LEFT HAND DRINKING

Attention Dale:

Attached in RTF format is my story, "The Trigger Man & His Accomplice." I hope you will consider it for Left Hand Waving.

Sincerely, JR

*****

Hi JR,

Thanks for submitting. We've had a look at the story (and the photo). We can't use it as it is but I wonder if you'd consider a rewrite and resubmission. One of my greatest weaknesses as an editor, and there are many, is providing direction on rewrites, but I'm going to give it a shot, because we like the story and love the addition of the photo. Interested?

Dale

*****

Hey Dale,

I was a bit hesitant in sending this piece because my left hand isn't waving in the photo, so any advice on a rewrite or tidbits of what you're thinking would be greatly appreciated. Tell me what you did or didn't like about the piece (working with prisoners, I can take the criticism) and I'll try an edit.

Thanks, JR

*****

I absolutely love Right Hand Pointing and their sister publication, Left Hand Waving. So why am I waiting … waiting … waiting, I think it's still my move. *BTW, this isn't the picture.

ENDORSEMENTS? WHAT ENDORSEMENTS?

I think I know how we got on the conversation; I think it had something to do with Tiger Woods and accusations of domestic violence (his wife’s “rescuing” him with a golf club); A few students thought the media should leave Tiger be. I disagreed. Their rebuttal: Because he married “white,” and not “black,” because he had affairs with “white” women, he’s being held to a higher standard. Twisted, faulty logic, straight from the penitentiary: Yeah, he should’ve married and cheated within his own race, that way we’d all feel much better. What race is he anyway?

I pointed out Tiger’s squeaky clean image, how he, and he alone, tarnished it. More talk about race. Blah blah blah. At some point during the discussion I said, “I have no people.” Before I could finish with the standard line: “I am my own person,” a student of African-American persuasion interrupted, “We are your people.”

“Oh really?” I replied.

“Yeah, you’re our teacher, Tommy Boy.”

“That so?” I paused, waiting for further explanation. None was offered. I continued, “So, if I came over to your house for a family barbecue, I’d be welcomed with open arms?” This elicited laughter from all my students, White, Black, and Hispanic. “If, between passing the potato salad, I asked your sister out, you would be perfectly comfortable with that.”

“You’re a funny man, Tommy Boy.” More laughter.

“Do you see,” I said, “how the setting changes the group dynamic?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, Tommy Boy.”

“But it is, isn’t it? Especially when you’re making statements about interracial relationships.”

*For the record: I do not golf; this is my wife’s golf club.

A SMALL CORRESPONDENCE

After the rejection of “Cocoon Man,” I decided to try Staccato Fiction again. Here is my correspondence with the editor:

Matt,

I absolutely loved the voice in "Whatever Happened to Sue Ellen?" One of my favorites so far. You know you're picking good stories when other writers are envious.

I humbly submit "Animus" and hope you will consider it.

Thanks in advance,
JR

*****

JR-

We absolutely loved "Animus" and would be thrilled to publish it on Staccato. Is it still available? If so, can you send a short bio?

Also, I hope you won't be offended if we suggest a small editorial change: the name "Old Man Baker" sounds a bit out of place here and reminds us of old episodes of "Lassie." Would you consider changing it to Mr. Baker? It's a small objection, but in an otherwise pitch-perfect story, I think it really jumps out.

Let me know what you think.

Best,
Matt
Staccatofiction.com/

*****

Matt,

You just made my day. I love the layout of Staccato Fiction, as well as the stories. Also, you are absolutely correct on the editorial changes.

Incidentally, Staccato was my first and only choice for "Animus," and it would be an honor to have my story on your website.

Sincerely,
JR

GOBBLE GOBBLE HEY

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

—"Pinhead"
by The Ramones




Every Thanksgiving I pose for a blog photo, me smiling (sort of) with a turkey pulled from the oven, a turkey that I did not cook. Afterward, while examining the pic in its unaltered digital form, I try to come up with something witty to write, or serious, the usual we-have-so-much-to-be-thankful-for message.

And we do.

But this year, while greeting my wife’s family at the front door, I did what I’ve been doing for most of November: I checked on the Praying Mantis hanging outside our living room window. I felt the brick for warmth to see why he (yeah, I assigned a gender) did not succumb to the cold weather. And, in nontraditional form, the wife snapped a picture.

I’m no longer involved with the elementary schools’ Science Olympiad insect program; therefore, I no longer order Mantid egg casings from the North Carolina biological society. Not that it matters, these mantids have been reproducing for the past four years anyway. I wonder why this little critter is still alive. It’s as if he’s making a statement about Global Warming, about our changing climate.

Al Gore may have raised awareness regarding this issue; however, my concerns are more immediate. Did I install the nine windows on my house correctly, or is there warm air seeping through the caulk, giving this little guy more life than he deserves?

ANTICIPATION: OVERCOOKED TURKEY

Can it be true? And just in time for Thanksgiving? I’m thinking “Buy Out.” Wife’s telling me to report to personnel after the holidays. Last time I dealt with the personnel department, they were campaigning to have me escorted from the prison grounds for what they thought was an expired teaching certificate (you can’t always believe what you read—especially if it’s from a website that hasn’t been updated in months. Incidentally, I update my blog on a semi-regularly, non-intermittent basis).

But this is different … or maybe not. Maybe it’s a subtle hint for me to “push-on.” I’m examining what appear to be official looking documents sent by the State of Michigan Civil Service Commission. There’s an application too, with an assigned policy number. It says:

Dear JR,

As an eligible State of Michigan defined benefit retiree, you are being given an additional opportunity to apply for Retiree paid Benefits …

What does this mean? I’m too young to be mistaken for a retiree. I’m not even a half-century old. Is this the State of Michigan’s way of chipping away at my future pension? I need to start planning. I need to investigate what type of shenanigans the Civil Service Commission is up to. I need to do it now. I need to crunch the numbers. Or perhaps I’ll wait; perhaps I’ll do it during the Detroit Lions’ Thanksgiving Day football game. At least some things never change.

A TIME OF CHEER, TWO MORE DAYS

Maybe it’s too early, or too depressing, or whatever. I see the anguish in their faces.

“You’re killing us,” one of my tutors says. They sit in a “tutors only” area, near the GED books, answer keys, and locked storage closet. They seldom lift their asses from their cushy chairs for fear of the students swapping out their hard chairs.

I console them. “It’s only for two days.” They are not happy about the situation. “Besides,” I continue, “maybe I can flush you out of the pocket like a Detroit Lions quarterback.” This is my indirect way of suggesting they work the classroom floor to see if anyone needs help on their assignments.

“You got to be kidding,” the other tutor says. “I’ve been sacked one time too many.” He has a valid point; in here, if you try to help someone and it doesn’t go well, fingers get pointed and accusations fly. “He’s the son-of-bitch told me to do it that way,” a student might tell me.

“Today and tomorrow,” I remind them. They’re worried about the month of December.

A student joins the revolt. He enters the “tutors only” section. He’s mad as hell. He’s rattling the door handle to the storage closet.

“I’m not changing the radio station,” I respond.

“Anything but Christmas music. Anything. Even if it’s country.”

“Nope.”

A female sings, “I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me,” and ends on a high note, “if only in my dreams.”

**I’d like to thank former prison educator Mr. Woodman for donating his boom-box. Also, our deepest apologies for not having a going away party for you.

YOU'RE NEVER ALONE ...

There once was a time where I held semi-normal conversations with inmates—current events, sports, the weather (small talk really)—but not so much anymore; Now it’s all gibberish and drool and impassive stares.

 Coming back from the lunchroom, I witness stacks of boxes being wheeled into the facility on a daily basis--just like clockwork. Last I heard, approximately thirty-four thousand dollars a month is spent on various skittles which are dispensed, swallowed, regurgitated, bartered, and swallowed again.

 Two days. I need to get through two more workdays. Then I can relax, eat some turkey (wife’s going to stuff it with some lemons per Rachel Ray’s recommendation) and watch some football.

 In those two remaining workdays, I need to calm down a new student, a forty-three year old man with Schizoaffective Disorder. He seems to think the Michigan Department of Corrections will honor a worn & tattered memorandum from 2005; it’s from the United States Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Prisons, granting him permission not to attend school based on his combined limited intellectual ability and serious illness. He was as proud as a nervous, ultra-hyper, peacock showing me this document.

 I guess he’s never read the Schizophrenics Anonymous Steps for Recovery:

1. I SURRENDER … I admit I need help. I can’t do it alone.
2. I CHOOSE … to be well. I take full responsibility for my choices and realize the choices I make directly influence the quality of my days.
3. I BELIEVE … that I have been provided with great inner resources and I will use these resources to help myself and others.
4. I FORGIVE … myself for all the mistakes I have made. I also forgive and release everyone who has injured or harmed me in any way.
5. I UNDERSTAND … that erroneous, self-defeating thinking contributes to my problems, failures, unhappiness and fears. I am ready to have my belief system altered so my life can be transformed.
6. I DECIDE … to turn my life over to the care of God, as I understand Him, surrendering my will and false beliefs. I ask to be changed in depth.

I’m afraid he’s stuck on steps number one and two. His choice not to attend class will result in “00 Status”—no prison job, no pay, no nothing. After thirty days, per the school operating procedure, he’ll be re-enrolled in school and subsequently placed back on “00 Status.”

MY PERSONAL PROTECTION DEVICE

There seems to be confusion regarding PPD’s (Personal Protection Devices)—that’s how the meeting starts; As if those of us on the front line of the battlefield, those of us who spend a majority of our workday with prisoners, haven’t a clue about when to use them. What’s your perception of the PPD? When should it be used?

There’s been a rash of fights/assaults at our facility, and now someone wants to play Monday morning quarterback; wants to review the tapes and tell us—strike that—wants to “imply” what we’re doing wrong. The meeting room falls silent; no one is willing to step up to the plate and offer an interpretation. And why should they? To be gutted and filleted like some young fish?

You CAN USE your PPD when two inmates start fighting. IN FACT, we encourage you to do so.

I’m holding back my opinion on this; there’s no sense in stirring up controversy. It’s a “no-win” situation.

During the forced discussion, I decide to interject some humor. “The last fighting incident in my classroom,” I say, pausing for emphasis, “… at least they waited until after everyone finished testing.”

A few chuckles, nothing more. I did not use my PPD during this incident. I honestly didn’t feel it to be necessary; I wasn’t in harms way.

Later in the afternoon, I approach two corrections officers. I say, “Look, if I pull my PPD, it’s for me, I’m getting hurt, okay?”

They understand the message and reassure me that they’ll come running; I’ve made it personal.

TESTED. CONGRATULATIONS, YOU QUALIFY.

After seven days in the box (otherwise known as segregation), Prisoner Smith reappears in my classroom. Last time I had seen him, he was writing an essay.

“That’s some real bullshit,” he announces upon entry.

He’s referring to the fighting ticket I had written on him. I acknowledge his claim of injustice. “You had an opportunity to get out of the situation, but you chose to fight instead.”

“He sucker-punched me.”

This is a valid point. During a GED half-testing session—where they try to qualify for the actual GED exams—another prisoner took his best shot at the side of Smith’s head. Smith quickly stood his ground, as if the glancing blow hadn’t fazed him, and said, “So you wanna go again do yah?” Then he put up his dukes. I yelled for him to exit my classroom immediately. Another teacher in the hallway assisted; He opened the classroom door so Smith could make his escape.

He’s laughing now. “What you’re saying,” he sort of asks, “is that you wouldn’t have wrote the fighting ticket if I had ran out of your classroom.”

“Well …” I hesitate. “Not exactly.”

He waits for an explanation.

“The way it was explained to me,” I continue, “is that when you got into your boxer’s stance, you were showing an outward sign of aggression. Per policy and the Prisoner Rule Violation book, this fits the description of fighting.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Then I did the right thing?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” I say. He’s referring to his decision to serve up a five-piece combo, backing his opponent into a corner of my classroom with his superior boxing skills. “You qualified for the GED exams and you’re scheduled to take them next week,” I add.

He doesn’t seem to care about the GED, but he's no dummy; he understands perfectly clear how to survive in here.

A POTENTIALLY EXPLOSIVE SITUATION

It hasn’t happened … yet. But in the foreseeable future someone’s going to get slapped with a sexual harassment claim, someone’s going to get burned. And why not?

Yesterday, I’m making copies of worksheets when a coworker says, “This is the best weekend to hit the bars.” He’s not speaking to me, but to another coworker, a female. Still, the conversation is meant to be an open invitation for anyone to participate.

“This weekend?” she asks, somewhat puzzled. “What about …”

Before she can finish, he starts up again. “It’s the beginning of deer hunting season. While all those husbands are in the woods looking to shoot Bambi, their wives will be in the bars looking for some action of their own.”

He laughs; she laughs.

I’m not amused. He’s married. She’s married. I’m married.

On another occasion, I’m waiting my turn to speak to this same female coworker when a male coworker steps out of her office, and for reasons I’m not sure of (maybe he thinks I’ll be impressed) he leans back inside the door frame and says, “You can put your shirt back on now.”

He laughs; she laughs.

I do what is starting to become routine: I turn and walk away. No sense in being part of the situation. It’s hard to believe this type of behavior takes place inside a prison. It’s no different than playing with matches inside a place that manufactures fireworks. Soon enough, sparks will fly; soon enough, there will be a chain reaction of explosions; soon enough, there will be depositions and lawsuits. What started out as innocent banter between the sexes will careen out of control. It always does.

OVERWHELMING NUMBERS

When you’re looking for something, searching with all your might, and when you put your finger on it (in this case: a childhood photo circa 1973), the reality behind the search and the reality behind the subsequent discovery, can leave you speechless.

On March 8, 1973, I was a 9 year old boy. (Here I am, posing with my brother.)

On March 8, 1973, a Detroit teenager learned his fate.

Twenty-five years later we would meet: I, the convict-teacher, and he, the convict-student. He would earn the nickname “Speedboat” due to his learning difficulties, for what was written in his court transcripts, that he would never earn his high school equivalency diploma, that with an IQ of 75 he was mildly retarded. However, he proved the experts wrong; he passed his GED after studying mathematics in my classroom. This was approximately 10 years ago; It took him 17 years to complete.

Last week, he gave me a rather large envelope and requested that I look at its contents. In it I saw an official looking document with an embossed gold seal. Here’s part of what it said:

To the Michigan Department of Corrections,

Whereas, in the Circuit Court for the County of Oakland, (______) was convicted of the crimes of First Degree Murder and Conspiracy to Commit First Degree Murder. He was sentenced to imprisonment for two life terms;

And Whereas, the Michigan Parole Board has recommended . . .

Now Therefore, I, Jennifer M. Granholm, Governor of the State of Michigan, do hereby commute the sentences of (______) to terms of thirty-seven years, four months, fifteen days minimum to life maximum and thirty-seven years, four months, fifteen days minimum to life maximum, thereby making him eligible for parole on February 27, 2009.

You are hereby required to make your records conform to this commutation.

With approximately 18 years correctional education experience, this is the very first Letter of Commutation I’ve seen. Speedboat made the following announcement to my students: “Never give up hope. Keep trying.”

I remained speechless, overwhelmed by the numbers.

ATTEMPTED ESCAPE

It’s true, I’m going through the motions, putting in my time—aren’t we all? And because of my complacency our facility almost had an inmate escape. Here’s what happened:

Every weekday at fifteen-hundred twenty hours I hear the following announcement: “Building 300 is closed. All prisoners return to your housing unit.”

My students file out, that’s the routine—lock-up and be counted.

“See you tomorrow Teach,” someone says.

I load up my cart: pencil box, stapler, three-hole punch, class binders, and dictionaries, and I roll the cart into a secured storage area. I give an A-O-K nod to the corrections officer making one final round. I power down my computer and lock my desk drawer and filing cabinets.

Nothing beats getting out of prison at the regular scheduled hour. No emergency situations. No sirens. No extra duty.

I put my coat on and just before I hit the light switches, I notice a young man sleeping in the back of the classroom.

“Hudson,” I yell. “Get the ##@$% out of my classroom!”

Hudson rises for a hot second, long enough to shake his dream world. His sleepy left leg doesn’t cooperate and he falls to the floor.

“You’re gonna miss count!”

He stands again, falls again—more encouragement from me. Soon he’s dragging his left leg down the hallway like Egor. He knows that if he doesn’t make it back to his cell on time he’ll be charged with an attempted escape. There are no excuses. He knows better.

THE SOMEWHERE ELSE HOME

JR,

First, thanks so much for sending us "Cocoon Man." After a healthy discussion, we have decided to pass on it. Know that we both agreed the story is efficient, tightly wound, and all the details and dialogue work toward the ending. We worried about the story lacking a wider or heavier sense of implication. There is the "descent while she watches from above" - which one might describe as an allusion to the archetypal circles of hell, which in turn are a consequence of sin, which in this story pertains to the threat of adultery - but it might arrive too loosely at the end. It is clear you know what you're doing as a writer, but in the end, it just wasn't a fit for us. We wish you the best of luck finding a home for it elsewhere. We're confident you will.

Sincerely,

The Editors
-----------------
Previous blog posts:
Reflecting Forward
Here in a Flash, Gone in a Flash

OFF CENTER WITH A LOSS OF APPETITE

I just haven’t been “feeling it” lately, and I’m not sure whether the approaching holidays are affecting my otherwise bland routine or what. Not even the lunatics—too numerous to count—are able to shock me out of my doldrums; I’m afraid they’ve become the norm.

A rather large student, on the heavier side of two-hundred fifty pounds, approaches me in the corridor. Most days I can’t shut him up, but today he remains awkwardly silent. He invades my space, leaving little room to maneuver around the girth of his stomach.

“What’s your problem?” I ask. I’m not interested in whatever bullshit he’s going to pull.

He remains tight-lipped. A few inmates laugh.

“What? You’re not speaking today?” I ask.

He opens his mouth wide, exposing his dry chalky tongue (daily medication will do that); a grasshopper hops out, landing on the tiled floor.

“You need some Hershey’s chocolate syrup,” I suggest.

He bends down, picks up the grasshopper, and places it back in his mouth. I’m perfectly content with this arrangement; anything to keep him quiet.

ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT ATTENDANCE

It’s etched in stone, signed by the powers that be, (been that way since October 5th): Prisoners are no longer allowed to “sign off” and not attend their call-outs. So I held my own, students came to class sick—runny noses, coughing up mucus—rolls of toilet paper torn and wadded up, honking into tissue then discarding inside computer hutches and bookshelves, on top of desks and of course the ever-popular floor. Swine flu? No reported case, not in prison; kind of like: no one ever dies in here—you might exit in a body bag but you’ll be handcuffed to prevent an escape.

Naturally, when your freedom is taken and you’re forced to do things you don’t want to do, the polite, considerate “cover you mouth when you cough” rule is tossed out the window.

“If you’re so concerned about getting my cold,” one under-the-weather inmate says, “then you should let me go back to my cell”—aim, cough, cough, cough.

It’s not long after that and I’m getting a scratchy throat followed by a fever. A few days later I’m being accused of bringing God-knows-what into the prison and contaminating everyone I’ve had contact with. See what happens when you follow protocol? But I’m better now. It’s November. Memo? What memo?

*Cartoon illustration of my classroom.

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.”