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.

--------------
“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.
--------------

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?
---------------

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.

-------------------------
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?

-------------
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!

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.

SMILE, SAY CHEESE!

Here’s my Dad at my age,
in much happier times …

Maybe it was the economy
and a delicious piece of
German Chocolate cake?

But I’m not the Cake Boss,
No, I’m Colby Jack Ass—

I’ve reached my expiration date.

And I, to be that naive,
to bite into a bad piece
of moldy cheese.

Do me a favor, I suggested,
hire one food inspector
to decide each item’s fate.

Here’s my Dad … at my age,
with Mom … out of the picture
for all the right reasons, together,
strong as the sunrise, more heat
then my short-wicked candles
flamed-out 16 years earlier.

A prearranged activity,
whose planner does not shed
a single tear, but snaps the picture:

Year After Year After Year
After Year After Year After
Year After Year After Year
After Year After Year After
Year After Year After Year
After Year After Year After
Year After Year After Year

until boredom kills the effort,
until I say cheese no more.


*Currently listening to Cowboy Junkies "You Will Be Loved Again" from the caution horses.

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.

We Wish a Merry Christmas to Everyone Tonight

PARCH CORN CREEK WILDERNESS LODGE

I’ve been sifting through old hunting slides, admiring the fine marksmanship of my family. Hunting is for sport, for the thrill of the kill, and it’s justifiable when the end result is food on your table. In the mid-70s my father went on a wild boar hunt in the woods of Tennessee. He shot a grand-daddy of a hog, not knowing that younger pigs are tastier. If memory serves me correct, they never went back. Was the thrill gone? Was the trip not worth the expense? Or were they no longer welcome at the Parch Corn Creek Wilderness Lodge due to my Uncle Ivan accidentally shooting the hunting guide’s favorite dog? (Pictured from left to right: Lenny G, Uncle Ivan, Grandpa, & Dad.)

There’s more to say about hunters and that killer instinct in Sleet Magazine’s fall issue under the “Irregular” section (seems like a wonderful place for my writing). Also, be sure to checkout the 2-part interview with Erik Donald France.

Sleet Magazine

Interview (Part I) & (Part II)

CONVERSATION AT THE PEPPERMILL

What I heard at the Peppermill did not shock me. We were celebrating my grandmother’s 90th birthday.

“So you work in a prison,” my deceased uncle’s ex-wife said.

I had a pretty good idea where the conversation was headed. As a surprise to my grandmother, she brought her 11-year old grandson, great-grandson to my grandmother, great-grandson to my deceased grandfather who died when I was eight or nine after driving his car off a dock.

“Every time there’s a parole hearing,” my deceased uncle’s ex-wife said, “the department of corrections notifies me.” She was referring to the drunk driver who killed her son, my cousin. “His name’s Bobby Brown*, can you believe it? He’s in the system somewhere. He’s past his 5-year minimum.”

Five years for killing another man doesn’t seem like much time. It’s been roughly ten years since the so-called accident; the boy sitting across the table from me never got to know his father.

“The minimum is just a guideline,” I reassured her. “He probably hasn’t fulfilled his requirements.” Worse case scenario, I’m thinking, is that he refuses to go to Alcoholics Anonymous or has to retake it because he got caught making spud juice.

The conversation quickly changes to my deceased uncle’s ex-wife’s brother; how he was mauled to death by dogs. I’d heard about it, how one of the dogs punctured a main artery and he bled out in the dead of winter. Our casual conversation at the Peppermill seemed surreal, strange, unbelievable. But it’s factual. We are the survivors, we have stories to tell.

My grandmother blew out the candles on her cake. She opened her presents. She wept tears of joy. Not many people make it to 90.

*After checking the Michigan Offender Tracking Information System, I did not find a Bobby Brown with a vehicular manslaughter sentence; He may have served his minimum and moved on with his life.

FINAL ARRANGEMENTS

I haven’t visited my grandmother’s farmhouse since her funeral, and from what I’ve been told, there’s a sealed envelope with my name on it, lying on her dresser. I already know that she made me the “official” family archivist, giving me access to negatives, slides, photographs, and documents she had accumulated over an eighty-five year period. I already have her handwritten stories of memorable family events, as well as access to those unmentionable family secrets—so yes—I’m very curious to see what she had written; her words will definitely have a permanent impact. It still amazes me how everyone could temporarily suspend their feudal wars to celebrate her life and agree to her final wishes regarding my new role.

Again, I give you her story “Delma Jane.”

DELMA JANE

Once upon a time—as all good stories should start (but this isn’t just a story, this is something that really happened to your Grandfather)—this family living on a farm near Kinde, Michigan in the 1920’s, had six children: Doris, Katherine, Ollie, Roy, Leland, and Delma Jane. Delma Jane was the youngest at 3 months old and she had been very very sick. Roy and Mary, the parents, knew their baby was dying and sheltered their other children as best as they could from the inevitable.

It was a nice day, around 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Roy and Mary told their children to go into the field and bring the cows back for milking. So off the children went down a long lane, through some woods, and into an open field. They gathered the cows and drove them through the woods. But as they entered the lane the cows stopped. The children thought that maybe something had startled the cows. They looked around, but couldn’t see anything. Then, one by one, each child looked up over the fence line. They weren’t sure about what they were witnessing; it looked like a young man with golden hair and a gown; and if so, he didn’t speak.

They prodded the cows to keep moving, which they did, and the person near the fence glided along, keeping pace. As they approached the barn yard to milk the cows, their acquaintance began to fade away. By this time, the children were so excited that they ran to see their mother and father.

When they entered the farm house, they found both of them crying. They learned that poor little Delma Jane had passed. They were too little to understand the permanence of death, or perhaps their anxiousness outweighed their sadness; they wanted to tell their parents about the flying person.

After a brief moment of silence, once their mother and father stopped crying, Doris, Katherine, Ollie, Roy and Leland retold their story, each adding a bit more detail. When they had finished taking turns describing the flying person, their mother and father informed them that God had sent an Angel for Delma Jane; that she had went to Heaven.

This happened a long, long time ago. These children have grown old; some have gone to heaven themselves. But whenever there’s a family get-together, someone always mentions the beautiful Angel and Delma Jane.

SYMPATHY & SELF-DEFENSE

Sympathy is rare in prison. You just don’t see it; you just don’t get it.

The day of self-defense training I brought a doctor’s note, submitted it to personnel, and explained its purpose.

“You need to fill-out a ‘Leave of Absence’ form,” the Personnel Director advised.

“Huh? What for?” We’re all expendable; I realize that.

“You need to fill-out a ‘Leave of Ab…’”

“To be excused from self-defense training?” I interrupted, not wanting to divulge too much of my medical history.

“Come back later,” she suggested. “We’ll have the application ready for you.”

They must’ve thought I had fallen off the turnip truck and landed on my head. Signing this form would give administration the right to fill my position, making my return questionable, if not doubtful; I knew that much and I certainly knew I couldn’t do the high kicks with a double hernia repair scheduled for the very next day. (So there it is, now everyone knows.)

After missing five days of work (I used my regular sick leave) and upon my return, numerous prisoners began complaining. “How are we supposed to get an education when you’re not here?” They’re more concerned about earning fifty-nine cents for each class session.

“Next time I have surgery,” I said, “I’ll hop off the operating table and come straight here.” Thrusting my index finger in their direction, I added, “I’ll do it JUST FOR YOU.”

I’ll be the first to admit that my attendance hasn’t been perfect. Some of you may already know that my grandmother passed away last week, meaning more time off. Again, I used sick time—for bereavement. Again, the complaints.

Why explain? Why defend myself? I haven’t been convicted of a crime. I’ve only taken what I’ve earned.

***

Excerpt from "Riding the Hubcap" by Dorene O'Brien

The Collision of Memories & What I've Read

For whatever reason, probably the setting, I’m “Riding the Hubcap,” free from obligation, an outlaw, like that kid in Dorene O’Brien’s short story of the same title.

When I last saw my grandmother alive, the police got involved. My grandmother was in the Bad Axe hospital, her bones riddled with cancer; two pints of blood buying extra time.

It’s sad seeing someone you love in the last stages of their life, too weak to walk, too weak to eat, and us, “family,” not yet ready to let go. The last thing my grandmother said to me was: “My Little Jimmy,” which brought back memories of my childhood. It seems as if yesterday’s innocence got lost ... don’t know how or why ... but my grandmother took me back there, shifting my focus from her son, my uncle, standing outside her hospital room with the Bad Axe police.

I’m not sure why so many generations of family can’t get along, why there’s this deep seeded resentment. Life’s too short for that. My grandmother lived for another seven days. With my parents by her bedside, she wept, gave them a wink, as if to say, “I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” and then she took her last breath.

So life continues for the rest of us. We go on. Our motivations, our ambitions, sometimes colliding. Strange, isn’t it? And all I’m thinking about is that damn kid in “Riding the Hubcap” and how he too had reached the end of the line ... with his regrets in check ... with the wind blowing the wheat.

Recommended book: Dorene O’Brien’s “Voices of the Lost and Found”.