I see you standing there...
I saw you walking towards Betty and me when we pulled up.
Just standing there, waiting. waiting for me to get out of my car....
You don't look friendly. I don't think you want to chat about the weather, the current situation with the taliban in Pakistan, or the craigslist murderer.... let alone welcome me to the neighborhood. I feel like you want to give me a piece of your fat little mind.
As you waddle up to the curb, I try to decide if I'm going to say what I want to say, or if I'll be nice. I pretend to not see you, but I see you.... You and your gaudy golden jewelry, horrible flowery outfit, flowing... stupid.... shirt, and fat woman pants. You're wearing far too much makeup, and it's not helping. You're not 18 anymore, though you seem to be trying to appear that way... and as soon as you open your mouth, I realize that you have certainly not matured past that numeric age. Well, your mind hasn't, but, much to your dismay - and against your best efforts, your body has. Now, no, you're not old, not by any stretch. you're just not young... and you need to act your age.
"Um, are you staying here permanently, or just temporarily?"
AAHHHHHHHHH! I knew it.... this friggin' pageant mom is going to pull squatters on the street parking.
"Excuse me?" I say, trying to hide my fury. (Betty begs, "Unleash the fury, Mitch... i mean, Chris")
Actually, it was the air-ride equalling out after i stepped out of the car. If I had looked at the dash a green light would have been on, stating that the "Car is Leveling." From the outside, it sounds like a growl. and, it was, in my mind, Betty demonstrating her displeasure at the Jaba-the-Hut impersonator inconveniencing us.
"Well, do you live here, or are you just visiting?" She tried to clarify.
"Oh, I'm living right there across the street." I say, pointing at the big, old house, directly across the city street. It's a pretty house, a sage green, huge...over 4000 square feet. The guy I'm renting from now is fixing it up inside and out. It seems that many of the people on the street have done the same. It's a nice neighborhood. It's sort of analogous to a neighborhood in uptown minneapolis, for those familiar. and, maybe some SE hood in Portland. There are nice, big old homes, sidewalks, and wide streets. These streets are where everyone parks their cars, as the homes don't have driveways. It's not metered, or signed with "2 hour parking" or anything of that nature. It's welcoming, sign free, and fee free.
Like I said, it's a nice hood, except for this one troll.
"Well, see, I'm a homeowner... (good for you, turd) and I live right there" as she points to the house nearest Betty from which she emerged, "aahhhhh, I like to have this place to park, because well, you know, ah, i get groceries... and it's, ah, easier to carry them from here."
I look up, down, and across the street... there are spots EVERYWHERE within a spitting distance. The only reason I parked right HERE is that i was traveling this direction down the street as I returned from work, and it was the closest open spot, without turning around, to my place.
While I stare in amazement, she continues, "and I have an 18 year old daughter, and she gets home at night, and, ah, it's easier for her to park right here..." (I'm sorry your adult daughter is either mentally or physically impaired so terribly that she cannot park anywhere but directly in front of your house at night) "It's just easier for her."
Yea, like it was easier for me to park there.
"So, could you move?"
I'm fuming. The audacity of this lady! Who made you Sultan of the street? It's one thing if it's suburbia, where driveways abound, and there's only the occasional car on the street... then i can understand someone's request to not park in front of their place. but HERE? this is a city street, where the only place to park IS the street. it's fair game, Jaba.
I contain my anger. This is a silly, nothing, of an incident. It's nothing to get upset about. So, I act cordial, neighborly, and say, "Of course, no problem."
Furious... but you'd never know it.
Except for the guy who happened to be walking his dog up the street as I was getting a lecture on how and where to park. He heard the whole thing, and as I unlocked Betty and was about to hop back in I turn and make eye contact with him...
I give him this look as i roll my eyes and raise my brow....
he laughs, shrugs and says "What are ya gunna do?"
It made me feel better; at least he too thought this woman was out of line in her request.
I figure, I relented once, that's good enough. If it's easier for me to park there from now on, I will. Her only reasoning was that she 'gets groceries' and she's got a parking challenged daughter. I figure, her grand prix daughter has to learn sometime, and this woman couldn't possibly be getting groceries every day...
or wait... nevermind.
regardless, I'm still parking there. now, it's just out of spite.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Incorrect in the Correction Center
After one week of working in a prison, I have yet to be stabbed.
This is a good thing.
In fact, I haven't even felt the slightest bit threatened... dare I say that most of the guys there have been polite, compliant, pleasant, and even friendly. It's strange. This shouldn't be.
The tattoos on your arms, in old English text, spanning from near the elbow, to the wrist "Hard" on the right, and "Time" on the left.... well, they seem less legitimate with all the yes sirs, no sirs, and the inability to read, properly take your medicine, and complete any task without absolute permission.
It's as if you've resigned yourself to being a felon for your entire life.
It's a cop-out, for lack of a better term. My tenth grade English teacher would kill me right now. "Don't use these trite sayings! Say what you mean!" Well, I mean that it's a cop-out.... it's a cowards way out. It's this guy's way out; his excuse. If he has these tattoos, then he has to be a criminal. He's accepted it, embraced it... used the tattoos to make it official. He can say, "well, people won't hire me, cuz of my tattoos.... they won't hire me because i did time." but really, it's because he's mentally handicapped, and self admittedly, lazy. He doesn't want to work, he doesn't want to learn, he doesn't want to better himself, he doesn't want to have to try..... so he'll get these tattoos that preclude him having to live a legitimate life. He can just do his time, get out, then go back to molesting little children.
way to go.
this guy was pleasant, polite... albeit, very slow. and he was the face of a child molester; a rapist. a 5th grade education, if that.... so he decided to find a child of equal arithmetic age, and raped them.... not one, but many.
he should never get out.
should he even get health care? why should he? i found myself thinking this.
there are countless people in the US who obey every single law; who are GOOD people, hard working, honest and moral.... and they do not get any health care. so, why should we give this "man" care; antibiotics, CT's, MRI's and cancer treatments even, when on the outside, he had none. He broke the law, and the cost is your freedom, yes, but your reward is good, free, healthcare?!?!
why shouldn't he get exactly what he had when he was on the outside? nothing. nothing but being able to go to an ER, for an actual emergency..... by the same tenet, someone with reasonably good healthcare on the outside, well, maybe they should get the same on the inside.
I'm all about being fair.
and fair, well, I got a good dose of fair today after i saw a man with metastatic prostate cancer, after already having his prostate removed, and the cancer was still there. his only chance for a cure was radiation.... though it was unlikely to save him. i felt sorry for him, at first, for he seemed a nice, intelligent man. again, 'why are you here?' i thought....
well, the unfair of prostate cancer, and certain demise, turned into fair when i found out he, on a weekly basis, molested his own granddaughter starting at age 4.
i didn't feel bad for him anymore.
there are mistakes which we all make, and ought be forgiven. I'm the first to say, i've made more than a few.... but there's a mistake, a lesson, and a fix... ideally. and then there's a pattern - a sickness, a disease... an evil. and it's one thing to lie to your friend about one thing or another, getting yourself into a pickle, then having to own up to it, and begging for forgiveness... and it's in a whole other league to do what these men have done.... repeatedly.
a weekly basis, for years... i read the transcripts... it was like something out of a horrible movie, exactly like you'd imagine. I couldn't believe it was real.
then, the horrible flashback, during the interview, prior to my knowledge that he molested his own family member.... he had said that it was just his other granddaughter's birthday recently, and he had bought her a stethoscope.
i'll just let you feel in the bottom of you belly what I felt in mine when this information slapped me in the face.
the audacity of this guy! did he intentionally do that? do it to rub it in the faces of the parents? i have no idea.
anyway, I hope I don't get too embittered by this place and it's people. The good news is, the folks I work with all seem to be quite nice, and friendly..... and i doubt they have as dark of secrets as the captive tenants of this prison do.
it's funny, as I walk out of the place, there's a big sign that says 'Airway Heights Correctional Center'.
Correctional Center.
What exactly are we correcting? I don't think we'll ever correct the wrongs that have been forced upon the victims of these men. And I don't think we'll ever correct many of the men themselves, like the stethoscope grandpa. I guess the term correction could only apply to their health, their physical health, not mental health. In my mind, that's the only thing we've got a shot at correcting.
So, that is what I will do.
that's the only correct thing in this incorrection center.
This is a good thing.
In fact, I haven't even felt the slightest bit threatened... dare I say that most of the guys there have been polite, compliant, pleasant, and even friendly. It's strange. This shouldn't be.
The tattoos on your arms, in old English text, spanning from near the elbow, to the wrist "Hard" on the right, and "Time" on the left.... well, they seem less legitimate with all the yes sirs, no sirs, and the inability to read, properly take your medicine, and complete any task without absolute permission.
It's as if you've resigned yourself to being a felon for your entire life.
It's a cop-out, for lack of a better term. My tenth grade English teacher would kill me right now. "Don't use these trite sayings! Say what you mean!" Well, I mean that it's a cop-out.... it's a cowards way out. It's this guy's way out; his excuse. If he has these tattoos, then he has to be a criminal. He's accepted it, embraced it... used the tattoos to make it official. He can say, "well, people won't hire me, cuz of my tattoos.... they won't hire me because i did time." but really, it's because he's mentally handicapped, and self admittedly, lazy. He doesn't want to work, he doesn't want to learn, he doesn't want to better himself, he doesn't want to have to try..... so he'll get these tattoos that preclude him having to live a legitimate life. He can just do his time, get out, then go back to molesting little children.
way to go.
this guy was pleasant, polite... albeit, very slow. and he was the face of a child molester; a rapist. a 5th grade education, if that.... so he decided to find a child of equal arithmetic age, and raped them.... not one, but many.
he should never get out.
should he even get health care? why should he? i found myself thinking this.
there are countless people in the US who obey every single law; who are GOOD people, hard working, honest and moral.... and they do not get any health care. so, why should we give this "man" care; antibiotics, CT's, MRI's and cancer treatments even, when on the outside, he had none. He broke the law, and the cost is your freedom, yes, but your reward is good, free, healthcare?!?!
why shouldn't he get exactly what he had when he was on the outside? nothing. nothing but being able to go to an ER, for an actual emergency..... by the same tenet, someone with reasonably good healthcare on the outside, well, maybe they should get the same on the inside.
I'm all about being fair.
and fair, well, I got a good dose of fair today after i saw a man with metastatic prostate cancer, after already having his prostate removed, and the cancer was still there. his only chance for a cure was radiation.... though it was unlikely to save him. i felt sorry for him, at first, for he seemed a nice, intelligent man. again, 'why are you here?' i thought....
well, the unfair of prostate cancer, and certain demise, turned into fair when i found out he, on a weekly basis, molested his own granddaughter starting at age 4.
i didn't feel bad for him anymore.
there are mistakes which we all make, and ought be forgiven. I'm the first to say, i've made more than a few.... but there's a mistake, a lesson, and a fix... ideally. and then there's a pattern - a sickness, a disease... an evil. and it's one thing to lie to your friend about one thing or another, getting yourself into a pickle, then having to own up to it, and begging for forgiveness... and it's in a whole other league to do what these men have done.... repeatedly.
a weekly basis, for years... i read the transcripts... it was like something out of a horrible movie, exactly like you'd imagine. I couldn't believe it was real.
then, the horrible flashback, during the interview, prior to my knowledge that he molested his own family member.... he had said that it was just his other granddaughter's birthday recently, and he had bought her a stethoscope.
i'll just let you feel in the bottom of you belly what I felt in mine when this information slapped me in the face.
the audacity of this guy! did he intentionally do that? do it to rub it in the faces of the parents? i have no idea.
anyway, I hope I don't get too embittered by this place and it's people. The good news is, the folks I work with all seem to be quite nice, and friendly..... and i doubt they have as dark of secrets as the captive tenants of this prison do.
it's funny, as I walk out of the place, there's a big sign that says 'Airway Heights Correctional Center'.
Correctional Center.
What exactly are we correcting? I don't think we'll ever correct the wrongs that have been forced upon the victims of these men. And I don't think we'll ever correct many of the men themselves, like the stethoscope grandpa. I guess the term correction could only apply to their health, their physical health, not mental health. In my mind, that's the only thing we've got a shot at correcting.
So, that is what I will do.
that's the only correct thing in this incorrection center.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The Red Line of Separation
This place is barren. It's difficult to believe this is Oregon... or am I in Washington now? Not sure... did I cross the river? There is a river around here, I think....
If it were to pop up in the not so distant landscape, it would seem out of place, as the land I'm being subjected to seems a sort of pock-marked desert... or a dried up, dying prairie, complete with tumbleweed and all. The undeniable proof is the rather sizeable spherical tangle of thorny, brown, dead mess of once live plant that is firmly lodged in the exact center of Betty's grill.
It is ugly and prickly, though somewhat comical looking, as it flicks violently in the wind while Betty is traveling 75 miles per hour down the empty road. I wait for it to fling off with one of the great gusts of wind that push Betty from side to side; but it doesn't budge.
It reminds me of Christmas time, when you pass by a trucker on the road who has plastered a fresh wreath on the grill of his rig... except, mine is a much less heart-warming sight.... not one of hope, happiness, and cheer; bringing memories of childhood presents, early morning stockings... and the smell of a fresh, real, Christmas tree and a snapping fire. Nope... this is more like the dead, decrepit skeleton of a plant that was never held in such high esteem as a wreath, or a Christmas tree. In fact, I'm not even sure what kind of plant it is anyway....or was. It's really only known as a tumbleweed... and that's when it's DEAD. I don't think that you can call it tumbleweed when its roots are firmly wormed into the soil. It only earns its name once it has lost its fight for survival in this desolate place. It only becomes known after it ceases to know life.
This place is ugly.
I imagine only being known, or recognized as something, after my demise....
As the next rush of wind attempts to thrust Betty into the ditch, I cheer... "Yes! C'mon... go... GO!" as the tumbleweed begins to shake violently. I steady the wheel, keeping my eyes focused on the ball of thorns that is stuck on my poor girl. It is jostled more as the wind continues to bluster. It swiftly, and very rapidly, slides to the right with a gust that nearly pushes Betty to the rumble strips.... A small piece of the weed flies directly at me. In a flash, it has rocketed over the windshield, and is consumed by the brown, dusty expanse behind me. The remaining scraps wave wildly from Betty's war wound on the front right quarter panel... this, a run in with a Hyundai, for those of you unaware.
This shrapnel does not shake free. I eventually pull over and free the bramble from my poor girl, stabbing myself in the process.... The price I pay for Betty.... I stick up for my girls. The tumbleweed is just a mess of thorns; it's horrible, and not what I expected.
It's nothing like a wreath.
I like Christmas much better.
I continue on, and eventually make it to my destination, which is no less desolate than the land I just traversed; Prison.
I stayed in a hotel that night where I rested my aching body on a surprisingly comfortable bed, and drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, I made my way to the prison, which I would call home for the next 6 weeks… do my time, so to speak. It’s a short stretch, I know…. But I guess afterwards I’ll be able to say that I did time. Though, I’m pretty sure that’s a bad thing…. It’s funny though, at least I think.
And, chicks dig bad boys…. or so I’m told.
So, I made my way through the front gate, parked in the visitor parking lot, and proceeded towards the main entrance, and the mess of razor wire covering the 25 or 30 foot fence. It was not inviting, though shiny it was as the sun glinted off the thousands of its perilous surfaces.
I made it through security, reminiscent of the airport, which I loathe.
It was a strange experience, walking past “offenders” as they’re called. I walked through “the yard” where inmates were dressed in khaki jumpsuits, milling around, enjoying the sunny day that so contrasted the lack of light in this place.
I was buzzed-in to the ‘infirmary,’ noting the strangeness of the name that equaled the strangeness of this place. I haven’t been anywhere else that I can remember that called the clinic an ‘infirmary.’ It seemed a terribly rigid word, which I suppose is fitting in this place.
Inside, it seemed a normal clinic, though more sterile, empty, white, and plain. This place was not designed to impress, or soothe the ailing clientele; it was designed for safety. You might not have realized you were in a prison if you had been dropped in this place, not until you saw a few of the clues, like all the superfluous locks, and bars covering the in house pharmacy.
The tour lasted just a few minutes, and then, I was lead out to freedom. It would not be so easy for most of the others who inhabited the place I just buzzed through, as if it were a field trip.
As I left this alternate world, a red line on the floor said “Offenders: Do not cross.”
This did not apply to me.
This line separated the free from the imprisoned. Of course, there was still the triple set of doors, which locked and unlocked separately to allow passage of the free through the core of the prison, to the outside world.
After escaping from Airway Heights Correctional Center, the pocked marked desert of a landscape on the drive home seemed a much less ugly place…. even the tumbleweed.
If it were to pop up in the not so distant landscape, it would seem out of place, as the land I'm being subjected to seems a sort of pock-marked desert... or a dried up, dying prairie, complete with tumbleweed and all. The undeniable proof is the rather sizeable spherical tangle of thorny, brown, dead mess of once live plant that is firmly lodged in the exact center of Betty's grill.
It is ugly and prickly, though somewhat comical looking, as it flicks violently in the wind while Betty is traveling 75 miles per hour down the empty road. I wait for it to fling off with one of the great gusts of wind that push Betty from side to side; but it doesn't budge.
It reminds me of Christmas time, when you pass by a trucker on the road who has plastered a fresh wreath on the grill of his rig... except, mine is a much less heart-warming sight.... not one of hope, happiness, and cheer; bringing memories of childhood presents, early morning stockings... and the smell of a fresh, real, Christmas tree and a snapping fire. Nope... this is more like the dead, decrepit skeleton of a plant that was never held in such high esteem as a wreath, or a Christmas tree. In fact, I'm not even sure what kind of plant it is anyway....or was. It's really only known as a tumbleweed... and that's when it's DEAD. I don't think that you can call it tumbleweed when its roots are firmly wormed into the soil. It only earns its name once it has lost its fight for survival in this desolate place. It only becomes known after it ceases to know life.
This place is ugly.
I imagine only being known, or recognized as something, after my demise....
As the next rush of wind attempts to thrust Betty into the ditch, I cheer... "Yes! C'mon... go... GO!" as the tumbleweed begins to shake violently. I steady the wheel, keeping my eyes focused on the ball of thorns that is stuck on my poor girl. It is jostled more as the wind continues to bluster. It swiftly, and very rapidly, slides to the right with a gust that nearly pushes Betty to the rumble strips.... A small piece of the weed flies directly at me. In a flash, it has rocketed over the windshield, and is consumed by the brown, dusty expanse behind me. The remaining scraps wave wildly from Betty's war wound on the front right quarter panel... this, a run in with a Hyundai, for those of you unaware.
This shrapnel does not shake free. I eventually pull over and free the bramble from my poor girl, stabbing myself in the process.... The price I pay for Betty.... I stick up for my girls. The tumbleweed is just a mess of thorns; it's horrible, and not what I expected.
It's nothing like a wreath.
I like Christmas much better.
I continue on, and eventually make it to my destination, which is no less desolate than the land I just traversed; Prison.
I stayed in a hotel that night where I rested my aching body on a surprisingly comfortable bed, and drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, I made my way to the prison, which I would call home for the next 6 weeks… do my time, so to speak. It’s a short stretch, I know…. But I guess afterwards I’ll be able to say that I did time. Though, I’m pretty sure that’s a bad thing…. It’s funny though, at least I think.
And, chicks dig bad boys…. or so I’m told.
So, I made my way through the front gate, parked in the visitor parking lot, and proceeded towards the main entrance, and the mess of razor wire covering the 25 or 30 foot fence. It was not inviting, though shiny it was as the sun glinted off the thousands of its perilous surfaces.
I made it through security, reminiscent of the airport, which I loathe.
It was a strange experience, walking past “offenders” as they’re called. I walked through “the yard” where inmates were dressed in khaki jumpsuits, milling around, enjoying the sunny day that so contrasted the lack of light in this place.
I was buzzed-in to the ‘infirmary,’ noting the strangeness of the name that equaled the strangeness of this place. I haven’t been anywhere else that I can remember that called the clinic an ‘infirmary.’ It seemed a terribly rigid word, which I suppose is fitting in this place.
Inside, it seemed a normal clinic, though more sterile, empty, white, and plain. This place was not designed to impress, or soothe the ailing clientele; it was designed for safety. You might not have realized you were in a prison if you had been dropped in this place, not until you saw a few of the clues, like all the superfluous locks, and bars covering the in house pharmacy.
The tour lasted just a few minutes, and then, I was lead out to freedom. It would not be so easy for most of the others who inhabited the place I just buzzed through, as if it were a field trip.
As I left this alternate world, a red line on the floor said “Offenders: Do not cross.”
This did not apply to me.
This line separated the free from the imprisoned. Of course, there was still the triple set of doors, which locked and unlocked separately to allow passage of the free through the core of the prison, to the outside world.
After escaping from Airway Heights Correctional Center, the pocked marked desert of a landscape on the drive home seemed a much less ugly place…. even the tumbleweed.
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