MORE COWBOY CONFLICT

Happy Halloween!

HALLOWEEN SPECIAL

REFLECTING FORWARD

There’s another hip on-line lit journal called Matchbook that I admire (read it here). If they accept a flash-fiction piece for publication, they request a critique of sorts, some type of insight into the writing process. As I hold out hope for “Cocoon Man,” I reflect on what I believe is its significance. Here are my thoughts:

My wife’s into scrapbooking. She sticky-tapes family pictures into expensive albums, dresses them up, makes them visually appealing. In “Cocoon Man,” I try to do the opposite. I take a snapshot in time, something from that slim rectangular window of life and try to make it uglier. I dress it down. I examine its anorexic body. I focus on the blemish. I make that blemish fester and grow on skeletal remains.

I don’t think a story can have a lasting impression on its readers unless they’re made to feel uneasy—at least flash fiction anyway, where the plot needs to develop quickly. So why not challenge the reader in the beginning? Why not ask a series of questions that will present the conflict and setting as well as place the reader in an uncomfortable situation.

Forget Hallmark. Forget Norman Rockwell paintings. Let’s have guts, let’s show an exposed foot, and let’s have blatant lies and infidelity and manipulative behavior.

“Cocoon Man” is stripped down to these barebone essentials. The reader, like a moth flying into the flames, is drawn to the light, to its origins, to those initial questions. As for resolution of conflict—what of it? There’s no fancy gift-wrapped packages here to open. There’s no expensive ribbon to untie. And if there were? You wouldn’t be able to see beyond the beauty, beyond the presentation, and that’s not what I’m aiming for.

HERE IN A FLASH, GONE IN A FLASH

I’m still a novice when it comes to writing and reading flash fiction. It’s definitely an art form suitable for the internet. You can focus on the backlit words without straining your eyes for long lengths of time, and there’s not much scrolling to break your concentration.

Some of my written flashes have come to me relatively quick, the words spilling onto the page; whereas, others have tormented me for days. I’ve been submitting various pieces to my favorite on-line literary journals—not much luck there. One story in particular has raised a few eyebrows. Here’s the latest “favorable rejection”:

Hi JR,

Thanks for submitting “Cocoon Man.” Unfortunately, we’re going to pass. This was an exceptionally difficult decision for us because we liked so much about the piece (the ominous atmosphere, the back and forth dialogue between the characters, the haunting details), but something about it didn’t resonate as much as we hoped it would.

We really want to read more, though, so please keep sending stories our way.

Best,
Matt

How cool it that? I’ll keep writing, reading, trying. I strongly recommend http://www.staccatofiction.com/. They publish a new flash fiction piece every 4 or 5 days. And their stories really are that good.

REALITY CHECK

On Wednesday, as I walked past the hallway podium where prisoners' IDs are checked, I heard Officer Milk Dud say into the phone, “Yeah, he got his Mickey blowed out.” I picked up my daily call-out report (a list of inmates I will see for the day) and headed straight for my classroom. I knew not to expect an emailed explanation or debriefing regarding the staff assault.

From what I’ve heard, Officer Milk Dud became our hero, saving the day from a convict-punk who sucker-punched a teacher. Another corrections officer described it like this: “He (Milk Dud) tore off his shirt and a big ‘S’ appeared.” I chuckled a bit, but soon realized that any one of us could be assaulted at any given time, or worse—murdered. In eighteen years (knock on wood) I’ve remained relatively safe. No punches thrown my way; Never been pushed; Only the occasional verbal threats.

Prison employees are such a rare breed. We laugh and joke about those close calls as if it’ll bring us closer together. Although this may be a false assumption, we're reminded of the risk we take in dealing with prisoners. A good day at work is a day when you make it out, when you’re in your car and driving home to your loved ones.

Officer Milk Dud knows I have a history of talking sharp to the inmates. He reminds me about my orthodontics, about all that money I have invested in my mouth. “Protect your teeth,” he says. I smile a bit, my rubber bands adding tension to my jaw. “I’ll try,” I tell him. “I’ll try.”

IF BIRTHPLACE MATTERS ...

Maybe it’s just me, but it seems inherently wrong for a convicted murderer to run for Detroit City Council. You could argue that he paid for his crime, that he did twelve years for killing a man, however, if a foreign born citizen cannot lead our country, cannot become our President, then it stands to reason that Raphael Johnson should not have an opportunity to run for city council. Yet here he is campaigning.

I’ve talked about Johnson in the past, and perhaps I was a bit envious of his accomplishments: Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees from the University of Detroit Mercy, successful businessman, and speaker and author (how many times does he have to be on Maury Povich?), however, after learning more about his upbringing, I’m convinced that he would’ve been successful regardless of his crime. Prior to his conviction he attended the University of Detroit Jesuit High School on a scholarship, and before his trial he graduated with a 3.6 GPA at Cass Tech High School.

From my experiences as a correctional educator, a person of this caliber wouldn’t fit the typical prisoner mold. He says he’ll curb violence in Detroit by trimming back large trees that block the street lights. He says he’ll continue talking to our youth about making bad choices. His platform includes creating a task force that will reach out to at-risk teens—not that he was ever “at-risk.” He never grew up on the wrong side of the tracks; instead, he elected to go there.

You can’t choose where you were born, but you can make choices later on in life as to where you want to be. In Johnson’s case, he returned to a party with a gun and shot a 40-year old man to death. Hopefully he will not get elected to the council. The citizens need to take a stand.

STEWED

I’ve dealt with all kinds of misguided anger over the years (where students simmer, waiting for those inevitable triggers to boil over); I keep a lid on it.

“My last teacher,” a new student says, “was enthused about teaching.”

He’s sitting in the front row, eyes the size of saucer cups, tattooed forearms: fallen pillars, one on each side of a mathematics competency exam I placed in front of him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Are you passionate about teaching?”

Perhaps he’s crying for help.

“My last teacher at Muskegon,” he continues, “loves his job.”

“Good for him. What’s his name?”

“Selbig.”

“Selbig’s a woman.”

“Sir, you’re mistaken. Selbig’s a man.”

Now I know he’s a loon. After class I pull his school file (just in case he gave me the wrong name)—sure enough, his last teacher was Selbig. Ann Selbig. Female.

A week later, he’s still working on the same fifty-problem test; He’s on number ten. His brain’s stuck in the mud, spinning on perfectionism. His meaty guardrails protect his paper. I’ve already helped him on basic fractions and assigned him a fractions book; He refuses to do it. He thinks he’s mastered fractions.

“My last student,” I comment, “was enthused about learning. Are you enthused about learning?”

He’s rubbing the middle of his forehead with his knuckles, circling, circling, circling; his face looks like an overripe tomato. He’s left a bruise.

I end my sarcasm.

DECORATIVE DRIFTWOOD

The following numbers are for a work in progress, a flash fiction piece titled, “Getting out From Under a Rock”:

Readability Statistics:

Words – 100
Paragraphs – 9
Sentences – 11
Passive Sentences – 0%
Flesch Reading Ease – 68.0%
Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level - 6.1

I’m sending my prose to the Driftwood, formerly known as The Driftwood Review. They’re looking for 100-word stories for an upcoming “Earth” themed issue. Twenty pieces will be chosen and you must be from Michigan.

Heck, I’m from Michigan. Do you think a scenario involving an undercover convict trying to get his cellmate to mention where he buried the bodies, qualifies as “Earth” themed? I hope so.

For the website click: Ludington Writers.

EXIT CONVERSATION

Our exit conversation went from whether the Detroit Tigers would get rained out to whether the ambulance near healthcare would interfere with us leaving at our regular scheduled time. Some state employees had brought umbrellas for protection against the drizzle, but the sun had poked through the clouds, radiating its warmth on our backs.

By the time we reached the Administration Building, I asked a custody staff person about the ambulance. Turns out, two of my students were involved in an altercation; or to be more direct, an assault occurred.

“From what I gather,” my informant said, “Prisoner B. stabbed Prisoner E. in the ear with a piece of metal and sliced him downward along the jaw-line. B. thrives on violence. E. was holding his face together and blood was going everywhere.”

A maintenance worker, corrections officer, and sergeant, focused on finding the weapon, passed us, heading in the opposite direction toward the crime scene area.

As I write this from the comfort of my home and reflect, I’m remembering that part of our exit conversation regarding umbrellas, how those metal-extension rods would make great shanks.

CRUEL & UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT

He sits in a wheelchair, my classroom tutor, and he talks real sharp to everyone because, as he’s stated many times before, “I’m going to die in prison, so I’ll speak my mind.”

He missed two weeks of work due to segregation, due to running his mouth in the chow hall when another inmate cut in front of him. He says the guy sucker-punched him, that he fell out of his wheelchair, had a seizure, blacked-out.

“You’re gonna pay me,” he says.

“How do I know you weren’t found guilty of fighting?” Segregation, after all, is a revolving door—seven days in, then back to general population. My classroom tutor did fourteen days; I’m a little suspicious.

He says, “That’s absurd,” and quotes policy, “through no fault of my own I was unable to report for duty.” Then I hear about how he’s going to slap a grievance on my ass, how Carl Marlinga (ex-Macomb County Prosecutor turned convict lawyer) is already defending him in a legal case against the Michigan Department of Corrections … blah, blah, blah … the mouth in perpetual motion.

I actually enjoyed not having him in my room. I’m not sure whether he showers regularly or has a colostomy bag or both, but he stinks up my classroom and the smell lingers. I know this might sound terrible, but I think I'll write an evaluation regarding his personal hygiene and have him thrown out of my class. Between the mouth and odor, I’m tired of him.

SWEATHOGS

“They’re not people … they’re Sweathogs!”

So why should the Michigan taxpayers, or more specifically—our state legislators, earmark money for a bunch of underachievers? Cut, cut, cut! They’re convicted criminals to boot! The hell with them!

The economy’s in the toilet. Hey, while we’re at it, let’s slash Early Childhood and College Scholarship Money, and drastically reduce general education funds. The Michigan Constitution requires a balanced budget by October 1st. The financial markets have driven state revenue to a 40-year low when adjusted for inflation.

I might not be teaching for a brief while—a short temporary lay-off until the budget is determined. If so, when I return it’ll be “Welcome Back, Welcome Back …”

In other news: Congrats to Mr. Woodman for bailing from a sinking ship called the Michigan Department of Corrections and for obtaining a public school teaching job. Also, he’s started an educational blog for his students. Wish him luck here . I’m sure his boat will stay afloat. Someone said he didn’t lend anything to our prison school, but I know better. Good luck Mr. Woodman!

LIQUID PROOF COVERALLS

We had a programs staff meeting. They fed us pizza, chicken wings, salad, pop. Actually, our employee club purchased the food and we were allowed to eat it during their meeting. The agenda items were briefly kicked around while we ate. I use the terms “briefly” and “kicked around” because the discussion on hand, the dialogue, seemed so minimal, so unimportant. Perhaps it had something to do with all that chewing and digesting of food.

Later in the day, a coworker, a Danny Glover Look-A-Like, asked me, “Is it true that all male staff have to wear neckties starting October first?” I had heard the same thing; the announcement had caught me by surprise; No one contested it. I didn’t contest it. I was in-between bites. We asked around and discovered it wasn’t meant for us.

Before I left for home, I received an interesting email, something about “liquid proof coveralls.” It was sent by the ERT Commander (Emergency Response Team) and said: “I have placed 15 sets of liquid proof coveralls in the cell rush cabinet in Housing Unit 7. These are to be used in the event of a cell rush where bodily liquids or feces might be involved. They should be big enough to put on over the cell rush gear so that the gear does not become contaminated.”

I don’t think I’ll be joining ERT anytime soon. In fact, I’m more receptive to the idea of wearing that necktie.

ROW 27, SEAT 18

Admission:     $110.00

Ticketmaster:     $5.75

Parking:           $20.00

Bud Light:        $15.00

Total:             $150.75

Yesterday, my brother and I watched the Detroit Lions lose their 19th straight football game. During our outing I had a drunken idiot (one of many) spill his beer all over the back of my shirt and on my chair. When I turned around to see if he would at least sober-up long enough to offer an apology, I got nothing. His drunken buddies kept their pie-holes shut as well. The lone woman with them (hopefully their designated driver) suggested an apology. Still, nothing.

As the Lions 10-point lead slipped away, these jerks became more primitive, fueling their mouths with more brew in-between shouted profanities. “F-this” and “F-that.” At one point, I did hear an apology to the father next to me, who had brought his young son. The father replied (rather sarcastically), “It’s not like he hasn’t already heard it about 100 times.” They didn’t get it.

Fights broke out at various places inside the stadium, but not where Eminem sat—he must have bought out an entire section—and thankfully, I didn’t lose my cool. Near the end of the game these drunks started calling everyone “pussies” for not cheering for the Lions. By then I’d had enough, but knew not to say anything.

I won’t be back to Ford Field anytime soon. Not until the Detroit Lions get a new owner. As far as I’m concerned, this football franchise has invited mediocrity. I see it in the low-life drunks interspersed throughout the stadium. Losers, losers, losers.

WHAT'S IN A TITLE?

Dear Krisma, Editor:

After our initial email exchange regarding the acceptance of my short story, and after your request for a different title, I conducted a classroom survey. My convict-students were asked to read the story and choose from the following:

1. Ruth Mondo’s Chance Encounter (original)

2. Small Steps for Ruthie

3. FindYourMate.com

During this process, in which I witnessed a heated debate between murderers, rapists, thieves, and drug dealers, I discovered that there’s more to this story than Ruth’s desire to find a companion; I discovered that the story conveys a message of “missed opportunities.”

One prisoner, a man doing “all day” for murder, said, “No matter how hard you try to do the right thing, no matter how prepared you think you are, there’s always a possibility of the wrong outcome.” He went on to say how difficult it is to make the correct choices when you’ve had negative experiences all your life. “Our reactions,” he continued, “aren’t always based in reality.” Ruth and Old Man Gordy’s insecurities, he pointed out, lead them to believe they're making fun of each other’s appearances. I couldn't agree more.

In the end, my students reached a general consensus that “FindYourMate.com” should be the title of the story.

I hope this information serves you well and best wishes on the next issue of Diverse Voices Quarterly.

Sincerely, JR.

A GAME OF LEAP FROG

I’ve been told (or should I say “warned?”) that the politicians in Lansing have been keeping a spreadsheet of my monthly enrollment. I don’t have the slightest clue as to why—my numbers, after all, will have little effect on the decisions they make in the Puzzle Palace. I’ve already been warned about the possibility of a lay-off come October 1, 2009.

The Michigan House and Senate are ready to dump a budget plan on Governor Granholm’s desk, a budget with deep cuts. She’ll probably “veto” the damn thing, which in turn will bring about those lay-offs. Either way, I’ll feel the pinch.

I’ve also been told (via television) by the two main players, Andy Dillon (Democrat) and Mike Bishop (Republican), that the Governor is not instrumental in the budget making process. Hmmm… I guess they’re playing leap frog, they’ve pushed her aside, deemed her a bad leader. How’s that saying go? “Lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way.” I guess the blind is leading the naked. I’m trying to figure out just who is groping whom.

JUST DOING WHAT I'M TOLD TO DO

Per the Puzzle Palace, a.k.a. Lansing (the State Capitol of Michigan), I’m to administer another series of standardized tests. My students should have the Test of Adult Basic Education memorized by now. They take it every three months to check for grade level improvements. If you were to ask me about its reliability I’d say, “The TABE is inconclusive and no longer valid for determining aptitude or chances of success.”

“Why do I need to take this when I’m scheduled for the GED Exams next week?” a student asks.

“So we can capture some of that Obama money,” I answer.

Ah yes, educational funding, such a fickle endeavor. Anyone who has taken a Probability and Statistics class knows there are ways to twist the data in your favor.

A special education student approaches my desk in the middle of testing. “The judge says I need to get my GED before he’ll consider a time cut.” He’s wondering whether these tests will help.

“That’s between the two of you," I say, "leave me out of it."

He sits back down. He’s all pissed off, as if I’m holding the keys to his freedom. I’m a dutiful prison educator; I’ve learned not to question the powers that be; I’m like that guy in those old pizza commercials on television: “Make the dough Daryl. Make the dough.”

YARD TIME

On Friday morning when custody announced “Yard is over. Return to your unit” my students did something out of the ordinary: they flocked to the classroom windows.

“Is there something I need to know about?” I asked.

After an awkward moment of silence, one student replied, “Just because a guy was killed doesn’t mean administration should mess with our yard time.”

They have difficulty dealing with schedule changes. And how dare custody restrict their movement!

I walked over to the window, looked out over the prison yard. “So they’re having themselves a sit down,” I commented.

“Yard is over. YARD … IS … OVER. RETURN TO YOUR HOUSING UNIT IMMEDIATELY.”

The prisoners continued with their yard activities as if the public address system were malfunctioning. Then the immobilization siren blew. My students cleared the building, went back to their cells for lock-up, for an emergency count.

It wouldn’t be long and those protesters would be identified, loaded onto buses, and scattered amongst the higher security level prisons in Michigan.

If it were up to me, I would’ve left them out on the yard and prayed for rain. Besides, they’d be begging to come in by suppertime.

Today’s picture: Bro, myself, and the neighbor kids enjoying our freedom.

POST LABOR DAY NEWS

I realized long ago that I work in a dangerous environment—not because of some heavy piece of manufacturing equipment, not because I’m a press operator bypassing a safety mechanism so I can punch out car hoods faster and faster and faster—no, not at all.

I do belong to the United Auto Workers Union, but I'm a teacher. I work with a much more unpredictable entity called prisoners. You never know what goes on inside their minds or what might set them off. You need to never let your guard down.

This past Labor Day weekend an inmate was found in his cell—bound and gagged, strangled … murdered. His cellmate discovered him. Soon afterward custody nabbed the suspect—another prisoner who had been advertising for quite some time how he planned on killing a corrections officer. For reasons unknown, he settled on one of his peers. Still, it’s another human being and he’s dead. Sad way to go: Dying in prison, someone's foot on the back of your head, face in the toilet.

BEFORE THE 1ST LEAF FALLS

My wife says men don’t have patience, that we don't like standing in line. She’s probably correct. I stood in line, my patience short, three feet short, the length of a hose for connecting pool pump to filter.

I’m standing at a service counter behind some perfectionist (another man who probably waited longer than I). He had the hired help testing his pool water with one of those sophisticated test kits where you combined various solutions/chemicals to check the ph, alkalinity, calcium, etc… The levels were all off. They were discussing the corrosive effects of water. I felt like saying, “Look dudes, its H-2-O okay, not some explosive element that’ll wipe out an entire block.” But I waited. And waited. And waited.

Three or four tests later I walked away. Not even a goodbye, not even an acknowledgement that I existed—no “Is there anything I can help you with?”

I find my wife in the hot tub section. She asks, “Where’s the hose?”

I tell her I’m not standing in line for another minute. She knows I’m in a hurry; I want to close my pool before the first leaf falls.

We approach the checkout. I say to the cashier, “Look, I need three feet of hose.”

She senses my frustration. She probably saw me in the service line. She gets some young kid hustling for it.

After the transaction’s complete, she says, “Get yourself some hose clamps, they’re free.”

At least someone knows how to treat a customer—not like those I-Wanna-Be-A-Chemist-Jack-Asses over in the service area.

Why I don't think I would be a good father/husband at this point in time

Not often—Hell, who am I fooling? Never before… at least not like this—I’ll get a GED Essay that tugs at thee ol’ heart strings. Most prisoners prefer the bland essay format of topic sentence, supporting statements and conclusion told without conviction or emotional honesty. What you’re about to read is based on the following question: Discuss an opinion you once held that has now changed. Without further introduction (and slightly edited) here’s one prisoner’s narrative essay:

At one time I wanted kids. I had a little girl and I loved her with all my heart. We would do things together. Although she was only 4 years old when she died, she was my life. I didn’t realize until I had lost her in a car accident how much I’d miss her. She and my wife were hit by a drunk driver coming home from a family reunion that I was supposed to attend, but didn’t.

After her death, my wife and I did not get along. We were fighting all the time. I guess I fell out of love with her.

Over a period of time, I just didn’t want the hassle, I just didn’t want to invest my energy in our marriage. I didn’t want kids any more. I just couldn’t handle it all.

I wanted to be by myself and do what I wanted to do and without the hassles. What I had always wanted in life I found out I did not want anymore. Now I’m happy I have no one, which is better for me in the long run because I’m messed up myself.