# 10

Say what you want about Peoria, I always do. 

Every morning I exit the County Jail I am accosted by a new and equally offensive odor wafting about. It’s as if I’m located in the middle of an ever evolving (devolving?) trade wind of putrification.

That’s variety.

Yes, I asked to do my sentence here but there's a logic in it that works for me. Peoria's the kind of town you where you don't mind locking yourself up in an institution every night.

My mugshot is now taped to my locker,  at least I’m not just a number here. I'm staring myself down every time I walk in Dorm A. My locker is the only one that faces the door so, technically (and I'm probably over-thinking here) I'm staring down everyone that walks into Dorm A. 

Shaved head, cold stare. 

It's probably the pixel-compression or something. 

I don't even look like that anymore. An alter-ego.

My locker was 'tossed' which, I've found, literally means that they toss your stuff around. 

There apparently is an accreditation inspection forthwith and the officers (some) seem to be on edge and each day I come back there are maximum cleaning attempts being made by my fellow inmates who, it seems, have not been instructed as to best-methods -  e.g., Gooby is cleaning the toilet bowl with a floor mop.

“Gooby” is almost too dumb to write/make fun of.

Like the afflicted children of Agee’s Greensboro, there could be sensed a ting of exploitation as often the case when any demonstrably extreme case of poverty (food/shelter/wits/whathaveyounots) suffers the unflinching eye of literary examination or the nit-picking toils of a part-time felon.

 But yesterday was his last day so, you know…

Gooby has quick tiny steps. The term, ‘scurry’, fails here in light of his height that  I’d guess is top-side of 6ft but not altogether wrong.

This is not at all an unfair depiction of Gooby. In fact a caricature artist would undoubtedly defer to the likeness,

The other night I walk over to the ’dining’ room to check the local paper to see if anyone I know has died or been arrested or if anything of any interest accidently occurred or was on its way to Pergotoria.

     Gooby is seated at the television. He’s holding the remote dearly as if it’s his binky. 

I turn with paper under arm and Gooby twists around and says, “ The Victoria’s Secret show is coming on.” 

I say I’m going to pass and continue out of the room. I can’t imagine sitting down to watch the Victoria’s Secret Soft-core with Gooby or at all. 

          Like, I can’t imagine I’d ever be wanting to stop and watch it anywhere at any time with or without anyone. The models of VS are as alive and stimulating to me as plastic blow up dolls, which I have been (a blow-up doll) on at least two occasions (I thought it was a great idea at the time but later I had a lot of questions for myself). 

Asshole alert; I consider pornography to be the crutch of the unimaginative or the (sadly) unfuckable (my brother was a porn-mag addict who didn’t get laid until he was 22 and in that one time he impregnated the girl and they never had sex again – crushing. He seems to be a good 'dad', though.) and it’s not really ever been a part of my life. 

Unless you count all the hours I watched Fox News Channel.

Maybe I was missing an opportunity. I mean, just imagine the conversation I could’ve had with Gooby sitting there, closely, watching the sexual-equivalent of a billion dollars (see that’s what I mean – pornography [to me] is kind of like sex I can never ‘spend’ and therefore, worthless) seductively parading across the screen. It’s like setting a high –def TV to the Food Channel in front of a starving child. Entirely unsatisfying (granted, masturbation , while never equal to …yeah, I don’t want to write this either). … but think of this poor starving kid, he can’t finger fuck his taste buds into some level of nutritious supplementation.

I am  starving.

Anyway, this conversation; I could have led him down so many paths and recorded it all but then that wouldn’t have been right. 

Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should and really, I’d rather just imagine it.

“Pizzas here! Hey, guys, pizza…Hey, Lipski did you order pizza?” 

I shake my head. I’m disgusted. The whole thing is just... He could at least be like, “Hey, your fuckin’ pizzas here , whoever ordered this shit has got two seconds before it goes back!”

How can I write about the trials and tribulations of work release when the corrections officer is playing middle-man to the pizza delivery boy.

“Hey, hey guys…yoo hoo…”

What can I say?

"I’m in ‘pizza-solitary’ thanks to this fucking ulcer or whatever" ?

Some other idiot is playing “Deer Hunter” (not the fun suicide version with a bullet & a gun) Slingblade is explaining the ins and outs of the 9-11 conspiracy to some ragged convict I’ve not seen before.

It’s Saturday, “Pizza night”. It’s a smelly pajama sleep-over party for people who make bad choices.

I fucking give up.

But honestly, with a nights reflection writing now, It doesn't matter if I'm in WR or Prison or in an ICU or if I signed up to be a military hero or stock shelves at Costco - it's all a stupid fucked up comedy.