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.

RAGS, WIDOWS & ORPHANS

Sounds like Dickens, doesn’t it?—Rags, Widows … Orphans.

My last post was meant to be looked at for its shape, its beauty, its style, and not so much for its content. Sorry Charles. Not Dickens! Gramlich! I never intended for you to read the jpegs. If so, I would’ve posted a PDF (which isn’t exactly the truth because I don’t know how to do that on Blogger). Because Lana's a visual artist—a painter, a photographer—she knew exactly what to do; call it my first public display of a layout design.

I’m still learning the intricacies of Adobe InDesign CS4. I’ve completed three-fourths of my graphic design class with an 89% average, or should I say: B+. Still, after perusing various on-line literary magazines, I think I can compete. Not that I’m planning on it. Too much work. Besides, there are some really dedicated editors out there.

So what’s a rag? A bad rag is that ugly shape created by the white space in your right margin; whereas, a good rag uses small increments of space, making the reader more comfortable with the written content (maybe this is why Charles decided to read). If you examine rags further, when the last line at the bottom of a paragraph or page contains only one word, it leaves way too much white space and distracts the reader. Not good typography at all. This is called a widow. Or is it an orphan? No, no, no … a widow leaves too much white space, and an orphan is a single word that makes a short line. I guess they go together; they leave too much white space.

Thank you for your patients, your tolerance.

IF I WERE A GRAPHIC DESIGNER / EDITOR