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.
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