WHEN PEOPLE CARE

Was it a slug? Or was it buckshot?

Ah yes, a solid question, and a practical one too … and by an authority figure—a corrections officer, a seasoned veteran of this place called Disneyland.

I sat in the Food Technology Dining Area. The prisoners served me scrambled eggs, sausage patties, toast and grits. I salted the eggs. I smeared blackberry jam on my wheat toast. I ate. I ate real well. I saved my orange juice for last, swished it around for good measure.

Was it a slug? Or was it buckshot?

It’s not polite to talk with a mouth full of food. It’s impossible to speak with a reservoir of liquid going down your gullet.

“I think we raised over a thousand dollars,” a non-custody staff person said from the next table over. The money was for our coworker who suffered 2^nd degree burns to his face and hands and lost a family member and his house to a fire. Everyone appeared content with chipping in to help him out.

Was it a slug? Or was it buckshot?

“But,” another non-custody staff person—a bean-counter from the administration building—interrupted, “Did you subtract the money owed for the food?”—a legitimate concern if you’re worried about the State of Michigan’s budgetary woes, or if you have the insensitivity of a … of a … of a … slug.

I drank some more orange juice; I should’ve commented about this particular person’s work-time wasted on smoke breaks off grounds. I kept my mouth shut; I opened it. I drank more orange juice. I swallowed. I said nothing.

Was it a slug? Or was it buckshot?

I addressed the corrections officer afterward. “From what I had heard about the chow hall incident it was buckshot. The mentally-ill inmate sprayed the cup of piss and shit all over the counter, the food, the food-service worker, and an officer. A slug couldn’t do that much damage.” Then I added, “Or could it?”