WHAT BARNEY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

All week long I’ve learned about “Collaborative Case Management” at a Holiday Inn Express—four days to be exact. It’s part of the MPRI program (Michigan Prisoner ReEntry Initiative). The CCM approach is to get everyone on the same page: social workers, probation/parole agents, prison educators, custody staff, prisoners, and last but not least, supervisors of the Michigan Department of Corrections. The trainers did a fantastic job presenting the material. You could see how passionate they were about the program in their message of how the benefits of CCM far outweigh the negatives.

But I’m not so sure.

And it’s not their fault.

We were asked by the trainers whether we would be willing to wear purple jumpsuits if management made it a requirement—it’s one of the training modules. Most of us did not have a problem with being supplied uniforms. The trainers listed our pros and cons regarding this issue. From that discussion, Mark G., a parole agent with over thirty years of experience, shared a story about being dressed as Barney for a children’s benefit at the Macomb Mall. While doing the gig, he recognized a parolee, a habitual booster. He followed the parolee through the mall, and sure enough, caught the man stealing. Since this was a clear parole violation, and Mark G., aka Barney, aka parole agent, witnessed it, an arrest was made.

Some of us didn’t believe his story.

On the last day of training a special guest appeared—Barney! In the spirit of collaboration, he tried to engage us in the “I love you, you love me” song. We had our laughs. Some employees even took pictures of the purple dinosaur. Barney stayed for no more than five minutes, then left. When Mark G. appeared he seemed disappointed to have missed all the fun. You could see the sadness in his eyes.

After lunch, when everyone reported back to the Holiday Inn Express, it was evident that the two trainers were upset. Since I did not leave the Holiday Inn, I witnessed part of the interrogation.

Without the trainers’ prior knowledge, a trainee took a picture of them with Barney and sent it to another state employee. That state employee, who doesn’t care for Mark G., sent it to a superior in Lansing. The superior in Lansing sent it to a district manager. The district manager, along with another superior, drove from their offices thirty minutes away to the Holiday Inn Express to interrogate the trainers.

Hmmm… and I’m supposed to agree with a program that embraces collaboration? Where’s the love? I guess there isn’t any.

As for Mark G., he called his union representative.

I wished him well. Not that he needs it. He’s run nine marathons, drinks Mountain Dew by the buckets full, and firmly believes that a criminal will quit their criminal life when they are tired. In his own words: “I’m here to tire them out.” As for his supervisor, give him hell, Mark!

MULTIPLYING BIRDS

“Okay, show me the birds,” I’ll say whenever someone important is being escorted down the prison school corridor. “Palms out, away from your face, birds touching.”

Most of the inmates know the exercise. From thumbs to pinkies, each digit represents the numbers six through ten, respectively. I write “8 x 8” on the board, just in case someone has forgotten.

“Your birds are eights,” I’ll remind them. “Birds on down count as ten each, so how much do you have?”

By now I’ll have lost most of them. A few might understand. As for you, smart-reader-that-you-are, it’s easier than a game of twister in prison (not something you’d want to partake in). “Sixty,” you should have figured out by now.

“Okay, how many fingers are above the birds?”

Again, if you’re sitting at your computer doing this exercise, or looking at the picture, you’ll notice two fingers above the left bird and two fingers above the right bird.

“What’s 2 x 2?” I’ll ask.

“Four.”

“Put it all together and what do you have?”

“Sixty plus four, umm, ehhh, … sixty-four.”

And who says blogging can’t be educational? Watch the video below for more instruction.

A SPY SNOOZER

I, JR Thumbprints, willfully, and of my own volition, cancelled afternoon GED Classes on July __ , 2009. I did this knowingly and without proper consent. Getting permission would have meant correspondence with Lansing, which in turn would have meant disrupting a committee meeting (or two or three) for approval, which would have meant canceling said classes while waiting for said answer to cancel said classes—instead, I said nothing, to nobody, and cancelled. Besides, I could not see myself disrupting those in Lansing dedicated to renewing their Continuing Education Credits.

Furthermore, I, JR Thumbprints, had prior knowledge that canceling classes would be a direct NO NO, subject to 40 lashes with a wet noodle.

On the date in question, Prison Informant A relayed information to me regarding Prison Informant B’s emailed message to Lansing regarding the above information concerning my improper conduct. I, in turn, provided Prison Informant A information as to why I cancelled class: Student Payroll and Tutor Payroll.

Whether Prison Informant A’s information about Prison Informant B’s actions was reliable remains questionable. I do not know the motives. Nor do I have the time to delve into such matters. For those of you having similar difficulties (and for Informants A & B) click on the following link for assistance: The Bear.

DISAPPEARANCE ...

TV GUIDE:

MSNBC 10:00 PM Tonight: “Disappearance at the Dairy Queen”

CATEGORY: Special, Documentary, Crime

SYNOPSIS: Cindy Zarzycki goes missing while walking to a local Dairy Queen to get a ride to a surprise birthday party for her boyfriend Scott.

STARRING: No one.


I'm sickened by it. How do I explain?

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”?

I wouldn't get my answer until a year later, when I settled in for the night, after eating my dinner, walking the dog, then returning to see what was on television, to see what might interest me. My thoughts came rushing back; I'll never forget the exchange of kindness. I wish it would have never happened. I wish that girl would have never disappeared. I wish they could have rewritten the ending. But then again, it's a documentary involving a killer, a killer that I had met, a killer I had "thanked" for holding a door open as I walked past, as he waited to meet his fate.

HOW A POEM LEADS TO MURDER

I hadn’t read the poem “My Brother Killing My Brother” in years—2004 to be exact. The Detroit poet said he had no idea it would apply to U.S. soldiers. I guess timing is everything when it comes to publishing.

I brought the poem inside a correctional facility, its true meaning hidden within the pages of a now defunct literary journal, a meaning soon to be stretched within the confines of three concertina-wired fences and neighboring gun towers.

“I know this poet’s brother!” the classroom tutor says, chuckles. He parks his wheelchair near my desk.

I have a confession to make: I’m not passionate enough about poetry, unless, of course, it’s confessional poets validating their words through extreme measures. Still, I listen.

The tutor tells me how the poet’s brother pummeled a man with a baseball bat, how the poet’s brother didn’t know his victim, how the cops discovered the poet’s brother sleeping in a field not too far from the car he’d left idling on the shoulder of the road, how that car idled until it ran out of gas. “James,” the tutor remarks, “blacked out. The cops woke him up. He hadn’t a clue about what he’d done.” More laughter.

Of course I have no way of substantiating any of this; I have the words of a prisoner confined to a wheelchair.

I study the words, I stop at the subtitle: (in a series of poems denouncing violence). I read about images of exposed brain: tofu in Merlot sauce, feta cheese & beet juice on a salad of sticky hair, white chips of shattered skull…

I’m mesmerized by the words, by the totality of it all. And I’m a bit shocked as well. I feel like a detective assessing the crime scene. Who is this Detroit poet in question? I read parts of the byline: Joseph Ferrari, business owner of Leadfoot Press. If I wanted to know more, I’d contact the poet. I’d start by asking, “Do you have a brother?” Not that I need to—the poem has done its job, the poem is that good.

IN SEARCH OF ...

I want the truth. That’s what it came down to. Not writing style. Not subject matter. Not even character. Just “Truth”—its complexity, its many facets. It didn’t matter whether the fictional characters knew about the truth, discovered it, stumbled upon it, or were killed by it—that’s not what I was searching for—what mattered is how I discovered or accepted that “Truth.”

I’m talking about my top five picks for the Reader’s Choice award at Jason Evan’s Clarity of Night’s “Truth in Wine” contest.

Ironically, my personal favorite, “Vintage” by Jimmie Vee did not make my top five. I desperately tried to justify why it should be my number one pick; however, the discovery of “Truth” rang hollow. Oh sure, I loved the writing style. I loved the story. I certainly could identify with Tripp as he admired his wine bottle, as he drank from it and discovered the wine’s vinegary taste; unfortunately, his deliberate actions did not meet my acceptance of “Truth”. Maybe it was the return of his smile, how it meant an acknowledgment that Vivian had died over nothing, her accusatory voice silenced forever. He felt perfectly comfortable with the outcome. He’ll remain an abuser, a murderer. But to not show disappointment over the wine’s vinegary taste after admiring its contents is to show an absence of “Truth.”

I could go on and on—there were so many excellent entries—but to do so would not change my mind regarding my top five picks. My list includes stories involving female coworkers whose differences blossom, an ex-Vichy accepting his fate once presented with a vial of poison, a young couple's romantic encounter in a barn while their country becomes involved in war, the intimacy between objects after a glass of wine is spilled, and an illegal immigrant’s longing for his homeland, a country he ran away from. Without further ado (and without explanation) here are my top five picks in descending order:

Five: "Exit Strategy" by Angelique H. Caffrey
Four: "Judgment Day" by Peter Dudley
Three: "Truth in Wine" by Bebo
Two: "Intimacy" by Precie
One: "Moussa's Stop" by Dottie Camptown

*Footnote: I posted this after the Reader’s Choice deadline so as not to influence others.

THE SOBER TRUTH ABOUT TYLER & ZACHARY ON BICKERSTAFF STREET

Management switched my route. No overtime. No allowances for strange dogs sniffing at my heels, slowing me down. I’m on Bickerstaff, a cul-de-sac, last street before lunch. It’s hotter than the Devil’s breath out here.

“Mister, you look thirsty.”

“Well I’m not.” This kid’s sitting with a younger boy at a card table. Crystal stemware flicker like diamonds above a handwritten sign: Drinks, $5. A cooler sits in the uncut grass.

He introduces himself as Tyler, says, “It’s for a good cause.” He tells me a sob story how his baby-brother Zachary broke Mom’s vase, how they’re raising money to replace it.

Mom obviously doesn’t know, or they’d be using Styrofoam or plastic. I cram letters in their mailbox and smile at Zachary.

“Daddy said Mommy’s a whore.”

“Pardon me?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.

“Zachary’s disturbed,” Tyler says.

“What,” I ask, “could you possibly be selling at that price?”

Tyler opens the cooler, pulls out a bottle of Merlot, starts pouring.

“You can’t serve alcohol. You’re minors. Where are your parents?”

“Dad’s gone,” Tyler says.

“And your mother?”

“She’s gone too!” Zachary shouts.

There’s definitely anger in his voice. I wave my cell phone, indicate “police.” Tyler pleads with me, gives me their aunt’s number. I call her instead.

“I’m their legal guardian,” she says.

I explain my predicament, the alcohol, my social obligation.

“Their father’s in prison,” she says, “for murder.”

“And the mother?”

“Are you kidding? She’s on the fireplace mantel.”


**Originally posted at Clarity of Night.

THE BROOM-CLOSET-OFFICE

When your boss sticks you in a broom-closet near the med-lines and tells you this is your new office, you do not argue. He is a doctor; You are nineteen. You need your job. But still, you are more deserving than a broom-closet.

Still, you perform your secretarial duties like before, back when you shared an office space with the other female coworkers. Now it’s different, you are alone. In a broom-closet. Near the med-lines. In a male prison.

When you begin your shift, an inmate shimmies your lock with a paperclip and steps into your broom-closet-office. He closes the door and thrusts a shank in your direction. You do what you’re trained to do—you holler for help and pull your PPD (Personal Protection Device). You do this at approximately the same time his fist connects with your face.

Luckily, the corrections officers respond and you are not hurt. Luckily, the maintenance workers did not act on the maintenance request your boss submitted—you know, to have your broom-closet-office re-keyed. I guess your boss didn’t think it would be necessary for the officers to have access to your broom-closet-office. Thankfully, the only deterrent keeping the officers from helping you was a paperclip. You are safe.

I mention these things, not to be funny. I say this because one of our employees could’ve been killed today.

LETTER TO THE WHITE HOUSE

Dear President Obama:

When Air Force One flew over our prison the other day—we are a “no fly” zone by the way; had some kook in an ultra light waving to the prisoners—my immediate concerns were “how will I get home for dinner?” I had visions of secret service agents, men in black, shutting down I-94. I based my fears on a previous surprise visit by former President George W. Bush. He disrupted traffic for miles, for hours … and for what?—to purchase candy at Morley’s. My worries, at least this time, were unwarranted and purely selfish. I was hungry. I’m married. I have obligations. You understand.

But I digress. First, I’d like to thank you, Mr. President, for visiting Michigan and emphasizing how the unemployed autoworkers, the unemployed in general, need retraining. I wonder: Should those of us who are happily employed seek retraining as well?

If so, you needn’t worry about me. I’m like a chameleon. I can adapt to anything. For instance, when my work computer crapped out and promises of a new one went unfulfilled, I cabbaged a CPU from another area. When the Department of Information & Technology uninstalled the learning software on my student computers, I copied worksheets for them during my bathroom break. When my employer gave me furlough days, I crammed 80 hours worth of work into a 72-hour pay period.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I can do more with less … and less … and less … and less. Is that what is meant by retraining? Learning to do more of everything and getting less in return? Is this the new United States’ Work Equation?

Improved Skills + Bigger Work Load = Less Money

Thanks in advance. Sincerely,

JR the Prison Educator

TOO MUCH WINE & TRUTH SPEAKS

I’ve been reading all those “In Vino Veritas (Truth in Wine)” short fiction entries at Jason Evan’s Clarity of Night and leaving comments. Funny thing is, the writer of one of my favorite flashes (so far) had to defend his story from what I thought was a compliment.

Here’s what I said: I must admit, the way your main character was examining the bottle, I had a feeling it would be used as a weapon. Still, the descriptions were very well done.

His response: JR, I’m sorry to hear that working in a prison environment all these years has traumatized you to the point that you expect anything taken up in hand will likely be used as a weapon (although it is certainly understandable). I don’t feel the climax was so obviously laid out for the “general population” reader. Nonetheless, I do appreciate your and everyone else’s comments.

Hmmm… from the tone of his response, I’m not sure he appreciated my comment—that is, unless he wants to invite me over for a glass of wine. I’ll leave it at that. I encourage everyone to read his story (it really is that good). Click here.

Oh, and if you haven’t read my flash, here’s the link:

The Sober Truth about Tyler & Zachary on Bickerstaff Street.

LOST, FOUND & CLARITY OF NIGHT

Another happy childhood memory, another “Young Author’s Award” (1973), and another disturbing page from a much larger work. Perhaps Julie (see her comment on July 8th’s post) has a valid point—I’m beginning to see and hear the poetry; the words are jumping off the prison stationary.









There’s no need for commentary here, but if you’d like to read my flash fiction story, “The Sober Truth about Tyler & Zachary on Bickerstaff Street” then "X" marks the spot. Also, as the competition “wines” down (deliberate spelling, pun intended), I’ll give you the links to my favorites.

LOST & FOUND

I threw out my high school diploma years ago; curbed it with the regular trash. I’m not sure why I had done this.

—Why did the ancient mariner shoot the albatross?
—Why not?
—Because it was there.

I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered a “Young Author’s Award” tucked between the pages of a book I’d read long ago (James Dickey). It’s those things that we don’t readily see that end up surviving. I won this award two years in a row, 6th and 7th grade, and attended a Young Writers’ Conference at Malow Junior High School. What did I write about? Beats me. What I do know is that thirty-five years later and I have yet to attend another writing conference. Most of my stories are workshopped amongst the felons I teach.

On a different note, when I showed this certificate to my brother, he recalled Principal Cunningham’s daughter. When we were both in college, he dated her for a short period of time. Her first name escapes us.

As for the second, fairly current document written on prisoner stationery, it’s the misplaced work of a delusional individual. This is part of a much larger work that he is trying to get published. I wonder how long it will take before he discovers that his masterpiece is incomplete. Perhaps the story is so disjointed that it shouldn’t take away from his brilliance. I will say this: most of his time and energy is devoted to his art.

TURN THE ... SCROLL THE ...

Based on the premise that “you are your books,” I have to say I’m losing myself. Call me an organ donor, donating pieces of myself to my local community’s book sale, basing my sacrifices on the following: “Will I ever read that novel or that short story collection again?” I already know the answer and I refuse to delve any deeper than one word—“NO”—even after scanning my bookshelves, reading each title, jogging my memory of stories, plots, themes, characters, authors and so much more. “No.”

My reading habits are slowly changing too. I’m no longer turning as many pages; I’m scrolling and pointing instead. I’m creating new experiences over the Internet. I’m adding online literary journals to the “my favorites” tab on my web browser, as well as deleting a few less favorable favorites. Still, there are a few books I will continue purchasing annually. "The Pushcart Anthology" is one of them; I get the best stories, poems, and essays of the small presses without having to subscribe to all those literary journals. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still subscribing to a few journals here and there.

Now I have another must order book, spawned by my changing reading habits—“Best of the Web 2009” published by Dzanc Books in Westland, Michigan. I had preordered it and so far it’s worth every penny. Why, you may ask, am I paying for something I can read for free over the Internet? Let’s just say I’m boosting Michigan’s economy and Dzanc Books is steering me in the direction of some of the best fiction and poetry on the Internet.

Kick ass story from Best of the Web 2009:
“When My Girlfriend Lost the Weight” by Matt Getty from "FRIGG."

“…There I go, turn the page.” Bob Seger

“…There I go again, scroll the page." JR Thumbprints

FLASH

My horoscope for today: VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22) Do some writing. Once you let go and let the words flow, the process is enthralling.

Just in time for another writing contest at Jason Evan’s The Clarity of Night. All you need to do is create a 250-word story based on the photograph to the right. There are cash prizes and no entry fee, which is a rarity in these harsh economic times. Watch for an announcement at his site for the submission window period.

My interest in flash-fiction hasn’t waned. A majority of what I read from on-line literary magazines is flash stories. It’s the most difficult art form to pull off (besides poetry). I hope to see you at the competition.

Recommended flash-fiction: Taco Foot by Jack Pendarvis. Where else can you find a flash-fiction story told in 3 chapters?

Also, if you're really in the writing groove, check-out the Motor City Burning Press website (click on logo) for submission information.

CHARACTERS

I wish I could come up with some original characters of my own, characters with real voices (the gravellier the better), characters with physical limitations who beat insurmountable odds and make the reader all warm and fuzzy inside. I’m not sure I can do this, or should I say, I’m not sure the composite sketches I’ve drawn lately are satisfactory. I’m basing most of my research on listening, on ear-hustling.

In the prison lunchroom the other day, the Horticulture instructor and one-time Institutional Maintenance teacher (aka Mopology educator) talked about a one-legged student buffing the hallway floors. “Spun him around like a top.” He said it as if he were reporting the news with the utmost objectivity, with no inflection in his voice. “The buffer knocked him on his ass a few times.” Someone asked for a name. I’m not sure he remembered the student’s actual name and if he did, I must’ve forgotten it. “The other prisoners,” he replied, “called him Kickstand.” No empathy in prison.

In today’s photo, my brother and I are proudly sitting on my Dad’s BSA while he takes our picture. Do you see how I arrived here? Why I’ve chosen this pic? I’m the little guy in front.

WHEN TO CATCH A STORY

Gamblers will tell you about their winnings; As if the lever they’re pulling serves one function and one function only: It opens a secret door to their money trough. "I’m going to the Motor City Casino after my shift," the conversation starts. I needn’t remind my one coworker about how she’d been held hostage on her last visit when someone called in a fake bomb threat.

As for me, I’d rather set foot on my Dad’s Starcraft boat, or at least cast a line from shore into the murky waters below. "I’m going fishing after work," my conversation starts. And like my fellow gamblers, you’re sure to hear stories about that big whale-of-a-fish that nearly got away. And if he did get away, well then, he just got bigger—"I was up by six hundred dollars before my luck had changed." How else do you soften your losses?

On a similar note, my wife’s been gearing up for her garden tour, and like most Master Gardeners, she’s tending to extra plants that’ll be free to a good home. Near our shed, in the direct sun, are four plastic dish pans filled with water plants. To our surprise, baby goldfish had inhabited the same area. "I remember," my Dad says, recalling his youth as he taps on the goldfish bowl, "having to clean the eaves on our farmhouse and finding minnows swimming around." He says this as if it were an every day natural occurrence. He needn’t explain how they got up there. I jot this down in my notebook for future use in a story.

PRISON GRADUATION 2009

I'm not quite sure how I got roped into it, probably because I'm an "Old Head,” and even though I received a 4.0 grade in my college public speaking course, I certainly didn't volunteer for the task. I couldn't duck-n-dodge the Master of Ceremonies duty for this year's prison graduation. We had approximately 140 people in attendance, including Jeff Gerritt, a Detroit Free Press columnist. He was our keynote speaker offering words of wisdom to approximately 100 inmates.

With my back against the wall, with no room to maneuver, I agreed to MC; I did it under the following conditions: Get me an interview and photo op with Jeff Gerritt. Make it front page material. Also, allow me the freedom to give my opinions without censorship by the Michigan Department of Corrections.

Were my demands met? Nope. I guess I wanted too much. Still, the graduation went as smooth and silky as the skin on a baby catfish.

The highlight of the event: One of the GED Graduates, bloated and crazy from all his psychotropic meds, did as I had suggested in our rehearsal. "Mr. T," he reminded me, "remember to remove your rubber bands before stepping up to the podium.”

Thank you, Inmate Brown!

MCBP LOGO CONTEST

Win $50 by designing a kick ass logo. Details here.
MCBP's comments on other logos can be viewed here.

WHAT REALLY STINKS

I’m puzzled as to why I can never place in the top three at the annual Bayport, Michigan, Good Ole’ Boys Cat Fish Tournament. My wife is quick to point out that it shouldn’t matter as long as I had fun. "Besides," she minimizes, "’Catfish’ is one word and ‘Olay’ is a skin moisturizer." I’ve been hearing this for years, or whenever I wear the latest tournament ball cap around the yard. It’s a consolation prize; everybody gets one for entering the competition. I paid for it—fifty bucks—so I might as well wear the damn thing. (Side note: Should I ask my wife if "ball cap" is a compound word?)

Anyway, I’ve tried all kinds of stink bait. I’ve packaged sun-ripened chicken liver in small strips of panty hose. I’ve smeared garlic & cheese paste on small plastic plugs with embedded hooks. I’ve injected night crawlers with store bought pheromones (makes them swell-up to twice their original size and gives them sex appeal). None of these methods has worked. This time I bought leeches at $2.99 per dozen because Billy P. (who places year after year) uses them. He didn’t fair as well this time, no prize money. Still, my hat goes off to him; he hauled in bigger fish and I’m sure he wasn’t as prepared as past years considering he’s running on batteries thanks to a recent heart-attack. Did he not use leeches? I’m not sure. What I do know is that baiting the hook isn’t easy when the leech is latched to your skin.

I’m home now. My neighbor leans against the fence. "How’d the fishing tournament go?" He’s originally from down south. He considers me a Yankee. He knows how I’ll answer; it’s the same damn response. I give him the weights of the top three fish. I’m sure he’s unimpressed. "What really stinks," I say, "is having to go back to work." He loves every minute of it. He’s retired. I wonder if he uses skin moisturizer after a hard day of gardening. Maybe I should ask him. But I won't.

WHEN A SUBURBANITE SUFFERS

There’s decay in the Motor City; it’s in the roots of my teeth,
stuck like taffy, I gnaw and pull at the yellow tape. There’s
fencing too, down the south side of a dead-end street—a factory
caught in my braces, Everywhere: foreclosed homes and empty
lots, worse than unfilled cavities. I gum Better Mades and dream
of a stimulus package in a brown paper bag placed on the console
of my Chevy. Whiskey and Vernors, for medicinal purposes,
me traveling, no tires, just cement blocks and fragmite. Pain too,
in my jaw, raw raw pain, a telling sign that I’m alive. I step into a
blacktop oven and smile my jagged smile and scale the chain link
fence and yell to my fellow Detroiters, “We must organize!”






Logo contest here! Winner gets $50.

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Congrats to George Dila for his second place finish in Literal-Latte's short story contest!

LOSING CREDIBILITY: A QUEST FOR CHANGE

I never really think about it—the routines set forth in my medium security classroom. I just roll with it. I’m certainly not influenced by the status quo. Prisoner management, to me anyway, is like chaos theory: Chaos breeds order and vice-versa. Prison life, if you really think about it, is all about routine; Upset that balance, that state of equilibrium, and there’s bound to be a fall-out. What comes afterward is more of the same: Routine.

I don’t know why, but for some reason I always give the absence slips to the older black tutor, and he, in turn, walks the long corridor and drops it off on the officer’s podium. My students never say anything about it, and this tutor delivers with his usual aplomb.

One day, without thinking of the repercussions, I gave the absence slip to a young white tutor. Why not? It’s part of his job description too. Besides, the older black tutor is heavily engaged in a crossword puzzle. Next thing I know, a young black gang-banger with adjustment issues is vocalizing his displeasure. “You’re a rat,” he announces to the white tutor upon his return. “How ‘bout some cheese, Rat.”

I warn him about the inappropriateness of his comments.

“He’s a snitch,” he continues.

I try to reason with him. “Look,” I say, “you never had a problem when Mr. Terrance ran the slip up front.”

He makes no allowances, “They’re all a bunch of rats.”

I make no allowances: I throw his ass out and drop him from my roster.

A day later he’s at my classroom doorstep. “I see the judge in two weeks and if he finds out that I’m not in school …” he stares at the floor, at his feet “…What I’m trying to say is: Can I come back?”

I think about it for a hot second. “Not a problem. Here.” I hand him an absence slip.

He holds it like it’s a piece of rotten, stinky cheese. And why shouldn’t he? His mellow’s on it. The tutors and I chuckle. “I’m not sure he’s up for the job,” Mr. Terrance says.

Now he has to prove himself. Sure enough, by the time he gets to the end of corridor, he’s changing his mind. He re-enters my classroom, places the slip on my desk and says, “I can’t do it.”

“That’s what I get for sending a kid to do a man’s job,” I say loud enough for the whole class to hear. “Kick rocks.”

“You’re all a bunch of rats,” he yells on his way out.

YOUNG SHOELESS JOE

Let’s call him Shoeless Joe—you’ll discover why—a young prisoner learning how to do his time. I’ve had to warn him over and over and over: Quit screwing around. Stay focused. "This is not sixth grade camp," I say. "This is prison. You’re not here to make friends."

He laughs.

“These guys will do you, I mean really really do you,” I add.

Shoeless Joe refuses to listen, refuses to take my advice. He wants to argue instead. He thinks he has game. I give him my Eddie Haskell, tell-it-like-it-is, in-your-face, reality-check, “Back when I started with the department you were shitting in your diaper. In fact, you still got milk on your breath.”

Shoeless Joe gets angry. I don’t know, maybe he thinks I’m his camp counselor, maybe he thinks I’ll serve him graham crackers and milk, and burp him afterward. “You’re no game player,” he tells me. Most teachers aren’t, but if that’s what needs to be done to teach him a lesson, then so be it.

One day I observe Shoeless Joe concealing something in his shirt. Without implicating myself for violating a certain policy, because I would never do that, implicate myself, I confiscate a size nine state shoe. I know it isn’t his—he’s wearing his state shoes. He begs me to give it back because he lent his gym shoes to another inmate and took the man’s state shoes as collateral. Shoeless Joe ain’t got no game. He has no way of retrieving what was once his.

“What am I gonna do?” he asks.

“Deal with it,” I say, “Playa.” He looks dejected. “Maybe you can do a one shoe trade.”

FIGHTING CANCER WITH BATS

I am a survivor of cancer (10 years and counting) and like you, I am not dead. In fact, I’ve got plenty of fight left in me.

Last weekend I participated in a Relay for Life Fundraiser at the local high school. It didn’t go as planned. Teenagers sporting hunters-orange sheriff’s vests stood near strategically placed cones; their mission: Allow only “Regional Baseball” participants and their fans entrance to the empty school parking lot and no one else.

We had a van loaded with fundraiser baskets and the nearest parking lot was unaccessible. We explained our situation, emphasizing “drop off only.” “Sorry,” we were told, “you need to use the other parking lot near the high school pool.” This didn’t make sense. Why would we unload from a distance farther away? We parked our van across the street in a friend’s driveway and made our way toward the Relay for Life area. The Baseball Gestapo informed my wife and me that we could not walk across their reserved parking lot. Again, this made absolutely no sense. Were they concerned that we’d get hit by a foul ball? That we would die that instant? I doubt it. I kept my cool even though I had visions of driving my van over their cones and yelling out the window, “I guess baseball’s more important than finding a cure for cancer!”

On a positive note, our booth raised the most money. In the above picture are some of the survivors, including a dear friend diagnosed with breast cancer eight months ago.

PUNKSHOOASHUN & GRRRHAMMER

Have you ever heard of the agentless writer who converted a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel into a double-spaced manuscript, changed the author’s name to his, created a new title, and sent it to 20 or so publishers? He kept track of the numerous rejections, including one from the book’s actual publisher, as well as those that never responded. One small house in Florida did offer a contract, but he knew better than to accept. The name of the book: The Yearling.

I first read about this incident in Jeff Herman’s Writer’s Guide to Book Editors, Publishers, and Literary Agents. Although I’m not actively pursuing an agent, I often think of this scenario when receiving rejection letters and emails. I’ve never submitted a book-length manuscript—I’m not sure I could go the distance, preferring short-stories, flash fiction, and the occasional nonfiction piece instead. I guess the rejections are much more tolerable knowing that I haven’t wasted too much time on a writing project.

This brings me to the following rejection email from Matt McGee, the editor of Falling Star Magazine. After being informed that my story made it to the editorial review board and after waiting approximately three months, here’s the final message:

JR,

Thank you for your submission on our theme “Hide Your Love Away.” Rather than send along a simple rejection notice, I thought you & your writing may benefit from reading what one of our editors had to say about the work.

Re: Ruth Mondo

This is a very interesting characterization with a somewhat hopeless protagonist who is incredibly strong and resilient. It needs work; serious work in terms of making the sequence easier to follow. Stream of consciousness stories are often like that because they sometimes exhibit broken synapses of the mind.

First of all, I would strongly encourage this author to rewrite for accuracy and refinement and then point out where he might start; punctuation would be a good place because it is not merely a “refinement” or a “convention”. Instead, it is a need of the flow. Without a doubt, there are images and moments in which there is very sensitive pathos.

In a word, I like this a lot even though it cries for rewrite.

My response: None.
Wait: … Thanks, Anonymous Reader/Editor.

LOST IN THE WORDS AND DETAILS

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

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

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

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

“It spells heaven backward,” my wife said.

*** Latest Development ***

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

LOW TECH MANUFACTURING IN DETROIT

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

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

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

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

MORE ...

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

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

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

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

SOME THINGS NEVER LEAVE YOU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SMALL TALK BEFORE THE WEEKEND

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

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

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

BACKYARD KITCHEN

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

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

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

OBSERVATION

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

What do you do? What does anyone do?

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

NO ID BADGE REQUIRED

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

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

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

“So why am I going to laugh?”

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

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

THOUGHTS

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

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

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

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

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

THE STORY

This is not my story to tell; if it were, I’d start with closing time at the local Chicken Shack and the lone worker mopping up. I’d warn my readers of the early release of thousands of inmates and how this lone worker should’ve known better then to leave the back door of the restaurant unlocked. I’d build up to that moment of uncertainty where a man walks into the back entrance of the Chicken Shack...

But this isn’t my story to tell, a story I’d first heard this past weekend when the narrator stepped up to the microphone and in a barely audible voice told everyone she was looking for a sign, any sign, that everything would be okay. I wasn’t in the same room as her; in fact, I was in a room just outside where she spoke. I’ll not forget that moment either. I, along with everyone else, needed to hear her voice, needed her reassurance, just as much as she needed a sign, any sign, that everything would be okay. She had our attention the moment her breath hit the microphone. Silence swept over the place as we waited to hear her speak.

The man at the back door, the one who took the lone worker by surprise, was her husband. She and her high school daughter waited in the car. Their daughter, tired and hungry, had made the following request: “Mom, would it be okay if we stop at the Chicken Shack?” It was 9:15 p.m. and they hadn’t had dinner. The man, the father, walked into the back of the restaurant and spoke, “I know you’re closed,” he said to the lone worker with the mop, “but I just lost my son. My wife and daughter and I just came from the funeral home. Do you have any leftover chicken?”

They fed their daughter that night, thanks to the kindness of one lone worker at the local Chicken Shack. I, along with so many others, was fortunate enough to hear the mother's story the very next day.

There is kindness in this world, even during the saddest of times, even for a grieving mother who lost her son at the age of 24.

CONFUSION (or how he clung to the frog)

I had pulled the file (like I always do) in hopes of finding decent TABE scores, an indicator of reading, writing, and arithmetic grade level equivalencies. The new student had complained (like they always do) that he had a high school diploma, that he, of all people, needn’t waste his time nor take up space in my sad-ass-excuse-of-a-classroom. I let it slide, his comment (I always do), and reassured him of my commitment to “get to the bottom of this.”

The very next day, with thin file in hand, I showed him that yes, he indeed may have a high school diploma. “See,” I indicated, “your transcript. Says right here you graduated.”

He relaxed a bit, let the tension fall from his shoulders, reacting as if I had shit on myself, reiterating that he hadn’t been bullshitting and that he had heard how F’d Up our school is.

“Uh-oh,” I continued, giving him just enough time for his I’m-right-you're-wrong dog-and-pony show. “Houston we have problem.”

“What?”

“Your transcript doesn’t have the required amount of class credits needed for a high school diploma.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Your sorry-ass school made an error.” He was getting pissed. “It’s time you start studying for your GED. Have a seat.”

He scanned the classroom, looked at my students as if they were all victims. “Go ahead and write a ticket then, cause I’m not staying.” He slammed the door on the way out.

LIFE, DEATH

There’s this student of mine, an older convict, he sits in the back of the classroom, keeps to himself; he’s cheated death more than once. He survived a shotgun blast to his abdomen. He lifts his shirt, explains, “Shoot out with the police.” He used to drag race as well—illegally, on the streets of Detroit. His car careened out of control. “I lost my right-eye, broke my neck, C7 vertebrae, I had reconstructive surgery to my skull.” He smiles, a crooked, busted-jaw smile. “I was in a coma for two months.” He talks as if he’s proud of it all, as if he knows he’s blessed for beating such odds.

I’m not impressed. Should I be? He’s lucky to be alive … even if he is in prison.

***
There’s this family of four—husband, wife, son, and daughter—the nicest family you’ll ever meet. We consider them our friends; we’ve known them for seventeen years. Last Saturday they were preparing for their uncle’s funeral when the 24-year-old son complained of a headache. He stayed home while his Mom, Dad, and Sister went to pay their respects. He died that day. Peacefully. In his sleep. No guns blazing. No drag racing. Was it a hemorrhage? Was it bacterial meningitis? Who knows? There’ll be an autopsy.

We’re stunned. Everybody who knew him is stunned. Life, at this moment, doesn’t seem fair, doesn’t seem kind. Friday’s the wake. I’ll take the day off from work, pay my respect, fight my emotions … it won’t be easy … I’ll be wearing sunglasses.

FACING THE ROCK

These frogs are huddled together, facing the rock. And for good reason: The Screaming Toads have taken over.

"Oh my!" the neighbor lady says, "There goes the neighborhood."

But let's not get carried away. Let's just say the neighborhood's a changin'.

The prisoners shuffled their feet ever so slowly on the walkway, curious as to why a double-wide trailer had been delivered to the compound. Someone was busy extracting razor-sharp concertina-wire from the top of an interior fence so maintenance could remove a section and cut down a pole before one-half, then the other-half of the trailer could be parked in front of the mentally-ill prisoners' housing unit.

Rumor has turned into fact, has turned into truth. More deeply troubled, deeply disturbed, higher-security level inmates are coming our way. More healthcare professionals are needed. More office space is needed. This is a temporary fix.

While the work is in progress a corrections officer spreads false hope. "The trailer," she tells the inmates, "is for conjugal visits."

Sarcasm and the mentally-ill don't mix. Some prisoners don't know whether to believe this or not. They'll need time to reflect.

I'm at home, It's late. I can't sleep. I'm listening to the screaming toads outside my bedroom window. The weekend is almost over. It'll be back to the prison, back to the madness. I don't know why I'm thinking of it, but I'm wondering about those juice boxes, whether they'll be eliminated from the facility. From what I've heard, those sippy straws have become scaffolding, have become erector sets for some of the mentally-ill as they torture their way to pleasure.

GOD WANTS ME TO SIT

“Do you want your chair?”

That’s what I’d been asked as I pulled my fishing gear from the trunk of my car; It was a fold up chair tucked in a nylon-canvas bag. I had already pulled three fishing poles, the Taj-Mahal of tackle boxes, and a five-gallon bucket from the back seat. I had worked all day, was tired (more so mentally then physically) and hemmed-and-hawed about whether I should carry one more item a half-mile from the dead end street where I had parked to the fishing hole near the I-94 overpass. I certainly wouldn’t overburden my coworker with a luxury item that I alone would use. I knew I could lug it. Or not.

Here was my real dilemma: Do I fish standing up? Or do I fish sitting down? Do I use fishing lures, spinners, dancing baby eels? Or do I fish the bottom with a Carolina Rig and worms? And what about my telescopic fishing pole? — I’d use that with a bobber attached to the line. Definitely something I could watch from a sitting position. After a day of multi-tasking in a prison, you would think I’d choose one way to fish and stick with it. Hey, fishing’s supposed to be relaxing, however, in the back of my mind, if the fish were biting I would be standing, and if the fish weren’t biting, I’d be pacing back and forth wondering what to use, what to do next.

I knew the answer, it was based on my desire to increase my chances of catching fish—blue gills, perch, catfish, sheephead, dogfish, bass, pike, you name it—I’d put forth a monumental effort at reeling in a genuine, bonafide, whale-of-a-fish. I gave him the most logical answer I knew, “I’m going to skip the chair. I won’t be needing it.”

After two hours of catching absolutely nothing, my coworker hit a snag, and after tugging and pulling from every angle imaginable, he caught a #$&&@^* chair!!! We quit soon after that. I wasn’t about to sit down.

HOT CHOCOLATE & MICROWAVES

Once upon a time there was an 85-year-old woman who made a cup of hot chocolate for a neighbor because he was such a nice young man, always helping out around her house, always shoveling her driveway, doing nice things, such a wonderful wonderful young man. So she invited him into her home, served him hot chocolate, but her frail shaky hands couldn’t hold the cup steady enough and she accidentally spilled its contents. The young man, looking forward to warming up, didn’t take too kindly to having a hot liquid dumped on him so he beat her with his fists and he beat her and he beat her bad. Now he’s in prison for it. Let’s call him Prisoner H.C., short for Hot Chocolate.

I’ll get back to him.

Here’s the jump cut (you may start to laugh while reading this paragraph, but you won’t for long, in fact, now that I’ve warned you, you may not laugh at all): They sell petroleum jelly, or should I say lubricant? —No, no, no—let’s call it by its trademark name: They sell Vaseline in the men’s prison. It’s on the store list.

So is instant hot cocoa mix.

Before you jump to conclusions regarding a relationship between Big Bubba and the young man of our story, before you visualize him in a compromising position or think he deserves whatever’s coming his way for beating an 85-year-old woman to within an inch of her life, I’d like to talk about the dangers of microwaves. We have microwaves in the inmate housing units; something the MCO (Michigan Corrections Organization) has been trying to get removed for a long time now. Some prisoners, you see, mainly those with a history of assault, have been known to cook-up a mixture of Vaseline and water in their plastic coffee mugs. Several months ago a 49-year-old officer at Huron Valley Men’s Facility suffered 2nd degree burns to his face plus long-term damage to his eye from the deliberate actions of a cowardly inmate and his premeditated actions. Unfortunately, no one has made a decision on moving the microwaves out of the units.

Back to Prisoner H.C. - one of his peers, a fellow convict, someone who obviously knew why H.C. came to prison, someone who respects his elders, assaulted H.C. with a piping hot mixture of Vaseline and water. I can only imagine what the attacker said, “What’cha gonna do now, Bitch?”

I’ll bet the microwaves are history soon. What do you think?

CAFLISH DANCING

I’d like to buy a vowel … or two … or three. A few consonants wouldn’t hurt either. And for the price …“There is a charge, a very large charge,” Sylvia Plath …

...I should get a little extra something-something. How about a few numbers as well? Does anyone have Vanna Whites’ phone number, how I can get in touch with her? Not that I’m a stalker or anything. I haven’t oogled … spell check: googled … her—it’s just that I’m laying out my graphic design final, a slick Hawaiian Clothing Catalog and I can’t get the correct font on my computer. I need Caflish Script Pro. It’s priced at thirty-five smackaroos. If I’m going to unload that kind of cheddar I better damn well be entertained. Seriously, put me in the peanut crunching crowd, show me what you got. If it’s good, I mean really really good, I’ll come back for more. Closer, get a little closer, let me whisper in your ear: If I’m not satisfied with the purchase, can I get a refund?

BRICK, HOME

This might sound crazy, or you might think I’m crazy, but I’ve been staying away from myself. What I mean is: I’m distancing those mental images of who I am from my thoughts—my identity, how I see myself—those etched in stone markings dictated by what I’ve observed around me.

We’re like bricklayers, building our walls and I, like so many others, have surrounded myself. I’m too tired, too comfortable to tear down those walls. I’ll not step away from any rubble any time soon.

This week we had an immobilization. The siren whirred at the end of our shift. We were placed on lockdown. We followed protocol. I went to the school office. I read my email. The first email offered me a Costco membership at a discounted group rate. The second email informed me of a particular student’s STG status. (For those of you who don’t know: STG stands for “Security Threat Group.”) The email informed me that he’s a Vice-Lord and that with the Deputy Director’s approval, he can attend school; however, his out-of-cell movement will be limited to one hour per day. Currently he’s waiting for a verdict on a non-bondable ticket for stabbing another inmate. Rumor has it he stuck his friend, a fellow Vice-Lord who "supposedly" had a shank tucked in his waistband. As the story goes, they were horsing around when his friend “accidentally” stuck himself, or so he says “Cuz you don’t rat on nobody in here.”

Outside our prison, two men in a stolen car made a break for it. With the police hot on their tail, they turned off I-94 and into a golf course where they ditched the car and ran on foot. Little did they know they were running toward our ERT (Emergency Response Team). Our corrections officers were armed and ready. How’s that for irony? Two men trying to get away from the police, not wanting to be arrested, yet approaching what they did not desire.

Our immobilization didn’t last long. The men were apprehended. We were free to go. As for that Costco Membership, it wouldn’t do me any good. I don’t travel their way.