Archive for May, 2003

a professional con artist

Published
by
alison
on May 31, 2003
in bluishorange and sixteen hours
. Closed

i wake up again in the same position in which i’ve fallen asleep.  i’m on my right side, facing the doors so that i won’t have my back turned to anyone who comes up and tries to mess with me in my sleep.  my blanket is still twisted so that it covers most of me and curls around underneath my head, to keep my face from sticking to the mattress.  my hair is wadded up under my head, too, so that nobody will pull on it.  my brownie from lunch is there in its plastic bag on the mattress next to me.

only a few of us are left inside the inner cell, scrunched up on the cement bunks.  the inner cell doors are open, and everyone else has moved to the benches and tables in the outer cell.  i can see them, hear them talking.  this time it isn’t about drugs or crimes or whether or not a third offense means you’d serve time or how much weed is a felony.

“she was ugly as sin, but she could really wax that ass, you know what i’m sayin’?” one of the girls says.  she makes a spanking motion with her hand.  everyone laughs.  i cringe.  how can they all sit around talking and laughing as if we weren’t in jail?  how many times have they been here before?  is someone going to try to make me wax that ass?

i can’t sleep anymore.  maybe if i go talk to them it will pass the time.  maybe if i go talk to them they won’t want to mess with me.  i climb down off my top bunk, wrap my blanket around me, and go to the outer cell.  the girls on the benches have just seen one of the prison employees walk out with her purse and car keys, and are debating whether or not the shift change means it’s three p.m. or four.  we have not been allowed to know what time it is.

there are two new girls.  they have the same cornrowed hair and are talking to one another in low voices; i assume they’ve come in together.  like the others, they are waiting in jail as if they were in line at a grocery store or gas station, or in the waiting room at a dentists’ office.  like the others, they have not been crying.  i am the only one.

“what are you guys here for?” i venture, hoping that it’s okay to ask.

second-offense DWI, says the girl across from me.  possession, say the cornrowed girls.  “forgery,” says wax that ass.  “it’s a felony.”

wax that ass is named marie.  she’s a professional con artist, she tells us, and i wonder if we’ve gone back in time to the 1920’s.  i’ve never met a self-described professional con artist before.  marie forges things all the time, she says, but the two-thousand dollar check she wrote at circuit city for a plasma-screen television got her caught.  this is her third time in jail.  “this your first time, isn’t it?” she says to me, and i tell her yes, it is.  “yeah, she been cryin’ all day,” marie tells the room in general.

the warden comes in.  “everyone up!” she yells.  a few of the lumps stir in the inner cell.  “when i call your name, tell me the number on your wristband! didn’t i say get up!” she screams at the sleeping girls.  wrapped in tangles of hair and blankets, they rise slowly, shuffle out like mummies.  the warden has another woman with her, a small redhead who appears to be in training.  the redhead watches as the warden calls out the names and bond amounts.  marie’s bond is 20 grand.  the cornrowed girls are 20 grand each.  sara, the second-offense DWI, gets a thousand.  my name is called.

“172,” i say, without looking at my wristband.

“yours hasn’t been processed,” the warden says.  “stick around,” she says to the trainee.  “you might learn something.”  they laugh as they walk out, the doors slamming behind them.

i stop breathing.  i’m going to be in here tonight.  friday night.  when it will be so crowded someone will sleep on top of me.  i’m going to be in here the rest of my life.  i’ve always been here.  this is where i live.  i’ve always known marie, sara, alicia.  those cornrowed girls with the drugs.  maybe if i don’t breathe, i won’t cry, i decide, but it doesn’t work.

i stand up.  through the glass walls of the cell (bulletproof glass? plexiglass?), across the hall, through the glass windows of another room, on the other side of that room, through a loading dock of some kind, i can see a tiny bit of outside.  trees and sky.  if i start banging on the glass, start screaming, slam my head on the wall, maybe they’ll let me go out there.  just for a minute.  i’ll come right back.

“you not prison material, girl,” marie says.  she’s on top of one of the tables.
“no, i’m not!” i sob, sitting back down.  “how can you stay so calm in here?”
“i just pray.  i pray to jesus that he get me outta here.”

circuit city probably prayed to jesus that he would get her in here, i think, but decide not to say anything.

05/30/2003

Published
by
alison
on May 30, 2003
in letters and the small
. Closed

  dear brandon bird,
  you are a winner.  i knew it before, when bea arthur wrestled that velociraptor, and i know it now, as l. ron hubbard eats the funyuns and abraham lincoln wins the cage match.  but i didn’t know i loved you until the keaton family smiled for picasso. come over later, and we’ll have english muffin pizzas.
  love,
  alison

05/27/2003

Published
by
alison
on May 27, 2003
in the small
. Closed

if you live in houston, you should go see the singles play at the proletariat tomorrow night. some of you may know the bass player as my friend ryan clark of the skyline network. he rocks the party that rocks the party.

05/27/2003

Published
by
alison
on May 27, 2003
in the small
. Closed

on sunday night i took some photos of the scattered pages playing at the ginger man. no, i will not be putting all my photos on their site from now on. it only looks that way.

paranoid alison

Published
by
alison
on May 27, 2003
in bluishorange
. Closed

i noticed it when bill asked me to drive his truck on our memorial day trip to the lake.  he led the caravan on the two-hour drive, towing his two jetskis at a speed of approximately sixty miles per hour.  i followed him in his aforementioned truck, glad that we weren’t going any faster.  trina sat in the middle of the backseat, and when she took her shoes off and put her feet on the ceiling, i told her to quit it, because i couldn’t see out the rearview mirror.

i noticed it when chien asked if we had to wear anything special on the jetskis.
“no,” i said.  “well, a lifejacket, but other than that, no.”
“really?” he said. “a lifejacket?”
“YES,” i said, “otherwise bill won’t let you on, and i won’t, either.”

i was too scared to go faster than 25 on a jetski.  when i rode with andy and he went 45, i closed my eyes and screamed.  “FUCK! ANDY! STOP!”  he couldn’t hear me.  i dug my fingernails into his lifejacket and cried.

i watched how much everybody drank, worried that people would drown in the lake or set themselves on fire while cooking or get bitten by a snake or give someone a horseshoe concussion or choke on a potato chip and die.

alyssa and chris drove up on their motorcycle, helmetless, in t-shirts and tank tops.  “if she fell off the back of that thing, she’d need multiple skin grafts,” i said.  “and in those flip flops, her feet would be mangled.  but i guess it wouldn’t matter, since she’d be headless, too.”

i drove sixty miles an hour on the way back, too, even though we weren’t following anyone.  when a small plane flew low overhead, bouncing red and blue lights in my side mirrors, i panicked, gripping andy’s hand.  he didn’t wake up.  nobody did.

“is that cop car still there to our right, trina?  in my blind spot?” i asked as we neared our neighborhood.
“no,” she said.  “i don’t see a cop car.”

i noticed most of all when andy and i stopped at blockbuster to rent a movie on the way home.  since i was still wearing my bathing suit, i waited in the car while andy went inside.  he was halfway across the parking lot before he was stopped by a small man in a long-sleeved shirt. the man hadn’t come from a car or from inside the store; i hadn’t seen him come from anywhere.  he talked to andy for what seemed like twenty minutes, gesturing wildly and pointing around.  i began to get worried.  what if the man was crazy?  what if he had a gun?  what if we got robbed?  what if andy was killed?  i sat upright, put my seatbelt back on, and unlocked the doors in case andy needed to dive into the car for a quick escape.  then i thought, what if andy needed help?  should i get out in case we had to make a run for it?  i took my seatbelt off again and grabbed the door handle, breathless, ready to jump out at a moment’s notice.  my heart was hammering.  i watched as andy fished some change from his pocket, gave it to the man, and went into the video store.

i didn’t know i would be afraid of everything all the time until i started being afraid of everything all the time.

05/25/2003

Published
by
alison
on May 25, 2003
in the small
. Closed

the photo at right was taken almost a year ago by dave gallman. as usual, let me know if anything is broken, or if these fonts are too small. do not let me know if you liked some older design better than this one, or if your shoelaces are untied, or if your cat just threw up on the bed.