You're all outta love and you're only 38.
"I blew my love on a whole lotta people who didn't deserve it," you say at the dinner table, eyeing your two sons with scorn. Your two sons both give you the finger in response.
"Are you sure you didn't leave some of your love in your other pants," your husband says pointedly. He knows about the affair with the guy who sells you your soft serve.
"I should have been more miserly," you say, ignoring your husband. "What kind of woman am I going to be now?"
Everyone sits and waits for you to do something that a woman who's all outta love might do. Nothing happens. They get hungry and start eating again.
"Pass the salt," your son says.
"Nope," you say.
Everyone drops their forks to their plates and gasps. You realize what you've become and you drop your face into your hands and wail.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Face The Wall
That’s her. Her.
That’s who I want to be today. Her. The one who could kick your ass, fuck you up and fuck you over. And then fuck right off. Hate on her right knuckles, hate on her left. Bile in her heart, with her blood running poison and her mind running on empty. That one, please.
Unless. Unless, no. Not her. Her. The other one. That’s who I want to be today. Her. The one up there on the center stage. The one with the boisterous voice and smile like a magnate. The one for whom even the sun cannot out shine. The one whose heart is never full, she salivates with positives. Give me her outstretched hands and her warm embrace. Yes, absolutely. I understand it all now, thanks to her. So her, please.
No. No, I’ve changed my mind. Sorry. I want to be her. Right now, this minute, this second. That’s who I want to be today. Her. Make me her, please. She walks the walk and she talks the talk. She's got her ducks in a row and is a woman of the world. She’s got the salesman’s patter, the gift of the gab, the words at her fingertips. I’ll take that one, please.
But, oh, I don’t know. What about her? She’s got her head in the clouds and she’s not coming down. Not for anyone. She’s lost and she doesn’t care to be found. She’s seen it all and done it all. She’s gone. Well and truly. She’s stepped off. Risen to a higher plane. She’s all over. All over and out. Make me her, please. Please make me into her. That’s who I want to be today.
What? What do you mean I can't be exchanged. Here's my ID badge, take it. And my drivers licence, it's yours. Sorry about the tickets. You can have my credit cards too.Those girls on the line there, they can't see me right? Doesn't matter. I don't know who I am either.
That’s who I want to be today. Her. The one who could kick your ass, fuck you up and fuck you over. And then fuck right off. Hate on her right knuckles, hate on her left. Bile in her heart, with her blood running poison and her mind running on empty. That one, please.
Unless. Unless, no. Not her. Her. The other one. That’s who I want to be today. Her. The one up there on the center stage. The one with the boisterous voice and smile like a magnate. The one for whom even the sun cannot out shine. The one whose heart is never full, she salivates with positives. Give me her outstretched hands and her warm embrace. Yes, absolutely. I understand it all now, thanks to her. So her, please.
No. No, I’ve changed my mind. Sorry. I want to be her. Right now, this minute, this second. That’s who I want to be today. Her. Make me her, please. She walks the walk and she talks the talk. She's got her ducks in a row and is a woman of the world. She’s got the salesman’s patter, the gift of the gab, the words at her fingertips. I’ll take that one, please.
But, oh, I don’t know. What about her? She’s got her head in the clouds and she’s not coming down. Not for anyone. She’s lost and she doesn’t care to be found. She’s seen it all and done it all. She’s gone. Well and truly. She’s stepped off. Risen to a higher plane. She’s all over. All over and out. Make me her, please. Please make me into her. That’s who I want to be today.
What? What do you mean I can't be exchanged. Here's my ID badge, take it. And my drivers licence, it's yours. Sorry about the tickets. You can have my credit cards too.Those girls on the line there, they can't see me right? Doesn't matter. I don't know who I am either.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Hiring Day
Friday is hiring day. Eight job openings I had to fill today. Positions in the kitchen come open due to mostly terminations for theft. Or Fighting. Some times treatment or education failure. Least often when I have to replace offender workers who get to go home. As much as I hate the crimes that these guys commit that put them into my prison, I am glad for some people when they do get out.
I sit at the metal picnic table in chow hall with my stacks of paper work in front of me and shuffle through the applications. Times are tough and even jobs are hard to get behind bars. Some of the names I have to sort though are made up names, a throwback from the time when the state would pay for any legal document changes. Action Jackson. Federal Murder. Judge Dis.
A lot of the names are native. Whitetaildeer. PierceArrow.
Then there are the Asians, the Hispanics. I have hired and fired a million Yangs and Lees and Pedros.
And not a one of them skilled. Unless stealing me blind and lying through their teeth are qualifications.
I hand the guard the the stack of the best of the worst I have sorted through and wait for him to call the hopeful perspectives into the dining hall. I look at the list of experiences on their applications. Some leave it bare. They are often the ones who get their celly to grudging fill out the form for them, when the applicants are unable to read it themselves. Payback for resume writting is food smuggled out of the kitchen. Job seekers have gone so far as written child care and taking out the garbage for job qualification.
Offenders rarely list the outside restaurants they have worked at, if they do have any real experience. Like I would call anyone one the street for a reference for inmate 1662438 anyway. Once and a while they will name a place I have eaten at. Sometimes I know the chefs they have worked under. I hate it when they have cooked at better places than I. It happens.
"I see you down you were a salads prep on the outside. What was the name of the place?"
If they were fired, which most of them were, they will be vague.
"It is closed".
"Really? I've been around awhile. Maybe I'll remember it."
"Aquvit."
"Who was the executive chef at the time you were there?"
"Ummm it's been so long."
I wait looking at the inmate fidget and just stare. And think of the cookbook on the top shelf of my cabinet at home. It is written by Marcus Samulson. The most famous black chef in the cities.
"Marcus", offender bouncy leg stammers. He stutters because he needs the twelve cents an hour he will receive for employment. He will be paid a quarter but the state will automatically take half for child support and victim retribution. His share of the check will go for laundry soap, toiletries, and much needed calling cards to keep in touch with loved ones on the outside. Some, if there is any left will go for canteen, for the something they crave to fill the voids. I am happy when they can buy their own food. They steal less from me.
Some don't need a job. They have family one the outside to send them money. Or women they play who will pay for long distance affection.
"Marcus Sam..." I give him.
"Marcus Samulson", he finishes proud of himself and feeling like he has made a connection with me. I do not want to connect with these guys. But they do work harder for me if they think there is a bond. Most of the time I do not care. Every one of them is replaceable.
"Ok", I answer not at all believing the guy in front of me ever worked in any kitchen before. Dude might have watched food net work back at his unit. Or he detailed Samulson's car. "I have a job for you scrubbing pots", I tell him. "We all gotta start somewhere." I do not tell him it doesn't matter if he can cook. If he can shut up and work hard without causing trouble he will make his way out of pots. It is cheaper to pay this social reject two bits an hour to scrub than it would cost me to buy Pam to make washing stainless easier.
Occasionally they will have worked in places nearby that my family has eaten and I think of the days when I could have turned into the one sitting on the other side of the table. My time working late nights and the adrenaline induced stress, the availability of drugs and drinks and the push to fit in, even at the treatment center where the stoners twisted their own in the parking lot on brake.
In they come and one by one I start my questions.
"Are you in school?"
"Treatment?"
"IFI?"
"When will you start and how long are you in for?" I never ask why. Sometimes if they are not a pedophile, they tell me anyway.
"I was just driving drunk and I'm in with murders and baby rapers. I wasn't even driving a car, I was on a four wheeler."
I do not blink I just go one to the next question.
"Are you a release violator?"
Then I ask about experience or skill. Most of their food service experience comes from other correctional facilities. Today the man I was interview listed every prison in the state. Plus outside restaurant experience.
"You ever work here?".
"Yes. 1998-2001 here. I was a table wipe and line server."
"You worked for Gerald."
"I don't remember."
"Don't matter." I have a job for you in dishroom."
"My son worked here for the past three years. I hadn't seen him in four years."
"Really", I ask what did he do? Sometimes they try to name drop to get a better job.
"Jermey cooked." Cooking is a respected job here.
I glance down at his application. His last name is Allen.
"I remember him. He just whent out to minimum." I fired his son for arguing with staff and hooking up his friends. He sat in IFI bawling for forgiveness afterwords. Even the pushover Chaplin saw though his act.
"Yeah. I got to talk with him before he left. Jermey is a good kid." Inmates think I do not know their crimes. I try not to know.
I remember the birthday cake that the bakery made for Jermey last year, before he was fired. It was a chocolate cake. I had to discipline the bakers for baking what was not on our menu. I remember because they did it on my kids birthday, the same as Jeremy. I was skiing with my son at the time.
I had to look up Jeremy's crime when food disappearing from the cooks area.
Jeremy Allen was given a life sentience for beating his own baby to death.
My new dish washer is proud of his son, his old brown eyes sparked when I remembered Jermey's name. He tipped an imaginary hat and addressed me as ma'am when he returned to his living unit. His walk was lighter leaving than entering.
I looked old Allen crime up after I added him to my roster.
He does have food service experience on the outside. He knocked over Subways.
I sit at the metal picnic table in chow hall with my stacks of paper work in front of me and shuffle through the applications. Times are tough and even jobs are hard to get behind bars. Some of the names I have to sort though are made up names, a throwback from the time when the state would pay for any legal document changes. Action Jackson. Federal Murder. Judge Dis.
A lot of the names are native. Whitetaildeer. PierceArrow.
Then there are the Asians, the Hispanics. I have hired and fired a million Yangs and Lees and Pedros.
And not a one of them skilled. Unless stealing me blind and lying through their teeth are qualifications.
I hand the guard the the stack of the best of the worst I have sorted through and wait for him to call the hopeful perspectives into the dining hall. I look at the list of experiences on their applications. Some leave it bare. They are often the ones who get their celly to grudging fill out the form for them, when the applicants are unable to read it themselves. Payback for resume writting is food smuggled out of the kitchen. Job seekers have gone so far as written child care and taking out the garbage for job qualification.
Offenders rarely list the outside restaurants they have worked at, if they do have any real experience. Like I would call anyone one the street for a reference for inmate 1662438 anyway. Once and a while they will name a place I have eaten at. Sometimes I know the chefs they have worked under. I hate it when they have cooked at better places than I. It happens.
"I see you down you were a salads prep on the outside. What was the name of the place?"
If they were fired, which most of them were, they will be vague.
"It is closed".
"Really? I've been around awhile. Maybe I'll remember it."
"Aquvit."
"Who was the executive chef at the time you were there?"
"Ummm it's been so long."
I wait looking at the inmate fidget and just stare. And think of the cookbook on the top shelf of my cabinet at home. It is written by Marcus Samulson. The most famous black chef in the cities.
"Marcus", offender bouncy leg stammers. He stutters because he needs the twelve cents an hour he will receive for employment. He will be paid a quarter but the state will automatically take half for child support and victim retribution. His share of the check will go for laundry soap, toiletries, and much needed calling cards to keep in touch with loved ones on the outside. Some, if there is any left will go for canteen, for the something they crave to fill the voids. I am happy when they can buy their own food. They steal less from me.
Some don't need a job. They have family one the outside to send them money. Or women they play who will pay for long distance affection.
"Marcus Sam..." I give him.
"Marcus Samulson", he finishes proud of himself and feeling like he has made a connection with me. I do not want to connect with these guys. But they do work harder for me if they think there is a bond. Most of the time I do not care. Every one of them is replaceable.
"Ok", I answer not at all believing the guy in front of me ever worked in any kitchen before. Dude might have watched food net work back at his unit. Or he detailed Samulson's car. "I have a job for you scrubbing pots", I tell him. "We all gotta start somewhere." I do not tell him it doesn't matter if he can cook. If he can shut up and work hard without causing trouble he will make his way out of pots. It is cheaper to pay this social reject two bits an hour to scrub than it would cost me to buy Pam to make washing stainless easier.
Occasionally they will have worked in places nearby that my family has eaten and I think of the days when I could have turned into the one sitting on the other side of the table. My time working late nights and the adrenaline induced stress, the availability of drugs and drinks and the push to fit in, even at the treatment center where the stoners twisted their own in the parking lot on brake.
In they come and one by one I start my questions.
"Are you in school?"
"Treatment?"
"IFI?"
"When will you start and how long are you in for?" I never ask why. Sometimes if they are not a pedophile, they tell me anyway.
"I was just driving drunk and I'm in with murders and baby rapers. I wasn't even driving a car, I was on a four wheeler."
I do not blink I just go one to the next question.
"Are you a release violator?"
Then I ask about experience or skill. Most of their food service experience comes from other correctional facilities. Today the man I was interview listed every prison in the state. Plus outside restaurant experience.
"You ever work here?".
"Yes. 1998-2001 here. I was a table wipe and line server."
"You worked for Gerald."
"I don't remember."
"Don't matter." I have a job for you in dishroom."
"My son worked here for the past three years. I hadn't seen him in four years."
"Really", I ask what did he do? Sometimes they try to name drop to get a better job.
"Jermey cooked." Cooking is a respected job here.
I glance down at his application. His last name is Allen.
"I remember him. He just whent out to minimum." I fired his son for arguing with staff and hooking up his friends. He sat in IFI bawling for forgiveness afterwords. Even the pushover Chaplin saw though his act.
"Yeah. I got to talk with him before he left. Jermey is a good kid." Inmates think I do not know their crimes. I try not to know.
I remember the birthday cake that the bakery made for Jermey last year, before he was fired. It was a chocolate cake. I had to discipline the bakers for baking what was not on our menu. I remember because they did it on my kids birthday, the same as Jeremy. I was skiing with my son at the time.
I had to look up Jeremy's crime when food disappearing from the cooks area.
Jeremy Allen was given a life sentience for beating his own baby to death.
My new dish washer is proud of his son, his old brown eyes sparked when I remembered Jermey's name. He tipped an imaginary hat and addressed me as ma'am when he returned to his living unit. His walk was lighter leaving than entering.
I looked old Allen crime up after I added him to my roster.
He does have food service experience on the outside. He knocked over Subways.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Showing Teeth
I woke up to the sound of her voice. She had brought someone home. I could tell by the heavy slur to her voice and the crashing in the other room she had been out drinking. But no matter how wasted Carrie was she never talked to herself. Instead of rolling over like I should have and going straight back to sleep, I strained my ears.
His voice was low and deep. It was not laced with the swears or vulgarities of the bar crowd we usually hung out with. It took me a long time to place it and still I wanted to doubted myself.
"No see lokk. Glaww. A hol er and er and er."
If I hadn't heard this routine before I wouldn't have known what my little girlfriend was trying to say.
"That is a lot of holes you have", came the mans voice in response.
"Wana see em", Carrie asked and over the man's soft protests I heard the sound of her footsteps coming down the hall past my bed room. I heard the sound of of her ninety pound body trip against my door, hitting the metal knob a foot from my pillow before she retrieved the pill vial from the medicine cabinet in our bathroom. I also heard the sound of the toilet flush repeatedly before she finally walked back to into the living room.
I sat up in bed to listen better to their muffled conversation, ready to jump up even before her "clumsy" cue was given. I cracked my door, standing barefooted on my grimy splinter filled work jeans and stood at the ready. When I couldn't take the silence any longer I jumped into the dark basement hall screaming...
"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL DO YOU ASSHOLES THINK YOU ARE DOING DAMN IT WAKING ME UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING NIGHT? I GOTTA BE TO WORK IN TWO HOurs..."
I stopped when I reached the living room and seen Carrie sitting on the couch alone calmly smoking a menthol.
She smiled crookedly around her cigarette as she took a deep pull and held out her free arm to me. I sat along side my little friend on the worn sofa and slung my arm around her bony shoulders, breathing in her smell of whiskey and hair gel ready to listen to her nights escapades. We pulled the afghan she had knitted me for Valentines over our laps.
"So your sleepy ears didn't hear him run out of here I take it", Carrie said in a much less liquid voice and giggled. I reached for for her can of Diet Coke she held out and took a sip.
In two hours at five a.m. my alarm would ring and I would make the hour drive in my big old piece of shit Osmobile to the window factory as I dodged deer on the dark pre dawn icy roads. Carrie would be just about reaching r.e.m. in her grandma's feather bed in the next room. Some times, when the evening went bad for us, we would both curl together in that safe comfy bed for the rest of the night.
My best friend in that little northern town liked to drink. And she liked sex. Coming from a devote Catholic family all she ever wanted was a husband and a dozen kids. She just didn't know how to get them.
Somehow after she got her beauticians licence and started doing hair and men on main instead of getting her diploma and getting the hell out, the local boys found out her slide from being popular to being used was an easy game. In the time she was my roommate she had slept her way through every eligible bachelor. And the marginal ones that would do in a pinch. She was scrapping the bottom of the masculine barrel. Plus Carrie didn't own a car. Her money went to happy hour and pretty clothes.
I know sometimes she wasn't as drunk as she made out, she just wanted an excuse to feel warmth for a little while.
So on the nights that I had to get up early for my assembly line job, I left her at the local watering hole. It was always a crap shoot who would bring her home. Sometimes she was too drunk to walk the four blocks in dress heels the cold or just too lonely to spend it by herself.
And I know sometimes she probley wasn't in as much danger as she made it sound to me.
"Who you show your teeth too tonight?" I asked her.
Carrie wouldn't answer.
"Was that Mark Hull from Stan's?"
Mark Hull was the forty five year old looser who sold guns from the local hardware store.
Carrie would not look at me.
I sighed, my heart going out to her and hugged her tighter.
"Did you say thank you daddy when he bought your Windsor Cokes?" I asked trying to lighten the mood.
I would wake from the dead if it kept her from sleeping with such a man.
"Shut your face bitch", she said and hugged me back tight.
I ignored the tears trying to slip from the corner of her big eyes and pulled the chipped black coffee table closer with my feet so her short legs would reach. The vial of teeth lay open with the molars spilled out across it's scared surface. Showing her brothers rotten wisdom teeth sometimes put off the amorous degenerates she partied with before they expected payment in physical form if she could not shake them at the door. For back up she let them think she was puking her guts out. More and more often did I need bare my teeth and scare them out.
I loved my friend and would protect and enable her always.
And she would never threaten me with the straight edge razor from her salon she replaced me with once I grew up and moved on.
His voice was low and deep. It was not laced with the swears or vulgarities of the bar crowd we usually hung out with. It took me a long time to place it and still I wanted to doubted myself.
"No see lokk. Glaww. A hol er and er and er."
If I hadn't heard this routine before I wouldn't have known what my little girlfriend was trying to say.
"That is a lot of holes you have", came the mans voice in response.
"Wana see em", Carrie asked and over the man's soft protests I heard the sound of her footsteps coming down the hall past my bed room. I heard the sound of of her ninety pound body trip against my door, hitting the metal knob a foot from my pillow before she retrieved the pill vial from the medicine cabinet in our bathroom. I also heard the sound of the toilet flush repeatedly before she finally walked back to into the living room.
I sat up in bed to listen better to their muffled conversation, ready to jump up even before her "clumsy" cue was given. I cracked my door, standing barefooted on my grimy splinter filled work jeans and stood at the ready. When I couldn't take the silence any longer I jumped into the dark basement hall screaming...
"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL DO YOU ASSHOLES THINK YOU ARE DOING DAMN IT WAKING ME UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING NIGHT? I GOTTA BE TO WORK IN TWO HOurs..."
I stopped when I reached the living room and seen Carrie sitting on the couch alone calmly smoking a menthol.
She smiled crookedly around her cigarette as she took a deep pull and held out her free arm to me. I sat along side my little friend on the worn sofa and slung my arm around her bony shoulders, breathing in her smell of whiskey and hair gel ready to listen to her nights escapades. We pulled the afghan she had knitted me for Valentines over our laps.
"So your sleepy ears didn't hear him run out of here I take it", Carrie said in a much less liquid voice and giggled. I reached for for her can of Diet Coke she held out and took a sip.
In two hours at five a.m. my alarm would ring and I would make the hour drive in my big old piece of shit Osmobile to the window factory as I dodged deer on the dark pre dawn icy roads. Carrie would be just about reaching r.e.m. in her grandma's feather bed in the next room. Some times, when the evening went bad for us, we would both curl together in that safe comfy bed for the rest of the night.
My best friend in that little northern town liked to drink. And she liked sex. Coming from a devote Catholic family all she ever wanted was a husband and a dozen kids. She just didn't know how to get them.
Somehow after she got her beauticians licence and started doing hair and men on main instead of getting her diploma and getting the hell out, the local boys found out her slide from being popular to being used was an easy game. In the time she was my roommate she had slept her way through every eligible bachelor. And the marginal ones that would do in a pinch. She was scrapping the bottom of the masculine barrel. Plus Carrie didn't own a car. Her money went to happy hour and pretty clothes.
I know sometimes she wasn't as drunk as she made out, she just wanted an excuse to feel warmth for a little while.
So on the nights that I had to get up early for my assembly line job, I left her at the local watering hole. It was always a crap shoot who would bring her home. Sometimes she was too drunk to walk the four blocks in dress heels the cold or just too lonely to spend it by herself.
And I know sometimes she probley wasn't in as much danger as she made it sound to me.
"Who you show your teeth too tonight?" I asked her.
Carrie wouldn't answer.
"Was that Mark Hull from Stan's?"
Mark Hull was the forty five year old looser who sold guns from the local hardware store.
Carrie would not look at me.
I sighed, my heart going out to her and hugged her tighter.
"Did you say thank you daddy when he bought your Windsor Cokes?" I asked trying to lighten the mood.
I would wake from the dead if it kept her from sleeping with such a man.
"Shut your face bitch", she said and hugged me back tight.
I ignored the tears trying to slip from the corner of her big eyes and pulled the chipped black coffee table closer with my feet so her short legs would reach. The vial of teeth lay open with the molars spilled out across it's scared surface. Showing her brothers rotten wisdom teeth sometimes put off the amorous degenerates she partied with before they expected payment in physical form if she could not shake them at the door. For back up she let them think she was puking her guts out. More and more often did I need bare my teeth and scare them out.
I loved my friend and would protect and enable her always.
And she would never threaten me with the straight edge razor from her salon she replaced me with once I grew up and moved on.
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