BIG CAT CAUGHT

BEYOND THE SEA ... LAKE HURON

THE FAREWELL TOUR

MY OWN PERSONAL SPINAL TAP

The marathon is almost over. I’m literally crawling to the finish line. Twelve extra pounds will do that to you—so will sitting at my computer three hundred fifty-four times over the past year. Three hundred fifty-four times that I’ve struggled to convey my thoughts and tell a few interesting stories. I’m not sure any of it has helped my writing, but I’ve given my memory one hell of a workout. I guess that’s an accomplishment in and of itself.

Tomorrow, for my one-year Blog commitment, I’ll show some 80’s vintage rock video of yours truly. No written words—just some awkwardly funny footage of a bunch of guys pretending to be jukebox heroes. I’ve lost touch with a majority of them—two former fencers from Wayne State University, a mid-manager for a marketing firm, an engineer (what up, bro?), an Arizona businessman, and of course, me, the convict teacher.

I was the initial cameraman back then, working my way up to roadie, before taking a stab at guitar, keyboards, and vocals. I soon learned that I had no musical talent whatsoever. Not that it mattered; Captain Shaklee, our manager and sponsor (Shaklee Products) ran off with what little money we had. Soon, there were no more touring dates. We disbanded, and I, like the rest, became the disappearing "Eddie" from “Eddie and the Cruisers.”

I’ve enjoyed everyone’s company, and I’ll be sure to visit your blogs in the future. Good luck!

CHANNELING OUR ANGER

Howard and I had our differences, our moments of anger, followed by a certain degree of calmness. He, spewing expletives, and I, calmly telling him, "Joe, it's no big deal. Really." I had learned that with him you're better off being candid during a confrontation. How else were we able to work together and get along?

"What's this I'm hearing about you commissioning an inmate to steal my pencils?"

"I ran out," I explained. "And someone's got to do my dirty work."

"You little f**ker!"

I quickly pointed out that we needn't fight over an issue created by our boss's penny pinching ways.

Another time, as we embarked on a journey toward the Muskegon Correctional Facility in a blinding snow storm, Howard lit one of what would be his many cigarettes.

"What're you doing?" I asked.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

I pointed to the sticker on the dashboard. "There's no smoking in a state car."

"Don't worry Jimmy, I'll roll down the window."

I knew this would happen. In fact, when our boss informed me I'd be filling in for Sandra Gomez, the little old lady who would eventually be escorted from our worksite in handcuffs, I brought up the smoking issue. "Tell him not to," my boss suggested--his way of saying "man-up."

That night in the hotel room, Howard searched for an ashtray.

"This is a nonsmoking room," I said.

"Not anymore."

We both agreed that in an effort to save the school a few bucks, our boss should not have coerced us into sharing lodging. And we both gave him an earful when we got back.

CIGARETTES & LIABILITY

In the retelling of my workplace stories, I would never ever think of using a coworker's real name, unless, of course, he were Joe Howard. It does not matter to me that one minute Joe railed against our boss, got right in his face, you son of a bitch, I ought to slap you with a defamation of character lawsuit, and a day later, with tears welling up in his eyes, showed a genuine concern for our boss's declining health. That was Howard, doing everything in life with passion.

I had first met Howard at a MDOC training session. We were working at different prisons--he, at the Adrian Correctional Facility; I, at a prison in Detroit. We were sent to the Carson City Correctional Facility for a presentation on "how to best improve the academic skills of our prisoners." Carson City hosted the event because they demonstrated the largest increases on the TABE scores (Test of Adult Basic Education). I sat amongst my peers, prison educators from all over Michigan, waiting for someone to say what I had been thinking.

Howard stood up. "You're so full of shit," he said to the presenter. "The reason the men at your facility do better on the TABE has more to do with less ride-outs." An argument ensued, and Howard, satisfied for having made his point, agreed to sit back down. Before our lunch break, I introduced myself, and soon we were discussing teaching theories at a local pub over beer and burgers.

We wouldn't meet again until three years later, when I transferred to a new facility; something he had done a few years prior.

After settling into my new classroom, I'd listen to Howard and his students actively arguing and learning simultaneously. During our short breaks, we'd stand on the prison yard, Howard freely dispensing his knowledge on every topic under the sun while searching for a cigarette. On some occasions, faced with a major dilemma, he'd order an inmate to give him a square.

"You know," I said to him once, right before he inhaled, "that's a rolled cigarette."

"Yeah, what's your point?"

"The inmate had to lick the paper."

"I need my nicotine, Jimmy."

Of all the teachers I've met and worked with in the prison system, Howard was the most energetic. He didn't just go through the motions; he actually felt he was contributing to the well-being of the inmates. He ended up transferring to the Maxey Training School for Boys in an effort to keep his special education certification. I haven't heard from him in years. I learned this week that he retired in January.

FRAME OF MIND

In fifteen years with the Michigan Department of Corrections, I can honestly say that I don't know my coworkers any better than the day I had first met them. There's this underlying code not to reveal too much information about yourself for fear of the inmates finding out. You are, afterall, their main source of entertainment, followed by the soaps and Jackie Collin's novels (or is it Judy?) Inmates eavesdrop on staff conversations and compare notes back at their cellblocks. I've always felt there's no sense in giving them any leverage.

Sandra Gomez, an elderly hispanic woman with twenty-eight years of teaching experience as a state employee knew all too well about the dangers of her past. She was one door away from my classroom, and from what I had observed, very knowledgable and effective in helping the lower functioning inmates with their reading skills. Yet, I knew nothing about her personal life. If I may add a stereotype--she was a sweet little old lady.

So I was puzzled the day the Michigan State Police hauled her away in handcuffs. I think most of the school staff were shocked. How could this happen? How could someone convince a judge to sign a court order for her arrest? How could they find marked money in her Cadillac Seville? How come no one knew about the threats to her family?

Her crucial mistake in all of this, if you place your trust in your employer, was not asking for help. Sandra Gomez had endangered the lives of her fellow coworkers. I, along with my peers, were downright angry.

You see, Sandra Gomez became a prison mule, bringing drugs into our facility on a regular basis. The inmate, or undercover cop in her classroom, in turn delivered the goods to the control center where custody staff logged it in as evidence. Twenty-eight years of state service thrown away. Or so I thought.

Here's what I didn't know about Sandra Gomez: her exhusband was also an exfelon, and somehow this information in the wrong hands led to her making one bad decision after another. I'll never understand her frame of mind, or why she continued to smile and say hello whenever we passed in the hallway. I'll never know how much leverage the inmates had over her. But I do know this--she had her day in court and the verdict was: not guilty. I never saw her again.

DIGGING POST HOLES

The first sign of trouble, at least for me anyway, were the pictures of Angie's daughter displayed on her desk. Everyone should be proud of his or her children, and it wasn't like her cubicle had been in a high traffic area; I just didn't think it was appropriate, especially in a prison setting. I'd never do such a thing. If I had a nickel for every time an inmate said, "Let me see a picture of your wife," I'd have one of those big pickle ring-bologna jars filled to the rim.

I wondered whether Angie had been aware of the part-time inmate-clerk whittling away his time poking his nose around every corner and acting like the programs staff couldn't do without his superb filing skills. He was definitely a runner, one of those inmates that tells everyone in his cellblock about the latest office gossip. It got to the point where custody made the inmate-clerks sort files and do their typing in a different area, away from the office staff. Angie didn't seem to mind this arrangement. Whenever I talked to her, we shared a common theme--lazy ass inmates getting paid for doing nothing. Angie sounded real convincing when it came to bashing a prisoner's work ethic. You could tell she despised them. We got along just fine.

About the only thing I knew about Angie, besides that she had a daughter, was that she was divorced. It wasn't until after she had been fired that I learned about the married boyfriend. She probably thought he would eventually leave his wife, and be with her. It never happened.

From what I had observed, Angie started wearing really bagging clothing, and her hair became unkempt. But she always smiled when greeting me, and went about her business. I thought she was leaving her office cubicle to check in on her inmate-clerk’s filing and typing. I look back now and think about the music room a few doors away. No one noticed what was going on until it was too late.

I guess you could say Angie was making music with a lifer. He requested the baggy clothing so they could have a quick and easy romantic interlude. I'm not sure why she would risk facing felony charges to be with someone who, as a teenager, killed his mother for not lending him the car. A year or so later, someone showed me a picture of her and the new hubby. They got hitched at another correctional facility.

A POOR MAN'S RETIREMENT SYSTEM

Statistically speaking, I'm willing to bet that the inmates I teach have sired more babies then your typical law abiding male. After small talk amongst themselves about my-baby-mama-this and my-baby-mama-that, I've been known to ask, "What's a poor man's retirement system?"

I get the usual answers: rob a bank, sell some dope, run a scam. No sense in becoming a working stiff. No sense in having a 9 to 5 job —That’s for suckers. No sense in building up your 401K. Takes too long. Besides, honesty doesn't put you in the real money. You've got to have game. You've got to know how to be on the take. You've got to be a player.

I usually single someone out. "You're probably already banking your future on the poor man's retirement system."

"No I'm not," is the defensive response, followed by, "what're you talking about anyway?"

"Lots of kids, my man. Lots of kids. Maybe one of them will take care of you in your old age."

My social commentary never elicits pleasant remarks. I usually get cussed at, or someone tries to drag my personal life into the mix. Whatever they learn about me is mostly fictionalized for entertainment purposes. A little verbal sparring never hurt anyone.

Last week one of my tutors seemed a little punchy. I thought he was going to throttle a student. "What's going on?" I asked him.

He reached inside his shirt pocket and handed me a glossy black and white ultrasound picture. A current date and the name Valerie Michael were printed on it. "You want to read the letter that came with it?" he said, as if he was ready to fight me if I started teasing him. From what I’d gathered, this woman, someone he swears he's never heard of before, wrote him. He showed me the most damaging part--"Congratulations! It's yours."

I didn't know how to react, so I did the same. "Congratulations!"

"How the hell can it be mine when I've been locked up for three years!" he snapped back.

I shrugged my shoulders and told him that all kinds of things can happen in the visiting room. Then I asked if he was going to pass out cigars. He calmed down some and laughed with me.

Since he was in a chipper mood today, I asked for an update. Turns out Valerie Michael used to be Valerie Webster, his daughter. Without his knowledge, she divorced her first husband and married some other guy. Shortly after that she became pregnant. She sent him a follow up letter explaining the events of her life. He, on the other hand, did not like the way the message, the news, was initially presented, and explained to me that if she ever came to visit him, he was prepared to give her a piece of his mind. I advised him to be careful; "she just might be the one that’ll take care of you when you're old and feeble."

THE DOCTRINE OF RELATIVE FILTH

On the news today I heard of a 60-some-year-old laid off autoworker robbing a bank so he could get caught and go to prison. His motive: fear of becoming homeless. He used a handgun (unloaded I presume) and demanded money from a teller. After making it out the front door with approximately one grand, he pretended to faint. No car chases, no gunfire exchanges, just a simple plan to get three hots and a cot. In the courtroom, the county prosecutor recommended they be lenient on the guy and help him find a job. The judge seemed to agree.

I'm not so sure this is the right thing to do. What kind of message are we sending to the rest of society?

In my annual training session today on "Leadership: Ethics & Attitudes," we covered the Doctrine of Relative Filth. In case you haven't heard of it before, it's a way of rationalizing something even though you know it's wrong. To what degree do we accept a person's rationality? To what degree do we accept the laid off autoworker's motives? To what degree do we accept the prosecutor and judge's decisions?

Other people have done worse things, true, but what has that got to do with the criminal act itself? Do you know how many times I've heard an inmate tell me, I might be a murderer, but I'm not a thief? You see, in prison the inmates who steal are despised above all the rest. At least among their own. Us law abiding citizens know that stealing covers a multitude of sins. We call rape: stealing sex. We call murder: stealing a life. And now I call robbing a bank in order to have a place to live and eat: stealing the taxpayer’s money. How dare he! Let's at least make it worth his while! It beats living in a van down by the river. He’s paid his fare amount of taxes, now it’s time he enjoy the fruits of his labor. Or am I over rationalizing this whole thing?

LACKING EVIDENCE, LACKING PURPOSE

When I first started blogging about my experiences as a limousine driver, I searched every family photo album readily available and came up empty handed. I found zero evidence to support my claim of driving a white Lincoln Continental or Volvo stretch limousine. There were no visual clues of myself standing near a limo, no pictures of me wearing a chauffeur's cap slightly tilted forward, no black leather gloves used for opening and closing doors and clutching the steering wheel, no mirrored sunglasses showing traces of former clients. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

As we all know, on the internet you can be anyone you want to be. I could be a swimming pool installer if I so choose. Not much glamour in that. I've found it easier to write about current events in my life, stuff that’s fresh in my mind, instead of recreating events from the past. In this picture, I’m trying to find a leak in my pool, running my fingers along the seams. Unfortunately none were found, so I’ll have to buy a new liner, and soon, very soon, with Memorial Day fast approaching.

But let me back up here. Let me take you into the past, into a large, muddy parking lot. I’m speaking on the phone: “It says here that I’m picking up my clients at a carnival at 23 Mile Road and Van Dyke. I hope I’m not dealing with a bunch of carnies.”

My instructions were unclear; my client’s background vague. No one in the office knew much about it. It was too late anyway. They descended upon me like a pack of rabid dogs, cash in hand and coolers fully stocked; carnies ready to party until morning. I asked them for their destination. “Just drive,” I was told.

After an hour of cruising, I had to pull over on M-59. My clients were hanging outside the sunroof, launching empty beer bottles into the air. I refused to drive until they promised to behave. Then we continued on our journey with nowhere in particular to go.

THE GATES OF HELL

It never fails. I'm in a hurry. I'm trying to escape the daily grind of prison. I'm standing near the sliding glass door, waiting for it to do what it should do--SLIDE--but it doesn't slide. And if I tap on the glass I'll only piss off the officer in the enclosure. I'm not in control of this situation; she is. She says, "Gate 1" to the officer handling the electronic switches.

Now I'm mad. I'm ready to pull my hair out. Why not Gate 2? Visitors are entering the neutral zone. They have to go through a metal detector and be patted down. The officer makes them take off their shoes. We're talking a good three minutes. Tack on another two for the elderly. Tack on another five if a baby's involved.

"Hello darling," Ricco says from the prison yard phone, "bring Junior with you, and remember to hide the drugs in his diaper."

I shouldn't be this way. Even though I'm not paid by the hour. I'm salaried. The time clock, I've been told, is for my safety. But administration isn't fooling anyone. They monitor our time with computer generated printouts. Time in, time out. It's all there, in black and white.

I'll never forget the day I arrived for work and set the metal detector off, not once, not twice, but three times. "I can do this," I told the gate officer.

"Let me pat you down," he said.

I assumed the stance. He started with my ankles and worked his way up. He scrunched my shirt pocket. "What do we have here?" he asked.

Then I realized: my wife and I had gone to a party. She decided to let her hair down. Put this in your pocket, she said, handing me a pink barrette. It must've went through the wash. "It's my wife's," I said.

"Sure it is," he said.

Gate 1, Gate 2, it doesn't matter. When you're between them, the officer is in control. And now there's a security camera to prove it.

HOW TO AVOID AN ATTACK

I'll never let my guard down, especially with the Indiana prison riot still fresh in my mind. I don't think I'm in any imminent danger; I'd like to think that I'm just as safe working in a correctional facility as say a Wal-Mart. What's really troubling is the higher percentage of alcoholism and divorce rates among my fellow coworkers. Perhaps our jobs are more stressful than I'd originally thought.

Every year I participate in a prisoner management course, which includes practicing various defensive techniques. Last Thursday, we concentrated on fighting off knife attacks. After a demonstration by our trainers, one of them said, "In these types of situations, regardless of how well you defend yourself, you're going to get cut."

I don't exactly know why, but I became interested in learning the basic slashing techniques used by the inmates, instead of stepping in close to the knife-wielder and disarming him. When it was my turn to practice, I quickly grabbed a plastic tent stake (a makeshift knife) and assumed the role of the attacker. It just seemed easier to do.

I thought about my previous prisoner management trainer, a former sergeant at our facility. For some reason, he walked off his job one night; he'd had enough of this line of work. I'm not sure whether he came back the very next day, but when he did, the personnel manager informed him that he could not have his job back, even though he had a certain window period to change his mind and take whatever suspension he had coming.

So he left the facility, only to return with a loaded weapon and a gym bag full of goodies. He held the personnel manager and her workers hostage. With helicopters hovering, state employees hiding, police (including snipers) and the news media waiting to make their moves, the situation worsened. The county coroner arrived; someone had obviously called him, indicating that the snipers were ready to shoot the hostage taker if necessary. Luckily, he surrendered and no one got hurt.

I witnessed most of this on my television while eating lunch with my wife. It may be easier to do the attacking, but it just isn’t worth the headache. In this case, the former sergeant did four or five years in prison and, from what I've heard, recently paroled.

REMEMBERING A SCENE

After attending a Prisoner Rape Elimination Act (PREA) training session, a coworker reminded me of the time I cracked a joke about a student sleeping in my class. I had forgotten all about it, but then I remembered using it in a story. Here's the excerpt from "Discounted" which appeared in The Furnace:

Blake slept in his cell, his state-owned jacket squished into his face, a sullen Frankenstein, a mistaken troglodyte, primitive and green, not quite ripe. He turned the dayroom peach. A corrections officer noticed a cellophane-wrapped brush placed on an open paint can with a layer of skin floating, hardening. On the PA he announced: "Harris, 5-9-1-2-6-3, report to base." Someone told Blake to wake up, to get out of his cell. He hustled to the podium.

"Why aren't you working?"

"I had to take a piss."

"What are those?" A trigger-finger tallied each mark. "Are those lines on your forehead?"

"What lines?"

"Were you sleeping?"

"No sir."

"Then you must've been doing something else!"

Blake didn't understand. The corrections officer and the inmates laughed. The predators took notice.

"Hey man," Inmate Rosnowski said, "You got zipper lines on your forehead."

*Note: Imran Sheikh, a graduate of the College for Creative Studies in Detroit, did the magazine's cover artwork shown above.

MY BIG DETROIT RIG (OR IS IT GIG?)

I stand to be corrected yet again. Detroit has buses, maybe not a bus system, but buses that pick up and drop off people at limited bus stops. Imagine that.

I remember reporting to the East Warren bus depot at the beginning of my workshift. Not that I was a bus driver or a mechanic. Nope. I was, and still am, a teacher.


A Catholic priest had fired me, or as others had witnessed—I was let go. While at St. Matthew’s School on the East Side of Detroit, with my income below the poverty level, I had a job lined up teaching for the Michigan Department of Corrections. Then came a hiring freeze, so my honesty came back to bite me. My current employer, via the priest, "wished me well."

There was no sense in trying to correct the situation. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to teach here," I said and walked away, my pride wounded and no idea where my next teaching job would be. Also, during this time the Detroit Catholic Schools were complaining about not getting their fair share of Federal dollars for Title I students. For some odd reason, Detroit Public Schools acquired all the Title I money and were told to service the Catholic schools in the district. And so the wheels on the bus went round and round. DPS spent their Title I money on 24-foot long motor homes equipped with student desks, computers, and chalkboards. All they needed were teacher/drivers. Guess who they hired?

I parked my classroom on wheels in the St. Matthew’s School parking lot and headed for the school office. I ended up teaching some of the very same troubled youths I had before, and my rate of pay increased almost twofold! The look of surprise by the administration made it worthwhile, even if it didn't last past the summer.

If there's a way to improve Detroit's bus system with Federal money, I could get the appropriate CDL driver's license and start a whole new career. What do you think?

THE WHEELS ON THE BUS GO ROUND & ROUND, ROUND & ROUND, ROUND & ROUND

While I’m on the discussion of transportation and/or lack thereof, I’d like to mention that our errors help define who we are. Yesterday, I mistakenly claimed that Detroit has a bus system, which it clearly does not. People mover yes, bus system no. My curt blog comment and indirect acknowledgment of the blunder demonstrates a poor understanding of mass transit systems and disregard for alternative methods for getting from place to place. Furthermore, it shows that I do not live in the city. I am, for all practical purposes, what you would call a “suburbanite.” Enough! I shall move forward.

Prior to Mr. Grimmett joining our teaching staff, my boss decided to hire a substitute teacher. She introduced me to Miss Ortland, a heavy-set, fair-complected, red-headed white woman. “Show her how your classroom operates; she’ll fill-in while you’re gone.” To be honest, I did not want a complete stranger running my program. I had visions of all my answer keys, resource books, and pencils and paper missing. But what choice did I have?

Miss Ortland didn’t stray too far from my desk, and you could see she had a genuine concern for her safety. It didn’t help that the inmates were flexing their pecs and complimenting her on her peculiar sense of fashion. Miss Ortland, you see, wore plain white blouses buttoned all the way up and knee-high plaid skirts. If she had been younger, I’d describe her outfit as something a Catholic schoolgirl wears. But it wasn’t so much her choice in clothes that made her appearance strange; it was what she wore underneath her skirt. Please do not rush to conclusions, it isn’t like I or my convict-students were stealing glances every chance we could get—at least not me anyway. What she had underneath was so damned obvious that nobody said anything about it.

Without my having to ask, she offered the following explanation: “I’ve been riding my bicycle to work.” We were in the middle of autumn, so I understood her wanting to keep her legs warm. I informed her of the employee lockers in the administration building. Still, I’m puzzled as to why she didn’t just wear slacks; it seemed like less of a hassle and a more practical way of concealing her long-johns.

THE RELIABILITY FACTOR

It wasn’t always that way—Mr. Grimmett arriving and leaving the prison via bus, cab, or my 1992 Ford Tempo. After six months on the job he had bought a brand new Oldsmobile Achieva and his punctuality soon improved. He took me to lunch one day to the Nevada Coney Island on the corner of Ryan and Nevada Roads; ironically, the restaurant was within walking distance of our facility (if you chose to travel by foot and risk your safety). I’d heard that Mr. Grimmett walked there often, prior to purchasing his new set of wheels.

I complemented him on his wise choice in vehicles and he expressed a sense of relief for not having to rely on cabs or Detroit’s never-on-time bus system.

“Whatever you want, JR. My treat,” he said.

I didn’t mind him paying for my lunch, after all, I did offer him rides now and then, however, the menu had nothing but greasy, unhealthy, artery-clogging food. Yet, I felt compelled to celebrate with him.

I’m not sure how much time elapsed, but one day I saw him getting into a yellow checkered cab outside our facility. I thought nothing of it until it became part of his normal routine once again.

“Grimmett,” I said, “where’s your car?”

He told me that he no longer drove it to work for fear of it being repossessed. At first I thought he was joking until he informed me of his elaborate plan of moving it around from house to house. “The repo man will never find it,” he said.

It seemed all too complicated to me. I offered a simple solution, “Why don’t you continue making your car payments?”

He railed against the ineptness of the car dealership, how they never fixed a reoccurring problem, and how he threatened and made good on forgoing future payments. I didn’t pry any further, although I suspect he’d spent most of his money on having a good time with several of his lady friends.

THE LAW OF AVERAGES

After seeing the teaching staff turn over twice at my first prison job, and after waking up morning after morning after morning and reporting to work, steadily increasing the average shelf life of a correctional educator, and after dealing with stable and unstable coworkers alike, I'd have to say Mr. Charles M. Grimmett will always have the honorable distinction of being the most free-spirited, happy-go-lucky, convict instructor I've ever had the pleasure of working with. Prior to his termination, which came at a time when I was his temporary boss and he served as my union representative (go figure), I had to deliver a message. "Grimmett," I said, noting his punctuality problem on a computer printout generated from our time clock, "administration wants to fire your ass. Try to get here on time." I felt perfectly comfortable telling him this because I knew he'd feel perfectly comfortable hearing it.

"JR, I've been fired from better shitholes than this. Do you think I care? Do you think I'll have trouble finding work? I'm a black teacher certified in math and science."

Grimmett and I had swapped students on a regular basis, tossing the race card onto the table every opportunity we could. "JR, I got a white boy for you. Says he can't learn from my kind," and "Grimmett, I got a Melanic for you, says he ain't workin' for the man."

At one point in our working relationship, after observing Mr. Grimmett regulary waiting for a cab, I offered him a ride home. Soon enough, I discovered that "home," depending on which day of the week it was, meant driving to various locations. One such place he teased me about regularly. "My lady friend keeps asking why a white man's bringing me to her house."

I never pried into his living arrangements, but I do remember him wanting me to cover for him while he checked on one of his so-called "lady friends" during lunch time. Apparently, he had spoken to her on the lobby payphone and she seemed incoherrent. So off he went. I could see the genuine concern in his face. He never returned that day, or the next.

She had been badly beaten and the Detroit police (whom he called) arrested his ass for domestic violence. When she regained her faculties and left the hospital, he was exonerated. Still, once I had warned him about losing his job, it was only a matter of time before Mr. Grimmett was escorted off the premise. At least I never steered him wrong, I kept it real. Unfortunately, some numbers are just meant to lower the average.

MY HEARTBROKEN MURMUR

Sarah Anne Johnson: What would you say to someone working on a first novel?

Elizabeth McCracken: If you think, "Is this a novel? How do I know that I'm writing a novel? How do I know it's not just one damn page after another?"--that's how it is. Most of my advice has to do with preparing yourself for depression and heartbreak in the actual writing of the book. You must be prepared to break your own heart.

I'm not a big-dreamer-kind-of-guy. I'd rather scale back my writing, downsize it into smaller manageable pieces. Less words, less heartache--easier for me to swallow rejection. Why punish myself? Why stay indoors and brood? Why not enjoy the day?

I'm a realist. I play the odds, finding the tiniest of the tiniest literary journals to submit my work. The more obscure the better. I've sold myself short many times, once giving a now defunct literary magazine the 1st North American Serial Rights to a short story, then reneging when something better came along. How do you do that? Very simple: I hereby rescind my initial offer ...

I remember contacting Eric Novak, the founder of Elitist Publications and author of "Killing Molly." He and his cohorts were assembling an anthology of short stories and poetry by Detroit writers. I'd read his first novel, thought it sucked (to put it mildly), and decided they might be impressed with my work. Eric got the idea for his novel while placed under house arrest for a drug conviction. Talk about irony: A correctional educator seeking the help of someone who almost went to prison.

After several emails back and forth (including an attached short story), Mr. Novak leveled with me. They were interested in posting fiction and poetry on their website prior to making selections for their anthology. I felt like I was being conned. Anyway, Elitist Publications no longer has a website and probably no longer exist. I wonder if Mr. Novak slipped into a deep depression and no longer writes. I did unearth an old review of "Killy Molly" at The Detroiter.com, and here's the last bit of info regarding Elitist (click here). Hope I didn't torch another bridge.

RIDING THE BULL

I’m having trouble here. Certain images are hard for me to process. “Are those bike helmets?”

My brother tries correcting me, “They’re more like lacrosse helmets.”

He may be partially correct. Some have grills across the front. Still, it doesn’t seem right, the whole image slightly off center, like a twisted Tour de France where half the cyclists wear cowboy hats.

I keep thinking about a prison rodeo I saw on cable television. Four convicts sitting around a card table playing bluff poker. Statuesque, their cards cemented to their hands, while an angry bull paces and snorts nearby. Three of them scramble for safety; the other stays seated for what seems like eternity—even after the bull tosses the card table into the air.

For some reason, I thought we were going to a rodeo. We’re at the Palace of Auburn Hills, home of the Detroit Pistons. My brother asks, “Do you know what PBR stands for?”

I haven’t a clue. “Pabst Blue Ribbon,” I answer.

My power of suggestion is too much for him. He’s parched. He offers to buy me one of those $8 beers. I decline.

When the event gets underway, they introduce approximately three dozen cowboys. “We’ll be here all night,” I complain.

My brother laughs. “They only have to ride the bull for 8 seconds.”

I look at the program and decide to cheer for only those wearing cowboy hats.