MORE HOLIDAY CHEER

While I uncorked two bottles of wine to complement our prime rib dinner, my dad asked if I was working over the holidays.

“Yes,” I told him. But I think he already knew that; I haven’t taken a Christmas break in six or seven years, and to be perfectly honest, I’ve grown accustomed to the melancholy atmosphere inside the joint. I told my dad about some unfinished business I had with a teenage-convict known for squirreling away his “holiday cheer.”

“This fool,” I said, careful not to overfill the wine glasses, “keeps getting caught making spud juice.” I told my dad about the private stash I’d found in my classroom. “He hid it in a plastic baggy in, of all places, his school folder. I didn’t turn him in because he was taking his GED Exams all week. I wanted to make sure he finished his tests before I jammed him.”

“Your Grandfather had three men die on him,” my dad said. I’d heard this story before, but it was worth hearing again. My grandfather had supervised trustees on a prison farm in Jackson, Michigan. “They were making large batches of hooch inside a milk can. Damn lead leeched in, made them real sick. Some survived, but not all of them.”

I placed the wine glasses on the linen-clothed table. “You can’t tell these guys anything,” I said. “Prisoner Stokely had one more test to complete, but he couldn’t wait, they caught him with spud juice in his housing unit. He’s in segregation now.”

I told my dad that my original plan was to write Prisoner Stokely a ticket after he completed the full battery of GED tests. “I don’t know,” I said, “since he’s in the hole and it’s the holidays, I’ll probably toss out his school batch. I’m keeping my options open.”

We sat down for dinner, and wouldn’t you know it: I forgot to make a toast.