To bad this week's verb wasn't "surreal".

After chomping my way through the lunch special at the Turn Around Cafe in Spur last week, I drove down a road not yet taken and found the abandoned prison.  (Here are a couple of articles about how the prison came to be abandoned.  The first one gets really interesting towards the end.  The second one explains some of the reasons why the first one got so interesting.)  I expected to drive up to a fence, a hundred or so yards from the facility and stare at it briefly before turning around to leave.

Not so.

This week when I went back, I packed my camera.

The privately run prison, which closed in late 2010, sits atop a vague knoll, not really a hill, about two miles south of town, hiding behind a field of mesquite.  The low-profile sign, simple even by prison standards, announced the presence of the facility in plain block letters.  The prison itself lies at the end of a half-mile paved driveway.  There are no fences.  No barriers. Nothing but the sign by the side of the road.

Nothing had changed from last week as I entered the main parking lot at the end of the driveway.  I debated whether or not to park in the empty warden's spot, as if I owned the freakin' place and had every right to be there.  Sneakiness trumped brashness and I parked along the far side of the lot, hoping the electric blue Dodge Avenger I was driving would blend in with, well, the sky and not be quite so obvious should anyone venture down the driveway from the highway.

The seasonably cold air put a sharp edge on the wind.  I didn't have a jacket, but hoped that walking around the place might keep me warm.

Reaching over the back of the seat, I grabbed the camera from the back and got out of the car.    I looked around for No Trespassing signs.  There weren't any. The gravel crunching under my boots sounded unnaturally loud as I crossed the deserted parking lot.

The place was abandoned, but not forsaken, if that makes sense.  It's like some sort of Satanic rapture had occurred, maybe ten minutes earlier, taking only the bad guys.  Whoosh!  At first glance, everything appeared exactly the same as it must have at the close of business on the last day of operation, two years previously.  At second glance, I noticed the tumbleweeds.  At third - the unlocked gate.


One of the main gates to the prison yard was unlocked and open.  Just a foot or so.  Just wide enough for me to slide through sideways or to grasp the edge and pull it wide.  If I wanted too.  No one was around... No one would see...

Through a feat of super-human resistance that King David himself would have been jealous of, I bested the temptation and managed not to go through the gate to the interior spaces.

This prison - a privately run, for-profit, institution - was big into razor wire.  It's everywhere - roll upon roll of it.  The state prisons I've visited use the same concertina-type stuff, but sparingly.  This place looked cheap -like an over-sized dog run, home to really bad dogs.  Low tech security with all the soft, pleasing architecture of Auschwitz.

The main buildings up front are painted in a vague flag motif.  Blocks of blue with bits of red and white striping at the edges.  It lends a concentration camp carnival feel to the place.  The administration buildings at the front of the unit were bright and clean.  In the back a long row of barracks type buildings comprised the inmate housing.  They were  dingy, low slung cinder block buildings - chalky white with tiny windows.

An omnipresent, continual high pitched whine permeated the area. As I circled the property, I finally located the source - a large metal box, about the size on an industrial refrigerator.  Or two.  The hunk of metal was painted orange and black with no markings that would identify it to the uninitiated.  It sat on a concrete pad next to the electric meters.  And whined - a single toneless note, on and on and on to extremely creepy effect.  It reminded me of something...

(Anyone else watch The Avengers?  Anyone remember this episode?)

I continued my circuit around the property.  Past the electric meters,  I saw that the gas meters were gone.  But the sewage grinder remained.

More than once as I swept my camera lens past the guard towers, I thought I caught a glimpse of men inside.    Only a trick of the light and closer inspection revealed nothing, of course, but it remained disconcerting.  I seldom see men who aren't there.

Still I didn't see any "No Trespassing" signs.  No, not one.  I was surprised by this, but I supposed no one really wants to break INTO prison, so trespassing isn't really an issue.  There were, however, a couple of "STOP - Entering Restricted Area" signs.  As they were obviously left-overs from the facility's functioning days, and since they barely made any effort with them - small signs tacked to telephone poles on the sides of the path/road leading to the back of the location - I ignored them with impunity and no small amount of disdain.
   

I didn't spend much time in the back of the prison.  The wind blew harder there and my shirt, albeit long-sleeved, was woefully inadequate.

As I made my way back around to the front I stopped.  Dead.

The gates were still open.  But now they were open wide.  Beckoning.  Yawning.  Tempting.

It was dodgy for a bit.  I reeeeaallly wanted to go inside.  They were practically begging me to enter!  I texted the Judge's assistant and asked her what the district's policy is on posting bail for employees.  She didn't answer.  I decided not to chance it.  Besides, it was damn creepy.  The wind wasn't blowing hard enough to move those chain-link monstrosities. And it almost certainly wouldn't have moved the gates in opposite directions!

I made my way back to the car, glancing back over my shoulder a time or two.  The only sign, other than the empty parking lot, that this place wasn't ready and waiting for business, were the few small tumble weeds gathered at the main entrance.

That, and the open, viciously welcoming, prison gate.

As I drove back towards the highway, I was startled to see a FedEx van turn onto the short road and head out towards the prison parking lot.  I made a half-hearted attempt to stop him - to tell him his GPS was obviously misguided.  He didn't see me.  I was sort of glad.  I felt sure that if I did see him up close, he'd have no eyeballs.  Or maybe vampire fangs.  Or stink of death like a zombie.  Yep, pretty sure.

(Do you see 'em?  The guards that aren't there?)

Spur is one of numerous small towns in West Texas that attempted urban renewal via the prison-industrial complex, profit-driven or governmental.  For a few short years it seemed to be a real economic savior.  But we're all learning we can't sustain, economically or otherwise, a prison system that has a higher incarceration rate than China.  

This month it was reported that the Texas Association of Business, one of the most powerful lobbies in the state, is making reform of criminal justice funding a priority.  Why?  

Bill Hammond, president of the Texas Association of Business, said the group plans to push to expand successful rehabilitation and community-based corrections programs; to change Texas’ drug-sentencing laws to put more low-level offenders in local treatment programs and reduce penalties for small amounts of drugs; and to modify state licensing laws that keep some ex-convicts from ever becoming certified for various trades.

“We’re sending too many people to the slammer,” Hammond said. “The taxpayers and the business community are both being harmed.”

I think this is a good thing.  But then, I would, what with being all "community-based corrections program"-y and stuff.

All I really know is those damn gates didn't open by themselves.

Honesty Is The Best Policy

Jerry Martin is a red neck.

He’s a big ol’ corn-fed guy, with a deep, slow voice. He keeps his dirty blond hair shaved almost to the skin and his fair complexion is splotched with crimson. Today he wore his Sunday best for the court hearing – a three-button red polo shirt and a generally intact pair of jeans.

When he dropped his ponderous frame unceremoniously into the seat on the witness stand, the rinky-dink chair groaned in protest. He leaned back, draped a meaty arm over the side of the witness box and met the stare of the prosecutor with unblinking apathy. His right forearm sported a brand new anarchy tattoo, still slightly inflamed.

Jerry is direct. He’s blunt. He’s got no social graces. But he’s not stupid.
I testified about Jerry’s performance on probation. He’d had a decent attitude, marked by a propensity for answering direct questions honestly, but not volunteering any information. He did some community service and made some payments, but never did as much as he was supposed to.

And he smoked a lot of pot.

The prosecutor wanted to know what we did about that. I testified that at first we tried 12-step meetings. When that didn’t work, I sent him to a treatment center for an evaluation. They put him into in-patient treatment. It wasn’t working, so after a couple of weeks they put him into their “Intensive Inpatient” program. (Not unlike Dean Wormer’s Double-Secret Probation.) A week or so into that program I got an irate call from the drug counselor. Jerry was caught toking it up with one of the staff members.

That caused a bit of a kerfuffle.

Jerry came to see me that afternoon and admitted he needed some serious treatment. If he couldn’t kick the habit, he would end up in prison. That day Jerry and I worked out a plan to put him into a long term treatment program. The next day he was supposed report to me again to sign the papers that would give away his freedom for the next nine months.

Surprise, surprise – Jerry didn’t show up. So, after dodging a warrant for the past few months, Jerry appeared in court this afternoon to find out what the Judge would do with him.

Under questioning from his attorney, Jerry explained that he knew he’d screwed up. Marijuana was a major problem for him, as was alcohol. He was worried that he couldn’t make probation, but he wanted treatment and a chance to try again.
Then it was the prosecutor’s turn.

“When did you last smoke marijuana, Mr. Martin?” the lawyer asked, his Eagle Scout uprightness contrasting with Jerry’s bumpkinly sprawl.

“Yesterday,” Jerry confessed.

“Prior to that, when did you last smoke?”

“The day before.”

“I see. And do you smoke marijuana every day, Mr. Martin?”

“Pretty much.” Jerry slouched more deeply in the chair.

“And how many times a day do you smoke?”

“Oh, I smoke quite a bit,” Jerry drawled.

“And you don’t have a job,” the prosecutor said, leaning forward slightly in his seat. “How do you get your drugs?”

“My friends,” Jerry replied matter-of-factly.

“And what do you do for them in return?” the prosecutor asked, letting a hint of disbelief creep into his voice.

“Nuthin’.”

“And they’re still your friends?” More than a hint of disbelief. “When were you arrested on this warrant?” he continued.

“The day after the Superbowl.”

“In January?”

“February.”

“And you weren’t working then, either?”

“No.”

“So where did you get the money to bond out of jail?”

“From Crime Stoppers.”

“Excuse me?!” The prosecutor was openly incredulous.

“From Crime Stoppers.”

“So you turned someone in?” You could almost read the lawyer’s mind – maybe Jerry wasn’t selling drugs himself, but he knew people who were. He must have turned one of them in to the crime tips hotline.

“No, but my mom did.”

“Your mom? Whom did your mom turn in?”

“Me.”

No one made a sound for several seconds. I would have loved to have seen the Judge’s face, but I had my eyes locked firmly on the desktop, shuffling through papers, in a mostly successful attempt to keep a straight face.

“Let me see if I understand this.” The prosecutor’s voice rose significantly. “Your mother turned you in to the Crime Stoppers hotline, got the reward money and used that money to bail you out of jail?!”

“Yessir,” Jerry deadpanned, completely unperturbed.

The prosecutor collapsed against the back of the chair. “No further questions.”


I guess Jerry’s honesty paid off. The Judge sent him to treatment. But he maxed out the underlying sentence, so if Jerry screws up again, he’s going to serve the maximum amount of time possible. And the next time there is a warrant for Jerry, I bet Crime Stoppers receives a request from the District Attorney not to post any reward money for his capture.

Glamor Time

Went to a new jail today.

Not a new jail, but one I'd never been in before.

Some poor unfortunate meth-smokin' chick got herself arrested over the weekend. I thought she might like a visitor, so I grabbed a pee-test cup and walked across the street to the county courthouse.

I'm working in the Wilds of the North today - one of our satellite offices, located in an even more isolated, desolated, and under-populated place than Fake Cow County.

Their jail is still located in the back of the courthouse. I have no idea how many people it will house. I'm guessing seven.

No sign of Otis.

The place was clean, as are most Texas jails and prisons, but old and dark. I made my way down a short hallway that terminated in a heavy duty wire door. It looked like someone had gone to the ag mechanics class at the high school and said "Hey, y'all. We need us a door for the jail." And somebody welded 'em one.

The jailer was very nice. He had all the jail keys on one huge ring. No electronic buzzers and electromagnetic locking systems here. Just a huge-ass key ring with about 20 brass keys, each one probably weighing three pounds. You lock a door with one of those keys and that bastard stays locked.

I waited next to the fingerprint counter for the jailer to bring the prisoner out. As I said, the place was clean, but it smelled. It smelled of urine. No matter how hard you try, there is no hiding the smell of bodies and urine in these places. It's like a nurisng home only more sweaty.

Miss Saturday Soiree was none too happy to see me. I was hurt. She barely spoke, but glared eloquently at my little plastic pee-pee cup.

The jailer pointed us to the unisex bathroom. It was tiny. A one-holer not built for dual occupancy. I hate this part.

I managed to squeeze into the room, along with my companion and we got the door (which opened to the inside, of course) closed.

She sat.

I stood.

And we waited.

And waited.

And...

Then I realized that this was the only place in the whole jail that didn't smell like pee.

Drive Friendly

My parent’s dog, OB (Other Brother), had been giving me the sad puppy dog eyes for the past two days.  I’d tried to explain that 106 degrees at 5:00 p.m. meant there was no way I was going to take him for a walk.  However, one of the best things about our weather here, other than the fact that “it’s a dry heat”, is that it cools off completely once the sun goes down.  One hundred and six by day, a gorgeous moon-drenched sixty-eight degrees in the dark of the night. 

So, as soon as we had breakfast this morning, I gathered up the leash and we went for a walk. 

One of the other nice features about this part of the world is the general aura of friendliness that is characteristic of small-town society.  We all know that anytime you pass a pick-up on the road, the driver will give you the one-finger-wave.  And it’s not even that finger.  When you’re in line at Wal-Mart with only two or three items and the lady in front of you has two carts full of groceries that will feed her family for the a couple of weeks until the next payday, nine times out of ten, she’ll tell you to go on ahead of her.  People are just nice to each other, most of the time. 

As the dog and I made our way down the street, we came within a half-block of a group of snarly-looking bandit wannabes sauntering down the street.  I was kind of surprised to see them out and about at 9:00 a.m.  They seemed the type who’d still be sleeping it off at that hour.  As we approached they began to swagger and holler, “Buenos dias, chica!”

Good morning, girl?  Spare my blushes.

I don’t mean to imply that we don’t have our fair share of really worthless individuals out here.  Just yesterday, at the office, we were discussing one of those people.  He’s on probation for trying to force his mother to give him a blow job.  He claims it never happened and his mother is lying.  She claims this wasn’t the first time, it was just the first time she had to courage to actually report it to the authorities. 

The general consensus was that your momma may hate your guts -- she may throw away your comic book collection, burn you with cigarettes, try to starve you, call up your ex-wife and ask her to move into your old bedroom or just plain beat the crap out of you.  But no momma, no where, is gonna lie about her son trying to force her to do that. 

There are some really awful people here. 

But thankfully they’re not the norm.  I’ve lived in west Texas all my life, so I never realized how unusual our culture of amiability was until I was teaching drunk class one day.  One of the “students” was a guy recently arrived from Los Angeles.  One night he observed how friendly everyone was here.

“Even your punks are polite!” he said.  “I took my mother to the grocery store and a group of gang-bangers were coming in as we were leaving.  They were thugs, just like you’d see in L.A.  But they held the door for my mom and called her ‘Ma’am’!”

Technorati Tags: texas,probation

Still Here!

I'm still around, but I've been out of the writing mood for a while. Still plenty of fun stuff going on in my world, but writing it down has been a bit of a chore lately. Therefore I'm going to try something different.

For the next couple of weeks, I'm going to write something - anything - for at least a half-hour a day. We'll see what happens. May post some of it, may not. Just have to wait and see. In the meantime, if you're interested in seeing what else is going on in my spooky world, feel free to follow me on twitter or facebook. Just search for spookyrach. (Please add a note with any friend requests, letting me know that you're a blog reader. Unless you are some sort of psychopathic probationer or under-achieving stalker trying to get information about my oh-so-boring personal life. In that case, please include a death threat or something similar along with the friend request.)

So, here goes for tonight…

I’ve fallen down on the unicycle practice for the past couple of weeks. No pun intended.  However, last Thursday a member of the local constabulary stopped by the office to collect some information on a guy they are looking for.  When he saw the unicycle resting against the hallway wall, he mentioned that his ex-wife is an accomplished unicyclist.  He admits the fact that she mastered the skill and he could never learn royally pissed him off.  After inquiring about my progress he suggested a different learning approach.  Instead using my hang on to the door frame until working up the courage to let go and start pedaling plan, he suggested I get two sticks and use them like ski poles to balance until I get the hang of it. 

This sounds like a really good idea.

Granted, it came from a man who was never able master the single-wheeled peregrination.  

But, consider this!  A pair of crutches would be the ideal height for this purpose.  And, if I’m not particularly successful – as may well be the case – I’d be properly equipped for recovery.  Someone suggested I make a run over to the Salvation Army Thrift Store and secure a pair from their Lourdes-like wall of discarded medical paraphernalia. 

No need for that, though.  Jackson’s got plenty of them that I can use.  (Have I mentioned he used to play football?  Lots and lots of football?  Followed by years of orthopedic surgery?)

I’ll let you know how it goes.  Provided they have wifi at the hospital.

NOT a Bucket List:

There are some things I’d like to learn.  I’ve kept a list of these semi-essential skills for years.  So far, it consists of:

Eating with chopsticks – Learned!

Karate – Learned!  (With somewhat mixed results.)

Fencing -

Riding a Unicycle  -

And this week I’ve added something new:  Reading Tea Leaves.  I mean, they’re there – why not do something with them?  And they do sorta look like they would know stuff.  

So.  I’ve known Ester for SIXTEEN years.  Sixteen years! Longer than I’ve known Jackson, the kid or most of you.  I thought I knew her well.  But it turns out she’s been keeping a dark secret from me. 

Well, not necessarily a dark secret, but a secret nonetheless. 

Ester owns a unicycle!

Can you believe it?  And can you believe that she never, ever mentioned this in casual conversation?  We have some odd conversations, y’all – you’d think it would have come up.  For example, at lunch today we had a communal recital of the lyric poem “Copacabana” by B. Manilow.  It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary and no one batted an eyelash.  You’d think that in this sort of environment there would have been a point in the last sixteen years that the phrase “I have a unicycle” would have been the perfect segue.  But no.  Not until now. 

She’s letting me borrow it!

I told Jackson and Katie I was going to learn the unicycle.  There reply, in unison, was “"NOOOOO!”  Katie said “You’re so going to end up in the hospital, Rachel!”  Jackson said he would be glad to take me to the emergency room because he wants to the see the look on the doctor’s face when I tell him that all my broken bones are due to “a unicycle accident”. 

Unbelievers!

I looked it up on the internet – googled “how to ride a unicycle”.  All the sites seem to encourage “recruiting a couple of friends” for help.  I told Ester and Mindy they were elected.  They have agreed, but say their involvement will be limited to dialing 9-1-1.  They fully expect me to be unable to operate a cell phone following my first riding attempt. 

Doubting Thomases!

Ester’s son brought the unicycle to work today.  HE didn’t make any wise cracks.  I’ve always liked that kid.

Rose and M2 just rolled their eyes and refused to have any part of the coming apocalypse.

The boss kept walking down the hallway and laughing uncontrollably whenever he passed the unicycle. 

Bebo stopped by the office to see Mindy while I was in court.  Rumor has it that he pointed at his mother and said “YOU are gonna get hurt,” then pointed at Ester “and YOU are gonna get hurt and SOMEONE is going to be mad!” 

I have no idea what he’s talking about. 

I’ve decided to that the office hallway is the best spot for my initial unicycling lesson - which will commence tomorrow at 5:00 p.m.  (Mindy claims she’s bringing her camera.)

Don’t Look Ethel!

Suppose you had a friend who really, really hates bugs.  And that friend has hired you to kill the bugs in her ofice for years and years.  Suppose your friend yells “Raaaaachel!”, every time there’s a bug.  And you go kill it.  And remove it from the premises.

And suppose one day your friend was at home with sick kid while waiting on a plumber to arrive.  While she’s at home, you have a sudden need to borrow the bottle of alcohol she keeps in the bottom left hand drawer of her desk.  (The rubbing kind, not the drinking kind.)  And just suppose that, as you were leaving the office after replacing the bottle, you notice movement next to the wall.  You look closer and It turns out to be two bugs.  Copulating.  Two big, shiny, bugs with crunchy black shells.  Goin’ at it. 

Would you just turn out the light and leave and hope your friend never reads this blog post?

Friday Cemetery Blogging

Phallacy

The Bureaucratic Paper Fairy has dumped on me mightily this week. Have you noticed how that kind of thing will completely zap your creativity? This frumpy little freak sneaks into your office and litters your desk with page after page after page of useless muck. Then just when you think she's done, and you can get started on dealing with the mess, she backs a truck up to the door and dumps the whole load.

I hate her.

If I ever get my hands on her grey polyester skirt suit (you know the one I mean - and she always wears a plain white blouse with one of those floophy 'lady' bow tie things at the neck.) I'm gonna strangle her with the mouse cord. I'm gonna sharpen some pencils and stick 'em as far up her nose as they will go. I'm gonna wad up all those papers and stuff them down her throat, one by one. Then I'll beat her about the head and shoulders with my phone. After that, I will run over the dang phone with my truck. Repeatedly.

And after that?

After that I'm gonna get really creative. You got any suggestions?