Running The Books : The Adventures Of An Accidental Prison Librarian Part 18

"Do you remember me?" she said, giving Ant a quick look. Through a fake smile, he dug his teeth into the cigarette holder.

"Of course I remember you," I said. And, at just that moment, I did. "From the library."

I could picture her in the library, not quite twenty years old, undersized in her uniform. She was fond of art books. Deep in the stacks of the library she'd retreat with one of these volumes. She'd been an eager partic.i.p.ant in the Frida Kahlo fad that had gripped the library months earlier. When I'd asked which Kahlo painting was her favorite, she'd immediately flipped to What the Water Gave Me What the Water Gave Me, a bather's-eye perspective of a full tub-framed by two nail-polished feet-in which a.s.sorted toy-sized images hovered over the bathwater: two women floating on a sponge, the Empire State Building erupting from a volcano, a tightrope, various flora and fauna.

What did she like about it?

"No idea," she'd said. "But I love it."

This was one of perhaps two short conversations we'd had in the library.

"Oh s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t, Avi," she was saying now at Dunkin' Donuts, collapsing into her seat, sinking her face into her palm. "You're not supposed to be here. What are you doing doing here?" here?"

"Don't talk to the man that way," Ant said, quietly.

I gave him a dirty look.

"I'm trying, I swear I'm trying," trying," she said to me, "I was in a program, I'm gonna do the right thing." she said to me, "I was in a program, I'm gonna do the right thing."

I didn't know how to respond. But Ant did.

"b.i.t.c.h, shut the f.u.c.k f.u.c.k up." up."

He said this in a near whisper, with such muted affect, that the meaning of his words almost slid right past me. A pimp knows how to be abusive in public without causing a scene, without creating even a ripple. It's part of his professional expertise.

"Hey, easy there," I said.

It took some restraint not to give him a piece of my mind. Or to tell her that she could still make things right, that there was help, that she was still a kid and shouldn't give up on school, that there were people who believed in her. Et cetera. In short, all the things she needed to hear from someone she trusted.

But I decided it would be counterproductive to speak. She would be blamed for his loss of face and later would bear the brunt of his anger. Anything I wanted to say to either of them would only further provoke and undermine Ant and endanger her-and possibly me. This wasn't prison. It was real life. Ant was her pimp and I was just some bony guy in khakis. Out here there wasn't much I could do. Getting involved would be, at best, pointless; at worst, dangerous.

Ant played it cool and ordered his b.i.t.c.h to buy me a doughnut, which she did, before I could object. He inquired after certain other inmates. Fine Fine, I answered to almost every question. This whole situation was depressing me in a major way. What did he want from me? Why had he invited me in?

The answer depressed me even more: Why wouldn't wouldn't he invite me in? I'd played along with his act, respected him with that t.i.tle, he invite me in? I'd played along with his act, respected him with that t.i.tle, Pimpin' Pimpin', and generally honored his street persona. And now I was suddenly angry with him? Was I upset simply because I knew the girl? And if I hadn't, would it be okay?

I knew men and women like this. I'd heard their stories. But it wasn't until I actually witnessed them together, dressed in their street clothes, and until I myself was implicated in the situation, that I got it. The pimp talk, like the nicknames, identified me with the wrong side. In this case, with the abuse and exploitation of a young drug-addicted woman. If I indulged it, I was, in some way, complicit.

And if I had any doubt about this, I needed only recall her words. I'm trying I'm trying, she'd said, almost in tears. Her desperate excuses to me that she'd been in a program, that she was trying to "do the right thing." Why had she been so defensive around me? She and I had never remotely spoken of a program or of her doing the right thing, or any of that. At least not that I could remember; many inmates asked me to help them find programs, to write application letters. Too many to remember.

But it didn't matter whether I remembered-she did. In my role at the prison, this woman had clearly identified me as a person involved in her rehab process, whatever that entailed. Now here I was kicking it with her pimp. Had she seen me call him Pimpin'? Pimpin'? Had she heard me banter with him? Had she heard me banter with him?

Even after working in prison, I hadn't shaken American culture's casual use of pimp pimp and and ho ho. But there was no ironic detachment with the real version of it, no dabbling.

You're not supposed to be here, she'd said when she saw me. She was right.

Too Too My encounter at Dunkin' Donuts left me with some serious second thoughts about C.C. Too Sweet. Had I been turning a blind eye to this troubling character? In theory, I knew what he was about; he had told me. But did I really comprehend it?

Too Sweet's argument about pimping, that it was an art form-indeed the great male art form, the art form to which all others aspired-had been borne out by his writing talent. His verbal enticements, his ability to self-reflect and verbalize, proved his point: he was a good seducer and could shape the world through words.

He had no use for guns-these were for people who didn't know how to use words. Or, to quote him, "I don't need no Smith and Wesson, man, I got Merriam and Webster." It hadn't been obvious how to take such comments. But the truth was I hadn't given it much thought. They were amusing. That was all.

When he wasn't talking to me, though, I saw him overdoing it, boasting. I witnessed him indulge in the very "slick dialogue," the trappings of hustlerdom, that he himself had identified in his memoir as the telltale sign of a fraud. His wit, when it was working too hard, mostly betrayed his intentions.

"A real pimp always keeps it low down low down and and down low," down low," I once heard him say. And it was precisely in the act of enunciating this principle that he was in violation of it. I once heard him say. And it was precisely in the act of enunciating this principle that he was in violation of it.

I was getting a sinking feeling about all of this. Was I being taken in by C.C.'s words, willingly hypnotized into buying his story and, by extension, him?

When I didn't return a revision in a timely manner-I did, after all, have a job-he let his rage show. He pounded his fist on the library's front counter and started pacing, restraining himself, it seemed, from putting his fist through a wall, or a person. My reaction to his anger startled me: I felt vaguely guilty, as though I had let him down, even though I was helping him free of charge and stretching, possibly violating, my work duties for him. For a fleeting moment, I could relate to those prost.i.tutes sitting in the backseat, how they had felt bad for not bringing back enough money to satisfy him. This thought jarred me. I had to ask the unfortunate question: Was C.C. treating me like a ho?

I saw him in the library counseling young pimps, encouraging them, guiding them, teaching them the tricks of the mind control game-just as old heads had done for him when he was a young upstart.

I wondered about that musical name of his. C.C. Too Sweet C.C. Too Sweet. His friends often shortened it to just "Sweet" or "Sweets," which was apt; there was an undeniable charm about him. But lingering in the middle, that small but suggestive word: Too Too. Perhaps in its connotations of overly overly and and excessive excessive, that word revealed more than intended.

Until I met C.C. Too Sweet and the library regulars, I hadn't spent any time with pimps. My a.s.sociation with pimps was limited to what I saw in movies. Or to the zoot suited, fedora- and long-feather-wearing persona I'd encountered at collegiate pimp and ho parties, those get-togethers that gave elite kids permission to dress tough and, it was hoped, get drunk enough to get laid. But C.C. Too Sweet's life was far from a party.

As I considered this question-whether I had allowed myself to be blinded by C.C.'s enticements-I decided to Google the man. I didn't have any policy about Googling inmates; typically, I only did it if there was a specific reason. When, for example, hiring a particular inmate, I might want to Google him to make sure he didn't have a record of cannibalizing prison librarians. But the fact that I hadn't searched C.C. earlier, after I'd spent so much time working with him, may have indicated that I didn't really want to know. The morning after my encounter at Dunkin' Donuts, I did a quick search.

The Boston Globe Boston Globe reported: "Three Boston men were charged with kidnapping yesterday after they allegedly abducted two young women in Worcester and tried to force them to work as prost.i.tutes in Boston's Combat Zone and turn over their proceeds." reported: "Three Boston men were charged with kidnapping yesterday after they allegedly abducted two young women in Worcester and tried to force them to work as prost.i.tutes in Boston's Combat Zone and turn over their proceeds."

Another, more recent, newspaper report: "Charles Jarvis, 35, of Roxbury, was arrested in a Super 8 motel in Quincy, Ma.s.s., with a girl, aged 14. She had run away from home the day before. He stood accused of three counts of rape, kidnapping, and attempting to sell the girl's body for s.e.x."

Kidnapping, raping, and pimping a minor! A ninth grader! I almost fell off my seat. The image of him with this girl in a motel sickened me. This was so much worse than what I'd encountered the night before at Dunkin' Donuts. This was among the worst kinds of crime, the kind that even hardened criminals find reprehensible. I almost fell off my seat. The image of him with this girl in a motel sickened me. This was so much worse than what I'd encountered the night before at Dunkin' Donuts. This was among the worst kinds of crime, the kind that even hardened criminals find reprehensible.

Perhaps more nauseating was how easily, how readily, I'd embraced him. For months he'd told me he was a pimp, had boasted of it. And now I was going to get angry and accuse him of...being a pimp? What had I taken that to mean? I had to own up to my willful ignorance of what being a pimp actually entailed. What had I taken that to mean? I had to own up to my willful ignorance of what being a pimp actually entailed.

Still, he had glossed over certain crucial details. There were chapters of his book he'd conveniently neglected to show me. He told me they weren't ready. Perhaps that was true. Or perhaps he didn't want me to know the whole story. But of course, the responsibility was mine. I had allowed myself to get taken in.

My bosses would not be pleased with me, nor would they want to stand by me if I were placed under scrutiny. They certainly weren't going to risk their jobs on it and would advise me to do likewise.

I was a paid public servant, after all, part of a governmental agency that was under constant media scrutiny. The story of a naive Harvard grad and former Boston Globe Boston Globe reporter, using public time and taxpayer money to help a career felon/pimp s.e.x offender publish a tell-all book-which would be how a muckraking reporter would characterize C.C.'s work-this was certainly the kind of story the tabloid reporter, using public time and taxpayer money to help a career felon/pimp s.e.x offender publish a tell-all book-which would be how a muckraking reporter would characterize C.C.'s work-this was certainly the kind of story the tabloid Boston Herald Boston Herald would relish. More importantly, though, perhaps they'd be right: why should a public servant help this guy? Maybe he should just rot in his cell. would relish. More importantly, though, perhaps they'd be right: why should a public servant help this guy? Maybe he should just rot in his cell.

I was also vaguely worried that C.C. could compromise me by spinning my bosses-or the paper-a salacious version of what was going on. In our editorial collaboration I was compromising myself and giving him leverage over me. He had little to lose at this point (except, of course, his ma.n.u.script). I, on the other hand, had my job, my reputation, my pride. If he felt pinched in some way, he might decide to humiliate me or to blackmail me with this. I kept imagining the tabloid headline, Outraged Parents: Our Tax Dollars Helped Our Teenaged Daughter's Rapist Write His Tell-All! Outraged Parents: Our Tax Dollars Helped Our Teenaged Daughter's Rapist Write His Tell-All! The article would be accompanied by my prison ID photo, with my crew cut and my bewildered grin, bearing the caption "I thought it was a good read." These paranoid scenarios kept me up at night. The article would be accompanied by my prison ID photo, with my crew cut and my bewildered grin, bearing the caption "I thought it was a good read." These paranoid scenarios kept me up at night.

I backed away from C.C., without giving him an explanation. What was I supposed to tell him? Sorry, it just occurred to me that you're a sack of s.h.i.+t? Sorry, it just occurred to me that you're a sack of s.h.i.+t? Should I write a letter to Miss Manners: Should I write a letter to Miss Manners: What's the etiquette for breaking up with a pimp friend? What's the etiquette for breaking up with a pimp friend?

After my initial disappointment and anger with him, and with myself, I settled into a more neutral position: simple self-protection. I took the road of avoidance. He was too sweet and I was too busy. I suddenly became too busy to sit and talk with him, too busy to edit or type his work. I needed some distance. He quickly grew guarded with me, barely containing his resentment in formal gestures of politeness. He knew that I knew.

The Season of the Hawk It was the season of the hawk. High on the roof ledge, overlooking the prison yard, it sat, watching. Around prison, there had been much speculation about this bird. Many people, inmates and staff, were terrified of it. Some saw it as a good omen, a "spirit animal," possibly even the soul of a prisoner, flying around its cage.

As usual in the library, theories abounded. Some believed the red-tailed hawk favored the prison for its alarmingly large population of mice. Some claimed it made its nest here, though no one had seen it. Others said the government couldn't legally exterminate a protected species, and so had conveniently relocated the nest to prison, as a sort of cruel joke on the inmates. Naysayers dismissed it as a plastic decoy, designed to scare away pigeons (a mission that was very much accomplished). But the majority of eyewitnesses had noticed it move. Including those who had observed the bird soaring, larger than a man.

But most of the time, the hawk just sat up there, squatting and watching the human dramas below.

Copyrighted One afternoon, during the season of the hawk, Chudney and I sat in the back room of the library, working on his cover letter for culinary school. He threw down his bendy pen in disgust. He couldn't concentrate, too much on his mind. When I asked him what was going on, he sighed.

"Dude walks into 3-1," he told me, "I know this guy from the street. He did some pretty bad s.h.i.+t to my mans not too long ago."

It was getting harder for me to decide what I wanted to know and what I didn't. In this case, I didn't want to know and didn't ask.

"And this motherf.u.c.ker, who's also a motherf.u.c.kin' snitch, by the way-and I know this for a fact-he walks into 3-1, a big m.u.t.h.e.rf.u.c.kin' smile on his face, and you can be sure some s.h.i.+t's gonna pop. That's just how it goes, you know? And he knows it too: he wasn't smiling when he saw me standing there, that's for d.a.m.n sure."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing," Chudney said, picking up his prison-proof bendy pen again, and scanning his application.

Chudney told me that he was "holding his fire," and wouldn't take any action against this man. He was itching to take revenge, though, and indeed felt a responsibility to avenge his friend. But he didn't want to go to the Hole or the hospital or catch another case, because he didn't want to get sidetracked from his work, from doing the applications and learning the recipes or preparing for his long-term goal of hosting a TV show. Getting involved in a gang war was not part of The Plan The Plan.

I commended him for his prudence.

"It ain't like that," he a.s.sured me. "The fight will will happen. Unresolved s.h.i.+t, man, resolves itself eventually. That's how it goes. There's an enemy in the house." happen. Unresolved s.h.i.+t, man, resolves itself eventually. That's how it goes. There's an enemy in the house."

It sounded eerily similar to what Kat had told me when he got back from the Hole. Chudney said that violence was inevitable in this situation. He wanted to avoid it, but was convinced it would happen. And possibly when he wasn't expecting it. The longer he delayed a response, the more opportunity he'd be giving his enemy to preempt. His restraint would be interpreted as weakness-or worse, smugness, indicating perhaps that he'd been talking to the cops. And asking the prison authorities to be separated from this man would also brand him a snitch. Every scenario led to some kind of escalation.

He was thinking of doing something stupid to get "lugged," to be placed in the Hole. But he was avoiding that approach, as well. For one, his enemy would see right through it. And, again, he wouldn't be able to work on his applications.

"So what are you going to do," I asked.

Again, he replied, "Nothing."

He returned to revising his cover letter. A few moments later, his mood lightened. He had written his first recipe. He pulled out a sheet of paper and showed me the recipe, with the caveat that I wasn't allowed to write it down or photocopy it. He needed to be protective of his stuff. I noted his name and a copyright symbol at the lower right-hand corner of the sheet.

"I'm thinking of getting this tattooed onto my chest," he said, pointing to the copyright logo. "I'm all about the copyright from now on. I gotta stay focused."

Later I walked through the yard en route to the staff cafeteria. I stopped to look at the notorious red-tailed hawk. Camouflaged brown-white and rust, the raptor sat perfectly motionless. So still I lost view of it momentarily, high in its perch above the prison yard, watching, watching, watching, with roughly eight times the visual strength of a human. It was not alone in its vigil. On the edge of the yard, officers stood gabbing with each other, watching the male inmates, and the women inmates sat up in the Tower, also gabbing, also watching the male inmates.

The hawk sat, eyes wide and unblinking, a minor deity sitting in a tightly coiled pose of meditation-a world of dramatic motion, implied in this exquisite stillness. I wondered if perhaps the decoy theory was correct, that this hawk was nothing more than a plastic effigy meant to scare away pigeons. But then it moved, lifting a wide, kingly wing, a formal unfurling, flexing the feathers along the edge of its wing, then drawing it back ever so gently, like a magician taking a bow. In a quick flash of white, it had revealed its underbelly. Even from down in the yard I could see it: a st.u.r.dy, hydraulic cylinder of a leg, and, in the curvature of those heavy yellow talons, almost useless for walking, a dreadful singularity of purpose. This was what caused me to shudder.

Stopping the Waves Theme music goes up. Something slow and sublime by Gladys Knight and the Pips. Old school. Something that makes the older crowd feel at home and gives the youngsters a sense of tradition. The mood is relaxed. Chudney, wearing crisp tailored pinstriped dress slacks and s.h.i.+rt-or country club casual-comes onto the set, smiles, waves to his cheering live audience. The set is a sunny city condo, a view of the skyline older crowd feel at home and gives the youngsters a sense of tradition. The mood is relaxed. Chudney, wearing crisp tailored pinstriped dress slacks and s.h.i.+rt-or country club casual-comes onto the set, smiles, waves to his cheering live audience. The set is a sunny city condo, a view of the skyline.

Welcome to Urban Cooking, with your host, Chudney Franklin. (He's nixed Thug Sizzle) (He's nixed Thug Sizzle).

As he puts on his ap.r.o.n, and rolls up his sleeves, he shoots the s.h.i.+t with his lovely a.s.sistant. She tells funny stories about her tyrannical two-year-old daughter who's just like her. The crowd loves it. The a.s.sistant is a black woman. Girl-next-door type. Maybe a stand-up comedian. She's got a little s.p.u.n.k. She chides Chudney.

"Look at the famous chef," she says to audience. "And he still he still doesn't know how to put on an ap.r.o.n." doesn't know how to put on an ap.r.o.n."

Chudney opens his mouth to respond, but is speechless. He smiles and pleads guilty. The crowd chuckles.

After a casual chat with the a.s.sistant about the day's dish, he looks directly into the camera, rubs his hands together, and says, "Okay, let's get started..."

Chudney tells me that what he really loves about this fantasy is the idea that his son, who will be somewhere between ten and fifteen years old when this comes to fruition, will be watching from the wings.

"Can you imagine that, man," Chudney says, "growing up, watching your pops in front of the TV cameras? That'd be some pretty cool s.h.i.+t."

He tells me a bit about his son. Once, he was at the Connecticut waterfront with his son, age four. The boy would slowly approach the water, curious to get a closer look. When a wave would roll gently up the sand, the boy would scream in terror, turn, and run for his life.

But then he stopped suddenly and turned back to the water, crouched, and sort of threw his body backwards. It soon became clear to Chudney that the boy was trying to prevent the wave from sliding up the beach.

Chudney tried to explain to him that it was okay for the wave to roll up the beach. That's what waves are supposed to do. The little boy was not happy with the answer. Sitting in his father's arms, he scowled at the sea. Chudney still doesn't know why he was trying to stop the waves. Were they threatening to hurt him? His parents? Something about it had unsettled him. Perhaps, in the noise of the sea he heard the waves swallowing up the earth, could sense that they were a force of erosion and change. It wasn't clear. But what was clear, Chudney told me, was that he was brave enough to throw his body into harm's way.

"Courage, man," Chudney told me with a big smile. "You can't teach that s.h.i.+t."

The Plow Pose I'd already a.s.sumed a particularly compromising yoga position when the officer walked into the weight room. The Plow pose basically has you on your back, balancing on your shoulders, with your legs straight and together, swung up and over, straight past your face-that is, when you're doing it correctly.

When you're not doing it correctly, and I wasn't even close, your legs are splayed. To most, this looks both comical and slightly painful. To some, it looks like something much more specific. The look on the officer's face indicated clearly that he was among this latter category.

How does one explain oneself in such a situation? Do I mention that this is a standard practice of yoga? Should I explain that the Hindu Shakti Shakti, or divine libidinal flow, is, according to that guru, Wikipedia, "conceived as a G.o.ddess which rises to the head, until it is united with the Supreme Being (Lord s.h.i.+va) and the aspirant [in this case, me] becomes engrossed in deep meditation and infinite bliss"? Is there any way for that not not to be interpreted as an elaborate euphemism for giving yourself a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b? I myself am not certain it doesn't mean just that. to be interpreted as an elaborate euphemism for giving yourself a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b? I myself am not certain it doesn't mean just that.

This unfortunate scenario, inauspicious in any season, was particularly ill-timed. I had a PR problem. I had provoked a group of officers and had apparently almost gotten one, Chuzzlewit, fired. And, as luck would have it, one of those officers had to show up for a weight-lifting session, only to find me, still wearing my office clothes, my dress s.h.i.+rt unb.u.t.toned, in his his weight room, inflicting my h.o.m.o/autoerotic Hindu exercise regimen upon him. weight room, inflicting my h.o.m.o/autoerotic Hindu exercise regimen upon him.

It was actually ironic. I was in the weight room partly because of my conflict with the officers. Their dirty looks were unnerving me; I was getting stress backaches. Someone had suggested yoga. I hadn't ever taken yoga seriously; it sounded like a hybrid between yogurt and Fonda-not the kind of thing a self-respecting American guy should get mixed up in. But I was desperate. And now here I was in the prison staff weight room, alone with an officer who had only contempt for me. And with my face squarely in my crotch.

Try as I might, I couldn't untangle myself. It turns out to be rather difficult, once committed, to shake oneself out of the Plow. Especially without first digging your face a bit further into your crotch. Finally I wiggled out and jumped to my feet.

"Just doing some stretches," I announced, pulling my arm behind my head.

This comment was ignored. So indeed was my very existence. The officer set up his barbells in silence. He was benching 175. I wondered how much I could do these days. It had been a while since I pumped iron.

Feeling confident, I made my way over to the bench press. I put on 100 pounds. Then I put on 20 more. Then 20 more, 10 more. I sat down, ready to bench a respectable 150. A man should be able to lift his own weight.

I wrapped my hands around the cold metal bar and fixed my eyes on the wall, at pinups of steroid-inflated men. My gaze was met by their bulging, bloodshot eyes. Even from fifteen feet away I could see every vein in their immense glistening bodies. These were not portraits but landscapes. Were these giant men happy? And what about the guy who'd posted the photos? What did he dream about? Did the officers who used this s.p.a.ce enjoy beholding guys flexing in skimpy bikini bottoms?

I inhaled deeply and then exhaled just enough to budge the bar. I held the weight aloft, over my body. My back protested fiercely. My arms began to wobble involuntarily. This was not a good idea. I was in the gym, after all, because my back had gone out. If it failed me again, at that moment, I'd be in serious trouble. And all because I had to compete with this officer.

I sighed and dropped the bar back into place with a loud crash.

In the mirrored wall, I spied the officer throw me a smug little grin. I b.u.t.toned up my s.h.i.+rt and called it a day.

The Flip-Out I was feeling as though I had to keep as close an eye on officers as on inmates. I'd become the target, or at least the pretext, for a subtle campaign of hara.s.sment. It came in various forms. First, I heard that officers were confiscating inmate library books more frequently than usual during searches, throwing them into the trash. Members of the library detail were being routinely detained and sent back at their checkpoint, leaving me shorthanded.

Then, for two straight days, no students showed up to my writing cla.s.ses. When I approached the officer on duty about the problem, he showed me a note that stated my cla.s.ses had been canceled. Who sent it? He didn't know. The note was conveniently unsigned.

The next week, when my cla.s.ses finally resumed, an officer who I'd never seen swung by and stood by the door, staring in the entire time, casting a pall. Similar behavior was reported by other teachers. Everyone was whispering that these officers were looking for any excuse to point a finger at the Education Department. In the meantime, they were going to put everyone on edge.

The officers' keenness to incriminate me bore some fruit. One afternoon, the library screened Da Ali G Show Da Ali G Show, which featured a clownish hip-hop interviewer satirizing deadly serious guests. A three-second cut of Ali G-played by Sacha Baron Cohen-simulating a s.e.x act with a tree became the subject of a report against the library: we were cited for our use of "inappropriate" content. Although the report wasn't taken too seriously by the administration, I was warned and told to monitor the library's content more closely. When I argued that Ali G was a satire satire, I was flatly told, "don't do it." Again, the officers had found a way to compromise my programming, to put me on notice.

All of this was beginning to destabilize my equilibrium. Twice in one week I found myself stuck in an elevator-not unheard of-the second time forcing me to miss a cla.s.s. I couldn't help but wonder if an officer in Central Control was squeezing me, especially as these holdups extended almost twenty minutes each, far past the usual delay. Every time an officer or group of officers came into the library for routine contraband searches, I watched them with mute paranoia, fearing they might plant something or do something to embarra.s.s me. I didn't know whom to trust.

But the petty claims weren't the real problem. It was the fear that these were a prelude to much more serious meddling. That one day I'd find myself sitting in the SID's interrogation room trying to explain why an officer found drugs in my desk and why three inmates claimed to have bought heroin or OxyContin from me. My recent stress-related back problems were preventing me from getting sleep. I was beginning to crack.

The final provocation greeted me upon my arrival for a Friday morning s.h.i.+ft. Sitting on my desk was a freshly printed report. Written by none other than Officer Chuzzlewit himself, the doc.u.ment claimed I'd freely and knowingly given an inmate contraband including pens, pencils, and markers, tools that could be refas.h.i.+oned into knives or tattoo-making implements or sold for these purposes. In the report, I was indentified as "the short, thin blondish guy in the library."

Although relieved that the charge was relatively minor-that is, compared to the accusation of selling drugs-I was still unnerved. Was he signaling a warning? Was he demonstrating his ability to get away with any charge against me? Was I paranoid? Mostly, though, I resented the subtle suggestion that I was some sort of malnourished leprechaun who dwelled between the bookshelves. The short, thin blondish guy in the library, indeed. I'd had enough of this. I officially flipped my lid.

Because of my bad back, I hadn't slept the night before and was already in a state. It was 7:40 a.m. Twenty minutes until the day's first inmates were due in the library. Not enough time to get my cereal: looked like I'd be having revenge for breakfast.

Slightly deranged, I rifled through my desk in search of a Post-It note. They were all hot pink. No good. I needed something staid. Yellow! Yellow! Yes, a nice, professional yellow note would be perfect. My mind was racing. I searched more. Still, all I could find were pads of hot pink. Half a dozen of them. Yes, a nice, professional yellow note would be perfect. My mind was racing. I searched more. Still, all I could find were pads of hot pink. Half a dozen of them. f.u.c.k it f.u.c.k it, I thought. As Don Rumsfeld once said, "You go to war with the army you have, not the army you wish you had." As Don Rumsfeld once said, "You go to war with the army you have, not the army you wish you had." I scrawled my name on the hot pink adhesive note. And then, like a psychotic, I traced over my name a second time. A third. I underlined it three times, then peeled the note from the pad. I could feel myself smiling like a goblin. I threw open the library door. Chuzzlewit! Standing right there in the hall, holding his morning cup of coffee. Perfect. I walked up to him. I scrawled my name on the hot pink adhesive note. And then, like a psychotic, I traced over my name a second time. A third. I underlined it three times, then peeled the note from the pad. I could feel myself smiling like a goblin. I threw open the library door. Chuzzlewit! Standing right there in the hall, holding his morning cup of coffee. Perfect. I walked up to him.

"Next time you wanna write a report on me," I said, "don't forget to include my name."