Saint Paulie and prison bells, Part 4
by Ray Ray Smith
Part 1 is here.
Part 2 is here.
Part 3 ishere.
My second visit to the Everglades Reentry Center was less intimidating than my first. I was nervous but not terrified. The procedure was familiar and robotic – drive through the driveway gate, lock my car with my phone in the console, pass the first guard, and enter the control center. The desk sergeant handed me a form to sign and a basket for my car keys and wallet. Then, I walked through the scanner, and an interior guard escorted me down the empty hall and unlocked the door. I sat at the table, while my escort, who didn’t say a word, exited to fetch Levi.
Today, when the guard brought Levi into the room, we were the only inmate and mentor. The duty guard, on his riser on the far side of the room, picked up his pen and looked down at his paperwork, which I suspect was a crossword puzzle.
Levi did not smile or say hello. His long, dark, greasy hair was finger-combed back, accentuating his angular frame; he brought to mind a raven. I nodded toward his orange overhauls and white undershirt, “At least you don’t need to think about your wardrobe every day.”
He answered with an eye roll.
“And I was glad to see you weren’t one of those inked-up prisoners; they’re a cliché. No way a walking ink pad can be a plus on the outside. Honestly, people with too many tattoos may as well write ‘I make bad decisions’ on their forehead with a Sharpie. Kudos to you for resisting peer pressure.”
Levi slowly pulled down the front of his T-shirt, revealing a barbed wire across his collarbone that led to who knows where.
I tried to recover. “Well, sometimes bad choices make good stories.”
“Oh, there are stories in here.”
“Yeah, everyone is a story.” Then I cleared my throat and said, “According to the mentor handbook, my job is to stay positive and help you set achievable goals. How about this for an achievable goal – you go back to the outside world without a face tattoo.”
He gave a wry smile, but did not bother replying.
I leaned back and sighed, “Look, Levi, I don’t want to waste our time. We both know our hour last week was lousy, you didn’t even pretend to be on board, you sat there, arms crossed like a sullen punk.”
He leaned forward with a hint of menace, “Sullen, don’t you think morose, or dour, or surly, or brooding, or hostile would be stronger words?”
I cocked my head, “Finally, a complete sentence. Let’s go with brooding, it’s good to see signs of intelligent life instead of grunts and terse answers.”
“Did you ever consider that your questions last week were lame?”
“Did you ever consider that I’m not here to entertain you. Civility and enthusiasm are a two-way street.”
I believe he sensed that bullying me was a bad road, and he softened. “You know what entertained me last week?”
“Yes, my band and my horse racing hobby. They were the only topics where you showed curiosity.”
“So why don’t we stick to those?”
“A horse or a guitar isn’t going to help you on the outside. Look, Levi, I’m a bottom-line guy. I read the guidelines, and they are:” I counted on my fingers “Be a role model, encourage them not to relapse, set goals, be a listener, and accept the inmate as they are.”
He paused, then asked, “Why didn’t you ask me if I would go back to using and dealing when I get out?”
“Now that’s a lame question. What you did before is history. What you do when you walk out the door is a mystery. My guess is right now you don’t know the answer.”
He seemed defensive, “I took the classes, there has been progress.”
“A nothingburger answer. What do YOU think about the chances of going back to your old life?”
He exploded, “What do you think about not having money, not having a job, not having a car, not having a driver’s license, not having a place to sleep? You got any answers for any of that, Mister rock and roll horse guy?”
The guard looked up from his crossword puzzle.
I gave him a few seconds to settle. “I have a few ideas. Some paths to investigate. Right now, to me, you don’t seem like a guy who can bring them to fruition.”
A tear slid out of his eye. He let it roll down his neck towards the barbed wire. He spoke softly, “Everything is shit.”
I nodded, “It is what it is. We wake up one morning and wonder what happened. I learned that a few years ago when my wife died. Every day you search for a friggin time machine.”
We did not say anything for 10 long seconds.
I said, “Pick one, music or horses?”
“What?”
“Pick a category, rock and roll music or harness horse racing?”
“For what?”
“For a plan, you need a plan. I’m not coming here every week to go around in circles. So, pick one.”
He was quiet for maybe 15 seconds, and then he said, “Horses.”
“Good choice.”
“Why?”
“More options. Do you have any access to the internet?”
“No.”
“Can you receive books?”
“Only if it comes directly from a certified book company.”
“Phone?”
“A hassle, monitored. Not worth the effort.” Levi began talking rapid fire, “What are you thinking? What kind of horses? You said they don’t even race those cart horses in Florida anymore. What the hell, is this some mind game? Who are you, the cryptic crusader?”
I smiled, leaned back, and made him wait, “Levi, at this moment, you’re not brooding or sullen, you’re animated.”
Inmate number 265476 gave the first genuine smile since we met. Then, he surprised me when, for some strange reason, he spoke like a butler in Downton Abbey, saying, “Mister Ray Ray, I am both perplexed and intrigued with this conversation.”
I loved this. I volleyed back, adopted a lawyerly tone, and said, “In due time, my good man. But first I need to consult with the Neigh Sayers and the proper authorities. Next visit, I shall reveal many things.”
