1997 and I’d passed the physical, pulling a 145 pound dummy across the gym floor in less than three minutes, stooping to swab his mouth with an alcohol pad before placing the rescue-breather, pinching the too-tough mannequin nose and resuscitating that which would never breathe.
Hired, I was given the three black, poly-combo work shirts, polo’s with gold, embroidered, sheriffs-looking logo sewn on the right chest. I purchased a thick, leather belt in order to hold up the pants-pulling-down, cop walkie-talkie I was made to use each time I called into control, “Security, request permission for line movement of twenty-eight youth from Skipanon to the gym.”
At my yearly employment interview, the swollen treatment manager announced, “The kids like you! I’m giving you extra points for (rec.)ing them,” she added, with a crooked smile.
The Oregon Youth Authority had housed Andrew most of his seventeen years. Yes, he’d been involved in crimes, measure 11 for sitting in a car while someone else held a gun—guilty for being a laughing accomplice, but the assistant TM told me he thought he was here mostly because there were some legal issues or questions surrounding a schizophrenic or bipolar diagnosis. And even then, his mother was only a handful of years older and a “drug whore.”
I understood there just wasn’t anyone to release him to. Kind and gentle on good days, his visions and bellicosity when being ordered often set the entire unit on fire which was wildly extinguished via a quick lock-down.
He did like me, and staff was happy, if I’d just take care of Andrew for the shift. We’d draw together in the empty living area, a tidy tin of carefully counted, colored pencils between us, while my cohorts showered the rest before we all dined on a starchy, mandated, three-thousand calories a day dinner. Four courses to fill the number of molded dips on our beige trays, one of which was always preservative sprayed Sysco carrot/cabbage/lettuce salad combo, glove-hand dug from sealed sacks with Ranch---if we were lucky, an it’s-it bar for dessert.
Andrew often let me know he had his Ph.D. and smiled from ear to ear after showing me his “drawling,” of diamond blinged roses on the hood of a low-rider—or my name tagged. “Just imagine it on the side of a train,” his hands trailing as he explained. His detailed and shaded sketches included curled motion marks of the back tires lifting.
I shook my head up and down, smiled while side-eyeing the clock, always letting him know that was nice.
Well, it was Puffy Combs who dubbed the Ph.D., Player Hater’s Degree. Oh, he got to keep on moving and so did I, not thrilled to be absconding my freedom every day to be locked up forty-hours-a-week with players who would most likely, never see a tassel-turning commencement.
Photo Credit: Katie Wesserman/unsplash
