CHARLIE AND JESUS

My mother-in-law always comes over for Halloween; It's tradition. She likes to give away our candy and comment on the various costumes. She even dresses up Charlie, her travel companion dummy. "He's a witch this year," she says enthusiastically.

"That's nice," I yawn.

In case you didn't know, I'm really not into the whole ghosts and goblins begging for candy at my door routine. I'd rather spend a quiet evening watching television, uninterrupted.

"You just missed the cutest little Elephant. He was adooorable, just adooorable."

My wife approaches and joins in, "Awwwh, look at the little Batman coming up the driveway."

"Hmmm," I say from the couch, ready to grab the t.v. remote and turn up the volume. I wish they'd sit on the porch, keep the door closed. I'm not trying to heat the outside.

So goes my night. Not all of their comments are favorable. My mother-in-law complains about a gaggle of teenagers breaking with tradition--no "trick or treat," no costumes, just pillow cases thrust forward waiting for some candy. As they walk down our driveway, my mother-in-law says, "They didn't say thank-you. I should've told them 'no costume, no treat.' They're too old to be trick or treating, don't you think? They should be at a Halloween party or passing out candy at home."

"How about a trick?" I ask. My wife and mother-in-law nod in agreement. I hit the key fob to my mother-in-law's van. Someone yells, "Jesus!"

TRICK OR TREAT

Our neighbor Pete had a prostitute living at his house, and when my wife informed me of this, I said, "Hey, at least someone's cutting the grass." The prostitute has long since disappeared and the grass and weeds are now matted down by a blanket of wet Maple leaves.

The children in our neighborhood know not to approach Pete's house, and Pete knows to leave his porch light off. Last year, for some odd reason, his mailbox spent more time in the ditch then standing erect at the end of his driveway. You see, Pete's a pedophile. Oh sure, he beat his case last year, but he still has teenagers coming over to buy weed and coke when school lets out.

Pete will seek me out whenever I'm walking our dog. He'll engage me in small talk by commenting on which breed of dog Bear is, or how the weather certainly has changed. He's been looking a bit haggard lately, like he's testing his product too much. One time, I found a rolled-up dollar bill near his house. I took it home and washed it off. Pete's no different than most of the inmates I deal with, not very bright.

Happy Halloween everyone. If you get the opportunity, read Bonnie Jo Cambpell's short story "Candy," which first appeared in The Ontario Review (issue No. 55). The allure of candy is just too much for some people.

ANY SONG REQUESTS?

I told you I had a guitar. What would you like me to sing? How about Bon Jovi's "Wanted, Dead or Alive?" How about anything by Willie Nelson? Or Johnny Cash (except the song Erik mentioned)? How about something from the Cowboy Junkies? How about helping me out here?

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?

A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND

Tell the truth, but understand that it is not necessarily what happened.
—Flannery O’Connor

If the Misfit in Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard To Find,” were up for parole (prior to his escape), I’d be hard pressed to see the good in him. I’d have a hard time giving him the usual speech I give to any inmate willing to listen. “Remember when you were a child,” I’d start, “and you did something bad, I mean really really bad, and your parents were disappointed in you? Remember how awful you felt? Remember how you had to regain their trust? Think of the parole board in the same way, they’re your parents, they’re trying to see the good in you, your redeeming qualities, whether you’re worth placing back into society, whether you’re worth saving.”

Now I’ve had my share of inmates respond with, “Fuck the parole board,” but this here Misfit, he’d claim to have never been bad as a child. He’d acknowledge to having done something wrong, but he wouldn’t be able to tell you what it was; you’d have to read it from his case report.

Here I am, standing in front of Flannery O’Connor’s childhood home in Savannah, Georgia. My wife and I roamed the city, hiding our tourist stickers in our fanny packs, revealing them when we wanted the free trolley ride. We were on vacation and did not want to become victims, easy targets, to any of the misguided souls on the outskirts of the city. As if that mattered, you could spot the tourists from a mile away.

Not only do I admire Flannery O’Connor for her short stories, but her desire to make revisions demonstrates how truly devoted she was to her art. “Judgement Day” had been revised, made seven pages longer, after its initial publication twenty years earlier. How’s that for perfection?

I HAVE A DEEP, DARK SECRET

In 1992, when a Catholic priest (the actual cousin of Guido Sarducci of Saturday Night Live fame) wished me well at our end of the school year luncheon, the other teachers, one by one, approached me. They pretty much said the same thing, “I didn’t know you were leaving.”

“Neither did I,” I replied. “I think I was let go.” Let go, at the time, seemed much nicer, had less sting, then saying, “Hey, I just got fired by a Catholic priest.” I can’t say I was shocked. Father Novelly and I never really did get along. I don’t think he really understood me, where I was coming from.

I remember taking my seventh grade class to the Saint Matthew’s Church for confession. This took valuable time away from instruction in the classroom, so I would count it toward the one hour of religion per week requirement forced upon me. I had asked another staff person, a teacher/nun why she couldn’t teach the religion class. She said, “Don’t you think I get enough religion?” I told her I hadn’t been to church in years, which only reinforced her beliefs that I was the right man for the job. Earlier in the school year I had surveyed my students. “How many of you are Catholic?” Seven hands reached skyward out of twenty-six. That meant nineteen of my students would have to sit in the pews, while seven others went to confession. It didn’t seem right to me. As my last student, Johnny, left the confessional booth (I had learned that the divider no longer existed, sinner and priest sat face to face) he said to me, “Father Novelly told me to tell you it’s your turn.”

I panicked. I’ll admit it. I hadn’t confessed my sins in at least a decade. I said to Johnny, “Tell Father Novelly that I’m not comfortable with the arrangement, afterall, he signs my paycheck.” The rest of the class started laughing. They got a kick out of my statement. Johnny entered the confessional, quickly came back out, and said, “Father Novelly said that’s okay.”

“What do you mean—okay? No, it’s not okay.” I said.

“For you to go in there,” Johnny said reassuringly, nodding toward the curtained booth.

I sent Johnny back into the confessional again. He didn’t come out right away. I sat with my students, wondering what was going on. Johnny reappeared after what seemed like eternity. He looked at me, and said, “Are we going back to the classroom?”

Yes. Yes we are. At least for the time being.

BROKEBACK MOMENT

You put your hand on my shoulder and spoke softly about the things you were going to do to me. I got nervous, felt your warm breath on the back of my neck. I shook my head, leaned forward, my way of saying, "I will have none of that." You felt my tension, said you’d be gentle with me down there, but when I questioned you further, you joked around, said you’d done this sort of thing before. Then I surprised you, personalized it, told you about the other guy, told you his name. "Yeah," I said, "he informed me of your gentle touch." You laughed, but did not reveal any information about him. You did not disclose any intimate details. "Don’t worry," you said, "You’re not going to feel a thing. Once I grab the end of the stent, I’ll tie it to the door knob, hold you tight, whisper sweet nothings into your ear, and kick the door shut."

At home my mother-in-law said I was making a big deal out of nothing. "He’ll numb it first. You’ll probably feel a slight tugging. Nothing more."

I tried to act brave. I jokingly said, "It has a name you know."

She laughed. I laughed. My wife rolled her eyes. I no longer have a stone in my right kidney. At least that’s what Dr. V told me. "But I never passed it," I said. He claimed that the lipthotripsy blasted it into sand. One more cystoscopy and I am done (right side anyway). Ironically, I’m most certain I saw the stone fragments after the doctor’s appointment. There had been a slight discoloration in my urine; sorry to wreck your fall traditions, but it looked like apple cider. As for you, Dr. V, "You can quit me any time."

HANGING LIGHTS, DREAMING FICTION

I have never thought of myself as a good writer. Anyone who wants reassurance of that should read one of my first drafts.
--James A. Michener


The first draft of anything is shit.
--Ernest Hemingway


I'm stuck in rewrite mode, untangling my thoughts, my ideas, my words, trying to string them together like the Halloween lights attached to plastic hooks on the gutters of my house. I've scooped up the clumps of damp wet leaves and thrown them to the ground, an added measure in preparation of the fast approaching winter months. Soon all those colorful leaves will have fallen, making for perfect mulch, a natural fertilizer, an insulator for growth to come.

I'm studying characters, new and old alike, introducing them to various situations, waiting for their reactions, waiting for them to pound on my door and offer up a trick or two. Sometimes what they do and say is too predictable, other times they're out of control, shocking me, making me beg for more. "Ok," I'll say, "What if I change your behavior with a swift stroke of the pen, will that make you more believable, will that make you not return to your old ways?"
And if the answer is "yes," it's okay not to believe them, as long as I keep an eye on their mannerism and know that certain situations may arise, bringing out the truth.

I've been blogging now for six months. Some days have been more productive than others. It's a learning process, a matter of continuing to move forward. Writing doesn't always mean publishing. I've learned that. I've also learned to be patient, something I've observed in the inmates who are doing more time than they actually have.

The only thing worse than a bad story, is a bad story published.
--JR Thumbprints

STUCK IN BOONE HALL

I’m not writing autobiography. It’s all subject to change. …Whatever seems to suit the work best, that’s the direction I’ll go in.
—Raymond Carver

#1 Prison/Work
The young black gangbangers thought I had more in common with the older white gentleman, a pathological liar who claimed that he drove the Zamboni for the Detroit Red Wings Organization, but when he hung back after class and made some derogatory remarks about African Americans, thinking a “white-bonding” session would earn him special privileges, I said, "You sir, no matter what color you are, are one sorry-ass excuse for a human being." He, of course, laughed it off and called me a "nigger lover."

#2 Vacation
Four weeks earlier, my wife and I left Charleston, South Carolina, traveling down U.S. Highway 17 to America’s most photographed plantation, Boone Hall. The television mini-series “North and South” had been filmed there, so it didn’t take much for her to convince me to spend the day walking along the gardens and pecan groves. She snapped a few pictures of me standing in front of a slave cabin and in the gardens. The entrance alone, a one-half mile avenue of massive, Spanish moss-draped live oaks, had made the trip worthwhile.

#3 Prison/Work
The older white gentleman knew to avoid me after making his racial comments. From that day forward, he buried his face in a book. The young black gangbangers, on the other hand, refused to do any class assignments. I tried to get their attention. I showed them the photographs of Boone Hall Plantation. "Someone who has the ability to read but chooses not to," I said, "might as well be illiterate. Is that what you want? Do you want to be a slave to your own ignorance?" They studied the photographs and made disparaging remarks about the “white honky tourists” enjoying themselves. One gangbanger even questioned whether these were the original slave cabins. "Yes," I replied. I informed him that these had been the better living quarters, a place for the house servants and the plantation’s skilled craftsmen. I told him that the field slaves had lived in clusters of small cottages elsewhere on the plantation. "See," one of them said, "even the smart ones is catering to the white man." I wanted to tell them, Don't do if for me, do it for yourself, but, for some reason, I kept quiet.

STRAINING (A LOVE POEM)

I could not, for the life of me
give my wife a stone on Sweetest Day
my actions were well intentioned
gallons of lemon water drunk
thinking of better times when I wore
Dick DeBeck's hat
and sung
and danced
until I jarred loose a few sad memories
etched in granite
the pressure never letting go
I memorized my lines
my torso bent

a forty-five degree angle
a pinch of table salt too
thrown over my shoulder
and my wife, my pillar
straightening me out.

THIS IS NOT ABOUT DICK DEBECK

Some of my stories are about real people. It’s funny how when you try to be very accurate, it’s boring and there’s nothing there. But when you distort the reality, it comes back stronger than before and is often closer to the truth.
—Tatyana Tolstaya

Thirteen odd years ago, on my wedding day, I wore Chuck Taylor’s and Dick DeBeck’s hat. Chuck Taylor’s are cheap canvassed high-tops. Dick DeBeck’s hat is … well … Dick DeBeck’s hat. Dick DeBeck is on the Advisory Board of the Ludington Visiting Writers. Click on (LVW) , scroll all the way down, and you can see Dick DeBeck.

But this is not about Chuck Taylor’s, Dick DeBeck, or my wedding per se. My wedding guests were not preapproved and LEIN cleared (Law Enforcement Information Network). I was allowed more than six people at my wedding. My wedding band exceeded $50.00 in value. I did not have to wear state issued shoes. And thank God, my wife was not forced to hold a cheap plastic wedding bouquet.

On the other hand, Prisoner Echols and his fiancee had to abide by all these rules and more. He asked me, wait, no, he told me, “I won’t be in class tomorrow. I’m getting married.” I learned that his soon-to-be-wife was a topless dancer at BT’s (The Booby Trap) and that they were so in love that she was willing to wait, for however long it takes, for him to be released from prison.

The day after their ceremony, Prisoner Echols proudly displayed some cheap Polaroid’s for everyone to see. I said, “I think she did a lap dance for me once.” He simply collected his photos and sat down in the back of the classroom. I guess he did not like my comment. Perhaps it was the sudden realization that other men had easier access to his wife than he. Just to hammer home my point, I asked, “So where did you go on your honeymoon?”

YOU PEOPLE UP THERE

Around the time that Ross Perot bowed out of the presidential race because of perceived threats to his family, Sergeant McCallister had accused me of racism. It’s not so much the accusation that pissed me off; in fact, I can handle controversy, but I did not like how he went about the whole situation. You see, in Corrections, if you don’t like something then you need to speak up.

We had argued about four tickets I had written on different prisoners. I had trekked over to the administration building and delivered the tickets to the Control Center on the second floor. I had done my duty. It was custody staff’s job (mainly the sergeant's) to review the tickets and deliver them to the inmates within a 24-hour period from the date and time I inked onto the forms.

Sergeant McCallister phoned me the next day. He wanted me to rewrite the tickets. Although he didn’t give me an explanation, I understood the reasoning behind his request. By doing the rewrites, I’m giving him a fresh 24-hours to deliver the documents to each prisoner.

Again, I felt I had done my part. Besides, the infractions were “036 Out of Place/ Out of Bounds/ AWOL” which really meant that these pumpkin heads (hollow on the inside) skipped school. Big deal. I’d have plenty of opportunities to hammer them next time. “Look,” I said, “You have two choices: Accept the tickets as is, or throw them out.”

He told me that I would have to rewrite the tickets, in fact, he demanded it. An argument ensued. I said, “You people up there need to get your shit together.”

He hung up. I thought to myself, that went rather well, until a week later when I got called into my boss’s office. She had me read a memorandum addressed to her from Sergeant McCallister accusing me of racism. In all fairness, his description of our conversation was 95% accurate. He had misquoted me, but not by much. This is what he said that I said: You people need to get your shit together.

My boss wanted to give me time to refute the claim. I told her all I needed was “right now.” I explained to her that Sergeant McCallister left out the prepositional phrase “up there,” meaning all of the Control Center staff (White, Black, Hispanic, you name it—hey, why not offend everyone?) and that if he had a problem with something I said, then he should’ve confronted me instead of hanging up the phone. As an added measure, knowing that I’m vertically challenged, knowing that Sergeant McCallister is even more vertically challenged, I said, “Plus, he has a little man’s complex.”

THE UNTITLED, THE UNWRITTEN

A writer’s material is what he cares about.
—John Gardner

Lately I’ve been thinking of the seven young black men (all under twenty-one) in my morning classes. I’ve wanted to write something about them for quite some time, but I’m at a loss for words. What can I say?—They’re like a pack of wolves. None of them are interested in learning. They’re gang bangers. They’d rather talk about their hood, about bitches and whores and how many niggers they’ve killed. Every other word is N-this and N-that. I’ve tried to intervene. I’ve said, “You know, those bitches and whores are somebody’s sister or mother.” They don’t care. I’m Caucasian. Why listen? I know not to correct them on the use of the N-word on account of my race. I just tell them to quiet down. The older inmates get annoyed. They look at me, as if to say, “Do something, or we will.”

I’ve confronted the loudest of the bunch on several occasions. “Look,” I say, “there’s no need to shout at each other. You’re sitting at the same table.” I remind them that I don’t have a seating chart. “We’re all adults and should be able to control our tongues in here.” It doesn’t work, even when I’ve kicked the ringleader out. He calls me a N-this and N-that all the way down the corridor. I’ve tried to redirect him, to get him to study. He orders me to get him a book, a pencil, and some paper, as if I’m one of the very same bitches and whores they speak of. I tell him that I’m not here to serve it up. “Get your own damn book,” I say. He laughs. They all laugh. His latest trick is to pick his nose, get it to bleed. He requests to go back to his cell. I tell him no. “Go use the bathroom,” I suggest. He whines about his rights, that I can’t deny him his rights. “Fuck your rights,” I want to say to him, to them. But I don’t.

An eighth young black man ignores them. He sits up front. He’s lighter complected, has freckles. He’s working on Algebra and preparing for his GED Exams. “Would it be okay for me to remain in your class,” he asks, “once I’m finished with my exams?” I check his TABE scores, and tell him he could qualify as a classroom tutor. He looks horrified. He doesn’t want to be put in a position where he’d have to help the other seven youngsters in the back. I don’t blame him. I say, “Look, try to make the best out of a bad situation. Try to learn as much as you can before you’re paroled.” He understands what I’m talking about. He didn’t come to prison to make friends, this isn’t a bed and breakfast, or sixth grade camp. He wants to learn from his mistakes. He knows he’s done something wrong, that it isn’t his place to question authority. He wants to leave here, to go unnoticed. He’s worth writing about.

PLAY BALL!!!

Yesterday, before the anesthesiologist rendered me speechless, I wrote "here" and "JT" on my right flank. I guess I don't have much faith in our health care system. As for prayer, I let the hospital chaplain do her thing out of politeness, but I listened to the Today Show instead.

Once we arrived home, I displayed my new party hats on the kitchen table and had my wife snap a picture. Notice the Calcucatch Urinary Stone Interceptor in my right hand. This convenient little contraption will accompany me to work. It's telescopic design with built in mesh screen should be easy to bring inside the prison. That is, if the gate officer allows it. Also, I'm still waiting for the approval of being on pain medication while dealing with inmates.

Excuse me, I have some pitching and catching to do. My strike zone will be much smaller once I return to my place of employment.

SURGERY

Last night while sleeping, a dog spoke to me in Morse-code, his nails clattering along the kitchen’s wood-laminate flooring, his dull sounding message accompanied by a laboring motor churning water. I descended the steps, saw the sub-pump’s trigger arm stuck, and reached for the electrical plug before examining the motor further. It was hot to the touch. I hadn’t a clue as to how long it had been running, but I knew without a doubt that any longer and the motor would have burnt up. I made a quick repair, or at least I thought so, and slowly drifted back into the dreamworld.

Today is my much awaited surgery. After a day of liquid dieting and its aftermath, I’m anxious to get the 4-millimeter stone blasted into sand. Yesterday’s X-rays and ultrasound indicated that the stone is in the lower abdomen area. The doctor informed me that he will be sending shockwaves over my abdomen and into the kidney stone—nothing invasive—and that I should have mild bruising and mild internal bleeding. He demonstrated the pulsating beat of the shockwave with a slow rhythmic tap on the counter, next to the horrific poster depicting a cystoscopic exam. He told me there's a 85% chance of success.

Before leaving for the hospital, I checked to see if the red tape I applied to the sub-pump’s trigger arm worked. It had. I believe this is a good omen. I plan on continuing my blog, and more importantly, checking up on my fellow bloggers asap. The stone in my right kidney shall soon be a thing of the past.

MY SPECIAL LIQUID DIET

I know you shouldn’t eat anything past a certain time in the evening, but I decided to snack on pretzels at 11:30 p.m. last night. My cut-off deadline for solid foods was midnight. I am now on a 24-hour clear liquid diet to ensure that my Right Extracorporeal Shockwave Lithotripsy procedure is successful. Here’s a list of what I can have throughout the day: Water (how come that doesn’t surprise me?), 7-up, ginger ale, apple juice, white grape juice, chicken or beef bouillon, tea or coffee (no milk) and all flavors of Jell-O except red or orange.

Then in the evening I have to drink four 8-ounce glasses of water and clear fruit juice. At 8 p.m. I have to drink 1 ½ fluid ounces (equivalent of 3 tablespoons) of Fleet phospho-soda in a 4-ounce glass of water. In case you’re wondering, Fleet phospho-soda is an oral saline laxative used for bowel cleansing before medical procedures. Yippee, ginger-lemon flavor too! One of the warnings on the box says “Do not use this product if you have serious kidney problems.” I guess my kidneys are fine. Hey, I’m just following the directions the hospital sent me.

Tomorrow is D-day. I’m still curious as to how the doc is going to deliver the shockwaves. Will it be warm bath water or will it be fiber optic tubing? My guess: fiber optic tubing down that long corridor to the kidney. As I commented to a male friend who told me about his bladder procedure, “Sounds like they tickled you compared to what they've done to me.” After the procedure I still have to pass those tiny little fragments through the stent. Wish me luck. If all goes well, the hospital will give me another pair of skid proof socks to help keep me on my feet.

BEFORE & AFTER

I may not get a bottle of cheap champagne dumped on my head, and that doesn’t matter to me. I’m just glad that I’m no longer struggling with a poor self-image (too many second places will do that to you). For well over a month, I’ve been looking in the mirror at a big ugly bloated-toad staring back at me, like I’ve been stuck in “Before” picture mode, where no one comes around to offer me a magic pill with promises of becoming a Prince Charming. “Hey mister” someone resembling my father says, “drink it down with a tall glass of water.”

Today, I celebrate my victory. I even have my own Theory of Thought: I think I scared The Thinker’s SYTYAF Contestants away (or at least confused them with my newfound wit and letter reassignment surgery). She had five competitors this time around. She should’ve had at least a dozen. Did I not advertise the event? Did I not leave myself vulnerable to defeat? The information is still listed to the right, under the heading “Contests.”

In case you’re wondering what the hell I'm talking about, I have reclaimed my “So You Think You're A Frog” First Place Status. The long drought of second and third places is over. The transformation is complete. I’m in my “After” picture mode. And guess what?—I didn’t even drink any liquids, and that’s a tough pill to swallow.

BLESS YOU BOYS

I’m not going to pretend that I’m a diehard fan of the Detroit Tigers. I haven’t watched or attended a regular season game in ages. Most of my loyalty and support comes in the form of a Hot-N-Ready pizza (Hey, split the proceeds with the Red Wings). I did watch last night’s game though. The most memorable moment to me wasn’t the game winning homer that earned them a trip to the World Series, it was the cameraman’s second inning close-up of a rather pudgy fellow wearing a "Tigger" outfit. I think he would’ve made a better Pooh Bear. Who was he calling any way—Christopher Robin? I’ll bet he stayed warm.

I never played any organized baseball as a kid. No Little League for me. Just the occasional pick-up game in our old neighborhood. My brother (the one wearing the Old English "D" ball cap) had the better throwing arm, and he certainly could field the ball better. I’d like to boast that I was the better slugger, but I’m not even sure that was the case.

So what do I remember? Well, for one, the heated arguments and fistfights that sometimes cut short our innings of play. We worked off the honor system, where if you were tagged out, you had to admit to it. Of course, no one ever did, unless it was way too obvious. Some games were taken too serious, as if it were a matter of life and death. And in the case of my brother’s best friend, a true Little Leaguer, he swallowed his tongue after colliding with a teammate in centerfield. It had been touch and go for awhile, until the opposing coach used a corkscrew to pry his tongue out of his throat. Thank God for organized sports.

What can I say? Go Tigers! And Bless You Boys.

(Stay tuned for Monday’s post on my blog’s return to victory in the "SYTYCB" Contest.)

THE BOY ON THE FENCE

Every weekday when I come home from work, I see my mother-in-law's oil painting hanging on my living room wall. I've titled it "The Boy On The Fence," which annoys my mother-in-law to no end. She's in her 80's and hasn't painted in years, but she thinks this painting is aesthetically pleasing. I'm no art critic, but I've tried to explain to her that the dock lacks depth. She disagrees, so I've learned to let it go, to back off; her eyesights failing anyway.

My wife has been trying to get her to clean out her house. There's art supplies up the kazoo stored in her basement--easels, canvasses, brushes, paints, and art books/magazines. Unfortunately, it has become too much of an ordeal. Some things we're just not allowed to do.

A few years back, I helped my wife paint my mother-in-law's kitchen a nice off-white with golden-yellow details sponged on top. Two months later, my mother-in-law responged the golden-yellow with a flourescent lime-green. We were utterly in shock when we saw it. She also took scrap pieces of wallpaper and cut out the flower patterns and glued them along the border in a haphazard way. I've learned over the years not to say anything, to just sit back, and be quiet. It's not worth the agony. Call me "The Boy On The Fence."

O.K. COMPUTER

Today is Friday the 13th and I can only hope that my workday goes well. I have a simple prison motto, it speaks volumes to my number one goal—making it out alive. "I’ll do my eight and hit the gate," I say. Unfortunately, there are times in the joint where my back is against the wall, where I have to, simply have to, come out swinging, afterall, people’s careers are on the line. Usually it’s my policy to speak to my coworkers about any infractions they’ve committed, infractions that might not jeopardize the lives of others right away, but if you let the incident go, it’ll fester and become more problematic down the line. Call it my complimentary freebie if you will. "Look," I’ll say, "what you did is wrong. Don’t let it happen again, or I’ll be forced to report you."

On this occasion, I explained my predicament. I told the two female coworkers that they were angering several inmates in my classroom as well as two dozen more in the other classes. I wanted to tell them, "You are swatting at a beehive, agitating the worker bees, causing them to swarm my desk demanding answers. I know what you’re doing seems innocent enough, and I’m not exactly against it, but it compromises my work area." I had thought they understood. I had thought I made myself clear as to my next step of action. They shrugged their shoulders, as if to say, too bad.

The next time it happened, I contacted the deputy warden for programs (the person I allegedly threw a hat at in a staff meeting). I requested that he do something about it. He tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. "You don’t know for certain that this is the cause of your problems. Start documenting when it occurs. Keep a log."

"You don’t understand," I wanted to tell him. "Most of the inmates that gravitate towards the computers are antisocial. They hate authority figures. They want absolutely nothing to do with us. They become very very angry when something affects their routine." Instead, I told him this, "Let me get this straight, you want me to document what happens every time I smell popcorn?" He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, too bad.

Here’s the scoop: Whenever these two female coworkers popped popcorn our classroom computers would shut down. Although I never actually saw them in the act of popping popcorn (I only salivated from the buttery smell) I quickly deduced the problem—an overloaded circuit. Shortly thereafter, maintenance sent an electrician to our school building and the problem was fixed. I made it out alive.