“I always be good to the ladies. Treat ‘em real well. They come to me and I take care of them. I’m not from here. Miami is my home. I only came to jail because I turned myself in,” says Ortega. He’s just plain slimy like some reptilian creature that coils over and around on itself with darting eyes and a forked tongue. Ortega shifts his wiry frame, puts one foot on the desk and slouches to the side.
“Don’t do that!” I say. If he persists, it’s a write-up for flagrant disobedience. “So what are you going to do when you leave here?”
“I’m going to college and get a psychology degree. Prove to all these mother-fuckers in here that look down on me that I can outsmart them.”
“You’re full of shit!” Serge shouts suddenly. I focus my attention on our resident mobster. This is no Godfather stereotype. Serge is regal in height unlike his swarthy Sicilian relatives back in the old country. His towering presence commands immediate attention. He is a man of silent intimidation until someone presses his button, which has unfortunately happened innumerable times in his life; and once he’s turned on, watch out! Someone’s going to bloody well pay. Unless you are fortunate like I have been to catch him in private. Then, and only then, is the soft side of this criminal displayed. I know Serge’s secret. He is a man who has begun the process of change. For the first time in his thirty-year career of crime, he has something that he has never had before — hope. He is finally ready to retire from the street. I am surprised then to hear such virulent hostility in his voice. Ortega shoots him a greasy smile.
“No, I mean it. This guy is really pissing me off, Miss Abrams,” Serge says, raising his voice. He is speaking to me but has not taken his eyes off Ortega. Before I can intervene to determine what has triggered his irritation, Serge stands up and moves his towering frame around his desk. He’s staring down the Cuban on the far side of the room. The other participants feel the tension but do nothing. Ortega is alone in this. He has alienated all the others with his not-so-subtle habit of telling the teacher exactly what she wants to hear. Everyone knows he is just here to collect his certificate.
“What’s bothering you here, Serge? Each person has their own story and the right to tell it,” I ask. The big Italian balls up his fists that are twitching with anticipation.
“Yeah, but his is total bullshit. Can’t you hear it? He says one thing here in class but I know him from back in the block. He’s all about manipulating everyone,” rants Serge. Ortega is squirming in his seat but does his best to maintain face in front of the opposition. He nudges Crespo with his elbow and nods in the direction of the irate mobster.
“Can you believe this shit?” he says nonchalantly. “The guy just don’t like Spanish people chillin' in the same space as he do.” His Latino neighbor immediately flies into stream of Spanish chatter. Both men nod and smirk. Ortega looks back at me. “I’m just sayin’ I didn’t have to come to jail. It was my choice. I had a good life in Miami. Money, cars, women. Gave it up to do the right thing.”
“You’re tallkin’ crap out the side of your mouth, man. I see you in the unit. You’re a pussy, always whining like a little bitch. You don’t know how to do your time,” Serge hisses.
“I don’t know why you gotta be such a hot-ass right now,” Ortega spits back. “Maybe that’s how you see it cuz you’re older than shit. But it’s a new generation now. Our time. It’s not the old-school way of doing things in here anymore.”
“You little fuck. You want to sound like a big man? You’re no pimp, you’re a punk,” shouts Serge. Ortega’s dark eyes open wider, his deep lashes flutter with pretend piety as he looks imploringly at his tolerant teacher.
“Miss, I know my life was wrong and seen that I needed to change. I’m taking care of me first now, cuz at the end of the day, if we don’t love ourselves, we can’t love anyone else,” he says. Serge is bristling now. No one is egging him on, certainly Rev, not his closest ally, who is absent today. Serge is propelled by some inner voice that tells him to take a few steps farther out into the middle of the room. He points his finger at Ortega who is tilting back in his seat now, eyeing the crowd.
“Shut the fuck up, asshole!” Serge says with cold-blooded calm. I grab the phone and dial up the officer on post.
“Can you give me a hand down here, please?” I whisper. No need to spell it out. A lift of the receiver is automatically interpreted as a summons for help unless clarified otherwise. If the guard is on point, he will be out of his chair and on his way down the hall now. Right on cue, Officer Madden darkens the doorway in less than a minute. His hand is on his utility belt like a cop fondling the handle of his revolver as he steps warily into an unsecured crime scene. Unfortunately, Madden’s only available tools are a set of handcuffs and a pair of purple latex gloves tucked in a pouch.
“Everyone playing nice in the sandbox today?” he asks almost sweetly, masking his air of superiority with slick sarcasm.
“Would you please escort Mr., Magrini and Mr. Ortega back to E-block West?” I ask.
“I’d love to,” says Office Madden, grinning. In his mind, he’s thinking this could be good for a little sideshow entertainment if either of the inmates get mouthy on the way down. Even though he’s outnumbered two to one, there’s no risk involved. A literal army of back-ups are easily summoned out of the officer’s mess and at least a handful of his buddies will be chatting it up by the hall keeper’s desk as he and the troublemakers cruise by.
“Let’s go, gentlemen,” he says. Both men leave willingly under the watchful eye of their uniformed escort. Before they exit the room, Serge lets one more threat fly.
“I’ll see you at tier Rec this afternoon. We’ll settle this man to man,” he hisses. Both Ortega and Officer Madden act as if they didn’t hear the threat.
“Shit, dudes. I thought Ortega was going to get his ass beat down,” says Dent with disappointment after they are gone. He was looking forward to a show.
“Naw. Pop’s all talk. He’s not gonna mess up his own shit over some greasy Spic. I mean, Spanish dude,” says Noble. He speaks with the assurance and authority of one who knows his customers well, fully aware that no one will challenge his resume of experience. The remaining members begin to break out into separate conversations and choose sides.
“Guys! Hold up! I want to hear your take on what happened here today. We’ve been talking about conflict resolution and what it means to be assertive versus aggressive when addressing issues. Unfortunately, we just witnessed a hostile encounter between two individuals. Any comments on whether you thought it was handled properly or not? Maybe suggestions about what might have been improved in this interaction?” I ask.
“Serge over-stepped his boundaries. He should not have threatened that kid,” says Zimmer.
“But Counselor, that kid is a punk. He talks mad shit. All he’s doing is trying to win points with you so he can make parole,” adds Bowman.
“Trust me. I didn’t start this job yesterday. You guys assume whoever talks the most in class or reels off more paragraphs on his homework will get an automatic gold star on his report card. Not so! I look at many things such as attitude and initiative.” I note a few blank stares in the crowd. “You all know what initiative means, right? That extra effort and determination to improve. But the biggest piece of the pie is the degree of responsibility you all assume. By that, I don’t mean paying child support or getting a job. I mean taking responsibility for your actions as a real man should.”
The group is totally silent. Each man is busy trying to figure out where he falls on my human integrity scale, hoping like hell that my assessment has not tossed him in the poor category. “Ortega didn’t do anything wrong. He’s irritating as fuck but he didn’t do anything to provoke that reaction,” Bowman says.
“Agree or disagree?” I ask the rest of the participants. Most of the men nod in the affirmative.
“Just so you know, based on his poor attitude and absences, I could have kicked our friend Ortega out of this group a long time ago. In fact, I did remove him from my morning session where he was a major disruption to the younger guys who were actually making real progress. It’s my job as a group facilitator to preserve the greater good. You’ve probably heard this expression before. One bad apple can spoil the whole bunch, right?”
“Yeah, Michael Jackson said that,” says Euclid.
“No, douche. He said ‘one bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch, girl,” replies Dent.
“Apples don’t come in bunches. They are in bushels or pecks,” Zimmer adds.
“Fuck off, old man,” mumbles Dent. All this negative energy makes me wish the Rev was here today. Even though it’s fake and syrupy as shit, his words do have a way of lulling these guys into complacency. Or maybe it’s boredom.
“Okay, stop! Now! It doesn’t matter about the apples. You’ve gotten way off the track here. What I’m saying is that one person should not be allowed to spoil the experience for the entire group. So I switched Mr. Ortega to this class because there are more mature students in here who can model better behavior for him. I decided not to kick him out for one other very important reason. Because he needs it. Maybe more than anyone in here. He’s still far from admitting his part in the mess he’s made of his life. Now, anything else?”
“I think Serge took it personally and he shouldn’t have. He was pissed because that kid reminded him of his own cockiness when he was young,” Zimmer responds.
“Excellent point. That’s something we have discussed. Sometimes anger is triggered by internal factors such as our own personal interpretation of the facts. Maybe it struck a bad chord with him because he wasn’t able to see it from an objective point of view. So what could have been done differently here?”
“He could have ignored him,” Dent says. I nod in agreement.
“He could have fallen back and waited until he cooled down. Then maybe axed him ‘bout it,” suggests Noble. I’m nodding furiously now. We’re getting closer.
“He could have tried to understand where Ortega is coming from. Heard him out,” Willis replies.
“Good. Good. And what’s that called?” I lean in and urge them on with an enthusiastic expression of anticipation. We are on the brink of something big here.
“Empathy,” announces Bowman. I turn to look at the somber kid who speaks without looking up. Bingo! I extend my arms in his direction encircling him in a hypothetical hug. “Brilliant! Extra points to you!” I say enthusiastically. “Coming to the table to resolve an issue is not about winning. It is about arriving at a conclusion as swiftly as possible. Solving a problem or making a decision. Not dragging it out, but putting the matter to rest.”
“Compromise,” someone shouts. I look out at this motley collection of broken souls and I see the little boys they were or might have been, bouncing on their bottoms with an eager hand raised, hoping to be the one the teacher called on for the right answer and announcing it slowly, clearly, with a pound of pride; then basking in the beaming smile they are rewarded with from the proud lady up front. She will be remembered in their daydreams as someone who cared enough, cared too much perhaps; but the one who told them to tuck in their shirts, stand up straight and put their best foot forward.
#
“Miss Abrams. Can I be excused to go to the bathroom?” Gemini asks. He’s been fidgeting in his seat and tugging at the fine wisps of long hair that frame his face with an interesting color rendered from a homemade paste of coffee grounds and orange juice.
“Yes, you may, Gemini. You know the deal,” I say. They all do. The rule is one at a time and no longer than five minutes before the whistle is blown and someone goes looking. Gemini drops his folder on the desk and hustles out the door. We move on in the material without him. Many minutes go by before I notice an inmate from an adjacent class is standing outside our room waving to get my attention. I go to the door and crack it open enough to hear him.
“One of your students needs help in the bathroom. He’s asking for you,” he says.
I can’t leave the group unattended so I lift the phone and summon the school officer who is posted at the entrance to the unit. He agrees to walk down and supervise the men so I can “make a personal trip to the ladies room.” There is a staff bathroom that serves both men and women but I bypass that door and head around the corner to the toilet area by the entrance to the library. This restroom has a door that is always partially ajar for security and safety reasons; an aperture I usually avoid peering into since only a half-wall stands between the urinals and the sink area. I can immediately see a man’s body half-slumped against the far wall.
“Oh, Jesus Christ! Gemini?” I shout. Without checking to see if there is anyone else in the room, I rush over to where he is crouched. There is a fist-sized hole in the plaster just above the radiator and a film of white powdery debris and insulation paper on the floor underneath. A clutter of broken egg shells with dark gray centers sit atop his lap. I can’t fathom what has happened. I lean in and peer more closely at the scrambled mess, which turns out to be the tiny deceased bodies of nearly-formed baby birds still tucked down in their incubators with wings glued tight to their sides. Gemini is holding a pen which he used to pry open the nesting place hoping to rescue the brood that had somehow become trapped inside the wall. Birds fly through this old ark of a building all the time, flapping up in the bowers of the high hallways and chittering from wire perches; but how any grackle could have gotten in here and chosen that tiny niche for a nursery is an unsolvable riddle. There are six dead and dehydrated fledglings on his lap and a seventh baby in his right hand. Its eyes bulge from its bald face. Its beak slowly opens and closes, opening again and snapping shut as it looks to his rescuer for life-saving support. Tears are running down Gemini’s face and his big breasts jiggle from the force of his sobs.
“Oh, this is so sad. How on earth do you think they got in here? And how did you find them?” I ask. His grief is so great he can’t answer. I put my ungloved hand on his shoulder, ignoring the Universal Precaution of avoiding exposure to HIV or MRSA or any other infectious diseases that run rampant here.
“You did your best to try and save them all. They would thank you for that! Give me the little guy and we’ll give him a decent chance.” I take the dying bird from his hand and wrap it in a few layers of paper towels. Gemini stands to his feet and wipes his face with the heel of his hand. I’d like to know what brand of foundation he’s wearing since not a single blotch of it has smeared during this breakdown.
“I nominate you for a special humanitarian award and induct you into the Audubon Society’s Hall of Famers,” I say. Gemini sniffs and then giggles. His perfect doll-shaped lips reveal lovely white teeth. “I’ll give you some more alone time. If the officer comes by and gives you any hassle, tell him to come see me. Alright?”
He nods, grateful not to be dragged back in the room with a bunch of homophobes who detest weakness and who react to tears like sharks to blood.
#
Serge is immediately skeptical when his name is bellowed out from the officer’s post and his cell is popped. A summons like this can be either good news like a visit or bad news in the case of a disciplinary investigation. But when he sees the friendly face of his counselor, Serge brightens considerably and gladly joins me in the tiny concrete cubicle tucked beneath the upper tier. He is visibly remorseful and immediately apologetic.
“I’m sorry for my behavior, Miss Abrams. I really am serious about changing my ways. But I have a bad temper and a lifetime of acting a certain way is a hard habit to break.”
“I understand. That’s why I’m here,” I reply. “I saw that in you from the first day.”
“I’m so pissed at myself. I know better. I shouldn’t have treated that kid like that but he reminded me of my own self at that age. An insincere piece of shit. His ignorance just set me off.”
“I’m sure there were people that were patient with you when you were at his stage in life.”
“I didn’t get much time to grow up. I was always bouncing between New York and Danbury, Connecticut. My mom was in the suburbs and my Dad was into organized crime. I’m not a good person, Counselor. I ran clubs where women dance. You know, strippers. And I feel awful now about these young girls that looked to me to lead them. I was twice their age and I took some of them in. But it was always about what we could get out of one another like drugs and sex. I’m tired of that life. I can’t do it anymore. Thirty years behind bars is enough. I’m fifty-three years old for Christ sake.”
This tough guy sits in front of me with more gun fights, beer brawls, drug busts and money handling than the number of Hollywood blockbusters made in my lifetime and yet he is beginning to cry. He drops his head in his hands in the posture of a truly contrite man. In any other world, I would reach out and brace his shoulder or offer him a tissue but I am kept away by edicts that categorize us as human beings in different stations of life. It’s always been that way. People looking for what separates us, —always herding the sheep away from the goats, the wheat from the tares, and the good from the bad. All I can see is what binds us together, the remorse of being born with flaws that crack under pressure and send us splintering.
“I’ve lost the respect of my son and his mother. I have no one left to call family. Last time I was released, I had just enough money to get myself an apartment and hook myself up with some video games and a TV. I never left the place. I was too afraid because there was no one out there who cared. I had no purpose other than dabbling in fantasy games and watching reality shows about other people’s lives. I couldn’t stand the loneliness.” A few minutes later, he shakes back his head and wipes his cheek with his sleeve.
“Do you want to come back to group?” I ask. He nods his head and then straightens up to full height. Stripped of his temper and the terrible past that has created a permanent scowl, he is quite a handsome man. Shame on you for thinking that, Elise. He’s a ruthless and persistent offender just like all the rest of these shitheels.
“I do,” he says emphatically. “Don’t give up on me yet.”
“No chance,” I say with confidence. “It’s time for chow. I’ll see you tomorrow, Serge.”
As I depart the unit, a cat call of hoots and whistles goes up. Men are waving papers through the bars and banging to get my attention. It’s like a dog pound in here, loud and reeking of urine. Not many unfamiliar faces come through this place so all vie for a look, a handshake or a scrap of a kind word, each one hoping that they’ll be the one chosen to go to a new home.
#
On Tuesday, Zimmer is missing from the class. His handicapped spot closest to the door is empty. Though he’s skinny as a matchstick, he demands a double space the width of two desks to fit Bertha, his wheelchair bitch in. Without him, the atmosphere is noticeably different. There is less levity in the air and no snappy side cracks to keep everyone at ease. Whether or not he knows it, Zimmer is a pivotal player in this twelve-act production; maybe not the lead role, but the guy who keeps the action moving and the audience entertained. He has a knack for filling in the blank spaces with improvised monologue. The other men have come to really appreciate his wry insights.
“Anyone know where Zimmer is at?” I ask. The call down to the officer in the old-timer’s unit turns up a snippy, three-word explanation. ‘In the hospital.’
I know more than I can tell. Zimmer is a decoy of sorts planted voluntarily in the marsh to make the real targets feel comfortable enough to land next to him. He has no domestic violence in his history. Arguments with his long-ago wife never amounted to more than a few short words, but he unwittingly ruined another happy marriage. Somebody else’s wife was plowed under by the wayward steer of Zimmer’s big white Caddy which he was driving while drunk. That car was both his home and a means to a livelihood. His last known residence was in Tent City under the railroad bridge spanning Waltham River. He peddled his produce from the trunk of that beauty; Spice, K2, Meth, and Puppy Chow, fatal drugs with flirty names that caught the eye of high-schoolers; but Zimmer had a conscience. His own son was barely twenty years old and was now running loose with no home-sweet-home since his ex-wife’s house had literally gone up in smoke during a five-alarm insurance scam. But the true tragedy, the gut-ripping heartbreak that placed this whole man’s spirit in lockdown, was the chapter that he edited out of his daily monologue. He had a freight train-sized load of guilt over his daughter who in his prolonged absence was taken in as ward of the State and then committed to the Merrimack Institute. Desperate to be with her boyfriend, she leapt from a third-story window and suffered severe head injuries as a result. For the past two years, Juliana had existed in the nebulous world of brain injury, unable to speak or walk or move except two fingers on one hand. Up until his motor vehicle accident, her father, Ezra Zimmer, had been her unflagging advocate and nightly bedside companion. Whether drunk or sober, arriving as a hitch-hiker or pedestrian, he never missed a single day. Her mother was unaccounted for, her boyfriend had bailed and fair-weather friends had moved on but Zimmer stayed. In a tragic turn of events, this horrific catastrophe had finally defined his purpose on this planet. He knew without a doubt that he was meant to be the caregiver to his only daughter. But then he fucked up and went weaving down the roadway going too fast. He missed the intersection. Frustrated at his oversight, Zimmer navigated a wobbly U-turn, adjusted the wheel recklessly and gunned the accelerator. Next thing he knew he found himself strapped upside down in his seat gaping at a wall of crushed metal. On the far side of the twisted hood was a knotted red and black chassis with unhinged doors and shredded rubber all braided together into a deathtrap. The rest was a blur of ambulances, police and then jail. He didn’t know until day afterwards that there had been a woman trapped inside.
When her father ceased to come, Juliana Zimmer languished in her routine. She stopped eating, cooperating, and responding. It was clear she was holding out for him. Zimmer thought of every calculated move he could make to get his sentence reduced or commuted. He even considered jumping out one of the windows to join her, but being that he was housed in a maximum security prison, that plan had been thwarted from the building’s conception. He tried to get his sentence modified and his parole date moved up, but nothing doing. He requested a hardship transfer closer to the location of her rehab center. Negative. His latest scheme was the disability scam he had concocted to earn him a settlement pay out from the State, which he would then use to leverage a court-ordered early release. Time would tell, but time was running out. In another eight years, a reunion between father and daughter was highly unlikely. One or both of them would be dead.
After class, I walk to the sour-smelling hospital wing and find Zimmer corralled in a large holding pen waiting on his name to be read from the sick call roster. His injury is a hoax, but his pain is real enough. His liver is pickled, blanched white and rubbery like the texture of firm tofu from two pints of straight Majorska a day. His endocrine system is giving out. Zimmer looks jaundiced. A yellowish hue has overtaken his dry skin, mellowing the sharp contrast of flashing dark eyes and his baby-pale epidermis. He is tired, not from age but the un-ending string of escape plans that plays out in his head. He doesn’t mind coming back to prison, once his daughter is better and he has found an apartment where he can have a hospital bed set up and has sufficient capital to pay for twenty-four hour care. That’s what he was in the business of doing when everything fell apart. His pug, Cricket, has been displaced from her royal purple princess bed with plush velvet padding. He’s afraid the other dead-beats under the train trestle have stolen the little mutt’s diamond-studded collar and hawked her bling for booze. No one knows about the unauthorized call I had placed to the chronic care floor at his daughter’s rehab hospital. What a sweet sight it was to witness this broken-down man humming nursery-rhymes into the receiver, and joy of all joys! just before we had to hang up, seeing his face when the nurse told him that Juliana’s index and pointer fingers had twitched to life at the sound of his scratchy lullabies.
I wait with Zimmer until the disgruntled nurse shouts out his number. He has to keep up the artifice, the faux limp and excruciating discomfort. This is just a required check-in to keep his grievance at the forefront of the litigation pile.
“I hope you find a way to be with your daughter,” I say as the nurse repeats his name in a pissed-off curtain call.
“Thank you, dear,” he says to me. His hands wobble on the rubber wheels as he starts to roll in her direction.
“You got my martini ready, hon?” he replies. The battle-axe gives him a stink-eye glance as he glides over the threshold into the dirty exam room.
#
Ten more minutes to recall. I sense the group is drifting today. Perhaps it’s because of the brilliant sun and shimmering sky that teases through the panes. Twenty-three hours of confinement is bad enough, but there’s always the possibility that that one precious hour of recreation could be yanked away for any number of reasons such as a staff shortage, rainy weather, icy walkways, lock-downs or just because. When that happens, the twenty-fourth hour is spent circulating around the perimeter of the windowless gym with numbing headphones on, imagining the bustling breeze that is winnowing the acorn hulls from leaves deadened by drought. I decide to wind things up a few minutes early and allow them to enjoy the fresh scent of cut field grass and sweet corn fodder that’s come streaking in the windows.
Suddenly our shared calm is shattered by sounds of distress. A woman is shrieking. My gut goes instantly cold.
“Go, go. All of you can go!” I yell. I flush them out ahead of me forsaking my duty to secure those under my charge. If there is any error to my alarm, it is on behalf of the unidentified victim who is screaming in terror. I rush blindly forward with my ears wide open to her alarm.
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop!” she screams repeatedly, her voice shrill with panic. The terrifying cries come from a classroom on the opposite side of the hall. The teacher in there is a petty middle-aged woman who, despite being unpredictably bitchy, has a big heart for these guys. I am the first staff member on the scene. Several inmates are milling about in the doorway staring at whatever grisly scene is playing out in the room. I push past the big bodies that block the door and they give way under my frantic hands. Mrs. Frank is still standing, red in the face, shaken and hoarse but apparently unhurt.
“I should have called a code, shouldn’t I? I’m not doing the right thing. I was just trying to get them to stop!” she wails.
An inert inmate is face down on the floor with his arms at right angles to his body. Papers are scattered around and underneath him. Large splotches of blood have dripped all over the hand-outs and the folder that neatly contained them before this whirlwind blew in and upset everything. One desk is overturned and other nearby ones have been kicked out of the way. My first instinct is to run to the fallen man who is dazed and rolling side to side trying to get his bearings. Apparently he was knocked out cold either by a hit to the temple or the fall. A deep gash below his eyebrow is pumping blood down his cheek.
“Stay Down! Stay down!” I tell him. A small utility sink and a dispenser of paper towels are at the back of the classroom. I grab a handful, run them quick under the faucet and force them into his hand.
“Put pressure on it. You’ve got a good wound there,” I urge him. The injured inmate continues to try and sit up, despite the fact that there are several officers and teaching personnel now on the scene encouraging him to lie flat. They tell him medical is on the way, but no one comes closer than a healthy ten foot distance away. I keep putting the batch of towels back in his hand and lifting his arm up towards his face. He finally responds by dabbing at the laceration and wincing.
“Thank you, Miss!” he mumbles, bewildered. After the medical team arrives and kneels down to assess the damage, I turn and focus my attention on the harried teacher.
“Are you alright?” I ask. My nerves are pulsing wildly.
“Yes. Just scared to death,” Mrs. Frank answers. While all hazardous duty staff is well trained to anticipate fights, it is still terrifying to be on the front line when brutality erupts. We walk on tiptoe with our steel-toe boots knotted tight and sharpened pencils clenched in our fists. Always ready but never prepared.
“Who did this?” I ask.
“It was Pisano, the newest school worker. He completely flipped out,” she blabbers. No, not Tommy. He’s done so well. My compassion goes out to the rattled woman in her petite lemon-colored blazer and black pumps. Her knotted hands are shaking and perspiration has dampened her fringe of bangs. She looks like someone's grandmother. This is not a place for ladies.
“Out of the blue, you mean?” I ask. It’s not beyond Tommy to do such a thing, but the new man that has been on display for the past few weeks seems genuine.
“Well, after I fired him and told him to leave my room immediately,” Mrs. Frank adds.
“What did he do? Or not do?”
“He was in here putting the audio-visual cart back in the closet and all of a sudden he blurts out. ‘Hey, did you see who won The Voice?’ I’m shaking my head and put my hand up to stop him from spilling the ending. And just as I’m telling him to keep quiet and not spoil things, he announces the name just like that. Like it’s no big deal. And I say, ‘Are you serious? I’ve been waiting an entire season for this finale. It’s all recorded just waiting for Friday night when I can sit down to watch it. Can you believe it? This idiot just blurts it out. So I ripped him a new one and kicked him out.”
I want to slap her, standing there all self-righteousness with her foul-mouth flapping and a man’s future riding on her small-mindedness. A goddamn television show. Are you kidding me? The shallow bitch should be the one groveling on the gritty tiles. Did I say that out loud, I wonder?
“So he didn’t really do anything serious then, you’re saying. Nothing that would warrant a termination from his job,” I state.
She looks at me dumbfounded. I see the territorial lines being drawn like the heavy window treatments that hang from thick rods and are yanked by ropes over the wall of glass to close out sunlight and winter cold. It’s teacher against counselor and I’m on her turf now.
“I dunno about that,” she says. “It’s damn serious business to me. Besides, I gave him a direct order and he disobeyed it.”
“Mr. Pisano can't take a lot of over-stimulation like excessive noise or someone shouting at him. It’s a known fact. You can’t bombard his senses all at once. You have to come at him slowly and patiently.” She scowls her disapproval, turns her back on me and begins to straighten up the disheveled piles of paper.
“I don't have time to pussy-foot with these guys. This isn't summer camp, you know?” she snips. Not a thank you for the heroic hustle to ward off an attack and spare her post-menopausal skin.
“I still don’t understand, though. You and Tommy Pisano had a beef. How did this gentleman got involved?” I ask.
“My peer mentors were still in the room cleaning up when this exchange happened. Mr. Eaton here, he said something to Mr. Pisano about being crazy like, ‘All your chairs ain’t pushed up to the table’. And Pisano punched him twice in the head so hard it took him off his feet and he fell onto the desk. He was ready to stomp his head to pieces if the others hadn’t pulled him off. Before I could call anybody, he ran off down the hall.”
I want to doubt her. After all, there is no evidence to prove anything and no suspect; but I don't need eyewitnesses to confirm his guilt. Tommy has been demanding for weeks that he be moved back up to a Level 4 facility where he can be housed alone, not surrounded by a dormitory full of douche bags. What else is a feeble-minded, enraged simpleton supposed to do when the world gangs up and hands you a bogus deal? Pisano has two speeds: on and more on. Mr. Pisano’s outbursts are predictable and ironically endearing much like a naughty child that needs to be hugged and spanked at the same time. He simply wasn’t organically equipped to live in close quarters with his fellow human beings.
Sadly, Pisano has just gotten his wish. If the system wouldn’t listen to his cries for help, then he’d help himself up out of here the best way he knew how. The dead silence awaiting him in the solitary lock-up will suit him just fine. People were the problem, people like this dim-witted shrew that didn’t have the smarts or the interest to try and understand his limitations and chose to come at him like he was some primitive brute to be chained and humiliated. People like her were half the reason that this man would eventually blast off and bludgeon someone. I accept the fact that prison is the only outcome for someone like Pisano who does not have the skills to live outside the walls for long. If he does leave, it is only a matter of time before he’s back in Admitting & Processing bagging up his empty wallet and shoe strings and heading to the showers again.
#
Later, I sit at my desk and try to define the measure of sadness that seems to have seeped in to my being. People keep leaving my life without those vital words of closure, no final I wish-you-wells. Pisano is just one more name on the list of people I have vested myself in that will drop off into oblivion. Columbus screwed up somewhere. The world must be flat because one step out over my horizon and they are completely gone. There is no coming back. It’s a persistent feeling with me, this longing for the missing. It started way back when young Lissa Braum abruptly departed while I slept, leaving me to befriend her imposter. Though we’d learned to get comfortable with one another over time, neither one of us trusted the other.
“What’s wrong with you?”
James steps into to the small office. His head almost brushes the bottom of the mounted wall fan that’s gyrating on loose screws and blowing hot air down his back. He has not given up on trying to maximize the friend definition, redefining and stretching it to get the most mileage out of our relationship as he possibly can. We’ve seen each other a few more time since the evening I repaid his favor with a healthy round of kisses. It’s been safe things like taking a walk on a dusky park trail and coffee in a late afternoon café, benign activities that sidestep the slippery slope of commitment.
“I’m okay,” I reply solemnly.
“Heard about the fight down at the school,” he says. “I’m not surprised you were the first to lend aid to the other guy. Being the kind hug-a-thug that you are.”
I look up from my keyboard and smile. No matter how hard he tries to convert me to his agnostic ways, I will remain my convicted self.
“You’re telling me you wouldn’t help a person who is down and injured? Isn’t that a normal reaction we all should have?” I ask him.
“Not if it was an inmate. And certainly not without gloves on. You should have had yours with you, Elise. You could catch a host of diseases doing that. I worry about you, you know that. I hope you washed up well and sanitized your hands.”
“I promise to be careful. When a crisis hits, my mind just jumps into auto-pilot. Instincts take over, you know what I mean? I can’t help it,” I confess.
James crosses the few feet between the doorway and my desk. A tall bookcase filled with curriculum manuals hugs the corner wall by the bulky air conditioner that leaks air out in the summer and in during the winter. There is little room to maneuver in this tight space that already holds two desks, two chairs, two printers, a pair of waste baskets and boxes for shredding. Add in the solitary scanner and it’s pretty apparent that this spot was not designed for social calls from a six-foot two-inch friend.
“I wouldn’t want you to be any other way. Your sweetness came as a complete surprise to skeptical me. I have come to believe that like you, reality can be surprisingly beautiful.”
A flush radiates down the sides and front of my neck. My scalp prickles with heat. An ill-defined longing creates an ache in my core. James reads something in my hesitancy to respond and places his warm hand on my wrist.
“What’s wrong, Elise?” he asks with concern. I shake my head as tears well into view. The sight of blood, the shrieks for help and the pitiful treatment of human beings one to another is all too much. People say this prison has a unique darkness. Even when the sun is out and flooding the nearby fields, it shines differently on this place, as if the walls suck in all the vitamin sunshine and reflect only a yawning weariness. Souls have departed here; not just the sick and elderly prisoners who perish waiting for parole or a pardon, but others who have sat in the hot seat or had hell’s potion injected into their bloodstream. A sense of anguish and gloom is ever present. The sucking need and the overload of negative gravity that can break men down. The weightiness of it all is just too much at this moment.
“Hey, how about tonight?” he asks. “Can I come be with you?”
“What did you decide at home?” I whisper. My voice is feeble and hoarse.
“I work a double today. I’ll swing by after second shift and you can tell me what is bothering you. Okay?”
I nod ever so slightly without looking him directly in the eyes. My brain is trying to overrule a heart gone haywire, but it is still feeble in its formation of systematic stop-gaps. A trembling ripples out from the center like a seismic quake moving old plates of soil and a layered past, building in intensity as it moves away from the original schism that parted my soul into two disjointed fragments – the before and after me.