SHOOTING RUBBER BULLETS

It wasn’t much fun at first in the dim latrine light, behind the KP shed, even under an old Sherman tank. Just a desperate relief, but I learned some techniques, efficiency, the way to shape my own hungers and lonesome moan. Then I’d collapse and rinse and bag her, store her flat as a poncho under my mattress …
—R.T. Smith, “Boonie Wife”

Yeah, another sexually explosive story; a first person narrative where a Vietnam Vet tells his wife how he managed to stay faithful to her while fighting in the jungle.

As for me, what happened in the prison last week had to be an inside job—HAD TO BE—how else do you explain it? Administration has these monthly fundraisers for various charities—the usual fare: chicken, burgers, red hots—you buy a luncheon ticket and they enter your name into a raffle. I seldom attend, opting to brown bag my meal instead; been doing it that way for the past nineteen years to save money.

Not that I’m complaining about what happened; I certainly didn’t turn down the twenty-five dollar gift card for the AMC theatre; everyone needs an escape, a fantasy, a something … I suspect one of two scenarios: either personnel rigged the drawing, or someone(s) requested my name as a replacement. Probably the latter. I’m starting to view my employer and my coworkers in a different light; their actions speak loud and clear: Michigan Department of Corrections’ employees really do care for one another; we’re family regardless of the circumstances. Thank you for this unselfish act.

Also, I had numerous invites for Easter dinner; all of which I turned down. I told one coworker that I was going to a fish-fry on Friday night.

“Oh yeah?” he responded. “What church?”

“Church?” I answered, somewhat bewildered. “It’s not a church, it’s a gun club.”

We both laughed.

In a follow-up conversation, I told him about my Dad’s advice to another diner regarding manufacturing rubber bullets. This particular gun-club member works as a carpenter in Detroit and he’s tired of having his tools stolen. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” he said. “I just want to make them hurt.”

*Today’s photo showcases my own carpentry skills on a 1940’s migrant-workers’-house-turned-storage-shed.

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I’d like to send another shout-out to a special friend who offered to bring me a lasagna dinner. You know who you are—you’re the greatest!

Lastly, thanks again Erik, for sending more of those “post-punk” music cds. I have a longer commute and have been listening to the songs—what better way to prepare for eight hours of playtime with Michigan’s finest.