drawer to limit temptation.

I hear it all the time: “This is bullshit; I should be able to go whenever I want.” Oh sure, prisoners have their rights—don’t we all? —Only problem: using those rights to gain an unfair advantage is a definite no-no; in other words, leaving my bathroom pass in the can and sneaking out of the school building early is grounds for a ticket.

I recall one inmate in particular, (I'll call him Prisoner Elmo) he cussed me out. “I’ll go whenever the f*%k I want!” He did just that. Much to his credit (Am I assuming too much?) he returned with a corrections officer in tow. “Give me your I.D.,” the C.O. ordered. Prisoner Elmo complied.

Later, after class had ended, this corrections officer gave me a lecture. “You need to have better control of your students. You need to keep them in class.” When I mentioned this incident to a peer, he said, “What did he expect you to do—tackle and tickle him?”

“I think so,” I answered.

OUR DYING YOUTH

We go about our business in Detroit as if we are immune to the killing of our children … I believe we need the death penalty for anyone that kills a child in Michigan. Detroit City Council President Monica Conyers, Detroit Free Press

Regardless of how much education I have (or get) I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll spend the rest of my natural working life in prison. It’s all there, spelled out in black and white, clear as today’s headlines. But I had my eureka moment last week when an older, heavily medicated, black gent sitting in the front of my classroom told me he shot a man for raping his daughter. “I got no use for pedophiles,” he said, “or for anyone who harms children. They need to be shot.” Because there were probably a half dozen students directly behind him who fit that description, I deflected his comments the best way I knew how.

They all have unique stories of what went wrong in their lives, what they’d do differently (if anything). The older, heavily medicated, black gent sits in the front row, expressionless, serving his time with honor. I treat him no differently than the others, the baby rapers, the car-jackers, the wanna-be-gangstas.

He approaches my desk. He says, “You know what saggin’ spells backward don’t you?” He’s referring to the low riding pants that most of my students wear. I’m indifferent. I shrug my shoulders. He writes it down on my desk calendar: Niggas. “The only good one is a dead one,” he adds.

“We were all young once.” It's the best I can do.

“Yeah, I know,” he responds.

I've tried to understand, but now it doesn’t seem to matter.

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!