I'M A SIMPLE MAN

I’ve been told, more times than I can count, that I am (in the words of Lynyrd Skynyrd) a simple man. I’ve also been warned about certain women who believe the following equation to be true: A Simple Man = A Schmuck. Whether I fit the mold, or break it, remains to be seen. What I do know is that when I arrived for my haircut, requesting a specific hair stylist, not because I’m some metro-sexual trying to reintegrate into the singles market, not because I thought she’d do my do right—in fact, when I left, my head resembled the shoddy workmanship of a slapped together quilt (something I had expected)—no, when I arrived, when I wrote her name down on the sign-in sheet, there seemed to be a bit of apprehension on her part, as if she wanted to forgo the next customer, the only customer on said list.

She acknowledged me. “How have you been?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” I responded.

“You shouldn’t lose anymore weight,” she said, trying to be friendly, trying to show concern.

“Why not?” I snapped back. I sat in the barber chair. “I’m losing everything else. What’s a few more pounds?”

I knew she was uncomfortable. She didn’t take that extra time to prep her area; instead, she draped my skin-and-bone frame and started snipping my hair without asking how short.

“As you can see,” I said, extending my left hand for her viewing pleasure, “I’m no longer wearing my wedding ring.”

After a few more snips, she told me what I had already known. She said, “I’m the one who recommended your wife’s lawyer.” She raked the comb through my hair and continued. “You were blindsided, weren’t you?”

“You’re damn right I was.”

More nervous energy on her part. “I always thought you had a good marriage, that you supported your family.”

I didn’t react. She started to pry. Did I get a lawyer? Where am I living?

I told her about the 911 calls, the police escorts. She acted surprised. She’s a horrible actress. She continued prying. I wasn’t about to make her the conduit to my wife.

I got what I needed—a cheap ass haircut and verification. Now I’ll be calling her ex-husband to see what type of ass-kicking he got from this highly recommended lawyer. It shouldn’t really matter; the whole divorce process is scripted, conveniently choreographed to drain money from the marital accounts. If only someone would play fair we could cut our losses—including each other.

DISMANTLING THE CHANDELIER

Like a favorite sock worn too long, their marriage no longer has definition. The map of their life together has no neat geography. Their games and tasks are no longer divided into even-colored packets. —Judith Cooper, “Dreamland”


Everyone has their comfort zone, their “safe” place from where to navigate, whether it's a truck driver barreling down the highway, a university professor lecturing in a crowded auditorium, a mechanic hoisting an engine, or a homemaker cleaning the house. As for me, my comfort zone rests inside two rows of razor sharp concertina wire, and even though others may view my job as dangerous, it’s not; If you know what you’re doing, if you’re a permanent fixture (which I am), then getting shanked by a piece of metal or clunked over the head with a lock-in-a-sock is highly unlikely; in fact, your chances of danger are far greater when you’re outside of your element. I am not.

I’m not downplaying the tension or the stress either; dealing with convicts can contribute to that. Over the years I’ve witnessed a few co-workers who had given up, who had this suicide-by-prisoner mentality. For instance: The Dagwood instructor who provoked his students with racial comments and taunted them about their lack of intelligence. His underlying motive: an early retirement. Unfortunately, his plan back-fired and he was forced out, unprepared.

What I don’t understand is how someone can step out of her comfort zone, place blame, return to her “safe” place, and then feel this sense of entitlement, as if her actions originated from some type of Manifest Destiny. Example:

The house is mine; the payments are yours. The vehicle is mine; the payments are yours. The credit cards are mine; yours have been cancelled, but the bills are yours. Our child’s savings account is mine, I closed it; I’ll tell her you’d steal it otherwise. Oh, and your paychecks are mine; just remember to maintain that minimum bank balance—it’s your responsibility.

So, as I’m kept in the dark regarding finances, as I’m kept from my house with phony 911 calls (I can’t help it if someone feels uncomfortable around me, what was I to do, serve tea & crumpets?), as I’m kept from having contact with my child (I’m sure those police escorts to my house are impressionable), I move forward, I continue working, I continue teaching murderers, rapists, dope-dealers, thieves, gang-bangers, and car-jackers in an effort to better not only themselves, but society as well.

What keeps me motivated? I’m not sure. I keep telling myself: Tomorrow’s going to be a better day. Truth be told: I simply don’t know.

I’d like to thank the neighbor girl for the lentil soup. I had it for lunch … delicious … and yeah, you’re right, “I look like hell” because I’m feeling the burn.

I AM BLESSED

  I placed the music cds on the counter and handed the clean-cut, young man a library card.

“Sir,” he said, examining the card, “is this your wife’s? Because if it is, I need to see some identification.”

“No, it’s not.” I stood my ground.

“Your wife’s not Micha … Micha …”

I pronounced the name for him. I gave him my driver’s license.

“She’s not you wife?”

“No,” I repeated. Instead of the interrogation, why couldn’t he just scan the items? A moment of silence fell between us. “It’s my mother’s library card,” I said. “I’m staying at her house this week. I’m going through a divorce.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Unbelievable … no matter what he said I felt defeated. Maybe it was his Jim Carey look-a-like-appearance minus the facial expressions—all serious and shit.

“You’re not prying,” I said. “I volunteered that information.”

“Well I appreciate your honesty.”

“I’m sure you do,” I volleyed back.

More silence.

“Next time bring a note ...”

“… from my mother,” I finished for him.

He had to be joking, right? I wanted to tell him that I’m forty-seven years old, that I’ve been working for longer than since he was born, that currently I am homeless because someone thinks I deserve to be put out on the street, that when this whole experience is done two lawyers will have made a substantial amount of money and I’ll pretty much be starting over from scratch, including my retirement plans.

Instead, I thanked him and walked away.

Also, I'd like to thank The Walking Man's wife for the pink disposable razors and other miscellaneous items.

*Note: Lucinda William’s “Blessed” is awesome; I certainly can relate to her lyrics. Definitely worth listening to.

We were blessed by the teacher
Who didn’t have a degree
We were blessed by the prisoner
Who knew how to be free


We were blessed by the mystic
Who turned water into wine
We were blessed by the watchmaker
Who gave up his time


We were blessed by the wounded man
Who felt no pain
By the warfaring stranger
Who knew our names


Yeah, we were blessed.

FROM THE "HELLO KITTY" ROOM

The beds were to be separated on nights forbidden to physical intimacy, but Chava Bayla hadn’t pushed them together for many months. She flatly refused to sleep anywhere except on her menstrual bed and was, from the start, impervious to her husband’s pleading.

Nathan Englander’s “For the Relief of Unbearable Urges”

Whether external or internal, the conflict is there: in each character’s head—we all have our faults, our desires, those absolutely-gotta-have-urges; unfortunately, when those conflicts bubble to the surface, unsuspecting victims, because of their noble intentions, are permanently scarred; let’s just call this: the boiling point. Nathan Englander’s wonderful short story (which first appeared many years ago in Story) shows us the complexities involved in these types of situations; I’ll divulge the dire consequences soon.

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“No one’s truly free,” I told a prisoner in my classroom. “We all have to answer to someone.”

You’d’ve thought I hit this youngster with an electric cattle prod, such intensity in his eyes and in his voice.

“Seeing what we go through every day,” he replied, “how could you even blow that shit outta your mouth!?!”

I decided to leave him be. No sense in ruffling another jailbird’s feathers. He hadn’t a clue regarding my predicament, nor should it have mattered. But we don’t live our lives inside vacuums; we are the accumulation of our actions and those actions inflicted upon us.
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As for Englander’s story: Dov Binyamin seeks the advice of his Rebbe, a master teacher who advises him to seek out the services of a prostitute. Somewhat taken aback, Dov decides to cruise the streets of Jerusalem in search of his “suggested answer.”

It isn’t until after the dirty deed, until Dov is in the privacy of his own bathroom that his wife calls to him:

“Dovey, please, come out of there. Come lie by me and we’ll talk. Just talk. Come Doveleh, join me in bed.”

Poor Dov. He dropped to his knees from the burning sensation in his loins while his wife asked how she had lost her husband for good?
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Today’s picture is of yours truly relegated to the “Hello Kitty” room.

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.

LOST SCARECROW IN AN ANCIENT GARDEN

I’m playing Solitaire and winning, so why the emotional detachment? I’m in the basement of my parent’s home on my Dad’s antiquated computer (Windows 98, no internet). I’m alone. I’m thinking, where do I go from here? How do I re-establish myself, my identity?

I’m floating around, each night in a different place, each meal a surprise, served with hospitality, yet I know not to stay too long—there’s no sense in getting comfortable or wearing out my welcome. I’ve witnessed diametrically opposed actions: mean-spiritedness & genuine concern (both, of which can get you into trouble).

I’m re-reading some of my favorite short-stories; not in their entirety, nope, only the sections that appease me, like the opening paragraph of Howard Luxenberg’s “Civics Lesson”:

Why would a middle-aged man, a prosperous middle-aged man, a partner in an architectural firm, the father of two – Sarah, 16, and Noah, 10 – husband in good standing to the lovely Rebecca, a man faithful and considerate (but firm when the occasion warranted), a macher in the local conservative synagogue, my long-standing friend or at least the embodiment of those pillared qualities, if not a pillar per se – why would such a man, why would this man, Gideon Stern, place on his lawn a chiseled granite statue of two dogs fucking?

Such a brilliant narrative: how he questions his neighbor’s motives. I needn’t read any further. I already know that Gideon Stern loves his wife; I already know that the “lovely” Rebecca has been fooling around on him. None of which matters to me—I’m not interested in the blow-by-blow, in-your-face arguments, the warring factions—I’m interested in the opening conflict only.

Then there’s Craig Bernthal’s “A Knight Pursued”:

Mark Altschuler awoke, priapic with yearning for his wife, or perhaps, he had to admit, for women in general: after all, what did hormone fluctuations know about loyalty?

Is this coincidental? Are all stories constructed with a tinge of sexual tension? Why am I re-reading stuff dealing with this particular theme … especially now? Is it an escape from my own problems? Is it pure entertainment? Or am I reading for the sake of reading, going through the motions, searching for answers I may never find?

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Status: I am down to 135 pounds, disappearing into an ever-changing routine. Call me a scarecrow lost in an ancient garden. I’ve quit my therapy in exchange for a support group far better. Thank you, Mark and Jodi for all those coffee sessions. Thank you Erik for the Ramones CD (I’ve heard more are on the way). Also, thank you, Michelle for sending good wishes. The list is much longer: I can’t forget my brother and parents, as well as the best man & maid-of-honor on my wedding day for taking me in and feeding me, or the co-worker who let me stay overnight in his house on such short notice. Thank-you all!

SOME SINGLE-BUNK BUNK

The divorce process isn’t easy, but I’m finding my comfort zone once again from within the razor-sharp concertina wire and surrounding gun towers where I’m logging in my required thirty-two contact hours per week with Michigan’s finest: convicted felons.

The other day an Albanian student approached my desk for an unofficial therapy session. I’ve always been willing to listen to their problems, their ailments, and have at least acted concerned if not offered advice.

“What’s up?” I asked once he slunked down in the chair near my desk.

“I’m having bunky problems,” he answered. He proceeded to tell me how he felt sorry for his bunky. “His family pretty much disowned him,” he claimed. “He doesn’t have any money coming in. I’ve been sharing some of my personal store items: Ramen noodles, soup, coffee, honey buns, potato chips, peanut butter, crackers, you name it.”

“Then what’s the problem?” I asked.

“I do this out of the kindness of my heart,” he continued.

Then I learned about the payoff: All he wanted was for his bunky to shower once in a while.

“He smells really bad. When I confronted him about it, he got all nasty with me. I told him, ‘Look, I’ve been sharing my food with you, I’m not asking for much.’ Still, he acts as if none of what I did for him matters.”

“How long has he been your bunkmate?” I asked.

“Seven months. Seven months I’ve been sharing my food with him.”

I’m thinking to myself: Try eighteen years of building a future with someone. Try eighteen years of supporting someone, letting her have the freedom to make choices regarding not only her lifestyle, but your lifestyle as well—a lifestyle that included fifteen years of involuntary single-bunking. Try eighteen years of sharing everything, of trying to make a relationship work, only to have your partner put her hand up, as if to say, “That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m done. I’m through with you,” and toss you aside like trash ready to be hauled away.

Instead, I tell him, “You can always request a new bunky. Just remember: whoever you get could be worse.”

JOCKEYING FOR POSITION

This is what I find most encouraging about the writing trades: They’re all mediocre people who are patient and industrious to revise their stupidity to edit themselves into something like intelligence. They also allow lunatics to seem saner than sane.
—Kurt Vonnegut

I have this new student, call him white-boy if you will, kind of looks like a red-faced Chris Daughtry. Anyway, he’s one mad-at-the-world motherfucker.

“How am I gonna get my GED when you’re never here?” he asks me, or should I say BLAMES ME.

I know what I’d like to say, I’d like to ask him “Why’s it so important now you ASSHOLE? It wasn’t important when you were in the public school system.” Instead, I keep my mouth shut.

He continues his rant, about how the tutors aren’t helping him, how the other students are too loud, how he can’t concentrate. He pulls ear plugs out of his waxy orifices for emphasis.

“Look,” I say, “if you really want to learn, you can block out all kinds of noise.” I start fiddling with my wedding ring for—oh, I don’t know—emphasis.

He storms out of the classroom.

An older black prisoner approaches my desk. “You know,” he says, “that guy got his ass tore up by a bunch of young black guys last week.”

“Oh yeah,” I say.

“Yeah, for using the N-word in the dayroom.”

“Really?” I say, displaying my fake-ass disbelief. “He called them a bunch of Nigerians?”

We both start laughing. I tell him about the time I saw a “white lawn jockey” in someone’s front yard. The laughter continues.

"Had to be Detroit," he says.

THERAPY IN A COFFEE SHOP

  
I met my other therapist a few days ago—not the professionally trained degreed woman skilled at tossing reflexive questions my way—no, I met a Detroit poet at a coffee shop and he said something to the affect of “Smile motherfucker” before snapping this mugshot. He also gave me his son’s Darth-Vader talking-head-stick with four buttons to push when confronted about marital assets or other trivial possessions accumulated over the years of one’s marriage:

Button one: “I had enough.”
Button two: “Don’t underestimate the force.”
Button three: What is thy bidding, my master?”
Button four: “I want them alive!”

I haven’t been served my divorce papers, or whatever they’re called nowadays, but through that magical portal called the internet I discovered the following “Non-April Fool’s Day” filing/charges against yours truly, the listed defendant:

Ex Parte Order for Status Quo – SGD
Ex Parte Mutual Preliminary Injunction Order – SGD
Record of Divorce/Annulment Received
Summons Issued (Expires 7/5/11)
Complaint/Petition Filed
Entry Fee $150.00.

So the process of wiping out 18 years of marriage will soon be nothing more than court proceedings instead of the personal explanation of “I can’t make you happy.” I’m not sure what that means, but I’ll store it in my memory bank alongside “I don’t hate you, I just don’t love you” and “You’re an excellent father.”

My buttons have been pushed these past few days and I’m trying to hold my head up and move forward. Running every day seems to help.

In case you’re wondering who that Detroit poet is it’s none-other than Mark C. Durfee, author of The Line Between and Stink. He offered me all kinds of retaliatory options, knowing I’d never act on them. “That isn’t your style,” he said, “you have too much care and concern within you. Your petty meanness is stolen from you at your job and she (meaning “my wife”) is fortunate for that, it makes it easy to target you with what she perceives as your failings.”

I’d like to thank Mark for those free sessions. I can’t help but think about my very own “line between”—a reference he made to that short dash on one’s grave-marker, how it represents all our actions between life and death, and I can only hope that my good deeds outweigh my faults.

Seeking Closure Amongst the Sharks

This may sound cruel, but I’ve always tried to find humor in some of the worse possible experiences of the prisoners I teach (maybe it’s a coping mechanism, maybe its faulty thinking on my part for never having visited the darker side of life myself), but lately there’s been nothing but sadness in my heart. Not even now when prisoners say the most outlandish things do I take note. It’s as if their words no longer have meaning; as if our language, our ability to communicate, has reached an impasse. Bottom line: their stories no longer strike a nerve in me. I’m getting to where I don’t give two shits about all the carnage at my feet, as if I’d rather step over it and continue on my lonesome way than get involved.

The prisoners have been noticing physical changes in my appearance, the twenty-plus pounds I’ve lost, the droopy eyelids, the sunken in expression of a beaten man. They’ve eased up arguing with me, the verbal bantering is almost nonexistent; it’s kind of strange.

When you’re in a large fishbowl and you’re dying spirit dangles by a thread, steeping blood in shark invested waters, the feeding frenzy begins. Yet, in my situation, the murders, the rapists, the pedophiles, the dope dealers, the gang bangers, and whomever else I’ve failed to mention, have actually showed compassion toward me. They don’t know exactly what I’m going through, but they’ve shown empathy. Some even think I may be dying. Still, I know not to let my guard down. It’s the nature of the business I’m in.

One older inmate, a black man prone to psychotic episodes, expressed his concerns regarding my lethargy. “You seem down on yourself,” he said.

I shrugged my shoulders. What more could I do?

He suggested various medications that have helped him through some dark periods in his life. I listened, but his words rang hollow.

I guess what really sucks is that after logging in over 40,000 hours dealing with convicts, after 19 plus years of coming straight home to what I thought was a happy life, to where I thought I could feel comfortable and share my feelings, everything has changed. I feel like I no longer have anything to show for all those days I worked to build my future. My biggest mistake: I let my guard down not at prison but at home. I’ve been told that the life I had been living for the past 15 years was nothing more than an illusion, a flat-out lie. And now it hurts. I’ve heard of plans to have the locks changed on my house. I’ve heard about seeing if I could be committed to a hospital. I’ve discovered that others knew my marital finality beforehand, yet no one spoke up, no one warned me for fear that I might “hurt myself” or “others.”

I have become another statistical blip on the map, a soon to be divorced father. Yes, I’m bitter, but I’m also glad to have seen my daughter grow up. I’ve been told that I’m an excellent father and that no, contrary to what I may think, I am not “hated”—I’m just not “loved” and it’s been that way for 15 years—no intimacy, no passion, no nothing. The fruits of my labor will now go to pay lawyers' fees and court costs. Such is life in a civilized society.