Month: November 2011

Secret Friends

Maybe your secret friend was someone who you thought others would not approve of. Or perhaps that person didn’t quite fit your style because he or she was quite different from you. It’s not an easy thing when loyalty confronts conventional expectations.

One of my secret friends is a student I teach in the parole office. Give him some hair and remove his head-to-toe skinhead tattoos and he’d be your best next door neighbor. Thoughtful. Kind. Caring.

But with tattooed skinhead symbols, skulls scrawled all over him, and “5150” (“a person deemed to have a mental disorder that makes them a danger to him or her self, and/or others and/or gravely disabled”) around his neck, and he appears to be a social persona non grata. Not the sort of fellow you might want to be perceived as being your friend.

I’ve known him for over two years. He struggles to progress toward the academic goals I’ve hoped for him in my literacy lab at the parole office. Medications cause him to slump over his computer terminal frequently. I wake him up. Sometimes he leaves the class in a drug-induced stupor.

If he stopped taking the drugs, he would resume cutting his legs with his pocketknife. His legs are numb from nerve damage, making it difficult for him to ride his bicycle, his only means of transportation.

He started taking drugs to control his psychoses at the age of five. Growing up, he regularly battled his violent father, who soon left him and his mother. Now he now lives with a girlfriend in a motel, which, because of his disabilities, is partially subsidized by the parole department. Ironically, his girlfriend works as a security guard.

At age 15, he was incarcerated. He served 15 years for attempted murder and for assaulting a corrections officer while in prison.

Once enamored with skinheads, he now disdains them, recognizing that he gave up much of his life to remain loyal to their errant beliefs. An iron cross now covers the swastika tattooed on the back of his hand.

My friend believes in God, in many ways to God, and in many gods. He asks me to pray for him, and I do. He is glad for it, and he tells me so, and he tells me he prays for me.

In time, our paths will inevitably part. And when they do, we both will have benefited from our journey together.

Protest and Pursuit

I should have known better. But my curiosity and emotions got ahold of me during that early morning trudge to meet my train—what could the clamor mean, these shouting voices echoing through this normally peaceful and quiet college campus? In the distance, the voices grew louder. I was onto the trail of a Happening! Could it be the beginning of yet another “Occupy” protest with folks sitting-in to rail against big banks and corporate villains? Perhaps I would stumble upon a breaking story, worthy of the evening news. And I was equipped with my video-enabled iPhone—I had to investigate! But I’d better be fast. I usually have a few minutes to spare before the train arrives. It would have to be a two-minute or less diversion for me to still be able to intercept my train.

I rounded the corner and came upon the marchers who had taken up their protest. I grabbed my iPhone and began recording the quickly-developing events. But wait, there were no police to control the gathering crowd. A lone security guard watched from his golf cart-like buggy, more amused at the event than concerned for my safety. What if this crowd should seek a target and take their anger against the system out on me, the news reporter? I didn’t exactly panic at the thought—but maybe I blanched—yes, that’s it—a full blanch.

It gradually dawned on me. This was no full-bore, nearly-getting-out-of-control protest. It was almost polite. And there were no slogans decrying “the Man” or “the System.” Instead, I learned that it was a student-led advocacy to improve the wages of the college food service workers, hardly the sort of event that would threaten my life or make the evening news.

I recognized I would have to move quickly. I concluded my video recording. My two-minute long diversion left me no time to spare. I launched into a shortcut to the train station to save time; I cut quickly to the back of the building to shorten my train trek. But wait! A large construction project blocked my path. I quickly found a way around it and squirmed through, only to have my path disappear behind a construction fence. I backtracked and then tried to go the long way around the construction, ending up nearly across the street from the train station. I walked quickly, relieved to have found a way out of my quandary. Just as I completed this detour, I discovered I had entered another cul-de-sac. Never mind. I would cut through the hedge to the street.

I failed to recognize that a hidden chain-link fence ran the length of the hedge. I broke into a trot inspecting for any way out. Unfortunately, I was moving directly away from the train station. Without finding a break in the fence, I came upon a tennis court. Surely, there would be a gate out of the tennis court area, and yes, there was! I hustled to it, backpack now jouncing smartly on my back, and found—a large padlock and chain barred my exit! I was stuck like a lab rat in a maze. There was no way out.

With few minutes until the train’s approach, I made a desperate, beeline charge back toward the site of the rioting students, where my shortcut path had first gone awry. The backpack bounced violently as I hit full stride, jostling my lunch and tumbling my coffee thermos. Would I make it to the train in time? Could my heart manage the unaccustomed and sudden surge of adrenalin? Would subsequent passengers find me, exhausted, splayed out in the shrubs?

As I urged my body toward a sprint, I passed a middle-aged couple, who politely bade me a pleasant, “Good morning!” as though my reckless flight, panting breath and galloping backpack were the commonest occurrence on their slow daily stroll.

I hurtled through the intersection, daring a passing bus or car to obstruct my path. The clanging bell announced the lowering of the crossing gates. I told myself I had to make it. Faster! Faster!

And then it was over. I seized the hand grab, bounced up the single step and tumbled aboard the train, the last passenger to alight.

Drenched with perspiration, I steadied my breathing, trying to hide my flushed and panting state. I eased into a seat beside an unknowing passenger lost in sleep.

Seconds before, I would have risked a coronary to make this train. But like many fleeting life goals, once I had achieved it, I was ready to board the next train to the familiar comforts of home.

Bomb Threats

An urgent voice came over the intercom: “All personnel evacuate the building immediately!”

Agents quickly stuck their heads into my classroom door at the parole office to see if I needed help clearing the students from the room. I grabbed my indispensable possessions—backpack, coffee mug, and iPhone charger—and despite the urgency of the message, casually stopped by to use the restroom on the way out.

This was our second bomb threat on two successive Tuesdays, so the novelty had worn off. That’s why I assembled my belongings and executed the evacuation at a leisurely pace.

Six months ago, we had our first bomb threat, and my evacuation tactics were far less polished. I had bolted from the chair, bruising my thigh on the low-hanging desk drawer, barely concealing my semi-panicked plea for students to exit—quickly, please! We had hustled to the far side of the parking lot, speculating about how long we would be outside, and was there really a bomb? If so, who had planted it and why? Creative conjecture ran rampant. What if the building blew up? Were we far enough away to not risk injury? To top it off, I then realized—I had to urgently use the restroom!

But there was no such anxiety this time. I was a seasoned veteran—an experienced bomb-scare advisor. I knew it would take two-and-a-half hours for the bomb-sniffing dog to arrive and run its course through the building with promises of puppy-treats dancing in its brain for a job well-done. A final rooftop sweep would signal the final “all clear.” By that time, I could easily hike the three-quarters of a mile to Starbucks, sip a Cafe Americano, check my e-mail messages, and leisurely return. So I did.

As I walked, I wondered. Who could have called in this parole office bomb scare? A discontented parolee? An agent threatened with job loss because of agency downsizing? A cleaning crew contractor, disgruntled by ongoing cockroach wars?

I was determined to discover who the culprit might be.

After my hike back from Starbucks, I still had time to kill. So I opted for pancakes at Dennys, where I discovered a glut of other refugee staff members from the parole office, killing time, sipping coffee, munching on selections from the Breakfast Specials section of the menu.

And then the obvious conclusion struck me.

I’m no detective. But I can sniff out a Denny’s manager who’s just a bit too eager to bloat a day’s profit from the misfortune of traumatized, bomb-threatened parole staff, fattening his income with my humble short stack of wheat pancakes and the surrounding sea of parole agents downing oversized three-egg Spanish omelets and greasy hashed brown potatoes.

The Denny’s manager – he’s the one calling in the bomb threats.

Oh, yeah.