Anger Management

Dedication: 

Anger Management is dedicated to my Scrabble nemesis and long-time cellie, L-dog. He’s Evergreen’s notorious son, football fantasy league loser, and the toughest critic I know. 

See, L-dog is no normal inmate. Oh no, he is a voracious reader and I’m not talking about Patterson or even Grisham; he subscribes to the literary (read: nerdy) The Atlantic and the Smithsonian. He reads science and nature writing for fun (fun!?). He is always nose-deep in the newest best-selling Nobel or Pulitzer-winning tome. What did you think of so- and-so book, I’ll ask. His typical response? 

“Ehh, it’s all right, I guess.”

“I wasn’t impressed.”

“Not great.” 

As an aspiring writer and apparent masochist, I both crave and fear his feedback on my novice pieces. He tries to be kind, he won’t say much. Translation: Kill yourself. Hot garbage. Stop writing, you are making the world a worst place for your very existence. He doesn’t say it, but I can see it in his eyes. Occasionally, usually after I give him a honey bun and he’s still on a sugar high, he may mention a particular scene or character he enjoyed. A play on words that made him chuckle. I grasp at the crumbs of validation and make notes. 

He seems to like it when I write in a stream of consciousness (like I am now), when I inject a bit of gallows humor, and when the characters are recognizable. And so I have tried to do those things in this piece in the hopes he may give me the coveted “thumbs up” or dare I dream… high five. 

*****

I’m a con in the Joint. They call me Specs (short for spectacles, for the glasses I wear, or so I figure). My prison is in a huge concrete and iron human warehouse on the ass tip of Illinois. I’m sitting in a classroom in the multipurpose building attending an anger management class. Our old wooden desks are arranged in a semi-circle like some cheesy movie about a do-good teacher. Today, there’s eight of us in attendance: ISIS, Beano, Knowledge, Country, TooTall, Polock, Greazy, and me. I don’t know anyone’s real name (gov’ment name) and I don’t want to. 

The teacher, let’s call her Miss Turtleneck, tells us that today we are going to talk about triggers. ISIS immediately chimes in about how talking about triggers, triggers him. No one laughs. I wish I could pummel him with his own shoes, but that’s frowned upon in class. Turtleneck continues, she tells us to write down the last time we were very angry and became violent and to think about and write down what triggered us and what we could have done differently. We have ten minutes. I only need one. 

The last time I got really angry AND violent was two years ago when a new cellie tried some gay shit. I don’t remember his name, but for today, let’s call him Punk Ass Bitch. I woke up in the middle of the night to him trying to jerk me off while I slept. I’m on the top bunk snoozing when I am startled awake and see him standing next to my bunk with his arm under my sheets and a handful of my cock.
Me: “What the fuck!?” 

Bitch: “Just let me finish you off. Close your eyes and think of someone else.”

I don’t think. I react. I kick him so hard across the chops I think his head is going to pop off. I jump down and unleash hell. I would have killed him except they popped the doors for breakfast and he ran out. The rest of the story involves an I.A.* investigation and short stint in the Hole. Eventually, he was transferred and I was vindicated. 

But I can’t write that down. So instead, I scribble down some bullshit about getting pissed at some racist guard for yelling at me and how that stems from my issues from my abusive father. I know what Turtleneck wants to hear; this is my third time taking this class. (She keeps letting me sign up.) She’s not ugly. She keeps her hair tight in a no-nonsense top bun and wears glasses so thick I swear she can see into the future. She’s petite which is my way of saying she shops at Gap Kids and probably has to fight the current in the shower. But I admire her. It is mind boggling to me that someone would voluntarily come here (Here!! A medium/max prison with a special treatment side for guys with serious mental issues.) to try and help those of us with anger issues. 

It’s time to go around the circle and share. Country volunteers to go first, of course (boot lick’n ass-kisser), and babbles on for a few minutes about his baby momma’s bad attitude. I stop listening as I am bewildered as to how he convinced anyone to have sex with his sloppy ass. (AND they have a kid? I wonder if they have to keep it on a leash in public?) When he finishes we all clap as if he’s just passed his GED. Turtleneck looks around for another volunteer. We all look away. I make a note in my pad about my Fantasy Football lineup. She asks Beano if he would like to share. This should be good.

I love Beano because he hates everybody. Beano is built like Drago from Rocky IV, his muscles have muscles. He’s black as night; if he got shot in the dark the bullet would come back asking for directions. Beano is one of those guys that is always ready and willing to tell you how he’s innocent and he was screwed by the system. Here’s his story, you decide:

Beano and his old lady are in a bar in Chicago when he starts to get into it with some guy over something he said to his wife. His wife drags him out of the bar, but the guy follows them out and jumps in front of Beano’s car as he is trying to pull away. At this point, I’m still on Beano’s side. If I squint real hard I can almost believe him, but then comes the kicker. He backs up over him. Twice. They got it on tape. 

They charge him with attempted murder, but ends up taking a plea for assault with a deadly weapon and took a dime* at 85%*. 

That was the last time he got angry and violent, he tells the class. Bullshit! I saw him snake a guy yesterday for jumping him in the laundry line. 

Beano’s trigger: His new cellie won’t shut up. To hear Beano tell it, this guy, let’s call him Diarrhea Mouth, talks nonstop all day and night. Even as Beano tries to give him not-so-subtle clues: fakes sleeping, wears headphones, and stuff like that. He’s stressed every time they are in the cell together and can only really relax when he’s alone. So yeah, Beano feels triggered. He doesn’t speak about what he should do to alleviate these feelings. (This is starting to feel like a bitch fest —  that’s something I can get behind.) 

Then Miss Turtleneck chimes in with some two-bit advice about breathing. We all nod our heads knowing full well we aren’t going to start holding one nostril and breathing “out” our frustrations. She can be so random sometimes. 

A few weeks ago she went on and on about some new study that found that epilepsy patients who have their corpus callosums cut (the nerves that connect the two sides of our brains; to reduce seizures) have two distinctive preferences. For example, a smoker may want to light up with their right hand, but the left hand pushes them away (each hand being controlled by a different side of our brains). She was using this study as a metaphor for the internal battle we all fight with ourselves. She, I presume, was trying to make us feel better for being fuck-ups. 

Polock’s turn. Polock is Polish (duh!), bald with a giant head — I imagine him needing a special extra-wide pillow. He dresses every day as if going on a visit, I’m not sure who he is trying to impress? He’s so white he’s damn near translucent. He’s triggered by his window. 

His window is broken. I hear you buddy. Even as I write this, I think: Shit. I’ve lived too long in Dixon CC. I know exactly what he’s referring to, I used to live in his cell. 

The wooden windowsill has eroded and the frame is holding on by a string. Literally. We, my old cellie and I, had attached a length of shoestring to it and fastened it through the mesh wire security screen to our bed frame to keep it from falling off. Having a window in prison is a privilege. A small portal to nature during extended lockdowns. Although recently, due to COVID quarantine protocols, it looks like a scene out of a post-apocalyptic movie. The eerie silence. The stark solitude except for the occasional person going on an in-person visit. I watch them walk by and feel a tug in my gut — not jealousy, exactly, but somewhere in the same neighborhood. The overgrown field was once a dust patch we used as a soccer pitch. the rusting iron weights cordoned off by the yellow crime scene tape; the sand volleyball court now dotted with active ant hills who surely rejoice in their new safety, free from the onslaught of human interactions. 

That window, 42 House, Cell 3, had a good view. It faces west in the early evening. You can see the burnt orange and blood pink sunsets. You can also make out a grassy patch and a couple of large trees that only seem to have leaves for a couple weeks a year. And then there’s Old Betty, this giant decrepit oak that was struck by lightning and almost split in half and yet, she’s the only tree that holds its leaves year-round. I cannot remember a time when she didn’t. I digress again.

Anyway, Polack is done. He was brief, as always, thankfully. 

Surprisingly, Miss Turtleneck has no comment. She’s making notes (or a grocery list). She looks up and over towards TooTall when she notices the moment of silence. 

TooTall is a mental midget who clearly didn’t understand the assignment because he starts in on a nightmare he had about losing his teeth, (Look in the mirror Playboy, that’s no dream). But, this has perked Turtleneck’s curiosity. She puts down her pen and leans in. When TooTall is done she tells us that this is not the first time she’s heard about this nightmare and after some googling she found it was supposed to mean the person had feelings of powerlessness. Is dream interpretation a science now? I wonder. Are we to believe everything on Wikipedia simply because it rhymes with encyclopedia? I cannot believe this is my home. They say I belong here, with others who could not overcome their demons. But I don’t understand this place, even if this place understands me. I do and do not belong here, it’s like a home in a fever dream. 

But something about what Turtleneck said didn’t sit well with TooTall — I can tell by the side-eye he gave her and because the blood pressure of the room quickly spiked. Turtleneck is oblivious, but my inmate-senses are tingling. 

Knowledge is up. I like Knowledge. We scrabble it up in the dayroom sometimes. He’s quiet. Reserved. He takes this class seriously. He takes everything seriously. 

Knowledge talks about his past in a way I never could. He is willing to be open and raw; he even cried once. A part of me hates him for it. I am afraid of my forty-year-old memories.
Sad. Be a man. Things happen all the time. Bad, fucked up things happen all the time to lots of people, but they don’t use that as an excuse to hurt others. This is one of the many things I wish I could say to someone else, especially since I am constantly saying it to myself. It’s when these feelings come that I quickly throw on the mask. I smile. I have to smile hard sometimes to fight back the emotions welling up inside of me. 

And then it happens. All hell breaks loose. 

TooTall reached over and slapped the brains out of Miss Turtleneck. She is completely in shock, frozen in her seat, cheek burning red. I jump across the room and tackle TooTall. Everything else is a blur. Within seconds, which feel like hours, the officers arrive and separate us, and drag us into another room. 

I’m in a pickle. I can’t tell the whole truth because that would be considered snitching-a big no-no in the convict order. I can only hope Turtleneck clears my name. Nothing doing. They drag me to the Hole for fighting. 

I am livid. Pacing the room like a caged tiger. My fake smile isn’t working. I try the stupid breathing exercise, but I can’t remember how long I am supposed to hold my breath, plus I feel like an idiot. That dumb bitch — both of them, just fucked up my bit: I may get transferred; I might lose some of my good time. Damn it man, why did I get involved? Rule number one in the joint: Mind your business. I forgot. For a split second I tried to be human (my instinct to protect kicked in) and now I am going to pay the price. 

Weeks go by. Crickets. 

One Sunday morning, I am unceremoniously released from the Hole and sent back to my old cell. No explanation offered, none requested. How does the saying go? You don’t kiss a horse’s mouth… something like that. (Wikipedia would know.) The next day I get a Movement Pass for a mandatory Anger Management class session. I smile. What else can I do? 

Epilogue:
This experience was a mistake on so many levels. I wanted for my prison life to make sense. I just wanted to live a simple life without issues. But I was in the wild now and that search for logic is meaningless and futile. Uncertainty is inescapable behind these walls. There is no true north here, there never will be. That’s the point of prison. Nothing matters. Everything matters. It is a mindfuck and the only thing you can count on is that it will change you in very real ways both seen and unseen. (And no amount of therapy classes is going to help you.) But I digress. 

Footnotes 

* Internal Affairs: the prison police 

*Dime=10 years

*85%= He must serve at least 85% of his sentence. Also, 50%, 75%, or 100%. Anyway, I digress. I always digress. I’m a digresser.