# 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.

#9 The Claspocaust

We arrive at the struggling outdoor mall, The Shoppes of Grand Prairie - the pretentiousness in the use of the spelling 'Shoppes' is noted - Our mission (Jr. & myself) is to pick up some barrels, eight to be exact, 2 of which we've been informed are brimming with buttons and it's suggested we transfer a portion of the buttons to some of the empty barrels. These are the basic instructions I receive along with a key to a storage unit located in the small God-frightened-but-football-worshipping community of Washington, IL. And that we are to gain access to the be-buttoned barrels inside the  "Shoppes" by way of loading zone/receiving area 200. It's here, at area 200 where we wait for some unknown person to meet us and 'show us the way'. 
Ten minutes pass (probably 5 or less) when I have the overwhelming desire for Jr. to stop talking to me. I tell him we should split up, canvas the 200 receiving area, there are 3 doors 200 north, 200 south and , for some reason, 200R. I tell Jr. to stay with the truck in case I go in one door and unknown person comes out another, to which Jr. says "Why?" I do not reply.

200 south is a literal dead end minus the sign. At 200R I follow some fairly shabby corridor and arrive at a door marked 'Justice' with an apt door-type peep hole and a buzzer below a placard that reads: Ring buzzer. I do as instructed.
Just as I mumble aloud, "a lot of good that did" a tiny female voice cautiously says from beyond the door of 'Justice', "Who are you?" spoken in a way that inspires me to say very casually, "I'm here to rob you...can you open the door?"  Instead there is total silence but possibly the faint sound of adrenaline popping through the delicate-brained sales associate on the other side .

Then so, I say, "I'm here to pick up some barrels - eight barrels - some are filled with buttons." After a minute the person says, "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not supposed to open this door for any one." 

"Then why does it have a button and a sign that says ring buzzer? Is it just for fun?"

 No reply, I can sense she feels she's being harassed. I retreat.

Outside in area 200, Jr. is hocking up a loogie with a kind of dumb-boy look on his face that reminds you of stories on mercy-killings and forced sterilization.

I tell Jr. what happened, ask him if he's seen anyone and he says, "Seen who?"

I wonder aloud what kind of shoppe is 'Justice' . Why the paranoia ? A jewelery store? That would make sense. So I take out my phone and look it up and it's just another American-brat accessorizing store. Probably a lot of throw pillows in pink with big juvenile fonts spelling words like "Princess" glitter galore for upper class trash.

And so then, I call.

"Thanks for calling Justice, I'm Tiffany(or some other annoying name could have been "Becca" I don't know) how may I help you today"

Hi, this is Dexter from Bradley and were conducting a snap poll of area merchants selling youth apparel and we were wanting to ask you a few questions

"Okay..."

What's the most expensive item you have in the store?

"Ummm, I don't know. But I can't tell you the price"

You can't tell me the price because you don't know or because "you can't tell me the price"?

"I can't give out our prices"

Is it a secret? Are there tags on the merchandise  or do people just not care and hand you a credit card.

[silence]

Don't you think it's strange? I mean, you can call any store and they'll tell you how much something is. It just sounds really strange. 

"It's company policy"

Do you think it's a good policy? To not even give a ballpark? I bet their website has prices. You don't think it's odd? This is like, the opposite of customer service. I bet you sell plastic princess tiaras in there.

"I just know it's company policy to not give out prices over the phone and I have to get off the phone I'm with a customer."

Are you really with a customer or just saying that to get me off the phone?

"Yes, there is a customer here"

Is there a manager there?

"I'm the manager."

You're the manager?

"yes"

You don't sound managerial.

"what?"

Is there a manager that manages you like a higher-up manager or something?

"No, I'm the only one working right now"

Oh, probably shouldn't have told me that. I bet that's company policy to not divulge that kind of information 

"For your information -"

Look, I gotta go, you got a customer that's not there to help. Have an appropriate corporate authorized  day.





The unknown person arrives and leads us in through 200north and then to a padlocked door nearly falling out of it's casing. 

"All these barrels go"

The story on the buttons is this: on the other side of the wall in the courtyard between the "shoppes" sits a memorial to 'The Holocaust" there are a dozen or more six-sided glass enclosures filled with buttons.

 Each button represents a Jewish victim of 'The Holocaust' (actually I'm not sure if they're including the non-Jew holocaust victims but seeing as those  non-Jews included Christians and we'd have to assume some non-affiliated altogether -  then being that religions are so prickly about symbols being attached and etc. I'd have to say that the 6 sided cylindrical containers are Jew-only Representative buttons)

The buttons we are in charge of are 'extra' victims/buttons or perhaps simply surplus.

 Or stand-ins, although, I'm not sure of the purpose of, well, do buttons go bad? Given the context and the symbolism of these buttons  - what I mean is here in this cluttered storage area these are just dirty surplus buttons but literally 15ft away 'these' buttons are a solemn sacred you know...- well, imagine their horror if me and Jr (who happens to be of German heritage to boot) were out in the courtyard sucking the buttons/representative symbols of holocaust victims ( I mean you'd think Or I would think that out there I'd feel it necessary to gently lift one button at a time ,carefully cover it with a tiny button blanket,after performing the Taharah.You know, in case anyone was watching.

Jr is manning the shop vac attached barrel with the discharge air blasting his face. He says, after a half hour of button vacuuming, "Man, I got dry throat" I say, "You got Jew throat." and he laughs in a way that made me wish I hadn't said it.

The horror of the button-holocaust-in-reverse continues as we load 'them' on to a truck to transport the buttons to their internment quarters which will be behind an orange roll-up door.

We've also been instructed to remove and "destroy"(actual term used by note writer , Sue, from the Jewish Federation) tens of paint cans and some kind of props to make room for the barrels to be stored.

I can not help myself - 

Jr. willingly poses