Gray Sunday

Adidas catches me at a weak moment. He'd popped his swollen hawk face into the room and said they were cutting us loose, 'right now'. 
A twelve hr furlough just became 12hrs and 45 minutes, something about chronological chaos and the hours trading places - daylight whatevers and in my jubilation I agreed to XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The questions and commentary are non-stop as they fall out of his constantly gaped mouth. He doesn't actually form words but allows some type of verbal flatulence to escape his pie and junk food hole.
He won't shut up.
He won't shut up.










He won't shut up.

 It's like waking up and soon coming to the ugly hangover that's just about to kick in as the last bit of buzz leaves you naked and shivering. 
This will not be a habit (XXXXXXXXXXX) and I'll express as much to him tonight when he is sure to think that somehow we are peers or comrades or...

He insisted on giving me five bucks if I'd allow him to run in the house and make change, I won't allow it, I just want to get the fuck away from  him XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He's a big shot, he says him and his brother own a lot of properties, in fact they're now about to 'invest' in a dozen, who knows, maybe more, 'upscale homes' - he's talking 60-70k, estates no less - he says he can get me some work, cash work, he'll square it with the jail staff, he went to school with a bunch of them , he's been here 8-9 times etc vomit. 
He says that his brother knows me and that I have a 'solid reputation'. 
Obviously his brother is lost in ignorance.

He tells me he has 17 guys working for him, he's got this and that and XXXXXXXX because, you know, his mom wasn't coming until 8 o'clock because that's when we we're supposed to get cut.

Get out of my head you pile of urges.

No such luck.
Earlier he was shoveling generic cocoa puffs and 2% with his face 12"s from the screen watching kid-you-fucking-not Soul Train. 
It's on every morning he says.
 I'm not usually up and just hanging out. I (usually)get up 4 minutes before it's time to leave for work but I'm caught up in the vortex of time-change and so I've showered, had a decaf green/white tea and  cherry Poptarts (not my favorite but I've made my bed and now must lie in cherry Poptart crumbs). Steak and eggs is for the elite class. Then it pops in my head for just a minute out of nowhere - Jeff Foxworthy is blue collar? What the fuck does JF know about...never mind.

Anyway, the whole mornings been a whirlwind since I was interrupted in pod 2, busily scribbling what was somehow morphing into pseudo-poetry 
 (what poetry isn't pseudo-something better? poetry is a writers way of saying, "I can't get my shit together, see what you make of this.") 

- inspired by the abomination that is infomercials which is really all for the most part everything on the fucking...

 [Except the other night I caught a documentary about banjo, 'Give me the banjo" to be exact. Woody Guthrie is mentioned and happens to be (WG) one of only five biographies I ever read(unless you count a bio on the Marx Bros collective and then which there have been 3 more and I never count the 'other' bros because you know why) by the middle of the Guthrie bio I despised him and by the end I was him.
And I also caught in the WG book the first notion that Dylan was more of an opportunist then people might think (actually this is the second, the first being his crooning for Victoria's Secret several years ago and so the following second was actually the third) the second was from Dylan himself in his auto-bio wherein he also relates that all that cowboy shit he cranked out in the seventies was indeed 'shit I flung against the wall and stuck, then went back scraped the floor and imprinted the really bad watery stuff' (paraphrased, but more than less the exact quote) he didn't want to be apart of a revolution (meet a few 'revolutionaries' and you won't either) he just wanted to make music. The honesty was appreciated and so I kept him]


Jail Update: 
Bleacher is gone, outta here. 
New guy (boring, so you know, not mentioned earlier) got walked (sent over to the main jail. Friday night) for some violation I'm only casually interested in knowing and therefore have no idea.

Three more came in . 
I don't think I have to tell you, this is not pleasing to myself but at least I have somethings more to complain about. 

Cedric The Oxygen Tank Inhaler was walked as well, something about him being a loud mouth. There is sanity amongst the rank and file after all.

One of the new guys asks another if he wants to play pool. Yes, there's a god damn pool table in here.
 I'm trying to take in the history of banjo and the new guys think it's time to start cracking balls.
 In my twisted interpretation they're exactly right. 
Fortunately they have not four quarters between them . Tweedleduh stands gape-mouthed while Tweedledouche is inspired to interrupt me for a quarter.

"Do you have a quarter for two dimes and a nickle?"

I look up and say, what? but like, you are not asking me to help you two retards play cocks and balls are you?
  Game aborted.




oN tHE jOB:
Jeffery-Jeffro-Jimmy-Joe-Jackass-Jr. 
He prefers 'Jr'. This is his truck window.

I mention to Dick(in name and character), one of the sales people, that if I were a person of a certain hue and pulled into the parking lot and looked up to see 'Jr' the new warehouse guy's ford truck with a gunless rack I'd put it in reverse and spend my floor covering money anywhere else that has enough sense not to let a moron employee park his piece of shit rebel-yell next to their carpet store.

Dickard (yet another bastardization of Richard) launches into the weak but well worn ass-vomit about the flag 's 'true history' I say it's entirely bullshit, that I bet all the booze in his cabinet at home (it's all he spends his money on, he drinks like a scary hermit with tell-tale hearts beneath each floorboard) that dumb fuck Jr is not interested or even aware of the 'history' and is wholly unprepared to be engaged in a conversation pertaining to states rights.

 He says it's just a flag, a flag can't be racist. I say a cross is just a cross it can't save the world I don't care what you nail to it and if I set it on fire in my yard I couldn't say well, I like a good vertical  fire in the fall.

 I tell him I can't put a swastika on my hat and walk around claiming that I'm just a big fan of  Greco-Roman antiquity and I can't show up at the Hillel with my 'historical' interest symbol and expect the folks to let me in to measure for new wall to wall.
 I tell him it's okay, it's not a crime to be a racist, then walk off.
The old goat stands up  and hollers, "you don't know the history" and I shout back across the showroom that I do in fact 'know the history' and that you don't need to be as old as dirt to know history and if he hassles me about irrelevant details in my measures for his customers I'm going to bury him in historical detail of the entire place.,


The manager pulls me aside the next day, says we need to go over a few things about my measures and Dickards (feigned) confusion when it comes to certain details, no big deal he says, just so 'we're all on the same page'.

Full detail:

This is the page we are all on now.

# 8 Room & Bored

So toss the dirty diaper out of the car and go in and see your "man" via video visitation and fuck it.

Inside it smells like a tanker of semen overturned in the dorms. Must be a new Maxim issue being passed around.
 "The Bleacher" is absent I notice because I haven't heard any ranting about the smell.
Maybe he's protesting.
The "Bleacher" is a fairly restrained moniker for this particular convict.
The bathroom, the odor in particular, is his focus of rage more oft than not.
The last time he had at it with bleach, my eyes burned for three hours.
 He's a maniac.
In the mornings he strolls through with a bottle of Gold Bond medicated powder and locks himself in the stall. I really don't want to think about it, the issue, the GB ritual. It's everyday. Chaffing, no, forget it...

He's bent at the waist 90 degrees when he brushes his teeth. He seems to force his teeth against the brush back and forth instead of using the sane, rational approach most people employ.

He's also a habitual/borderline-obsessive snorter and hocker  upper of  loogies.

If a cup of bleach will do, he's fine with a half gallon.
I think he's working with a 1:1 ratio.

 Rule of thumb is a 1/4 cup to a gallon but you know, not for bad asses who pierce their nasal septum and put a shiny horseshoe shaped whatever fucking thing through it. Like a bull nose-ring but on a really skinny anorexic 5' 7" 'bull'.

"I know it smells strong but it needed it."

Of course. 
You've done all the appropriate clinical/safety trials.
It's a clean that leaves your membranes bleeding, really thorough.
He even wears gloves.

He's also, as it only recently occurred to me, right now, been trying to manipulate the guards into getting rid of the fan. Here's how -

Not too long ago I come in from work and he's hanging around the guard's pod and saying that the fat man and the Mexican (his terms)are fighting over the direction and/or placement of the fan that sits on the floor(I enjoy it for the steady humming noise of the blades) he says he can't take it, doesn't know what he's gonna do, it's driving him crazy.

The guards are amused.
Next day, Adidas says to me, "Hey Lipski, you know what happened to the fan?"

"No, what happened?"

"It's broke"

"Huh."

The plug had been sabotaged by breaking off one of the prongs. This was no accident, I looked at it, it wasn't a wear and tear thing. It didn't occur to me earlier because why should it - usually distracted with anything else.
I'm fairly sure there never was an argument between the fat man and the Mexican over the fan. I think the Bleacher doesn't like the fan because he gets hit with it after it sheers over Adidas and the fan is pulling from the bathroom that Bleacher has been chemically trying to take down since I got here.
So he figures if he breaks it, that's it. There's no budget for new fans, the tiles falling off the walls.

Fat man was persistent and maintenance replaced the plug. 
Fat man 2 - Bleacher 0

There's more but you know...

Also, Bleacher is deeply suspicious of my writing. I'd say he's paranoid that I'm writing about him.

"So, what are you - writing about all the happenings in Peoria County Jail."
 I give him a dismissive laugh and say, "It's not that interesting."

And it's not, (interesting I mean) my whole life is a not very interesting story (heroic struggles? Everest? World Record? TV credit?) but I've always been compelled to narrate or document or compile or whatever-extrapolate meaning from the damn thing.

Call it free-lance. (Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. Those who have 'issues' do neither and call it free-lance.)

I've found that certain behaviors in here can be curtailed simply by picking up a pen and notepad and writing with, what I assume, is a very stern expression on my face (or very amused depending on certain behavior observed).

The pen is sometimes mightier than the bored.

# 7

Sling Blade checked in Friday with a one-off impression of the character that made BBT famous. This one's sporting a mohawk that's mostly grown out. Mid 50's? fuck I don't know, could be a severely weathered 40's.

I'm on my bunk finishing up last weeks NYT
 Sling Blade lurches over and asks me , "Cans you have plastic hangers, here?"
 I tilt the paper forward-down and look up at him "I don't know."
He retreats but is still looking for answers(it's all in the handbook).

 This guy was not going to stop at one question. I'm not much for questions.

SB is already complaining - "...in a place like this you'd expect them guards to wake you up for work, mm hmm."

"You gotta pay to do the laundries?"

"How much?"

The voice in your head that's talking like Sling Blade is pretty much dead on. He doesn't do the "mm hmm" but I added it for our enjoyment.
I've got SB for 120 days -

Also last night Adidas , who is a nosy walrus, is scarfing food and says to me , "Lipski, did you have any of this?"

"No"

"What did you eat today?"

"Do you seriously want a list of what I had to eat today?"

"You never eat"


"The question is, why do you eat this shit? You're out for twelve hours a day and then you come in here and shovel this shit down your throat."

"It's free food"


"It's shit. I don't eat shit."

"You better get used to it."

(this makes no sense I don't have to get used to it I'm in work-release)

"Why would I have to get used to it?"

Now he's out of things to say.

 He also takes interest in my writing at least enough to ask me the same questions - "So, Lipski, what are you writing like a book or a journal or something? Have you ever written a script? Me and my brother have always wanted to write a script but neither one of us can write for shit or you know, have any ideas."

Then why in the fuck would you 'always' feel compelled to write a script? And I don't think there's any question as to what type of script he'd want to write the only question is if Stallone  is up for another Rambo (probably).
He and his assumed moronic brother probably always wanted to got to Mars after watching Total Recall  or wanted to fly jets after watching ....

This I promise:
 The next time I am asked about 'my writin', I will say, "I write about people who bother the shit out of me and I post it on the internet and a few people read about you."



Young guy wants to know what I'm drawing. I say I'm sketching out a plan for a small trailer I'm converting into a camper, he says, "Oh, so your drawing something real, then?"

Yes, it's really real, really, like you, terribly real.

Cedric The Oxygen Tank Inhaler pulls out a chair right behind me with the box of dominoes in his other hand. He's entirely too loud and also supplementary-annoying for a guy that needs oxygen assistance.

This, however, can not stand. Not right fucking behind me.

"You're not going to sit behind me, right? You're fucking kidding me."

"What habee tah fooh payta (? - also really hard to understand despite volume/forced oxygen [which, I should mention is used 'as needed', not like it's a permanent appliance, yet])

"You're loud"

"Wha?"

"YOU'RE TOO FUCKING LOUD I CAN'T STAND YOU WHEN YOU'RE IN THE OTHER ROOM YOU CAN NOT POSSIBLY BE CONSIDERING SITTING RIGHT BEHIND ME."


(What? He's hard of hearing)

Anyway, he sits at the far side of the table behind me and I think, I just think, he tried to work on his inside voice.
Then he offered me a Jolly Rancher. I passed.

# 12

                                                      18:00hrs

Reporting home. The usual frisk/pat down. A good one lets me know they miss me.
Then, Officer ________ says, "Hey, Lipski, did aah, you go to medical to get your DNA redone? [Oh fuck, what string of unsolved crimes is the only question now]"
No. Redone?
"Did aah, yeah. Did anbody aah -"
No.
"Okay, when aah you aah get back aah, we gotta get you back to medical. Seattle wants another DNA swab with their own kit or aah, I don't know, aah, whatever."
Oh. (Oh, holy fuck. This is how it all starts, 'Just need another sample, very routine...")
I'll spare you the full page of caffeine induced paranoia. I'm the only one who would slam coffee before reporting to jail. Everyone else here is in a Tylenol PM coma.

18:45hrs

Officer Cheney (no relation) escorts me to medical for my DNA redo, I try to remain calm. 
The air is thick with internal fidgeting and bleach.Nurse comes in, jaunty full size girl. Classic sassy plus-size with a pretty smile and seemingly implausable good spirit.
"Where do I know you from?"
I don't -
"Comedy club! You were down there talkin' about, what the fuck was it? I don't know, it was fuckin' funny."
Oh, yeah.
 "Walmart or somethin', shit."
Cheney is unmoved. Solid ice. I try to crack it.
Did you get a lot of Cheney jokes?
(a full 3-5seconds pass - )
"No."
(another 3-5) 
(Really)
"Most of it was just, 'any relation?'."
lack of eye contact/barely a pulse/jaw tension
My unspoken follow up question "are you?" (Related to D Cheney/D Vader)

Turns out he's an okay guy, has a sense of humor, just not good with people. I get that.

# 1

Names and identifying characteristics/particulars have been changed/omitted for obvious reasons

Slightly expanded notes & conclusions N&C -a are included at the bottom of the page.

22-June-2011

The booking process is mostly uneventful and only a little awkward when the high school tour group comes through - with just me, your captive reporter, sitting in the booking room facing the glass that separates the bookers from the bookees (the booking process could be volatile in certain situations - you can imagine).

The god damn piece of shit $2,500.00 finger print scanner wasn't fuckin' workin' - as the lady put it - so we had to "do it old school" (again 'lady').

There is an enormous amount of cussing among the jail staff, you might say a 'gratuitus amount'.

There is also, among the staff, a large percentage missing front teeth (noticed in booking room, to be fair)

The cursing/cussing/swearing etc what have you is all benign work place banter. It actually comes off as a kind of "Kiss my grits." road side diner but with

           XXXXX
                   and
                 XXXXXX
with badges pinned to
xxxxxxx xxxx xxxx
serving the food.

Those who do not get the diner analogy/reference it's not worth the sidebar to explain so, you know, disregard.

While staring at a plate of 'food' that's been offered (and politely, oddly sincerely - therefore, suspiciously offered) a conversation between officer

             xxxxxx
                     and                     xxxx concerns the assassination of JFK (which is, by the way, like talking about baseball, TV etc - boring)

Officer________

                 
says that he's always said that it was Johnson & Hoover behind the whole thing - "I'm dead certain." - he adds, thusly preempting any debate on the preamble.

"I'm dead certain" said in a way or a tone that suggests officer_______

is dead certain about a lot
xx xxxxxx
he has no xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxxxxxbased on facts/reality. 

Like, as when, in May when gas was $4.19 and I said it would be $5 by summer - I had no idea - I was, as the staff might and do say, "Talkin' out my ass."

Enter into booking hive - mammoth bull head deputy_______

(some names I do not want to omit for obvious reasons -humor/self-sabotage but....) 

His head is shaved in such a way as to suggest it's been shorn to the second third or fourth dermal layer with a salve of car wax applied and buffed to an ultra-high sheen - a ritual, you might imagine, performed in the nude with a straight razor and ear damaging levels of death metal.

But still, a little more 'together' than Loughner.

Heard not seen: "Looks like third shift didn't do a damn bit of paperwork last night! I mean, what the fuck?"

Usual On The Job Complaints met with the usual OTJ indifference.

11:30am

DNA swab

N&C-b

Anything outside of Standard Operating Procedure - e.g., A DNA swab is, here @PCJ, usually sealed in a postage paid, preaddressed, plastic mailer sleeve but when faced with a Non-SOP or slight variation in the swab-seal-send SOP (say, the DNA is to be sent to a different jurisdiction - and out of state -OMFG) brain cells_____

                           neurons                          xxxxxxx xxxxxx             implode and xx xxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxx xxxx xx xxxx

Anger, confusion, Perp-perplexion. 

N&C-c

Heard but not seen:

"Can I ask a rhetorical question?"

I do not how to properly illuminate here the level of

xxxxxxxxx xxx xxxxxxx xxxx! xxx xxxx?

12ish

Scrub my bunk and locker with some kind of acrid green fluid in a spray bottle.

Delousing powder not available, another movie fantasy destroyed. 

I scrub so thoroughly that one of the other 'residents' asks me if I work there

N&Cd

12:45

Make my bed, lay in it.

3:12

Fall off bunk, land on edge of steel bunk below and bruise several ribs, crack one.

 Various other injuries incurred.

N&Ce

Jailer asks me, "You still doing comedy?"

Paris is beautiful this time of year, even to a corpse.

Seen but not hearing:

A lumbering disheveled (and grumpy looking too) jailer with a large hearing aid distinctly stuck in his ear - I assume it's a hearing aid, it's "massive" as the british like to say

(British affinity for words that begin mass-) it could be a control port. 

As he walks he rises to one side and drops to the other repeatedly- it's the worse case of uneaqualibrium I've ever witnessed.

Notes & Conclusions

a)Never mind

b) Does the thought of your DNA being compared to a data bank of DNA from unsolved crimes give you a slight, tiny, chilling pause?

c)It is also not advisable to, as an inmate, offer to pay for additional postage and suggest a Sharpie as solution to the "How do we change the address on the mailer sleave?" problem.

d) Do I work there? I'm a convict, not a

xxxx.

e)Beyond some magical miniature voo doo doll being held vengefully somewhere in Seattle, I have no idea how exactly this happened.I'm not what you'd call "uncoordinated" although I do have a very specific strain of "luck".

"What's with the crazy font changes and stuff?"

- ask blogger. Backspacing in Google land may cause the axis to shift. All of them.

# 4

"You watchin' this? -?"

"Yeah"

I'm looking at it, 'it' is on, the television, I'm watching "Cops".

His question is of incredulousness.

I can tell by not only his tone but also his raised eyebrows, distended jaw, he just can't believe I'm watchin' "Cops"

"Why, you don't like it?"

"Not bein locked up, I don't. Sure don't"

-shrug-

" Not bein locked up, no sir."

"I don't get the difference, you're locked up out there too."

His eyebrows crunch down like he's trying to catch flies, then spring back up, then make a cartoonish arch with the one and a back-slash with the other.

He leaves the room.

Of course I could have engaged him a little instead of just shutting him down but that's usually not my style. Unless I'm in an engaging mood which, I'm usually not in here.

I would have pointed out, had I felt like it, that every night he checks out of "locked up" to go do his job and "no sir, and sure don't" to whoever usually has to listen to him at work.

Also, I don't have to talk to anyone. Sometimes I'll pretend I don't hear someone. Sometimes I look at them and then look away, this is my response.

The reason is, once you start, you can't stop it. Or you can't stop it without some weirdness or slighted feelings. So I don't start.

If you don't know what I'm getting at in so far as engaging talkative people in certain situations, it probably wouldn't be worth my while to two-finger type an explanation or yours to read it.

What I meant by "locked up out there" was on at least two but maybe three levels.

One being that he's border-line retarded - DD - just this side of slapping himself for a pudding pop. (Not being coarse here, insulting, just factual)

And tard-self-awareness can be debated but a prison you don't know you're in is still a prison.

See below;

The other, concerns all of us in here and out "there" and probably for a large portion of the mid-west whether cognitive of it or not the answer is a stark reality and begs a call to action of those affected and aware and the question is, how free are you in Peoria, Illinois? Just the prevailing "Wisdom" of this town, county, general geographic area, is a fucking prison.

Out-of-towners see following crash course: our sweet, plump children , The outdoor life

scenery

The county fair

The Family Farms

....depression, suicide, etc.

Illinois, the "Come here and die state" or the "you ain't got the right to die until it happens 'naturally' you know, death by corporate toxins and whatter-not state"

Back to-

The "other", other level:

Even when we're out working, we're still locked up - the psychological effects of knowing you're being watched, sometimes followed, sometimes snooked-up-upon, can wear on you.

Short while later "locked up guy" is back, haunching around the room, touchin' base with the fools who've opened the door to him. I want to ask him his "locked up" feeling or opinion concerning the viewing of "the family guy".

But I don't for reasons mentioned above and, also, honestly, I don't want to actually ask him, I only want to hypothetically pose the question in my head and write about it. This is, incidentally, what I prefer to do most of the time in most situations, I'm writing your part in my story.

This may explain my small social circle which, is safe to say, if we want to be blunt and break it down into real terms and why the fuck wouldn't we want to? - my social "circle" barley makes for a ",".

Earlier in the common room:

"Hey, I'm watching that."

Guy came in and sat right in front of the TV, blocking my view. I mean, as far as you are to your screen right now, he was to the TV - the TV sits on a table, it's like a 19" or something, the audio is horrible, no cable, &c. - he turns, looks at me, turns back.

"Hey, Hey I can't see through you."

He turns back after a pause and says, "I heard you the first time." then gets up and walks by me which is when I look up at him and say, "Okay, Alright." as in a tone of "Oh, I thought for a minute you didn't hear me because you didn't fucking move, so I was thinking still, that you were trying to posture, maybe some Big Dog shit or whatever but maybe you're just slow at comprehension, which, ya' know, from where I'm sitting, is totally believable."

What this all is is stupidity.

This is not "The Joint" it's not even jail, it's kinda' jail. But so, here's the thing - if you fuck up in here, and not even majorly so, you roll up your mattress and head to the other side.

The real deal.

 So, have some respect. Eat your cherry Pop-Tarts from the vending machine and shut up.

#6 Aporia in Peoria

A day:
Work

These are the two warehouse guys,

actually the one on the left is gone now, decided he wanted to work a lot harder for a little more.
                 He had it made in the warehouse,  he'd cook up an omelet on a hot plate every morning in his makeshift kitchen complete with mini-fridge. He'd blast music like Tool, death metal,  a little country, whatever. Before he quit smoking pot and chain smoking menthols he did that back in the warehouse too.

He also moonlighted as a College cheer leading coach. Yeah, he was one of the guys who showed the other guys how to hold a 100lb girl in a mini skirt in the palm of your hand up over your head. Said he wasn't into pornography.

A couple of years back I had stopped in to pick up something and he was brooding.

"Man, my cat, Fish, died."

That's the way I heard it - My cat Fish - I thought he'd done it (named his cat "Fish") to be funny.
 As he continued I realized he meant Catfish and then I thought it was kind of ridiculous, to be that upset over a fish.
 I don't think I have to explain to you the limitations of a Mans-Best-Fish relationship.

But okay so this is the guy who was almost giddy because he'd scored tickets to a Dave Mathews concert in Wisconsin a couple of months back, he's got a soft side (and a high-tolerance for nauseating 'entertainment' in my opinion, a DM song here and there, uh...but a whole concert of that shit? ).

Then he says he's so distraught and teetering on rage at the death of mortal-beloved-aquatic that he felt like, quote- "I want to smash the next niggers head that comes digging in our dumpster for scraps"- unquote. And not in a jokey way like some folks would.

He's gone now as I mentioned earlier but before he'd left and after I was hired on as an employee he pulled me aside and said, "Hey, is it okay if we give you the nickname K2, you know, just between us in the warehouse?"

I said, Haven't you already? , and then he laughed that huge guttural laugh he always did - you know, the kind of guy who almost always follows up a comment with a huge wind-blowing guttural stink laugh in your face -
So after a week of incessant call outs of "K2!" - (to give you an idea of the sheer volume of call outs, I started avoiding the warehouse or at least the main entry doors in fact I would walk out the front door walk along the grass between the building and the highway to the regular emergency exit door which was always open, for ventilation purposes I guess, located at the very back in opposite to the very front I'd originated from just to get something I needed off a shelf that was just the other side of one of the showroom walls towards the back, where I had been when I realized I needed this something and could have just made two-three steps through the double swinging doors to the warehouse but because I was overloading on "K2!"'s and really needed to not get fired I would avoid being detected in this way.




AA
Suzanne, crazy, volume-control-gone-haywire, Suzanne.

Now she's chairing the Friday 6 o'clock, now she's in control.


Suzanne does her reading and then she 'asks' if she can go first knowing (and that's what I hate is when someone says, "Does anybody mind if...?" when they know no one is going to say they mind.
Maybe, to be fair, no one will actually mind but they don't give a fuck - it's passive aggressive line cutting. It's bullshit.  Also; "Can I ask a rhetorical question?" they're rhetorically asking to ask a rhetorical question, they [rhetorical question askers et al] do not expect nor will there be an real chance of an interjection denying them their rhetorical question opportunity. And, to point out the obvious: "Can I ask two rhetorical questions?" would be accur - no wait, that makes it three) that she'll be allowed to drag us through her Burlington story one more time.


One guy is staring at the inside of his hat.

Another is staring at red-piercing hate. I can just sense it.

Several exchanges of the usual and then over to me.

"I don't have anything sad or depressing to report and I'm feeling pretty good for the moment so, I'm going to pass."
                           
 - Long Silence

Suzanne, unsteady, is bobble-heading at me.

"So, back to you, Suzanne." - in a not too shabby local news anchor impression.
Not really any discernable appreciation for my efforts.


Home 

(Peoria County Jail)

In the common room.

Was probably going to be obvious but...
black guy says, "Somebody, gonna be trouble. Yes, sir."

Why?

"Sign right there say 'Do not close blinds'." (blinds are closed but the sign clearly reads, Do not open blinds. I can't figure how he went wrong there. I just walk back out of the room.)

Dinner: 

                   I call him Adidas, Because, not very interestingly,  he wears an Adidas sport shirt, jacket, shorts and when he's not wearing his Adidas shoes he's wearing his obvious-brand sandals.

Adidas guy, better than "New Fat Guy" or NFG as I had been referring to him in my notes.
He sits before a 'dinner' tray hunched over the thing , legs bouncing up and down giving the impression he's about to tackle the tray - looks like that football player warm up thing they do when they run in place furiously - nkind of hunched over with their hands out in front of them air-tickling like  hulking pedophiles outside a boy-whore* house in Tapei at the fore-start of a 'backdoor buster sale' The passion runs high.
He goes through the local rag, eyebrows gesticulating wildly as his eyes jump from picture to picture. Then he hits the bunk after a trip to the bathroom and probably a self-burping.

Baby go poop and take nappy now.

Walking by guy with earbuds listening to music he says, not sings, "...Somethings gotta turn out right." and it's that thing where the faint 'noise' suddenly reveals itself by additional clue that it's a familiar tune you happen to like and so I say to him, "Alice in Chains" and he says, "I don't have any change." and I repeat louder and he pulls out one ear bud and says, "I'm listening to Alice in Chains."
No shit. Disengage.
*credit to Sean Rouse