Writing a book can bring out the best in all of us -

Writing a book can bring out the best in all of us - When I was working with a writing coach her first exercise was for me to pick an officer or inmate and write about them in first person. I immediately began to write about a not so pleasant officer that greeted me weekly at the prison lobby. He really made me feel uncomfortable. As I began writing, in first person, about his feelings I noticed I was becoming more comfortable and really had the opportunity to express myself through his eyes. I finished, decided to make it a chapter in my book and even now when I read this chapter I feel powerful, not powerless, over this officer. I loved becoming characters other than myself because I felt it could take me anywhere I wanted to go- total freedom from the critical eye. It also gave me a deeper insight to the characters I was writing about. This chapter, Being The Stranger, is a favorite among many of my readers and I would love your comments.

BEING THE STRANGER

I was sitting on the bench waiting for Anne Riter to escort me upstairs for my class. The wait-and-show was becoming part of the system, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. Patience hadn’t been my virtue. I noticed Patrick, my bald-headed, bearded friend who was wearing his usual turn-me-off, turn-me-on happy face—depending on what, I didn’t have a clue. I was bored staring at a desolate lobby, and I was tired of watching the hands of the clock move slowly. I rummaged through my pocket and found a red and blue ballpoint pen. I open my date book to a blank page. I decided I was going to imagine how Patrick felt about himself and people in general.

I, Patrick Mallory, have been working this desk job here at the jail for the past fifteen years. At times, I feel I could choke all the women in this prison, both employees and inmates, for their lack of intelligence, and punch the lights out of every male who steps forward to visit his family, friend, or business associate.
I have lost respect for anyone or anything that enters this facility, be it prisoner or visitor. I fall into the category of the song, “Hard-Hearted Hannah,” or more appropriately, “Hard-Hearted Harry.”
I am the ultimate authority as to whether any outside visitor goes beyond this line. I am not ashamed to admit there is a certain rush that goes through me when I have the opportunity to use my power.
Today is Thursday—the busiest day of the week. It is the first of the month, which means welfare and social security checks are in the hands of half of our visitor population. For a lot, it means a new supply of drugs and alcohol to get them through most of the month. I wonder how many of the visitors will arrive with a toot on. It’s disgusting how many will show up loud and disorderly. I get the privilege of saying, “Out!” Sometimes we even have a scuffle, but since I’ve put on forty pounds in the past three months, it isn’t as easy to wrestle with a bad apple. I really need to start going to the gym and work with a diet center, but since my wife has been in the hospital with MS, I just don’t have the enthusiasm for keeping in shape. Running back and forth to the hospital, keeping up the household chores, and commuting thirty miles each way to work doesn’t give me much time to get into a healthy physical regime.
Well, well, well. Look who’s coming through the doors early today! I notice the blonde bitch sauntering across the lobby. This woman of distinction, as she would like me to think of her, comes in every Thursday to volunteer her services to the females up on the eleventh floor for a program called Fit and Wellness. Some kind of stretching and meditation, but I hear whispers it’s really yoga. If I could prove that she is doing yoga, she would be out on her ass ASAP. I heard yoga is some kind of postures where you contort your body and chant until you leave your body. This type of practice is most definitely dangerous to our prisoners. In no way can I see the benefits of such nonsense. Most of them are on the edge of flipping out anyway, and this would finish the job.
Could you imagine the newspapers getting wind of these happenings? The headlines reading, “Boston prisoners claim yoga program allows them to leave their bodies and indulge in astral travel.”
Politically speaking, our dear elected sheriff would be out of a job. We need to keep the taxpayers abreast of the good works we are performing for our prisoners so they know where their money is being used which is the only chant we hear.
Here she is at the desk, looking for Charlie to take care of her, as always. He gives her special treatment, talking and smiling at her as he speaks. I call it flirting.
This is the moment I have been waiting for. “Hi,” she greets me in that meditative voice that chills my spine as if someone ran a fingernail across the blackboard.
“How are you today?” she continues, as if I am supposed to make small talk.
Not me. I have a job to do. No time for her chatter.
“Do you have your driver’s license?” I ask her in my power tone, and then realize she is already handing it to me. I take the license and give her a visitor’s pass, along with a key for a locker for her coat and pocketbook. I deliberately give her a key for the visitors’ lockers instead of a key for the lawyers’ lockers that Charlie always gives her — putting her in an elevated status on the other side of the room. Segregation you could call it. Let her feel what it is like to be one of the visitors. I put the stamper out to imprint our emblem on her hand, which is invisible but can be detected under ultraviolet light when going through the scanner. I stamp a little harder than usual hoping she winces.
Blondie always brings with her a CD—music I never recognize—some kind of bells, a pencil, and glasses in a clear plastic bag. All her items have to be pre-approved before she can take them upstairs for her program. I look at the book for the written authorization, and I don’t see the bells written in for approval. So I say in my power voice, “You need to leave the bells here. They are not pre-approved.”
“I always have approval for the bells,” she says in an anxious voice. “There must be some mistake. You need to call Anne Riter at extension 22, and she will talk with you,” Blondie tells me.
“They are not in the book, so leave them here. You talk to her when you go upstairs!”
Blondie says a little louder but with a controlled voice, “I really need these bells for my program.”
I am beginning to lose my cool. “I told you the rules, so you have a choice. Go up to do the program or leave; it’s that simple.” I watch her as she hesitates, turns to go upstairs, stops, and comes back.
Almost in a pleading voice she says, “please call Anne for me, and she will straighten this out.”
I imitate her Blondie voice. “Anne has gone for the day. Make up your mind, and do it quickly. I have a line of people waiting to be checked in.”
“You bastard,” I hear her say under her breath and that is all I need to hear.
“Ms. Shaffer, I heard your words of endearment. You need to remove yourself from the premises now. If you don’t, I will call for a back- up to escort you out. Profanities are not tolerated here in our facility.”
Her face is a glow of red as she turns and proceeds to leave the building. I am overcome with joy, having had this moment to take that bitch down. This is better than an orgasm. I’ll do a written report to cover myself. The next time Blondie comes in here, she’ll know to bow her head in humility. I may even ask that she verbally apologize for her profanity or else refuse her entry again. What a great day this turned out to be!



I was still busy writing when I heard someone ask, “Is that a letter you’re writing?”
I glanced up, and there was Anne, staring at me, ready to go upstairs. I jumped up and proceeded to follow her toward the elevator, too nervous to ask if she had been waiting long. Fortunately, my fantasy about Patrick Mallory was only a fantasy.