It’s a frigid day. A hat and coat rest on the rack by the library door, and the few sounds disrupting my peace are the ticks of the clock behind me and the shuffling of papers on a desk fifteen feet away. The door opens, and a grumpy inmate scuttles in, stomping snow off his boots and grousing at everyone who’ll listen that he should be allowed to watch YouTube videos and waste his time while others are trying to study. I threw him out ten minutes ago for doing that.
He’s not a bad sort, as inmates go, but he’s short-sighted, narrow-minded, and fixated on the idea that the world owes him, even though he committed a crime that landed him here. Any attempt to hold the line with him becomes an existential threat to his humanity. He’ll acknowledge with his mouth that I treat all with equity and justice, but since others in authority here don’t, then we’re all lumped into the same crap pot. I’d like to feel some charity toward him for seeing we’re not all alike, but he’s still a cranky grouch. It’s a common theme around here.
A colleague retired a few days ago, and he got all choked up about this being the “best job I’ve ever had, hands down.” He’d been here more than two decades. Maybe if I’d been in his shoes, I would say the same thing, in the same way. He was never tied to a classroom, and he never had to run a dorm or a cell block. He was a middle-management kind of guy, tying up loose ends, making everyone’s day. The buck never stopped with him. Even when he was a less-than-stellar supervisor, which he certainly was, the buck went further up the food chain. On a personal level, we got on pretty well, but professionally, I was happy to bid him farewell. The supervisor before him fought for us. He rarely did, and I spent years feeling unsupported or stabbed in the back. He’s been gone two days, and work life’s no better. Seriously. Makes me wanna puke.
On this frigid day, the only people making me want to be here are the officers I had hoped to work with full-time when another friend retired a few months ago. Instead, the other teachers and I have to work on a rotation, creating more work for us and greater confusion for the inmates. Management does such a great job screwing up good things. Situation Normal, All Fouled Up.
Before I left home, I donned a shirt, my new alumni sweatshirt, my work vest (to cover up the alumni design that someone at work would have a problem with), and my hand-warmer half-gloves. I’m still shivering. I’ve even kept my cap on. The realization that my regular classroom isn’t any warmer than the chillbox I’m in now isn’t filling me with great desire to complete my workday. I’m tempted to call out the remainder and go home early. I’m truly disinterested in working this afternoon. I’d rather start with a fresh week. I want to be anywhere but this place.
Who am I trying to convince? I’ve already made my plans. Tomorrow’s a big day for me. It’ll be my first time volunteering with a political campaign, as I work with another man doing voter registration in support of Robert “Bobby” Charles for Governor. It’ll be frigid tomorrow, too, and no guarantee of friendlier people. But the climate here has become so toxic that I need an escape. There’s frigid air, and there’s frigid there. Which would you prefer?
Mack Ames Books and Maine Moose Patrol 