How Cavalier

So clearly it was an outright lie I told about the follow by email link being fixed. I thought I had it figured out, but alas, I was wrong. At this point I think it’s safe to say that I don’t really know what I’m doing when it comes to technology. Here’s an example.

For the past few months, the turn signals in my car have slowly but surely failing to stay on. I’ll flip the switch, you know, left or right, and sometimes I’ll get a blink or two or maybe even fifteen out of them, and then they stop. I will do the same thing repeatedly until I turn, but often they will stop working altogether. I am not a fan of cars that fail to signal turns, and I am, for the most part, now one of “those people.” It got pretty bad in the last week so I went to an auto parts store to purchase a turn signal relay, which is what the internet told me the most likely problem was.

Auto Zone is a nifty little place filled with things I will never understand, or at the very least never need. It was a slow Sunday afternoon when I went in but the line was slow moving. The cashier guy was friendly and helpful, and he even let me watch as he searched for my part on his computer. I bought the relay for $17 and that was two weeks ago.

Even according to the internet, it is impossible to find the little box on a 2001 Chevrolet Cavalier (Ladies, I don’t usually brag, but it’s got an AM/FM radio.) and I have looked absolutely everywhere. I’ve opened up the steering column, looked in and around the fuse box, and under the hood. It simply does not exist with the tools I own to unearth car things.

At this point I decided it wasn’t a faulty relay, rather a bad turn signal switch. That’s the lever that sticks out of the left side on the steering column. So, again I consulted the internet, and purchased one from Amazon for $35, with free shipping from my Prime account. I didn’t do any research on how to make the modification, which is usually how things explode. So, after work on Friday (yesterday), I stopped at Walmart (go ahead and pass that up if you get the chance to go on a Friday night at about 5PM) and purchased my very first ratchet set. I went back to Walmart about an hour later to trade that ratchet set for one with metric sockets, because I foolishly assumed an American car would have standard bolts. Anywho, (I love people watching. I’m at Nina’s Coffee Shop on Selby and Western, and there is a rather portly gentleman with an ill-fitting wig in high heels and bright red lipstick standing in front of me waiting for his coffee. It’s not so much him or his attire that fascinates me, but the reaction of the people around him. But, I digress.) I get home and park in the driveway. My landlord is in the backyard watering the grass seeds he put down three weeks ago. He claims that the birds have eaten all of the seeds which makes me wonder what he’s actually watering. I begin to tear apart the steering column yet again. It looks pretty simple, and it is. There’s only one minor problem, there’s a safety feature that makes the horn honk when I remove the first bolt and a little metal piston makes contact with metal on the steering wheel. Easily enough, I disable the horn by removing the proper fuse. The switch comes out and goes back in with relative ease. I’m proud of myself.

I turn the key into the on position, and I signal a fake right turn which doesn’t have the desired effect on my landlord. I thought maybe he would duck for cover. It blinks! One, two, three, four, nothing. Fuck. Maybe I should try a left turn? Same result. It’s not a bad switch at all. I think that probably somewhere in the depths and innards of a Cavalier is a turn signal relay, they just don’t want me to find it.

I really don’t want to have to take it in, but I fear that’s the only option left. But how much will it cost for them to prod and poke and search? Too much.

Well, that’s all I’ve got for this one. If any of you who read this can fix cars, let me know.

Get out and enjoy this beautiful weather!

The Papering

At work on a daily basis I am subjected to an assortment of minor injuries. I use the term injury loosely, as they are mainly paper and steel cuts, splinters, and minor scrapes and bruises. My hands are rough after seven months of working with paper, and I infrequently feel any pain, but something rare happened today that made me cringe, and I’m going to do my best to make you feel it.

Laminating requires paper to move along conveyer belts, through heated rollers, and out onto vibrating tables called joggers. Overall it isn’t very exciting, but I do like it, and I am learning a lot about an industry that will be around for a long time. On occasion, I am required to put my hands into places where the edges of thick paper, called card stock, are exposed and the paper cuts happen slowly and often I can’t move my hand away until a problem is resolved, sometimes lasting for a second or two, a very long time to get a paper cut. You can try it yourself at home if you like, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

Today I was adjusting a belt on a large machine and it happened. Moving along at only four meters per minute, a 40-inch sheet of card stock made its way under my fingernail on my right ring finger. I couldn’t move my hand or the belt would spin out of control and potentially destroy it. It felt exactly like it sounds. The pain immediately shot up the entire length of my arm and I could see blood soaking into the edge of the sheet as it rolled on by. I got the belt tight with my other hand, and just then it happened again to my left thumb. It went right under the nail. I felt like I might throw up, and I had the sudden urge to make a poop. I couldn’t just walk away from the running machine at that point, so I sucked it up and put on a couple Band-Aid’s© and continued to run the job.

For eight months I had avoided the paper cut that nobody wants, and then it happened twice in about two seconds. I’m not traumatized, and if that’s the worst thing that happens to me today, I’ll be pretty happy. But for those two long seconds, my overactive imagination leads me to believe I was going to be hospitalized or dead. But here I am, alive and well.

On a completely different note, if you pray, or talk with a Higher Power, say a few words for my dog Willie tonight. He’s been sick for two weeks and doesn’t seem to be getting any better. He’s at the Vet for the third or fourth time since he began to decline shortly after having surgery to remove two infected teeth a couple weeks back. I know he’s old, and I know old dogs die, but I’m not ready for him to die like this. That said, I also know it’s out of my hands, and whatever happens, happens. It might sound crummy to say, but I can’t control this situation, I can only do my best to make sure he’s comfortable while he’s sick. And I can’t even take credit for that because he’s with my aunt Connie. So I’m very grateful to have her taking care of him right now. Connie, thank you for cleaning up all of his diarrhea, you are a true hero.

God Maertz

Until recently the word God really didn’t have much meaning to me. It sort of scared me when I saw how many times the term was used throughout the steps, and in the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. I couldn’t get my head around the fact that I couldn’t do this according to the book unless I had a relationship with God of my understanding. Now, that last sentence made it easy for me. I could just say that Mother Nature, or a group of people was my God, right? Well, yes. It’s true to a point, but what I came to realize recently is that this program will never work for me if I can’t humble myself, and admit that I’m not the greatest, most powerful thing on this world.

It’s not about worshiping a God and fearing not getting into heaven. It’s not about religion, so I don’t need to pick a side and start going to church. I just need to believe in God. It’s that fucking simple! And ever since I made the decision to stop resisting that one last piece of the puzzle, things have started falling into place.

It all happened in a meeting a while back. Obviously I can’t get into specifics, but somebody said something that just kept repeating in my head. If I’m not to the point where I haven’t suffered enough to humble me to get down on my knees and ask for help, then maybe I should go back out and feel some more pain. I knew then that I had done enough field work to not need to try it out again.

It didn’t happen right away, but slowly I made little steps toward turning my will over to the care of God. I first started praying in my head. But I wasn’t doing it right, I was asking for things for myself. Then I started doing my fourth step, and that’s when I realized I needed to pray for others, and knowledge in how to help others. And that’s when I noticed that I was no longer having mean, hurtful thoughts and feelings toward others. And that includes all of the drivers I used to think were ass holes!

I’m calmer, cooler, and more level headed than I have been in years. I catch myself using old behaviors and I stop myself. It’s not perfect yet, and it probably never will be, but I’m going the right direction. I’m not trying to control the room with body language. I’m not trying to manipulate the boss into getting something I want. I’m communicating my thoughts, opinions, and needs, and I believe it’s a direct result of my decision to let go of control.

I never was very good at decision making in my life. I mean, I used to love smoking crack. Oh, man, I loved that shit. But it didn’t really help my life out. So, instead of smoking crack, I’ve decided to believe in a Higher Power. Can I make it any simpler than that? I highly doubt that any decisions I make whilst praying to God will land me back in prison or out on the streets. Again, the opposite of crack. So, the opposite of crack is God, it’s love. Because drugs were pain. And for the first time in years, I feel love for this life, this world, and its people, and I want to keep that going because it feels good. Now put that in your pipe and smoke it.

The Sentencing

Four calendar months since I walked into court, knowing that I would not leave without hand cuffs. There were a million reasons and excuses I could have made up so I wouldn’t have to go. But I did it. Making the transition from absolute freedom to ultimate restriction in just a few minutes was tough. But I’m strong. Here’s how it went down.

I woke up at 11am in Chatfield, Minnesota, 25 minutes away from the Rochester Courthouse. I had to check in by 12:55pm. All I really wanted was a good meal and to chain smoke cigarettes and meth until I got there. I was successful. I checked in, grabbed a seat just in time for the judge to make an entrance. I was playing Angry Birds on my cell phone so I didn’t stand up, and the court officer yelled at me and I shot back with a nice, “Go fuck yourself.” So I had to sit in the hallway and wait for my name to be called which was ok by me because the first part of Rochester court is all in Spanish. At 1:40pm they called my name.

Since I already had the terms of my plea agreement in place, I was at the desk in front of the judge for less than three minutes. She pronounced my sentence and the court administrator told me I could stand up at which point I shook my lawyer’s hand and was promptly handcuffed. There was no banging of the gavel.

From my chair, I was led through the door that I’m sure exists in every courtroom that nobody wants to go through. To my surprise, once the guard and I were through he took one cuff off and put my hands in front, and we walked down a long hallway to booking. After that was the standard pictures and fingerprints and waiting. I believe I have described the rest of the journey from there.

Right now I am listening to a Pink Floyd song that I have never heard before. It is amazing. Oh. The Boy in the Forest is actually by Andy Jackson. OK anyone would confuse that with Floyd. He was Pink Floyd’s producer for many albums.

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If anybody out there happened to see the story on the news about the 125th anniversary of St. Cloud State Prison, you got to see my living unit, B House, and more importantly, my front door.

They shot the footage of the living unit from in front of cell 143 which is two doors down from me in 145. I, however, was actually inside the broom closet at the time because the camera crew caught us off guard and I had to hide. We were cleaning and I was just finishing up when they came in. The warden didn’t want any offenders on tape. I had a half a mind to take off my pants and streak down the main drag but I thought better of it.

The camera should pan down from the beautiful arched ceiling and end up pointing down the flag (the main drag I wanted to run down) and look for cell 145. That’s my apartment.

Gross

The following post is a recap of two of the more disgusting things I saw or dealt with while I was locked up.  I lived with all men for about 460 straight days.  Most of these men, including myself to some extent, were either not capable, or not willing to clean up after themselves, communicate appropriately with others, use toilets properly, or masturbate out of view (not me!).

I’ll start with my personal favorite.  It happened while I was working in the garments section of MinnCorr at Moose Lake prison.  I have mentioned before that I sewed men’s underpants together for a living there.  On a quick side note, it was alarming to me how many grown men take off all of their clothing to make a poop (shit).  It is also interesting to know that roughly 10% of men wipe from the front.  And maybe 2% wipe while standing up.  Keep in mind that these prison bathrooms have a privacy wall on the sides, but nothing at all on the front.  So, as I entered the bathroom this particular day I rounded the corner and saw a man with no pants on taking a shit.  What I found odd is that his hand was reaching into the toilet through the front side.  I don’t normally watch people but that kinda drew my attention.  Without hesitation, he pulled up a piece of his own feces and brought it up to his face and smelled it.  A small piece fell off one end and went back in the bowl.  My only thought was that I was happy he didn’t eat it.  I looked away.  At this point I walked all the way through the bathroom to the other door and exited, having lost my desire to urinate.  I had a slow walk back to my work station, trying to process what I had seen.  Nothing.  I got nothing for ya.

This next incident happened while I was in St. Cloud.  A rather large, very openly gay, very openly H.I.V. positive black man was moved into B house, where I was one of the swampers, otherwise known as house cleaning crew.  Every day I would walk by the cells with cleaning supplies and talk with the other offenders.  It was nice because almost everybody in that terrible prison is on lock-down for about 22 hours a day, so we got to chat.  Well this new guy took a liking to me in a very creepy way.  Every time I walked by his cell he would be very naked, and he would try to talk to me while he was cleaning, but I would walk down the aisle to avoid that.  He would try to touch my hand when I grabbed the spray bottles off of his bars and smile at me in what I assume was an “I’m gonna butter your bread” sort of way.  Well one day he happened to be sitting at my table during chow and he just wouldn’t stop looking at me.  So finally I snapped and yelled, “what!”  He smiled and said, “I would eat you alive.”  Then he proceeded to eat a banana in a very inappropriate manner.  That night during our flag time I walked by the shower stalls and he tried to get my attention while he was showering but I didn’t look.  That night he got his red box and he was shipped out two days later.  I don’t have A.I.D.S.

There aren’t enough words left for me to type another story. But in general, prison was the worst place you could ever be.  There are so many things I think of on a daily basis that ARE the reminder to me–I fuck up, I go back to prison.  No high or drunk can ever be worth losing my freedom.  Nothing in prison will ever be like the relationships I have started anew out here with my family and friends.  Nobody out here poops on the shower floor then mashes it down the grate so they don’t have to do it on a public toilet.  I hope.  And I have yet to see anybody out in the world eating with mouths wide open, splattering bits of food and saliva to and fro.

After a month, things aren’t so overwhelming and everything is getting easier day by day.  It’s still a work in progress, but my future looks bright to me.