When I get out of jail,
I drive away very very fast.
And don't look back at the guards in the tower watching me peel out.
I turn my music up LOUD.
And roll down my window and gulp the fresh air.
When I pull into my yard, I walk over to the chicken pen and lock my knees when the multicolored flock swarm me, much like the inmates do, when I enter the cafeteria, so I don't turn and run . And I stand there and watch them, watch me, much like the cafeteria. Only it relaxes me.
I walk into my house and wash my hands repeatedly. I sometimes wash my hands repeatedly before I shower and wash repeatedly.
Then I eat. I crave the food so spicy it will bring tears to my eyes. I want the deserts to sweet they hurt. My office is right next to the bakery and I'm damned if I will eat state paid food designated for the prisoners. The same food the guards will push like brutish pigs to get to while the men are sitting waiting at the long hard tables watching , waiting for clearance, is not what I want to put in my mouth. But most of all, I want that fruit cake. The cake only my mum knew how to make and only at Christmas.
And when I get to sit down and hug my boys, I stare at their innocent beauty, in my bright warm yellow kitchen with it's cobalt blue and teal green curtains, glad to be in a room not void of color, and tell them funny stories about the murders, and rapists, and the raping murderers, and the murdering rapists and that silly cook dude to is in for knocking over a liquor store, but got sent to minimum security, only to walk off and swipe the dietary van to rob the bottle shop three blocks away, and is now back cooking breakfast.
And I'm all ok.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Purgatory in Azkaban
One the second day in her new life in management she spend the first twenty minutes of her pre pre dawn morning locked in the shabby corridors between buildings after taking a wrong turn. She could not continue forward nor go back. She passed from one door to the next and stood staring at the solid grey steel barrier and wondered if there was some sort of alarm she would trigger if she just continued to jiggle the handles aggressively. The armed guard that had glimpsed her defeated form in passing and set her free never did explain to her her name tag would open any door. Maybe he knew there are just doors she should not open. Silly guard.
Monday, September 10, 2007
A Seriers of Adventures or Nothing at All
Everything on the woman hurt as she squatted there, unsuccessfully trying to shade her head under the tallest weed in her local. And to top it off her allergies was causing her nose to run as steady as the corn harvester's continuous hum off in the far field to the east. She wanted him there already, to bring her a long cold drink, before she lost conscious, and to carry her broken body back to the cab of the truck. But instead she kept crawling through the dirt, picking the hot little cabenara peppers, and stuffing them into the bottom of her baggy rolled up t-shirt. Soon she thought longingly, school would be out, and she would see his dirt bike raising puffs of dust as he zigged zagged his way to her.
"Hey. What's this? Is this a dirty little grub crawling through the field?."
He had startled her, coming from the opposite direction on foot. She wiped her nose on her grimy sleeve and looked up at Gunny where he stood behind her blocking the merciless sun from her with a half filled pepper basket in this thick arms.
"Got any water on you Babe?", her voice cracked.
His smiling face fell serious. "Mom. You. Know. You . Carry. Water. At all times!"
The teenager dropped his produce on the ground without a regard to the peppers that tumbled out and took the plastic bottle hanging from his belt. "Drink. Where is your water?"
The woman tilted her head back and guzzled the sweet tasting water he had handed her. She made a vague flail of her arm towards the farm's truck parked farther across the field at the rows end, and spilt the precious water down her front as she did so.
"You left your water in the truck?"
She nodded, sniffling and wiping her blushing nose as she did.
"If you had water in the truck, why didn't you just go get yourself some Mom?"
"It hurts too much to get up and walk."
The boy looked at her with his bright blue eyes but did not lecture her further. The novelty of having his mother at his job where he could tell her what to do was just too good a taste in his mouth not to savor. Gunny had worked on the farm since spring when his special education manager had told them they could not find him any summer employment the boy was qualified for. The owners had sized up Gunny as they shook his hand and hired him on the spot. He had wanted to work so badly, to be out of the house and not responsible to babysit, that he bicycled five miles to and five home from an eight hour shift daily before he was aloud the privilege to drive his dirt bike.
"Mom, you are mixing up the habenaro's with the cabenera's. Where is the list Gary gave you?" He held up two of the peppers from the basket she had dumped her shirt tails into and held them up to show her the difference.
Lynnae held up the scrap of cardboard and read out load to her dyslexic son the grocery list of produce they needed for the farmers market the next morning.
"What was your Dad doing when you got off the bus?", she asked him, although she knew full well the answer, as they both bent their heads over the basket to sort the mixed peppers.
"He was sitting out in the chicken coup, with the phone in front of him."
"Did he have his oxygen on?"
"No. You gotta pick faster there Mum, if we are to finish this before sun up."
"Yes Retard. I mean boss."
She had started calling him retarded soon after his little brother had been born and the specialists switched his handicap after his surgery's from physical to mental. But she made sure she called his brother retarded as well. She called his father retarded. And the cat. But most of all she called herself Retard. She knew sooner or later someone would use that word on him. But she would be the first, too suck any hurtful power out of it. And then she would laugh.
"Haaaha."
"Ugh Mom. You just wiped the snot off your sleeve across your forehead."
"It cools my retarded head."
"Did the prison call you yet Mom?"
"They called home and your Dad answered. He has called me out here a million times."
"Where is your cell phone then?"
"In the truck."
"You left it there so Dad doesn't bug you?"
"Yup."
"That's a jalapeno you have there now. How did you get that one mixed in?"
"It jumped into my shirt."
"Are you gonna take the job then Mom ?."
"They are going to call my cell and let me know if I have it."
"One the phone you left in the truck."
"Yes. I have a headache from the dehydration."
"You don't want that job very much do you Mom."
"Dad wants me to work. I need to be out of the house."
The young man left her to finish the peppers and loped over to the truck to retrieved her phone. It rang in his hand halfway back to her.
"If it is your dad, don't answer it."
"No, the number is 653 47... he faltered trying to get the numbers in their proper order."
"ANSWER IT!", she bellowed counting the rings.
"Ello", she hears. "Who is this? Who? Hang on. Mom it's Ga, Ghar, somebody for you." He hands her the phone after his unsuccessful attempt to pronounce the callers name.
"Lynnae, this is Gerald." Gerald's smooth voice rolls over her ears and down her body in a cool wave. She thinks of the time she had met him before, when she had been sitting nervously in the waiting room and she first saw him quietly standing there assessing her through the thick Plexiglas on the other side of the locked doors. He had the same calm composer as he walked her through the cafeteria, past the hard jumpsuit clad men, past the serving lines into the guts of the kitchen. It was amazing she could focas on his level voice when he showed her the contraband spears the convicts had fashioned out of the three foot long balloon whisks sharpened into a multi pronged shank over the sound of her own knees knocking together. She had stopped looking at anything else after that, except the armed guard she would have shadow her for her own protection.
The two of them loaded the corn trucks for an hour past sunset, until it was to dark to drive the bike without a headlight home, so the teenager helped his mother into the car and drove her so her tired legs would not have to work the petals.
They walked into their bright kitchen, welcomed by the puffing sound of the oxygen machine in the corner and her youngest son's voice reading his homework out loud to his father.
"Your home late, I was getting worried about you two."
"I hurt."
"That's cuse Mom is slow and doesn't know her veggies."
"I can make you guys a can of soup it you want." He looked up at her wilted dirty shape hopefully. Hoping she would not make him get up and cook for her and hoping she had good news.
"I'm going to have left overs", Gunny said.
"I'm going to have water and a shower", the lady answered, unable to meet his eyes disappearing upstairs avoiding his questioning and letting the kids scavenge the three of them a dinner.
She stood in the dressing room in front of the large mirror the next day and started into her refection. Her hair was sun bleached and her face burned and the business suit hung loose on her body. She undid the pinstriped trousers and let them slide to pile at her feet. She kicked them off, too stiff to bend over and pick them up, she left them where they lay. She walked out of the department store without trying on any more clothes.
As she drove home she returned Gerald's phone call. Because life is a series of adventures or nothing at all. The challanges just change.
"Hey. What's this? Is this a dirty little grub crawling through the field?."
He had startled her, coming from the opposite direction on foot. She wiped her nose on her grimy sleeve and looked up at Gunny where he stood behind her blocking the merciless sun from her with a half filled pepper basket in this thick arms.
"Got any water on you Babe?", her voice cracked.
His smiling face fell serious. "Mom. You. Know. You . Carry. Water. At all times!"
The teenager dropped his produce on the ground without a regard to the peppers that tumbled out and took the plastic bottle hanging from his belt. "Drink. Where is your water?"
The woman tilted her head back and guzzled the sweet tasting water he had handed her. She made a vague flail of her arm towards the farm's truck parked farther across the field at the rows end, and spilt the precious water down her front as she did so.
"You left your water in the truck?"
She nodded, sniffling and wiping her blushing nose as she did.
"If you had water in the truck, why didn't you just go get yourself some Mom?"
"It hurts too much to get up and walk."
The boy looked at her with his bright blue eyes but did not lecture her further. The novelty of having his mother at his job where he could tell her what to do was just too good a taste in his mouth not to savor. Gunny had worked on the farm since spring when his special education manager had told them they could not find him any summer employment the boy was qualified for. The owners had sized up Gunny as they shook his hand and hired him on the spot. He had wanted to work so badly, to be out of the house and not responsible to babysit, that he bicycled five miles to and five home from an eight hour shift daily before he was aloud the privilege to drive his dirt bike.
"Mom, you are mixing up the habenaro's with the cabenera's. Where is the list Gary gave you?" He held up two of the peppers from the basket she had dumped her shirt tails into and held them up to show her the difference.
Lynnae held up the scrap of cardboard and read out load to her dyslexic son the grocery list of produce they needed for the farmers market the next morning.
"What was your Dad doing when you got off the bus?", she asked him, although she knew full well the answer, as they both bent their heads over the basket to sort the mixed peppers.
"He was sitting out in the chicken coup, with the phone in front of him."
"Did he have his oxygen on?"
"No. You gotta pick faster there Mum, if we are to finish this before sun up."
"Yes Retard. I mean boss."
She had started calling him retarded soon after his little brother had been born and the specialists switched his handicap after his surgery's from physical to mental. But she made sure she called his brother retarded as well. She called his father retarded. And the cat. But most of all she called herself Retard. She knew sooner or later someone would use that word on him. But she would be the first, too suck any hurtful power out of it. And then she would laugh.
"Haaaha."
"Ugh Mom. You just wiped the snot off your sleeve across your forehead."
"It cools my retarded head."
"Did the prison call you yet Mom?"
"They called home and your Dad answered. He has called me out here a million times."
"Where is your cell phone then?"
"In the truck."
"You left it there so Dad doesn't bug you?"
"Yup."
"That's a jalapeno you have there now. How did you get that one mixed in?"
"It jumped into my shirt."
"Are you gonna take the job then Mom ?."
"They are going to call my cell and let me know if I have it."
"One the phone you left in the truck."
"Yes. I have a headache from the dehydration."
"You don't want that job very much do you Mom."
"Dad wants me to work. I need to be out of the house."
The young man left her to finish the peppers and loped over to the truck to retrieved her phone. It rang in his hand halfway back to her.
"If it is your dad, don't answer it."
"No, the number is 653 47... he faltered trying to get the numbers in their proper order."
"ANSWER IT!", she bellowed counting the rings.
"Ello", she hears. "Who is this? Who? Hang on. Mom it's Ga, Ghar, somebody for you." He hands her the phone after his unsuccessful attempt to pronounce the callers name.
"Lynnae, this is Gerald." Gerald's smooth voice rolls over her ears and down her body in a cool wave. She thinks of the time she had met him before, when she had been sitting nervously in the waiting room and she first saw him quietly standing there assessing her through the thick Plexiglas on the other side of the locked doors. He had the same calm composer as he walked her through the cafeteria, past the hard jumpsuit clad men, past the serving lines into the guts of the kitchen. It was amazing she could focas on his level voice when he showed her the contraband spears the convicts had fashioned out of the three foot long balloon whisks sharpened into a multi pronged shank over the sound of her own knees knocking together. She had stopped looking at anything else after that, except the armed guard she would have shadow her for her own protection.
The two of them loaded the corn trucks for an hour past sunset, until it was to dark to drive the bike without a headlight home, so the teenager helped his mother into the car and drove her so her tired legs would not have to work the petals.
They walked into their bright kitchen, welcomed by the puffing sound of the oxygen machine in the corner and her youngest son's voice reading his homework out loud to his father.
"Your home late, I was getting worried about you two."
"I hurt."
"That's cuse Mom is slow and doesn't know her veggies."
"I can make you guys a can of soup it you want." He looked up at her wilted dirty shape hopefully. Hoping she would not make him get up and cook for her and hoping she had good news.
"I'm going to have left overs", Gunny said.
"I'm going to have water and a shower", the lady answered, unable to meet his eyes disappearing upstairs avoiding his questioning and letting the kids scavenge the three of them a dinner.
She stood in the dressing room in front of the large mirror the next day and started into her refection. Her hair was sun bleached and her face burned and the business suit hung loose on her body. She undid the pinstriped trousers and let them slide to pile at her feet. She kicked them off, too stiff to bend over and pick them up, she left them where they lay. She walked out of the department store without trying on any more clothes.
As she drove home she returned Gerald's phone call. Because life is a series of adventures or nothing at all. The challanges just change.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
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