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.