FIRING WORDS TO DANCE TO

Prisoner M is the incredible dancing-man, or at least on this particular day: hips-gyrating, head-bobbing, fingers-snapping. He’s punctual for class too, and if I were to make an educated guess I’d say he took cuts in the long-winding skittles line.

“How’re you today, Mr. M?” I ask.

He’s concentrating on the movement of his state-issued bo-bo’s, trying to lift them off the carpet. I’m concerned about him tripping because his footwork resembles boxing great Muhammad Ali in the later stages of Parkinson’s.

“Let me know when you’re done,” I say. I wonder whether his herky-jerky moves are the result of being cracked in the head with a lock and a sock one time too many. I’ve been known to tease him about his Harry Potter scar; He wears it like a badge of honor.

When he does look up, he sees that I’ve made eye-contact with the BET teacher (Business Education Technology) standing in the hallway. He can’t find his seat quick enough. I exit the room to converse with my coworker. He’s watching us through the window.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

“Couldn’t be better,” I answer.

When I return to the classroom Prisoner M wants to know what I said to her.

I squench up my sleeves, flex my biceps. “I told her that I showed you my thirteen-and-a-half-inch-guns and said, ‘Dance, Motherfucker, Dance.’”

He laughs uncontrollably. I can’t be that funny. Maybe we're all a bit crazy in here.