My Kung-Fu Grip

I dremeled a guy's eyeball today.

Well, my computer is telling me by way of a red squiggly underlining, that drememled isn't a word.

So, i used a mini dremel-like tool to buzz away a rust ring on a guy's cornea. To get a good view, I got to use the slit lamp, which is like a specialized microscope; one that looks at eyeballs. During first year, it was the presenter of my most amazing memory.... quite possibly the most amazing thing I've ever seen. And, well, nerdy as it may be.... screw it... it was magical.

They cranked up the magnification so much, that the small blood vessels.... capillaries, in the whites of the volunteer's eye, looked like a red eight lane highway. Down that highway, which was projected on a tv screen in front of me, I saw a single red blood cell squeezing it's way down the capillary.

I couldn't believe it.

I know these things exist, i've seen illustrations, pictures in books from electron microscopes, and bloody wounds... but never anything like this. I don't know how to put it into words. My fellow classmates who were with me at the time, I'm sure can relate, and remember the feeling.... or maybe I'm blowing this way out of proportion... though I don't think so.

It was beautiful.

Circular, red, with a concave sort of center that made it appear as a red Certs mint. It moved with purpose, like a little soldier on a mission. It stretched the capillary as it squeezed it's way through the continually tightening tunnel. It actually contorted and squished, like a water-balloon being squeezed in your eager fist, ready to throw at your friend in the most epic of water-balloon fights.

So, needless to say I was excited when I learned that I could use the slit lamp today... and the burr, mini-dremel, tool.

Wait, you say I need to drill a little hole in this guy's eye? I say, YES.

Twisted? maybe. but, it wouldn't hurt him, as I'd numb his eye... and it would help him feel better. Everything goes off without a hitch, my hand stays steady, as we're dealing with millimeters between success and essentially popping this guy's eye. I didn't pop it.

It was a great day.

I came home to a sunny backyard, where I fired up the grill, and placed my 3 separate kabobs, which I had painstakingly cut, seasoned and skewered while talking to my folks on the phone. They cooked perfectly.... some slight charring on the red peppers and onions... properly roasted garlic, and juicy chicken.... Oh my sweet Jebus, they look so good. I decide to celebrate my mini-victory of a day with a beer to top off my meal.... and what's this? Spicy peanut sauce to dip my kabobs in? why yes, i will put some in a small dipping sauce type bowl....

I stack the mini bowl on the top of my 3 kabobs which lay atop a quite normal circular plate. the Sierra Nevada goes in my right hand... it is my right hand man, after all... This celebration is going upstairs, to watch the twins absolutely destroy the Mariners....

could it get any sweete.... AHO..EEEEE..WHOA!!!!!!!

"Son-of-a!" I say with a thud.

As i look at the mess i've just created, and think of the streak of not falling up the stairs that I had just snapped... I'm so bummed, disappointed and somehow amused. There's more tai peanut sauce on my pant-leg than is left in the mini serving bowl, and possibly even more on the hardwood floor... i realize my left elbow is slightly scraped, as I must have gone down hard... or at least awkwardly, in my partly unsuccessful attempt to save my food and beer from tumbling down the stairs. One kabob is completely laying on the ground in front of my face, which is nearly resting on the floor... I'm face to face with my dinner, on the floor. The first thing I think, as I'm staring at my floor dinner is, "I'm still gunna eat you."

The beer bottle is still upright in the GI-Joe Kung-Fu grip of my right hand, though it's much less full than it used to be, as it's foamed over the brim, and is still running down my hand and creating an ever growing puddle of beer on the landing, which is just one step above the more viscous, albeit less mobile, puddle of tai peanut sauce. "I'm not going to eat you."

"What happened?" I hear Rich say, from the kitchen.

"I fell up the stairs." I reply.

"Did Jacob get in your way?" He flicks back... Jacob's the cat. and, though I wish I could blame this on Jacob, I cannot. As I peeled myself from the newly appointed dinner table, I turn to look down the stairs, and that grey and white Jacob, with his little purple collar, is sitting politely at the bottom of the stairs, just staring at me.

The ONE time cat! the ONE time you don't weave your way between my legs as i walk up the stairs... the ONE TIME! How many times my coffee has nearly spilled on your pristine white coat because of your shenanigans... but this time, nothing? did you cast a spell on me? was this some sort of ju-ju???? what's UP Jacob?

"No, I wish I could blame it on him... Just a good old fashioned tripped over my own foot." I answer back, as i'm picking my dinner up off the floor.

After cleaning up my mess, and eating my dinner, without the slightest hesitation... I think about how if this is the worst thing about my day.... I'm a really lucky schlub.

That being said, I came to a few conclusions today-

Jacob's some kind of Gypsy-cat, and this was his revenge for me not ever letting him in my room.
I'll eat food off the floor, without hesitation... and i'm not ashamed of it.
I still tend to trip up the stairs, rather than down.
and
I'm a really lucky schlub, and I try not to take that for granted.... i mean, how is it that I was so careful and precise today with my patient's eye, but I can wipe out just walking up the stairs? I'll fall up the stairs every day if that's where my clumsiness decides to manifest itself.

It's pronounced "mill-e-wah-que" which is Algonquin for "the good land."

I hate flying.

I'm not afraid of flying; in fact, I like the flying part. At one point in my life, i flew a single engine plane with a couple friends of mine, who were pilots. Now, when I say that i flew the plane, they let me monkey with the pedals and pull up and down on the yoke. It was fun, so were the stalls that we did, as i was weightless for a few seconds at a time.

but that's a whole other story; one of the Apostle Islands, mopeds, cliff jumping and failed relationships. it's a good'en.

unfortunately the most recent flight was on a commercial airline from Spokane to Milwaukee, via Denver...

I hate waiting at the airport. I hate lines. I hate security. I hate the people that just don't get it...

"You're really going to try to shove that bag in the overhead bin? How did they let you bring that monstrosity on the plane?!?!"

and the people who just can't seem to understand how to efficiently put a bag away and sit down. Don't worry, ma'am, about the gigantic line building behind you as you fiddle with your bags and spend unnecessary time in the aisle, doing things that you could do in your seat.

I hate how we're herded into the plane... like bums onto a glorified greyhound bus; one with unbelievably high prices....

"Can I get you something to drink?"

No, no I'm not thirsty, nor are 70% of these people, but for some reason, we take your 6 oz cup of soda, which is mostly ice.

I don't anymore... I just wish someone would slip me a roofie, so i could sleep the flight away. but, as it turns out, I'm not an attractive girl, and this is not a creepy bar... so I'm out of luck.

who gets the armrests? when you're in the middle seat, i think you should get both, and the aisle and window seat should get just the one armrest.... how do we resolve this situation? and how the hell is it possible for you to be kicking my seat so much?!?! what could you possibly be doing back there to cause such a ruckus!?!? we are on the same flight, yeah? what could you possibly need to do that would cause this? i mean, you're not physically flapping your arms to keep us in flight, are you? maybe you're building a fort? or are you telling a story of the great 1906 earthquake of San Francisco, complete with an emphatic reenactment involving my chair.... or maybe you're a little chil--- nope... nope, you're a full grown adult.

HOW are you so oblivious?

finally, make it to milwaukee, hating flying as usual.

my friend andy is waiting for me in the terminal... i'm feeling better already... good to see a familiar face, an old friend. one that i might be working with in the future. He's a PA in the ER where I'll be interviewing tomorrow.

Interview goes well, really well. Got an offer... it's a great deal all around.

I get home, and I decide to take a few days to think it over.

In the end, I decide I'd be stupid not to take it, though it's in Milwaukee WI, not exactly where I want to end up... everything else is ideal. and, milwaukee pleasantly surprised me.

I then, last night, get a call from the surgeon I worked with in CV surgery in Portland. We talk for a few minutes, which was great... I really like this guy. Which is, in part, why I asked him to be a reference for me.

"Chris, I'd be happy to be a reference for you, wherever you decide to apply, but I'd be happier if you tore up your resume, and came to work for us."

crap.

i really loved it there. it's time to make some decisions, and as my oh so favorite president once said, "I'm the decider, and I decide what's best."

Thanks W, I'm going to try and channel your wisdom and decisiveness to make the right call.

I haven't seen the light... like that forced upon you

Today, I met a serial killer.

I think that this is a first for me. Though, I suppose I can't be certain.

I have watched the show 'Dexter' and that guy hides it well. But, he killed baddies, baddies like the guy I met today. The premise of the show is that this man, named Dexter, who works for the police, as a forensic photographer, or something along those lines, is actually a serial killer. He was born with this affliction, which is portrayed as a disease which he cannot control, like the involuntary movements of Parkinson's... or the undeniable urge to move your restless legs, for which the syndrome was aptly named. Though he cannot resist the urge to kill, he's learned to channel his disease to only kill those deserved of death, like the aforementioned serial killer - rapist... who after using up his prey, buried them in shallow, Alabama soil, graves. Left to be consumed by the land. In the show, Dexter has a conscience, has common decency, morals; he's depicted as a vigilante of sorts. A killer of killers.

This man was just a killer.

and today, he had a killer 'migraine.' A migraine that made him declare a medical emergency. This is prison's version of saying "I need to go to the ER." Though, this means that they see us first, and we decide what needs to be done, whether it be treat and street, admit to our inpatient unit, or send to the hospital.

I was warned that this man was "really creepy" and was told of his crimes. Nobody seemed to want to even lay eyes on him, not the provider, not the nurse.... they asked if i'd be comfortable, and i said yea...

I think I had prepared myself to meet Hannibal Lector, or maybe his evil twin.... so, when this short, pudgy, pear shaped man came hobbling into the medical unit.... I was surprised. His salt and pepper hair, transitions lenses, khaki jumpsuit and clean white New Balance's made him all the less intimidating. The lenses were still somewhat shaded as he had just entered from the sunny outdoors which contrasted the darkness that still surrounded this man... at least, in my perception.... this shaped after hearing stories of his crimes, and witnessing the staff's reaction when they knew he was outside, just waiting.

I led him into the trauma room, which was unnecessary, but, my preceptor didn't want him back in her office, because she was so put off by him.... and she's no fragile lotus blossom.

I had him take a seat in the chair where 'Kevin', one of the nurses had told me, before I called the killer in, "The chair's for him, the stool's for you," this, as if it was of prime importance I sit on the stool and Hannibal on the chair. It was so very planned, deliberate... careful..... as if I allowed the criminal to sit in the stool, he may be able to pry off a piece of metal from the old stool, hold me hostage, or use it to jimmy open the locks to free himself and go back to his murderous ways.

it was strange.

He sat in his assigned seat as instructed by me.

I reached out my hand to shake his as I sat down.... "Hey, my name is Chris. I'm a PA student working with 'Billy Jean' today... I hear you have a roaring headache...." I say as I shake the same hand that ended more than a few lives, and subsequently piled the earth upon their vacant bodies.

I got no chills... no creepy feelings or fear. It was just strange. Strange as I tried to picture this very non-threatening 50-something man raping, killing, and repeating. It was amazing to me that he could do these things, and still sit across from me, and complain of his headache... that he could rape and kill, not just once, but many times, and then sit feet away from me, and simply complain of his headache, then knees, then vision, then back, then neck..... as if he carried no weight, responsibility or guilt for what he had done. It seems to me that one should be tormented by the things that they've done, such things as these.... and they should be unable to function normally.

How could he go on with his life normally? He should be tormented by the things he's done... by the ghosts of those who's lives he's ruined. Instead, he's tormented by chronic pain; pain not limited only to his migraines.

It's just occurred to me now, that maybe this chronic pain, maybe these ailments are the haunting of the stolen souls. maybe this is their retribution, and his penance. Who knows....

In any case, I didn't feel bad when after learning that he had significant photophobia, i still needed to complete a cranial nerve exam, which includes flashing a light in his eyes to check pupillary reaction. Now, I didn't do this simply to cause him pain... I would have had to do it with anyone with this same complaint of a migraine.... but, with other folks, i may have felt bad. with him.... not so much.

After the first flash of light in his left eye, I see constriction and right pupillary accommodation... I go to the right side, and see the same.... exam done... or, it could have been done. I rechecked my work on more time, just to be sure.

"Sorry, I know that bothers you."

I sort of am sorry, somehow... still not entirely sure how. I think if i knew his crimes in detail... knew those affected by his actions... i wouldn't be sorry.... not in the least. but, without this knowledge, and the time or desire to imagine his evil deeds in great detail, I can't bring myself to hate him.

though, i am miles away from pitying him, empathizing with him, or caring whether or not he's in pain.

I guess, even though I made him see the light, he still hasn't seen the light.... neither have I.

The Sultan of 9th Avenue

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.

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.

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.

Profiteering, Betty as a Tank, and The Red Ring of Death

It all began with a hunger.

Not for knowledge or power, but for something more simple, more primal; a burrito.

It was more than a year ago, after a long night of studying some minute intricacy of the human body when the hunger began. With a pang, the burning started inside my gut.... Time to leave.

As I gathered up my things, and told my classmates I was done for the night, I took inventory of what I had in my cupboards and fridge... the report was grim. Unless I wanted to eat some plain noodles, sans sauce, butter or parmesan, well, I was up the creek.

I looked at my watch, 9:00.

"Oooooooooooo," I thought as I had flashbacks of 'word problems' from 6th grade, 'If a hungry student leaves his school at 9:00 PM, traveling at an average of 35 miles per hour, and needs to close a distance of 6 miles... how much time will he have left to grocery shop before Trader Joes closes at 10:00?'

The math nearly makes me gag.... though there was always something quite nerdly satisfying about working it out, and getting the answer right. But this time, I didn't take a moment to carry the one, or even round to the nearest decimal point. I just ball-parked it.

"Let's do it, Betty." While she wasn't in earshot, I knew she knew. And I think she also might have known that she was in for a fight.

I hurried down the five flights of stairs to the ground floor, as I never took the elevator. Taking the elevator seemed a waste, and horribly American, in the bad sense of the word. Like the 'American Way,' diabetes, hypertension and high cholesterol.... which often equals overweight, and lazy. I suppose I can understand taking the elevator up to the 5th floor, but... still couldn't bring myself to do it. I can remember seeing people hop on the elevator and take it down one floor. As they boarded the elevator, they had working legs to carry them in, as well as out on the floor below, for I saw it with my own eyes, as I passed down the stairwell, faster than they had descended in the elevator. I guess it just doesn't make sense to me. If we can't do something as simple as climbing a few flights of stairs, then, we can't complain about being fat.

Anyway, I’ll get off my soapbox, for I was speedwalking to my car, and I couldn’t fit a soap-box in there, at least, I don’t think so. I’m not really sure how big a soap-box is….

So, I see Betty there, just ready and waiting to take me to Trader Joes. I hop in… and fire her up.

We’re off.

No, I didn’t speed, or throw caution to the wind. The wind has enough floating around in it. It certainly didn’t need my caution…. Plus, I don’t litter.

I was driving the way I normally do, like you’d expect an ’89 Cadillac to drive; as if a 89 year old female is driving it – steady and lawfully, but sort of half expecting it to take a wrong turn down a one way street, or jump a curb, causing sparks to fly in the dark, reminiscent of a Beastie Boys video (Sabotage.)

I was on it tonight, and so was Betty… man we were hitting the lights on Cornell, which can be entirely evil. It’s this unending string of stoplights that always seem to turn red at the sight of your car. You’ll just get up to speed, only to have to step on your brakes again… then, ever so annoyingly, you’ll JUST get to a complete stop, when they’ll turn green again. And to top it all off, not a single car will pass through that intersection while you’re stopped at the now COMPLETELY unnecessary red light. I think it’s just a bored employee at the DOT, controlling the lights, watching you get more and more frustrated, as he laughs his now slightly less boring 8 hour shift away.

I hate that guy.

Anyway, that guy must have been off tonight, because I hit every green light, didn’t have to stop once on my way to Joe’s… That’s somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 lights…. I nailed ‘em ALL…. with only a couple yellows… it was so satisfying.

As I neared the intersection of 185th and Cornell, where I’d be taking a left, I saw that the light was red; the one exception to my string of greens. It shined sadly off the empty streets, as if it felt useless since not a car was in sight to be halted by its glowing red radiation, save for me (well, Betty) and some little Hyundai traveling my direction. It seemed to perk up immediately at my sight, as it must have known that it ruined my perfect green streak. As we headed towards the light, I flicked on my blinker and established myself in the furthest left of the two left hand turn lanes, as I’d need to take an immediate left after this first one in order to reach Trader Joes. As I decelerated, our of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Hyundai make a darting, erratic move towards Betty; I pleaded with her to stop as quickly as she could… but she’s a heavy gal (it’s all muscle) and Newton had it right when he was talking about inertia. It’s tough to stop this giant piece of steel that I call Betty, she’s like an Abrams Tank, minus all the guns and cannons. So, Betty the tank, or now 2000 pound projectile, was on a collision course with this little, tin-foil type car as it has cut across 3 lanes to find itself nearly perpendicular to Betty, and the lanes of traffic.

I know that f = ma, but I’m not exactly sure what f = when multiplied by mass and the deceleration of Betty as she taught this little Hyundai and its occupants, a lesson it wouldn’t soon forget. But I do know that it equaled a severely messed up left back door and quarter panel, and more than likely a new alignment, that’s not so aligned.

The impact itself was exactly how Betty lived, smooth and powerful. Everyone always says, “Wow, what a smooooooth ride!” when taken by Betty…. I suppose it makes sense that if she rides this way, she’d destroy this way too. It was such a smooth impact, strong impact, and while it broke my perfect accident free record of nearly 10 years, it felt strangely AWESOME. Now, before you think I’m sadistic, please know, nobody was hurt… I was traveling at maybe 30 miles per hour when I hit her, or more realistically, when she darted out in front of me, like a terrified and momentarily stupefied deer when seeing headlights. They will actually run into the SIDE of your car… it’s tough to say you hit a deer when they run into the side of your car, it’s more like, you got hit by a deer. Well, in this case, though the front of Betty hit the side of her car, (I didn’t get her name) it’s more like she hit me.

Whatever the case, it still felt strangely good; powerful.

She pulled over, and I quickly followed…. Turing 180 degrees to face the opposite direction I had been traveling, as I had spun her around to face the direction from which we had both been coming.

We both got out of our cars on to the street, now newly littered with car shrapnel. I saw that the car held two young girls, maybe 16 or 17… can’s say that it surprised me.

“Are you girls ok?” I asked.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine.” One said.

“I told you not to turn!” I hear the passenger say to her friend, kind of laughing at the same time.

Yea, girl, she should’ve listened to you.

We assessed the damage.

Her back left door was crumpled, like a soda can that had been crushed, reshaped, and crushed again… over and over until the aluminum appeared wrinkly. This door would never open again. Her back left quarter panel took somewhat less damage, but would still need to be replaced. I’m surprised her tire had not blown, but it was certainly not quite facing the right direction. Her left driver’s side door, luckily was unharmed, as Betty had only bit the back door…. But had the timing been a bit different, this gal may have had some damage not only to her driver’s side door, but to the left side of her body. It seems that Betty took pity on this poor, new driver.

As I walked towards Betty’s front right side, which had delivered the crumpling blow, I was somewhat amazed by how little damage that she had incurred. For what punishment she doled out, it was amazing that only the front right blinker light cover was broken, and was now part of the shrapnel on the street. Her right front headlight was completely intact, though the hood was slightly dented, along with the front right bumper, and there appeared to be a new break in the right front quarter panel, which looks like a saw-tooth pattern, it actually looks quite tough. Some might say bad-ass, or radical. I say tough.

“Betty’s got a war wound,” I thought. But it’s nothing serious. This old gal’s a tank.

After the initial survey of our battered combatants, the stupefied girl and her friend asked me what we needed to do… as they didn’t know (shocker… sarcasm) because they’d never been in an accident yet (shocker – this one’s not coated with sarcasm.) So I asked for her insurance information, and copied down mine for her. As the two girls stood there, sort of half talking, then silent, then giggling, I kept on jotting down information.

“What’s a number that I can get a hold of you at?” I’d ask…. Then write mine down on her respective information sheet.

At some point during the middle of this, I am interrupted by the passenger, with what seemed like quite an odd question at the time… though once I understood why she asked it, it merely seemed fittingly stupid for his tweedle-dee, tweedle-dumb duo.

“Are you, like, a boxer?” Tweedle-Dumb asked sort of excitedly.

“What?” I quickly answer back, with confusion latent in my voice and written all over my face.

It was no more than a split-second later that I realize that I’m still wearing my school ID badge, that says “Boxer Card” on it, and has my photo and “Physician Assistant Student” written on it. The Boxer is our mascot. I believe it’s some sort of mythical dragon type creature, though I’m not entirely sure. I am, at heart, a Badger, and always will be. So the lore of the Boxer is of no concern to me.

“What? Oh… oh… no. No, I’m not a boxer.” I reply, as my brain has caught up.

She seemed disappointed, as if she may have given me her number if I were a REAL boxer.

I finished with the information exchange and told her that she needed to call her insurance company to file a claim, and that I would do the same. Then they’d pretty much take it from there.

We each disappeared into the remainder of the night, she and her passenger to God knows where, and me to Trader Joes to get FOOD.

I made it in time. I’m a quick shopper.

B-U-R-R-I-T-O! oh, oh …OOOOOOOOOO. It really wasn’t a bad night.

In the end, her insurance company claimed full responsibility, and would be paying for my repairs in whole. And, despite the miniscule amount of damage to Betty, the car had been totaled. It turns out that Betty, being old of age, but young in miles, was valued at around $3,200, and the amount to repair her would be about $3,400… I found out that parts for ’89 Cadillacs are mighty expensive. All of that said, I decided to accept their check for my ‘totaled’ car, continue to drive it, and not put a single cent into her repair, as I felt that she’s even more stellar than she was before.

Bottom line, I got a 3,200 dollar pay-day. Not too shabby.

What to spend this on?

Well, the responsible part of me said, “Save this money! You have a butt-load of loans!” (My responsible side also likes to use words like “butt-load” apparently.)

But the young man, or boy, in me said… “Hey, you just got a free 3,200 bucks, and you haven’t gotten anything cool for yourself in a long time…. you should get an xBox!”

So, I compromised… being that I totally gave in, and got the xBox….. BUT I saved the rest of it.

In Best Buy, I felt somewhat of nerdy, buying an xBox…. I guess I feel like it’s one of those sort of ‘girl repellant’ type buys. I got over it, though.

At the register, the pretty attractive young gal said the obligatory, “Do you want to buy the 2 year product replacement plan? If anything happens to it…. we’ll take care of it.”

My skeptical side, and frugal side, said “Yep, this is how they get ya! 39.99… for two years, nothing’s going to happen. Don’t get duped!”

So I ask, “Ok, shoot me straight… do I really need this? I mean, I know you have to offer it, but job aside, is this a good thing to get?”

And then, the guy behind her, boxing up some items, busts in and says “YES. We have at least 9 or 10 people bringing them back each week. If you try to send them back to Microsoft, it will take months to get your xBox back, and it’s going to cost you. I have one, and I got the replacement plan. It really is worth it.”

“Alright, let’s do it.” I say with confidence. Whether or not I got suckered, well, it’s only $39.99…. and the kid had a good speech. So, even if it was a crock, he did it well. He deserved the sale.

So, I bring my new purchase home, and enjoy a good escape from time to time for the past year or so… I can take a break from studying, and flip on the console, and rewind to WWII, and blast some Nazis (they had it coming) or go even further back to medieval times, and assassinate corrupt leaders and save innocent citizens. Ok, I don’t care, nerd or no, I’m loving it.

It was on one such escape I wished to embark a couple days ago, to Vegas, to stop some sort of terrorist group, when I turned on the console, and awaited the excitement to begin… nothing.

Nothing happened.

“What the poop!” I thought. OK, maybe I said it aloud too.

The TV is just black. And, I know I’ve hit the ‘TV/Video” button… let’s get the show on the road. Wait… maybe it just didn’t turn on… duh! So, I look down at the xBox… and to my surprise I see something unusual. It’s doing something I’ve never seen before, but, unfortunately (for my ego’s sake) have heard of before. It’s flashing red around the power button. Where, it should have this green ‘ring of light,’ it was flashing red. And as we all know, red light = bad. Well, this is no exception…. this is what is known as, “The Red Ring of Death.”

This is the dreaded, and universally known sign, that your xBox is beyond repair. Totally cooked. There is absolutely nothing that you can do to remedy this situation. It’s unlike when your laptop gives you grief, and you can control alt delete, ‘hard reset,’ system restore, or just monkey with it enough to fix it… even though you’re sure that this time was the last time….

Nope. This is it. No resuscitation. It’s over. You’d better pray tha…

“YEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I bought the damn insurance! Free xBox! Thank you God for that fellow xBox nerd at the Best Buy the day I almost didn’t spend that extra $39.99.”

So, I packed up my xBox yesterday and headed to Portland, as I needed to leave the coast anyhow… I have a ‘security briefing’ on Monday in Spokane for my next rotation. So today I made a trip to Best Buy, and brought my dead xBox, rigor mortis set in, to the customer service desk, next to the ‘Geek Squad’ desk. I’m now feeling more and more like I fit in there… with the Geek Squad… but this doesn’t bother me too much, I’m comfortable in my own skin… I’m kind of nerdy… AND I do enjoy the show “Chuck,” where the main character is a “Nerd Herd” employee in a “Buy More” store. He’s always saving the day, in a nerdy, but brave way. Not to mention, his love interest in the show, is beautiful. Check it out… you’ll get hooked.

In any case, I told the girl at the counter that my xBox was flashing red lights at me, and it wouldn’t turn on. I didn’t just come out and say that “I got The Red Ring of Death.” I may be comfortable in my nerd-ness… but not that comfortable. Though, after she got on the phone to Microsoft, going through the motions to report the xBox failure… she must have said “The Red Ring of Death" about 7 times. I guess this happens quite a bit. Or, that’s what she said anyway when I asked her.

After she got off the horn, she said “OK, so you can go over to the entertainment section and pick up a new one, then bring it back here, and we’ll get you all set up.”

“What? I get a new one today?” I thought. This is too good to be true… I mean, what’s the catch… I only paid 39.99 for this plan… This has to be too good to be true. I figured I'd at least have to wait a few weeks while I waded through some BS.

Despite my doubts, I go to the entertainment section, and pick up a sparkling new xBox, and return to the customer service counter. She rings it up.

“OK, that’s comes to $339.00…”

“That’s more like it,” I think... “time to get screwed by Best Buy, the $39.99 plan was worthless… I KNEW it.”

“DAMN that nerd kid who made me throw away my $39.99! I’m going to find that dork and give him the biggest dead leg!” I thought. "A FLYING dead leg, the likes of which haven't been seen since the Schiller incident of '99, in Brainerd, MN."

She continues to type in things to the computer, swipe badges and what not… then she hands me this yellow Best Buy card and says, “OK, so there’s $10.00 left on this card… and you’re set to go!”

“Wait, what? How does that work?” I say, almost biting my lip right after the words escape…. (just shut up you fool… shut up and run! you tricked them somehow… GET OUT before they realized that they messed up. FREE xBox PLUS 10 dollars!)

“Well, here’s your old receipt, see, it was $349.00 for the xBox a year ago. It was a bit more expensive back then, and then we put the protection plan back on there for you. I thought you might want that?”

“Heck yes!” I assert.

“ …and there’s still 10 dollars left over… and that’s on the yellow card I gave you. Just use it like a gift card.”

I nearly hugged her.

I guess I’m so used to getting screwed by the corporate world… and especially dealing with insurance companies now in medicine, NEVER wanting to pay for patient’s medications and procedures. They fight tooth and nail against providing the coverage to their clients that they had promised when taking their money every month. They dictate care, and deny claims left and right; it’s disgusting. There’s so much wrong with medicine, I guess I had been embittered to anything reminiscent of insurance. In my mind, there’s no way it could be as simple as, “hey, you pay us $39.99, and if anything goes wrong, we’ll fix it, for FREE.”

Well, this time it was… and more than that… they gave me 10 bucks, as if to say… “Hey, thanks for the biz… and come on back… we’ll take care of you… nerd.”

Well, Best Buy, thank you. I shall recommend you to my fellow nerds, but I’m sure they’re already privy to your awesomeness.

In any case, thanks for reading the story of the ten dollars, and how Betty made me see The Red Ring of Death.

I’m gunna go eat a burrito now.