The following is an excerpt from part two:
Perhaps Cole and his sister are familiar with The Adventure of Helen. They share the same unfortunate mentality; we suffer losses because they are determined to get their way. We are raped of our reputation and our status in the community. We are deprived of our home and our jobs. We are stripped of our future and our freedom. We plead to the molestation charges as a matter of survival and have learned to embrace the outcome.
They have no idea of the ripple effect their stunt has produced, nor does the concept of care enter the equation. Considering the benefits I have acquired, I would not exchange a strand of it. As on the TV show with irrational complainants and with our dear “friend” Helen, nothing else matters. For her and our (x) kids, retaliation for imaginary unfairness becomes an insane obsession. I want my way.
Be it a conscious or unconscious choice, productive or destructive, I will get my way too. We all will.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
The Adventures of Helen
The following is an excerpt from part two:
The Four Agreements, (Reprinted with permission of John Wiley & Sons, Inc. © 1997 by Miguel Angel Ruiz, M.D.) advises: “Don’t take it personally.” This is Helen’s drama, her distorted dream. We are in this crazy situation to begin with because she has been trained to take everything personally. All that is left for us to do is allow her to dwell in misery. She is set in the way of hell. We do not need to accompany her on the tour just as we need not dwell on the injustice brought on by our children.
Jim Stovall tells a story of wisdom for the ages in The King’s Legacy.* Many of the townspeople provide the king with their version of wisdom. Finally the jester imparts, “There is nothing more vital than laughter...I wish you the ability to pause at the most difficult and trying times of life, and simply laugh.” We are not going to change Helen. We are not going to reverse the edict. We might as well seize the opportunity to have a good laugh.
As it turns out, The Adventures of Helen yields terrific opportunity. She provides me with material to compose an entire chapter. As if that is not enough, we end up finding a beautiful apartment for a terrific price. The neighborhood is serene. The property owners are firmly on their rockers. I can bask in peaceful tranquility with my laptop. We all got just what we wanted.
The Four Agreements, (Reprinted with permission of John Wiley & Sons, Inc. © 1997 by Miguel Angel Ruiz, M.D.) advises: “Don’t take it personally.” This is Helen’s drama, her distorted dream. We are in this crazy situation to begin with because she has been trained to take everything personally. All that is left for us to do is allow her to dwell in misery. She is set in the way of hell. We do not need to accompany her on the tour just as we need not dwell on the injustice brought on by our children.
Jim Stovall tells a story of wisdom for the ages in The King’s Legacy.* Many of the townspeople provide the king with their version of wisdom. Finally the jester imparts, “There is nothing more vital than laughter...I wish you the ability to pause at the most difficult and trying times of life, and simply laugh.” We are not going to change Helen. We are not going to reverse the edict. We might as well seize the opportunity to have a good laugh.
As it turns out, The Adventures of Helen yields terrific opportunity. She provides me with material to compose an entire chapter. As if that is not enough, we end up finding a beautiful apartment for a terrific price. The neighborhood is serene. The property owners are firmly on their rockers. I can bask in peaceful tranquility with my laptop. We all got just what we wanted.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The problem is “them”
The following is an excerpt from part two:
In response to the rent increase letter, we send a notice that we are moving, effective the day before the rate hike. It turns out to be an unsurpassed opportunity that spurs us into finding a decent place to live. The inordinate increase is a clear message that she wants us gone. It is the nose-cutting for- spite routine. Rationality is ignored. At least we need no longer be concerned that we will cause hurt feelings. Now she has both units empty. She will probably need another home equity loan to carry her through the next few months of gambling.
Helen is destined to a lifetime of misery and suffering; she is accustomed to perpetuating exactly that. We are the first tenants in fourteen years who lasted longer than a few months. No one can put up with her nonsense. She sees the problem as being “them.” They are all screwed up. Her paltry existence makes her happy. That is the important thing. She will take her happiness to her grave. Is it any wonder that countries go to war when “friends” cannot even get along?
I could get angry over the affair. I could even choose hatred. The only person to be affected would be me. I could live the life of debauchery and discontent that infects Helen’s joyous abode. It comes down to a choice. I could rekindle the despondency that loomed in our home up until the very second of Erin and Cole’s displacement; that’s another choice.
In response to the rent increase letter, we send a notice that we are moving, effective the day before the rate hike. It turns out to be an unsurpassed opportunity that spurs us into finding a decent place to live. The inordinate increase is a clear message that she wants us gone. It is the nose-cutting for- spite routine. Rationality is ignored. At least we need no longer be concerned that we will cause hurt feelings. Now she has both units empty. She will probably need another home equity loan to carry her through the next few months of gambling.
Helen is destined to a lifetime of misery and suffering; she is accustomed to perpetuating exactly that. We are the first tenants in fourteen years who lasted longer than a few months. No one can put up with her nonsense. She sees the problem as being “them.” They are all screwed up. Her paltry existence makes her happy. That is the important thing. She will take her happiness to her grave. Is it any wonder that countries go to war when “friends” cannot even get along?
I could get angry over the affair. I could even choose hatred. The only person to be affected would be me. I could live the life of debauchery and discontent that infects Helen’s joyous abode. It comes down to a choice. I could rekindle the despondency that loomed in our home up until the very second of Erin and Cole’s displacement; that’s another choice.
Friday, July 29, 2011
The screaming match begins
The following is an excerpt from part two:
Helen’s two sons have been groomed to the same way of thinking. They are no longer “only kids,” except in their immature behavior. The police officer son is furious when he hears that he needs to tend to his own pet while Mom is at work. Doors slam, objects fly, the screaming match begins. In a work of fiction it would be difficult to invent so preposterous a situation. We do not know whom to call when the domestic abuse complaint is provoked by the police.
The younger son, recently of legal age, moved out then returned with a girlfriend. They live rent-free for upwards of a year. Well, not entirely free. The girlfriend gives her $30 share of food stamps from the family who claim her as a dependent. She contributes that to buy snacks for herself and her sponge of a companion. When income tax time comes around, the sponge insists that his mother will not be claiming him as a dependent—he wants the $1,000 refund on his own return. Doors slam, objects fly, the screaming match begins. In the end, the blood-sucking couple has their tidy little nest egg. It serves as the deposit on an abuse-haven they can call their own.
Helen parks in handicapped-designated areas. She does not possess a disability placard. The first time she does it, when I am in the car, I mention that the fines have been increased. “Oh, I’m not worried. My son, the police officer, will take care of it.” She goes out drinking for the night and calls her son, the police officer, for an escort home. She swerves and sways down the road with the cruiser on her tail. It matters not whose rights are infringed upon. Endangering lives is a trivial affair. I want my way.
Helen’s two sons have been groomed to the same way of thinking. They are no longer “only kids,” except in their immature behavior. The police officer son is furious when he hears that he needs to tend to his own pet while Mom is at work. Doors slam, objects fly, the screaming match begins. In a work of fiction it would be difficult to invent so preposterous a situation. We do not know whom to call when the domestic abuse complaint is provoked by the police.
The younger son, recently of legal age, moved out then returned with a girlfriend. They live rent-free for upwards of a year. Well, not entirely free. The girlfriend gives her $30 share of food stamps from the family who claim her as a dependent. She contributes that to buy snacks for herself and her sponge of a companion. When income tax time comes around, the sponge insists that his mother will not be claiming him as a dependent—he wants the $1,000 refund on his own return. Doors slam, objects fly, the screaming match begins. In the end, the blood-sucking couple has their tidy little nest egg. It serves as the deposit on an abuse-haven they can call their own.
Helen parks in handicapped-designated areas. She does not possess a disability placard. The first time she does it, when I am in the car, I mention that the fines have been increased. “Oh, I’m not worried. My son, the police officer, will take care of it.” She goes out drinking for the night and calls her son, the police officer, for an escort home. She swerves and sways down the road with the cruiser on her tail. It matters not whose rights are infringed upon. Endangering lives is a trivial affair. I want my way.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
South Beached-Whale
The following is an excerpt from part two:
As I have always done, I send cookies down. She snarls, “I’m on a diet.” (Not, “No thank you, I’m on a diet.”) A couple of days later I knock and ask if she needs anything at the market. She has two whopping zits on her face, dripping with puss—it looks like she has an extra set of noses. I ask, “Whoa, what happened?” “I ate too many French fries.” She must be on that new South Beached-Whale Diet.
A few days later Helen informs Sid, “I’m hurt.” Sid asks her what happened, assuming that she was injured at work again. “I’m hurt that you refuse to take care of Puppy, after everything I’ve done for you.” Everything like what—rent us the shit box that has been vacant for over a year? We have always had a one-way relationship: we give, she takes. Sid explains that he is simply not willing to put himself at risk. “Ray is going for a hip restoration. Who’s gonna take care of him if that dog chews me up?”
“Well, I want you to know that you hurt my feelings. I was counting on you.” She walks off and slams the door. The following Monday, one week since Sid imparted the dreadful news about the dog, we get a notice in the mail from Helen. “Due to increased maintenance costs, the rent will be increased by 20% beginning July 1.” Not taken into account is that we have been the ones who have been providing free maintenance.
As I have always done, I send cookies down. She snarls, “I’m on a diet.” (Not, “No thank you, I’m on a diet.”) A couple of days later I knock and ask if she needs anything at the market. She has two whopping zits on her face, dripping with puss—it looks like she has an extra set of noses. I ask, “Whoa, what happened?” “I ate too many French fries.” She must be on that new South Beached-Whale Diet.
A few days later Helen informs Sid, “I’m hurt.” Sid asks her what happened, assuming that she was injured at work again. “I’m hurt that you refuse to take care of Puppy, after everything I’ve done for you.” Everything like what—rent us the shit box that has been vacant for over a year? We have always had a one-way relationship: we give, she takes. Sid explains that he is simply not willing to put himself at risk. “Ray is going for a hip restoration. Who’s gonna take care of him if that dog chews me up?”
“Well, I want you to know that you hurt my feelings. I was counting on you.” She walks off and slams the door. The following Monday, one week since Sid imparted the dreadful news about the dog, we get a notice in the mail from Helen. “Due to increased maintenance costs, the rent will be increased by 20% beginning July 1.” Not taken into account is that we have been the ones who have been providing free maintenance.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
“my son, the police officer”
The following is an excerpt from part two:
Helen goes on a trip. The poor dog is locked in the apartment for four days. As usual, Sid lets him out and takes him for walks. He feeds him and changes the water. The dog is angry to have been abandoned in the sweltering apartment. He messes all over and tears through the trash; Sid cleans it up. By the third day, the dog is irate. He growls ferociously when Sid goes down to get him. The dog pounces and Sid leaps behind the door, barely escaping attack.
The ten-year-old dog has a history of maiming people and pets. No action is taken because Helen proclaims, “He’s registered to my son, the police officer.” The insurance examiner tells her they cannot continue the homeowner policy because of the nature of the creature that is housed here.
“Oh, but he’s registered to my son, the police officer. The dog doesn’t stay here. The dog run in the back yard is for my parents when they come. They set up their chairs out there so they can be in the shade.” I want my way. When she returns from her Memorial Day long weekend, Sid informs her that he can no longer take care of the dog. She says, “I know how he is. He does that with me sometimes, too, but you’re a big man. You should be able to handle him.” Now she is furious. Now we must be punished.
When she goes to the store, she no longer checks to see if we need something. No more bringing in our mail if she gets there first. We get the ice-block shoulder when passing in the hall. This is a fifty-one-year-old “adult!”
Helen goes on a trip. The poor dog is locked in the apartment for four days. As usual, Sid lets him out and takes him for walks. He feeds him and changes the water. The dog is angry to have been abandoned in the sweltering apartment. He messes all over and tears through the trash; Sid cleans it up. By the third day, the dog is irate. He growls ferociously when Sid goes down to get him. The dog pounces and Sid leaps behind the door, barely escaping attack.
The ten-year-old dog has a history of maiming people and pets. No action is taken because Helen proclaims, “He’s registered to my son, the police officer.” The insurance examiner tells her they cannot continue the homeowner policy because of the nature of the creature that is housed here.
“Oh, but he’s registered to my son, the police officer. The dog doesn’t stay here. The dog run in the back yard is for my parents when they come. They set up their chairs out there so they can be in the shade.” I want my way. When she returns from her Memorial Day long weekend, Sid informs her that he can no longer take care of the dog. She says, “I know how he is. He does that with me sometimes, too, but you’re a big man. You should be able to handle him.” Now she is furious. Now we must be punished.
When she goes to the store, she no longer checks to see if we need something. No more bringing in our mail if she gets there first. We get the ice-block shoulder when passing in the hall. This is a fifty-one-year-old “adult!”
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
I want my way
The following is an excerpt from part two:
We blend well as occupants of the same three-family building. We go down to play cards. She comes up to watch a movie. We both are forever cooking and sending samples up and down. For months, she broadcasts how pleased she is to have us as tenants. She has never had it so good. Sid clears the snow off her car after a storm. He brings out the trash and plows the driveway. He seals the windows and hangs her blinds. We repaint our four rooms and then proceed to do the stairway hall. We replace floor tiles and refinish cabinets. This is all at our own expense, and we are pleased to contribute.
When Helen is away, Sid attends to her dog. It is a monstrous Shar-pei-Pit Bull mix. Helen calls him “Puppy.” Helen has a strict no-pet policy. We are unable to have our Ring-necked Dove. When we went to prison, my sister took him in for us. Now we visit the bird on weekends. We have discussed having our bird but Helen will not budge. “If the other tenants find out, they’ll all want pets.” (We do not even associate with the guy who finally rented the first floor, other than to say hi in passing.) We have been warned, “Don’t even think about having a fish.” No pets means no pets. It has nothing to do with the rationale of it. It has to do with I want my way.
We blend well as occupants of the same three-family building. We go down to play cards. She comes up to watch a movie. We both are forever cooking and sending samples up and down. For months, she broadcasts how pleased she is to have us as tenants. She has never had it so good. Sid clears the snow off her car after a storm. He brings out the trash and plows the driveway. He seals the windows and hangs her blinds. We repaint our four rooms and then proceed to do the stairway hall. We replace floor tiles and refinish cabinets. This is all at our own expense, and we are pleased to contribute.
When Helen is away, Sid attends to her dog. It is a monstrous Shar-pei-Pit Bull mix. Helen calls him “Puppy.” Helen has a strict no-pet policy. We are unable to have our Ring-necked Dove. When we went to prison, my sister took him in for us. Now we visit the bird on weekends. We have discussed having our bird but Helen will not budge. “If the other tenants find out, they’ll all want pets.” (We do not even associate with the guy who finally rented the first floor, other than to say hi in passing.) We have been warned, “Don’t even think about having a fish.” No pets means no pets. It has nothing to do with the rationale of it. It has to do with I want my way.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Judge Judy
The following is an excerpt from part two:
I am not a big fan of television. Occasionally I enjoy Judge Judy. She is such a wonderfully sensible and animated character. Saturday Night Live pales in wit. The highlight of each show is to observe Judy get worked up and then watch the litigants become aggravated. It amazes me how people can be so persistently single-minded when it comes to getting their way. That theme is consistent on all the “judge” shows.
I can appreciate devoted commitment to a cause. Determination to defend a position is admirable. The antics on Judge Judy, however, are nothing short of laughable. Regard for the law or consideration of common sense frequently have no influence on the litigants’ reasoning ability. All that matters is I want my way.
The opponents become like slot players mesmerized and held captive by their machine. The reality for both gambler and litigant is that they do not hold all the cards. Unwavering purpose will not override the law of averages or the laws of the state.
We were fortunate to rent an apartment from a friend. If not for Helen, we may well have been homeless after our discharge from prison. That is the circumstance for many convicted sex offenders who are released and forced into a hostile society. We have known Helen for ten years. She and I worked at the same upscale nursing home, on different shifts. Our relationship developed outside of work mostly as camping friends.
I am not a big fan of television. Occasionally I enjoy Judge Judy. She is such a wonderfully sensible and animated character. Saturday Night Live pales in wit. The highlight of each show is to observe Judy get worked up and then watch the litigants become aggravated. It amazes me how people can be so persistently single-minded when it comes to getting their way. That theme is consistent on all the “judge” shows.
I can appreciate devoted commitment to a cause. Determination to defend a position is admirable. The antics on Judge Judy, however, are nothing short of laughable. Regard for the law or consideration of common sense frequently have no influence on the litigants’ reasoning ability. All that matters is I want my way.
The opponents become like slot players mesmerized and held captive by their machine. The reality for both gambler and litigant is that they do not hold all the cards. Unwavering purpose will not override the law of averages or the laws of the state.
We were fortunate to rent an apartment from a friend. If not for Helen, we may well have been homeless after our discharge from prison. That is the circumstance for many convicted sex offenders who are released and forced into a hostile society. We have known Helen for ten years. She and I worked at the same upscale nursing home, on different shifts. Our relationship developed outside of work mostly as camping friends.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
“I never said any such thing.”
The following is an excerpt from part one:
A couple of weeks before our Superior Court trial in November, we had a Family Court hearing. Sid’s lawyer for that process is a caring man, motivated by integrity. When he learns of Sid’s ongoing neglect in prison, and that we are receiving no treatment whatsoever following the attack in June, he contacts the warden’s office immediately. Two days later, I go to the hospital for hip x-rays and panoramic teeth x-rays.
The staff doctor is a woman, from India. She is the same one who first “examined” me after the attack. She says they will be looking into physical therapy for me. I tell her that four months ago she told me that no form of treatment would be available. “I never said any such thing.” Sid has his panoramic mouth x-ray done as well. The dentist observes, “You did a good job with the extraction.” Two days before our Superior Court trial was to begin there was another Family Court hearing. Sid was not in attendance. I told the lawyer that his seg term was set for fifteen days and that it has already been seventeen.
Sid is finally released from seg the day before of our trial was to materialize on November 6, 2008. We are dredged through the muddle of court-day routine, and are thrown into the caverns to await the long awaited proceedings. It would turn out to be a far greater farce than even the preceding nine months had to offer.
A couple of weeks before our Superior Court trial in November, we had a Family Court hearing. Sid’s lawyer for that process is a caring man, motivated by integrity. When he learns of Sid’s ongoing neglect in prison, and that we are receiving no treatment whatsoever following the attack in June, he contacts the warden’s office immediately. Two days later, I go to the hospital for hip x-rays and panoramic teeth x-rays.
The staff doctor is a woman, from India. She is the same one who first “examined” me after the attack. She says they will be looking into physical therapy for me. I tell her that four months ago she told me that no form of treatment would be available. “I never said any such thing.” Sid has his panoramic mouth x-ray done as well. The dentist observes, “You did a good job with the extraction.” Two days before our Superior Court trial was to begin there was another Family Court hearing. Sid was not in attendance. I told the lawyer that his seg term was set for fifteen days and that it has already been seventeen.
Sid is finally released from seg the day before of our trial was to materialize on November 6, 2008. We are dredged through the muddle of court-day routine, and are thrown into the caverns to await the long awaited proceedings. It would turn out to be a far greater farce than even the preceding nine months had to offer.
Monday, June 6, 2011
James, not Jim
The following is an excerpt from part one:
This time Sid is coupled with a suspected murderer. James, not Jim, is bi-polar. He is also diagnosed with OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder. James has unpredictable temper fl are-ups and engages in unusual behaviors. He picks the tiny lint-balls from the sheet and blanket, and there are plenty of them. Then he proceeds to the floor to retrieve microscopic specks with his fingertips for hours on end.
James is on medication but he does not know what or why, other than for the sleeping pills. He was removed from the meds he was taking for the bipolar condition. Whatever they put him on had destroyed his liver. As is usually the case, Sid gets along fine. That adds fuel to the C/O’s fi re of retribution. On a couple of occasions, James nearly loses it over absolutely nothing. Sid manages to talk some sense into him. “James, this is exactly what those assholes want: for us to turn on each other. This is how you got yourself in seg to begin with. Stop it.” Sid knows, as a matter of psychic perception, that his “killer” companion is innocent of the murder for which he is to be tried. The poor guy has been in for three years awaiting trial. One day Sid tells him to “dump the pills.”
“What are you talking about?” Sid tells him that suicide is not the answer. James has been saving up some of his medication whenever he can get away with it. Two of his biological brothers and his sister were adopted after a tragic family misfortune. They all killed themselves. Sid reveals that he already knows about it. He also discloses the liver problem. James is shocked but loosens up a lot. They build trust and Sid becomes very close with him.
This time Sid is coupled with a suspected murderer. James, not Jim, is bi-polar. He is also diagnosed with OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder. James has unpredictable temper fl are-ups and engages in unusual behaviors. He picks the tiny lint-balls from the sheet and blanket, and there are plenty of them. Then he proceeds to the floor to retrieve microscopic specks with his fingertips for hours on end.
James is on medication but he does not know what or why, other than for the sleeping pills. He was removed from the meds he was taking for the bipolar condition. Whatever they put him on had destroyed his liver. As is usually the case, Sid gets along fine. That adds fuel to the C/O’s fi re of retribution. On a couple of occasions, James nearly loses it over absolutely nothing. Sid manages to talk some sense into him. “James, this is exactly what those assholes want: for us to turn on each other. This is how you got yourself in seg to begin with. Stop it.” Sid knows, as a matter of psychic perception, that his “killer” companion is innocent of the murder for which he is to be tried. The poor guy has been in for three years awaiting trial. One day Sid tells him to “dump the pills.”
“What are you talking about?” Sid tells him that suicide is not the answer. James has been saving up some of his medication whenever he can get away with it. Two of his biological brothers and his sister were adopted after a tragic family misfortune. They all killed themselves. Sid reveals that he already knows about it. He also discloses the liver problem. James is shocked but loosens up a lot. They build trust and Sid becomes very close with him.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
"You’re not goin’ anywhere"
The following is an excerpt from part one:
Sid does not eat the food because he knows they are spitting in it. He asks for pain meds repeatedly but the C/Os just laugh. When he asks for toilet paper, they laugh. The brown lunch bags that “meals” are delivered in, or the waxed cereal pouches, are his toilet tissue. Before the bags start coming he needs to clean up with fingers, there being no other choice. He has to splash water from inside the toilet. There is no soap. There is no towel. There is no warm water. There is nothing but degradation and mistreatment. That is the way of suicide watch. Its purpose is to inflict more punishment than even solitary confinement has to offer. This is the big opportunity to Hate! Punish! Destroy! The C/Os relish it. They ridicule, chuckle, and savor the harassment. Theirs is the sort of job that typifies “if you could do anything without being concerned whether or not you were paid, what would it be?”
After twenty-four hours, the equivalent of twenty-four millennia, Sid is dragged out for an evaluation with another prison psychiatrist, an elderly man who listens and responds compassionately. The C/Os stand by, joking and mocking. The doctor is not authorized to prescribe medication. He plans to recommend that Sid be removed from suicide watch and from seg altogether. He tells the C/Os that Sid does not belong there and that he has not been allowed to take a shower in nearly a week. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you old fuckin’ fuck.”
They tow Sid back to his suicide watch trench and provide him with a navy blue suit, garb of the general population. He sits on the floor all day, in meditation position. He is retrieved by Rosie, the ISC slut. She demands that he change into the orange jumpsuit because he is “not goin’ anywhere.” She leads him down the hall toward his assigned cell in the seg unit. They pass the elderly psychiatrist who is now in conversation with another inmate. The man spots Sid approaching and looks down at the floor, avoiding eye contact. Sid pauses for a moment, assuring him, “Don’t worry about it, I understand.”
Sid does not eat the food because he knows they are spitting in it. He asks for pain meds repeatedly but the C/Os just laugh. When he asks for toilet paper, they laugh. The brown lunch bags that “meals” are delivered in, or the waxed cereal pouches, are his toilet tissue. Before the bags start coming he needs to clean up with fingers, there being no other choice. He has to splash water from inside the toilet. There is no soap. There is no towel. There is no warm water. There is nothing but degradation and mistreatment. That is the way of suicide watch. Its purpose is to inflict more punishment than even solitary confinement has to offer. This is the big opportunity to Hate! Punish! Destroy! The C/Os relish it. They ridicule, chuckle, and savor the harassment. Theirs is the sort of job that typifies “if you could do anything without being concerned whether or not you were paid, what would it be?”
After twenty-four hours, the equivalent of twenty-four millennia, Sid is dragged out for an evaluation with another prison psychiatrist, an elderly man who listens and responds compassionately. The C/Os stand by, joking and mocking. The doctor is not authorized to prescribe medication. He plans to recommend that Sid be removed from suicide watch and from seg altogether. He tells the C/Os that Sid does not belong there and that he has not been allowed to take a shower in nearly a week. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you old fuckin’ fuck.”
They tow Sid back to his suicide watch trench and provide him with a navy blue suit, garb of the general population. He sits on the floor all day, in meditation position. He is retrieved by Rosie, the ISC slut. She demands that he change into the orange jumpsuit because he is “not goin’ anywhere.” She leads him down the hall toward his assigned cell in the seg unit. They pass the elderly psychiatrist who is now in conversation with another inmate. The man spots Sid approaching and looks down at the floor, avoiding eye contact. Sid pauses for a moment, assuring him, “Don’t worry about it, I understand.”
Monday, May 23, 2011
Eat THIS !
The following is an excerpt from part one:
He is then paired up with some weirdo who constantly reads bible passages aloud but has no clue whatsoever of their meaning. He is constantly badgering Sid to have sex. He is constantly declined. Sid’s injuries from the Jeep accident and Riff ’s attack are exacerbated from the upheaval of the previous days but he is denied attention by the nursing staff or any C/Os that wander by on occasion. He asks the weirdo cellie to write out a medical-request form for him and then surrenders it though the slit in the door.
Before you know it, Sid is ushered to the hospital. He sits before a psychiatrist and the deputy warden. Snickering C/Os are looking on. Inquiries are made about him being suicidal. He tells them that he is not feeling suicidal. That is not what he asked his cellmate to write. Everyone ignores him. Then he says that he does not care to speak to any of them because there is no one he can trust. Again, no one listens. No one cares about anything he has to offer. He is wasting his time. The deputy warden does not intervene. She scratches notes on her little clipboard notepad and observes as they pull him off to suicide watch.
The suicide cells have long, skinny, horizontal two-way mirrors and surveillance cameras. They are stark and sterile (not as in “sterilized,” however). The one hundred-million lumen lighting remains glaring 24-7. Routine comments by C/Os, as they peer through the catacomb’s windows, are never-ending. “You’re not dead yet?” “Hey faggot, are you hungry? Eat this.”
He is then paired up with some weirdo who constantly reads bible passages aloud but has no clue whatsoever of their meaning. He is constantly badgering Sid to have sex. He is constantly declined. Sid’s injuries from the Jeep accident and Riff ’s attack are exacerbated from the upheaval of the previous days but he is denied attention by the nursing staff or any C/Os that wander by on occasion. He asks the weirdo cellie to write out a medical-request form for him and then surrenders it though the slit in the door.
Before you know it, Sid is ushered to the hospital. He sits before a psychiatrist and the deputy warden. Snickering C/Os are looking on. Inquiries are made about him being suicidal. He tells them that he is not feeling suicidal. That is not what he asked his cellmate to write. Everyone ignores him. Then he says that he does not care to speak to any of them because there is no one he can trust. Again, no one listens. No one cares about anything he has to offer. He is wasting his time. The deputy warden does not intervene. She scratches notes on her little clipboard notepad and observes as they pull him off to suicide watch.
The suicide cells have long, skinny, horizontal two-way mirrors and surveillance cameras. They are stark and sterile (not as in “sterilized,” however). The one hundred-million lumen lighting remains glaring 24-7. Routine comments by C/Os, as they peer through the catacomb’s windows, are never-ending. “You’re not dead yet?” “Hey faggot, are you hungry? Eat this.”
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Railroading at it’s finest
The following is an excerpt from part one:
There are two Marthas at the Intake Service Center, both exceptionally sweet. One is a minister whom I had the pleasure of meeting at some of the services. The other one I never met, but Sid tells me of their association. She is present at the time he is threatened with solitary confinement for this recent “incident” and advocates for him after he is booked. The disciplinary board is not the least bit interested in Sid’s side of the story. They dictate that he refused to go to court. That entitles him to seg for twenty-five days. That is five days more than Riff Raff got for beating the crap out of him.
The two jerk-off C/Os accompanying Sid are joking and laughing the entire time. Sid speaks up, which does not endear him to the board. “You guys are laughing and making a joke out of this but it’s not funny. This is my life that you’re dealing with.” The mockery does not cease nor does anyone do a thing to prevent it. The board informs him that besides the twenty-five day term he forfeits any good time he may have accumulated.
There is a form to use if he cares to appeal. Sid notifies them that he cannot read or write. Martha steps in to offer assistance, which ultimately results in a reduced sentence of fifteen days. It could be reduced to one day and still make no difference. He was still not released after seventeen days without the lawyer’s intervention. It was no one’s intention to release him, ever.
Sid’s first seg cellmate, as expected, is supposed to smash him to smithereens. The preliminaries involve tiring interrogations. “Whadya do?” “Whadaya in faw?” Sid refuses to respond. The badgering persists and Sid gives in. “Child molestation.” The guy goes berserk. It is all part of the act. He flings his food tray directly at Sid’s face and the mess goes all over. Sid tells him that he knows about the plot to assail him but that he is innocent. He explains some of the outlandish details. In the next moment, his would-be attacker chucks a napkin at him. “Clean yourself up. I’m outta here.” He starts banging on the door like crazy. When someone finally responds, he announces,
“I’m not beating up an old man, especially not this one. Get me the fuck outta here.” They remove him. Sid is alone until the next day.
There are two Marthas at the Intake Service Center, both exceptionally sweet. One is a minister whom I had the pleasure of meeting at some of the services. The other one I never met, but Sid tells me of their association. She is present at the time he is threatened with solitary confinement for this recent “incident” and advocates for him after he is booked. The disciplinary board is not the least bit interested in Sid’s side of the story. They dictate that he refused to go to court. That entitles him to seg for twenty-five days. That is five days more than Riff Raff got for beating the crap out of him.
The two jerk-off C/Os accompanying Sid are joking and laughing the entire time. Sid speaks up, which does not endear him to the board. “You guys are laughing and making a joke out of this but it’s not funny. This is my life that you’re dealing with.” The mockery does not cease nor does anyone do a thing to prevent it. The board informs him that besides the twenty-five day term he forfeits any good time he may have accumulated.
There is a form to use if he cares to appeal. Sid notifies them that he cannot read or write. Martha steps in to offer assistance, which ultimately results in a reduced sentence of fifteen days. It could be reduced to one day and still make no difference. He was still not released after seventeen days without the lawyer’s intervention. It was no one’s intention to release him, ever.
Sid’s first seg cellmate, as expected, is supposed to smash him to smithereens. The preliminaries involve tiring interrogations. “Whadya do?” “Whadaya in faw?” Sid refuses to respond. The badgering persists and Sid gives in. “Child molestation.” The guy goes berserk. It is all part of the act. He flings his food tray directly at Sid’s face and the mess goes all over. Sid tells him that he knows about the plot to assail him but that he is innocent. He explains some of the outlandish details. In the next moment, his would-be attacker chucks a napkin at him. “Clean yourself up. I’m outta here.” He starts banging on the door like crazy. When someone finally responds, he announces,
“I’m not beating up an old man, especially not this one. Get me the fuck outta here.” They remove him. Sid is alone until the next day.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
The Lady Barkley
The following is an excerpt from part one:
It starts with a state marshal bitch and finishing touches are left to the C/O monsters. The cause for him missing the court date is a squabble involving an inmate. After I had left the final holding cell to board the bus, an enormous Hispanic man approaches Sid. “Do you know me?” Sid says no and the guy spits in his face, then continues. “Well I know you. You’re a ripper.” Then he spits again. Sid walks over to the doorway where a C/O, observing the tiff, is standing—no doubt the C/O who arranged the harassment. Sid tells him that he is being threatened and he feels sick. They move him into a small cubicle by himself.
Sometime later Sid is retrieved and escorted to the hospital. No blood is gushing, no guts hanging out. “There’s nothing fuckin’ wrong with you, you’re goin’ to court.” He is lugged back through the maze and to the sally port exit. There, Badge 191 of the can-do-no-wrong state marshal’s gang shoves him onto the bus. She is an absolute bulldog dyke with all kinds of metal rings pierced throughout her head. She directs Sid to the cage in which spit-man is sitting. Spit-man begins to howl. “Come over here, man. I like you. I wanna’ sit on your lap.” Sid tells Bulldog that this guy spit at and threatened him. He can’t sit there. He asks if he can sit in the empty cage across from him. “Get the fuck in there.”
“Can’t I please just go in the empty one?” Bulldog yanks him off the bus and back inside the prison pit. She taunts, “He doesn’t want to go on the bus. He’s ScaaaAAaaarred!” Sid is dragged back to a holding cell where he spends the entire day. Finally, he is booked for refusing to go to court.
It starts with a state marshal bitch and finishing touches are left to the C/O monsters. The cause for him missing the court date is a squabble involving an inmate. After I had left the final holding cell to board the bus, an enormous Hispanic man approaches Sid. “Do you know me?” Sid says no and the guy spits in his face, then continues. “Well I know you. You’re a ripper.” Then he spits again. Sid walks over to the doorway where a C/O, observing the tiff, is standing—no doubt the C/O who arranged the harassment. Sid tells him that he is being threatened and he feels sick. They move him into a small cubicle by himself.
Sometime later Sid is retrieved and escorted to the hospital. No blood is gushing, no guts hanging out. “There’s nothing fuckin’ wrong with you, you’re goin’ to court.” He is lugged back through the maze and to the sally port exit. There, Badge 191 of the can-do-no-wrong state marshal’s gang shoves him onto the bus. She is an absolute bulldog dyke with all kinds of metal rings pierced throughout her head. She directs Sid to the cage in which spit-man is sitting. Spit-man begins to howl. “Come over here, man. I like you. I wanna’ sit on your lap.” Sid tells Bulldog that this guy spit at and threatened him. He can’t sit there. He asks if he can sit in the empty cage across from him. “Get the fuck in there.”
“Can’t I please just go in the empty one?” Bulldog yanks him off the bus and back inside the prison pit. She taunts, “He doesn’t want to go on the bus. He’s ScaaaAAaaarred!” Sid is dragged back to a holding cell where he spends the entire day. Finally, he is booked for refusing to go to court.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Where oh where?
The following is an excerpt from part one:
Sid’s segregation ordeal begins on the day of our previously scheduled Family Court appearance. He and I complete the pilgrimage from chow to the final holding cell location before proceeding through the metal detector. Roll call to the buses is alphabetical by mod: A mod, last name A through Z; then B mod, last name A through Z. Because of our mod locations, we are assigned to different buses.
I watch for him all day in the holding cells at the courthouse. He doesn’t show. I never make it up into court, but that is a common enough occurrence. (I have made many more trips to court for nothing than for anything else.) When we return from court, Sid is still not around. I check in with Leo. He is a dining room porter from the same mod as Sid and regularly relays messages for us. Leo has no idea either. He is under the impression that Sid was at court for the day.
The following day I call my sister Marie. She hasn’t heard anything but says she will try to find out. I call her the next day and she tells me that Sid is in seg. That is the only information available. I know instinctively that he has been set up but I can’t possibly imagine the details. He would not have initiated an altercation or fought back with an inmate. There has to be some cruddy C/O or messed-up marshal behind the plot.
At the hospital the next day, Sid is being led out as I approach the entrance. He is wearing the orange seg jumpsuit and looks like he has been put through the wringer. He pauses briefly to explain, “I wanted to go to court but—” The C/O tugs him through the entrance to the seg mods and they disappear.
I remain in the dark for the next two weeks. During that period, my mind often slips into worry mode. I instantly redirect it elsewhere. I am certain that Sid is undergoing a nasty time but there is no sense in both of us enduring it. It is not until we go to court again that I finally get to speak to him. He tells me the painful details of the ordeal.
Sid’s segregation ordeal begins on the day of our previously scheduled Family Court appearance. He and I complete the pilgrimage from chow to the final holding cell location before proceeding through the metal detector. Roll call to the buses is alphabetical by mod: A mod, last name A through Z; then B mod, last name A through Z. Because of our mod locations, we are assigned to different buses.
I watch for him all day in the holding cells at the courthouse. He doesn’t show. I never make it up into court, but that is a common enough occurrence. (I have made many more trips to court for nothing than for anything else.) When we return from court, Sid is still not around. I check in with Leo. He is a dining room porter from the same mod as Sid and regularly relays messages for us. Leo has no idea either. He is under the impression that Sid was at court for the day.
The following day I call my sister Marie. She hasn’t heard anything but says she will try to find out. I call her the next day and she tells me that Sid is in seg. That is the only information available. I know instinctively that he has been set up but I can’t possibly imagine the details. He would not have initiated an altercation or fought back with an inmate. There has to be some cruddy C/O or messed-up marshal behind the plot.
At the hospital the next day, Sid is being led out as I approach the entrance. He is wearing the orange seg jumpsuit and looks like he has been put through the wringer. He pauses briefly to explain, “I wanted to go to court but—” The C/O tugs him through the entrance to the seg mods and they disappear.
I remain in the dark for the next two weeks. During that period, my mind often slips into worry mode. I instantly redirect it elsewhere. I am certain that Sid is undergoing a nasty time but there is no sense in both of us enduring it. It is not until we go to court again that I finally get to speak to him. He tells me the painful details of the ordeal.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Anbesol PLEASE!
The following is an excerpt from part one:
The C/Os can be cooperative when and if they want to be. In Piss mod, Kyle from the Marines’ billboard asks one of the lady—female, rather—C/Os about having an infected tooth pulled. It is obvious that she has the hots for him. In a minute flat, she makes a call to the dentist and reports back, “It’s too late for today but they’ll take you first thing in the morning.” That is exactly what happens.
After being in prison for a few weeks, Sid develops an infected wisdom tooth. He asks a C/O about getting it pulled. He might as well be talking to himself. He submits medical request slips, week after week, month after month. He asks a couple of other C/Os, to no avail. He keeps submitting requests. Finally, the pain is so unbearable that he pulls it out himself.
He removes the stem from his glasses and sharpens it on the cement cell floor. The tool effectively lances the abscess that is as large as the tooth itself. Using the scalpel that he has fashioned, he gouges the gum line over a period of several days and loosens the tooth. He pries it out using his thumb and forefinger as pliers.
For three months, he has been sleeping on the floor in various cells. Not a single staff person will assign him to a lower bunk. The floor was the only alternative since his spinal condition prevented him from maneuvering to the upper level. For eight months, he has been declined medication, even though he was taking Oxycodone at the time of his arrest. For two weeks he has been in solitary confinement for a fabricated “problem.”
The C/Os can be cooperative when and if they want to be. In Piss mod, Kyle from the Marines’ billboard asks one of the lady—female, rather—C/Os about having an infected tooth pulled. It is obvious that she has the hots for him. In a minute flat, she makes a call to the dentist and reports back, “It’s too late for today but they’ll take you first thing in the morning.” That is exactly what happens.
After being in prison for a few weeks, Sid develops an infected wisdom tooth. He asks a C/O about getting it pulled. He might as well be talking to himself. He submits medical request slips, week after week, month after month. He asks a couple of other C/Os, to no avail. He keeps submitting requests. Finally, the pain is so unbearable that he pulls it out himself.
He removes the stem from his glasses and sharpens it on the cement cell floor. The tool effectively lances the abscess that is as large as the tooth itself. Using the scalpel that he has fashioned, he gouges the gum line over a period of several days and loosens the tooth. He pries it out using his thumb and forefinger as pliers.
For three months, he has been sleeping on the floor in various cells. Not a single staff person will assign him to a lower bunk. The floor was the only alternative since his spinal condition prevented him from maneuvering to the upper level. For eight months, he has been declined medication, even though he was taking Oxycodone at the time of his arrest. For two weeks he has been in solitary confinement for a fabricated “problem.”
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Lightning up the ass
The following is an excerpt from part one:
His cellmate shudders while at top volume Sid expels, “I hate all you fuckin’ C/Os and the fuckin’ state marshals. I hope you all fuckin’ burn in hell. In the meantime I call upon the forces of the universe to fuck you up so bad that you wished you had never lived.”
His cellie jumps up and started screaming. “Sid, SiD, SiiiiiiD! Stop. Look what’s happening. Look at the sky.” Sid ignores him and continues. It is early afternoon and the grayness of overcast skies becomes black, as though the day has skipped a cycle and instantly turned night.
“I hate all you fuckin’ bastards for what you are and what you did. I haaaate all you fuckin’ C/Os.” The sky grumbles. Enormous flashes of lightning flicker through the angry clouds. Water begins to flood down. It is as though the oceans of the world are overhead and are falling. Sid is standing in the center of the cell, arms outstretched.
“Sid—Sid, man! You gotta stop. Look what you’re...” The incantations continue as freely as the falling rain. Lightning crackles and deafening thunder bellows unceasingly in competition with unrelenting cries.
“All you damn C/Os and sheriffs are gonna be sorry that you ever crossed my path. I call upon the universe to destroy you. I hope the lightning goes right up your ass. I hate everyone for what they did and I curse the day that they ever came into my life. I curse you all to a lifetime of misery.” Hail the size of kumquats starts to fall. The wind is unrelenting, and frozen ice balls hurl against everything in its course. Lightning fl ashes in every direction. Its thunderous aftermath shakes the concrete building like a sonic boom.
“I curse everyone who is responsible for putting me in this rotten place. Damn you all forever. I curse you with every breath I have ever taken. I curse you all to hell.” Then he collapses on his bunk, entirely drained of energy. His cellie is still in shock, “That was you that did that?”
“Yup. I scared myself.” Maybe it is all just another bizarre coincidence. Unfortunately, there are no C/Os or sheriffs who got a bolt of lightning up the ass as far as either of us know.
His cellmate shudders while at top volume Sid expels, “I hate all you fuckin’ C/Os and the fuckin’ state marshals. I hope you all fuckin’ burn in hell. In the meantime I call upon the forces of the universe to fuck you up so bad that you wished you had never lived.”
His cellie jumps up and started screaming. “Sid, SiD, SiiiiiiD! Stop. Look what’s happening. Look at the sky.” Sid ignores him and continues. It is early afternoon and the grayness of overcast skies becomes black, as though the day has skipped a cycle and instantly turned night.
“I hate all you fuckin’ bastards for what you are and what you did. I haaaate all you fuckin’ C/Os.” The sky grumbles. Enormous flashes of lightning flicker through the angry clouds. Water begins to flood down. It is as though the oceans of the world are overhead and are falling. Sid is standing in the center of the cell, arms outstretched.
“Sid—Sid, man! You gotta stop. Look what you’re...” The incantations continue as freely as the falling rain. Lightning crackles and deafening thunder bellows unceasingly in competition with unrelenting cries.
“All you damn C/Os and sheriffs are gonna be sorry that you ever crossed my path. I call upon the universe to destroy you. I hope the lightning goes right up your ass. I hate everyone for what they did and I curse the day that they ever came into my life. I curse you all to a lifetime of misery.” Hail the size of kumquats starts to fall. The wind is unrelenting, and frozen ice balls hurl against everything in its course. Lightning fl ashes in every direction. Its thunderous aftermath shakes the concrete building like a sonic boom.
“I curse everyone who is responsible for putting me in this rotten place. Damn you all forever. I curse you with every breath I have ever taken. I curse you all to hell.” Then he collapses on his bunk, entirely drained of energy. His cellie is still in shock, “That was you that did that?”
“Yup. I scared myself.” Maybe it is all just another bizarre coincidence. Unfortunately, there are no C/Os or sheriffs who got a bolt of lightning up the ass as far as either of us know.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
“I’ll get you, my pretty.”
The following is an excerpt from part one:
When Sid and I meet at a courthouse rendezvous we have the opportunity to exchange stories about how life—with C/Os in particular—has been mistreating us. He tells me about being transferred to different mods for “whatever reason.” The challenge of “fitting in” or “getting along” is sometimes difficult because some of the C/Os make it their business to pit inmates against him before he has a chance.
That is generally not too difficult to remedy. The C/Os become infuriated beyond reason. There is usually at least one inmate that also remains staunch in his irrational hatred and harassing treatment. As time goes on, Sid’s reputation precedes him. He is well-liked regardless of C/O interference. Sid also shares many accounts of his interactions with inmates. Some of the guys are frightened by his psychic ability, others amazed. Still others are skeptical. Of the latter, their doubt is usually because incidents that Sid describes have not yet occurred. Most often, they come to fruition within a short span and the skeptics join the ranks of the impressed. It gives Sid a shot at earning respect.
Whenever the staff has an opportunity to inflict punishment, there is not an inconvenience too great to stop them. They attempt to situate Sid wherever he might be miserable. If that doesn’t work, they separate him from the ones who have become friendly to him. In one mod he became very close to two influential black prisoners who had been instructed to “mess him up.” Before long they consider him a “brother.” After a few days of the chummy-chummy stuff they get moved.
. . . Sid asks me about the great storm which had befallen us over the summer. “Do you remember the thunderstorm we had with the big hail a few weeks ago?” “Of course I do. It was ferocious.” I generally love expressions of nature such as that but the storm he is referring to was ominous. We lost power for longer than anybody there can remember. It had occurred shortly after we were beat up and sent to solitary confinement. Sid is on a rampage, furious about the attack and that nothing has been done except to further punish us.
On top of that, the pain in my leg is increasing considerably since it took so long to acquire a cane. Then, it takes twice as long to get crutches. The strain on my hip finishes ripping the socket entirely from the pelvis. My femur was completely dislocated, protruding right into the glutes. Sid experiences my pain. It causes him much anger and distress. He decides to cast a spell.
When Sid and I meet at a courthouse rendezvous we have the opportunity to exchange stories about how life—with C/Os in particular—has been mistreating us. He tells me about being transferred to different mods for “whatever reason.” The challenge of “fitting in” or “getting along” is sometimes difficult because some of the C/Os make it their business to pit inmates against him before he has a chance.
That is generally not too difficult to remedy. The C/Os become infuriated beyond reason. There is usually at least one inmate that also remains staunch in his irrational hatred and harassing treatment. As time goes on, Sid’s reputation precedes him. He is well-liked regardless of C/O interference. Sid also shares many accounts of his interactions with inmates. Some of the guys are frightened by his psychic ability, others amazed. Still others are skeptical. Of the latter, their doubt is usually because incidents that Sid describes have not yet occurred. Most often, they come to fruition within a short span and the skeptics join the ranks of the impressed. It gives Sid a shot at earning respect.
Whenever the staff has an opportunity to inflict punishment, there is not an inconvenience too great to stop them. They attempt to situate Sid wherever he might be miserable. If that doesn’t work, they separate him from the ones who have become friendly to him. In one mod he became very close to two influential black prisoners who had been instructed to “mess him up.” Before long they consider him a “brother.” After a few days of the chummy-chummy stuff they get moved.
. . . Sid asks me about the great storm which had befallen us over the summer. “Do you remember the thunderstorm we had with the big hail a few weeks ago?” “Of course I do. It was ferocious.” I generally love expressions of nature such as that but the storm he is referring to was ominous. We lost power for longer than anybody there can remember. It had occurred shortly after we were beat up and sent to solitary confinement. Sid is on a rampage, furious about the attack and that nothing has been done except to further punish us.
On top of that, the pain in my leg is increasing considerably since it took so long to acquire a cane. Then, it takes twice as long to get crutches. The strain on my hip finishes ripping the socket entirely from the pelvis. My femur was completely dislocated, protruding right into the glutes. Sid experiences my pain. It causes him much anger and distress. He decides to cast a spell.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The fortuitous Kiwi
The following is an excerpt from part one:
Being an only child, and a “mistake” at that (the understatement of the millennium,) is the reason that he is so demanding. It also explains why he has developed the infuriating habit of steadfastly speaking to himself. It is not subdued in the least; the volume is the same as in the heated debates with his elderly parents, both around eighty.
When he is not engaged in a full-fledged conversation, alone, he is engaged in some sort of stage act. Undoubtedly, the performance is as much for my viewing pleasure as that of the imaginary American Idol audience. Judging from the tireless nods, bows, and grins following each act, the standing ovations must be endless, the crowds mystified. All except for me: I am rapidly becoming delusional and suicidal.
Dave’s self-indulgent demands for conveniences are unlimited. I am repeatedly assured that I will not go uncompensated—he will place a store order and reinstate everything. Better yet, when he gets out he can “send a check.” Regardless, to keep the peace, I pamper him with stamps, daily snacks, and gallons of shampoo. I even provide toothpaste. He has a tube of prison-issued Elmer’s but he is “not crazy about it.” His order arrives. Ooops, he forgot to order my stuff. He continues with the variety show performances but now, munching contentedly on bags of health mix. That must be the preferred snack of coke and nicotine addicts. He offers me not so much as a dried banana chip.
After the fifth dreadful day of madness, the dimwit goes to court. I am on barbs and spikes, fearing the worst: he might come back. I spend the day praying for mercy. It is the day before my birthday. I am a disaster, wondering if hell’s torment will be returning to throw me a surprise party. If he does not, I will become the grateful heir to his notepad, envelopes, and bottle of VO-5 conditioner. It is the perfect bequest for a man with a head of hair like a kiwi.
Being an only child, and a “mistake” at that (the understatement of the millennium,) is the reason that he is so demanding. It also explains why he has developed the infuriating habit of steadfastly speaking to himself. It is not subdued in the least; the volume is the same as in the heated debates with his elderly parents, both around eighty.
When he is not engaged in a full-fledged conversation, alone, he is engaged in some sort of stage act. Undoubtedly, the performance is as much for my viewing pleasure as that of the imaginary American Idol audience. Judging from the tireless nods, bows, and grins following each act, the standing ovations must be endless, the crowds mystified. All except for me: I am rapidly becoming delusional and suicidal.
Dave’s self-indulgent demands for conveniences are unlimited. I am repeatedly assured that I will not go uncompensated—he will place a store order and reinstate everything. Better yet, when he gets out he can “send a check.” Regardless, to keep the peace, I pamper him with stamps, daily snacks, and gallons of shampoo. I even provide toothpaste. He has a tube of prison-issued Elmer’s but he is “not crazy about it.” His order arrives. Ooops, he forgot to order my stuff. He continues with the variety show performances but now, munching contentedly on bags of health mix. That must be the preferred snack of coke and nicotine addicts. He offers me not so much as a dried banana chip.
After the fifth dreadful day of madness, the dimwit goes to court. I am on barbs and spikes, fearing the worst: he might come back. I spend the day praying for mercy. It is the day before my birthday. I am a disaster, wondering if hell’s torment will be returning to throw me a surprise party. If he does not, I will become the grateful heir to his notepad, envelopes, and bottle of VO-5 conditioner. It is the perfect bequest for a man with a head of hair like a kiwi.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Surprise!
The following is an excerpt from part one:
That provides him with a splendid chance, before I block him out entirely with the headphones, to inform me of his great wealth. He received a $120,000 insurance settlement. In four months, he pissed it away in support of his and the fiancée’s cocaine habit. To boast of that sort of frivolity as one’s claim to distinction simply withers me right down to the brain stem.
The fiancée, reportedly a buxom and beautiful black barfly, is the one who had birdbrain “arrested again” on some sort of sketchy domestic violence charge. The event occurred just hours before the harmonious couple were to enter into matrimony. As a result, he’s no longer sure if she is the best choice for him. Perhaps the Brazilian beauty who tends bar at his nightly hang-out of choice would be a more suitable life partner? She seems desirable considering the way “she was coming onto” him. Could it be that he was after the tits and she the tips?
I do not propose the question—I dread having to listen to the answer. Before I clamp the headphones on for good, he suggests that possibly we could “do something.” I magically go deaf. I have all I can handle to restrain regurgitation as it makes a massive charge at the back of my throat. Unfortunately, I cannot wear the headset to go to chow. I am vulnerable to attack. The robbery, for which he served five years in another state, is a real honey of a story. The heist occurred at a drive-up window. With a handwritten note, he demanded $5,000 from the teller. She handed over the cash and he drove off. He didn’t make it out of the parking lot. Surprise!
That provides him with a splendid chance, before I block him out entirely with the headphones, to inform me of his great wealth. He received a $120,000 insurance settlement. In four months, he pissed it away in support of his and the fiancée’s cocaine habit. To boast of that sort of frivolity as one’s claim to distinction simply withers me right down to the brain stem.
The fiancée, reportedly a buxom and beautiful black barfly, is the one who had birdbrain “arrested again” on some sort of sketchy domestic violence charge. The event occurred just hours before the harmonious couple were to enter into matrimony. As a result, he’s no longer sure if she is the best choice for him. Perhaps the Brazilian beauty who tends bar at his nightly hang-out of choice would be a more suitable life partner? She seems desirable considering the way “she was coming onto” him. Could it be that he was after the tits and she the tips?
I do not propose the question—I dread having to listen to the answer. Before I clamp the headphones on for good, he suggests that possibly we could “do something.” I magically go deaf. I have all I can handle to restrain regurgitation as it makes a massive charge at the back of my throat. Unfortunately, I cannot wear the headset to go to chow. I am vulnerable to attack. The robbery, for which he served five years in another state, is a real honey of a story. The heist occurred at a drive-up window. With a handwritten note, he demanded $5,000 from the teller. She handed over the cash and he drove off. He didn’t make it out of the parking lot. Surprise!
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