Wednesday morning, mr Davies brought me to see the chief. This was according to plan, but I didnīt want to go there. Each time Iīd met the old fart Iīd ended up on the frame or worse, and this time I didnīt know what it was all about. A mid-punishment checkup, right, but he wouldnīt trust my say, so actually he could do the _f_u_c_k_ing checkup without me present. I was the least important person of my case, except as a punishment target.
As it turned out, mr Wechsler (the cook, remember?) and mr Jackson were there, too. A coffee tray was on the desk and they were seated beside it, one chair left for mr Davies. He brought me to the desk and I kneeled, then he took his seat.
Chief told me to keep quiet and listen, and then they discussed me. Mr Wechsler was very pleased with my kitchen work, me being obedient and swift and observant. Mr Davies said that except for the first couple of weeks after my glorious comeback Iīd behaved well and never caused any unnecessary trouble (and this from a man Iīd kicked in his balls). I felt a bit weird hearing them, almost like they were calling out the devil by talking that way. Then mr Jackson told about the apology tour. Listening to him I wondered if weīd been on the same trip. He said I still had a lot to learn, but that I was working hard on improving and understanding, and that Iīd performed very well with the victims considering I had a serious attitude problem and was used to acting independently and on impulse. He also said Iīd made good progress with the assignments, and that I usually managed to obey and cooperate, even if I didnīt agree with him.
I listened and inside of me a sick feeling was growing by the minute. I almost felt as bad as the previous times in here. Maybe they were just pulling my leg. I figured mr Wechsler and mr Davies were telling the truth, they hadnīt seen that much of me, but mr Jackson was _f_u_c_k_ing lying. Heīd been mad as hell with me for the better part of the trip. Heīd even whipped me twice, for _f_u_c_k_īs sake. I couldnīt figure out what he was aiming at, lying like that, but it was really scary. I could never play him and win, because he changed the rules all the time.
The old fart rose and walked around the desk, seating himself up front right opposite me.
"Youīve heard your caretakersīopinions, Jennings. Do you wish to comment on them?"
"Yes, sir", I said. "I want to thank all of them for giving me credit."
"Then do it."
I did, still confused as hell. When I got to mr Jackson I wanted to ask him why he was _f_u_c_k_ing with me, but of course I didnīt. Instead I started stuttering. I had to stop and breathe before I could continue. All the time, the asshole had kind of an amused smile in the corner of his mouth.
"Now, this doesnīt mean you donīt have to strain yourself anymore, Jennings", the chief said. "Since youīve shown youīre responsive, weīll raise the standards."
"He responds well to tutoring", mr Jackson said, looking straight at me all the time, that _f_u_c_k_ing smile still there. "Jennings is kind of a one man dog. Weīll just have to find the right master for him."
"No surprise. Your apprentices always end up being adopted", chief said, also smiling.
Then he had his usual speech. He told me that the three month punishment I was undergoing for breaking out didnīt count as part of my treatment, it was additional time. _f_u_c_k_ the asshole, that was bloody nasty news. Then he said that the purpose of this was to make me start working on improving myself and accept submitting myself to treatment. He said that from the signs I appeared to be well on my way. Therefore heīd decided to pardon me from the next 100 lashes, on condition that I continued improving and behaving. The pardon had a one year period of probation. If I screwed up, Iīd get them on top of whatever other punishment Iīd earned myself.
I couldnīt _f_u_c_k_ing well tell him that Iīd rather have them in due time, because Iīd get them anyway, sooner or later, and to walk around with them hanging over me like the sword of doom was even worse than getting them in April.
"Thank you, sir", I said. "Itīs very generous of you."
"Youīll be back on the program on April 28th, if you behave. I hope I wonīt see you again for reasons like this, Jennings. Now, youīre dismissed."
"Thank you, sir", I said. As mr Davies walked me out of there I saw a miserable chap in muddy clothes standing chained to the wall with a screw beside him. I didnīt recognize him at first, but when we got closer I saw it was Pepper. I tried to catch his eye but he kept staring at the floor, shivering all over. I figured heīd tried to spring, too. I hoped he got something out of it before they caught up with him.
Back in my cell I set about writing at once, trying to forget the whole _f_u_c_k_ing event because I still couldnīt understand what happened. I wrote to mr Pescoe and another letter to Angie, then rewrote the letter to Jenni, telling her I was thinking of her a lot and appreciated her writing to me, blah blah blah, but since I was stuck here for another two _f_u_c_k_ing years and a half she was free to _f_u_c_k_ around as much as she wanted to. Well, I didnīt put it that way, but that was the essence of it. I told her Iīd look her up when I got out, and if things still felt good we may hook up again. Another flying pig, and we both knew it. Iīd seen it in her eyes and I guess sheīd seen it in mine, but she didnīt have the guts to break up with me while I was in here, and I didnīt want her to go around feeling scared of what would happen if I found out she was screwing around. Which she no doubt already was.
That afternoon, nurse did a med check on me and said my vacation was over and I was going back to work tomorrow, and if it hadnīt been for decisions made above her head Iīd have been back long ago. I just shrugged at her, trying not to let relief shine through. Another couple of days in here and Iīd gone nuts again. I knew by now I wouldnīt make another run. There was too much at stake. Seeing Pepper had brought on bad memories, and nothing was worth that.
I spent the rest of the day working on the _f_u_c_k_ing assignments, at first hating every minute of it. I seldom had any problem filling the pages required, but this was too much. The CP paper was the toughest. I couldnīt come up with one single reason to defend CP. Then I turned the whole thing around. I tried to think like mr Jackson, you know, all that bull_s_h_i_t_ about pain as a teacher, trying to figure out what he meant by that, because he really did believe in it. Mr Jackson had given me a file for my papers and I searched out the one where heīd made a comment about pain being Godīs megaphone for the deaf. I tried to imagine what itīd be like if I hadnīt been whipped at all. Iīd have gone about this the same way as I did at reform school, running away as soon as I got a chance, working hard not to let anything get to me, and all of it wouldīve been a waste of time. Iīd been here for nearly seven months and already learned a great deal about myself. Two years at reform school taught me _s_h_i_t_, except new grips and stunts from the twilight zone. Knowing you got a thrashing every time you failed forced you to shape up and be alert and really think about what you did or didnīt (and Iīd made a success out of it for sure not). Otherwise you could just give a _f_u_c_k_, knowing they could do zip about it except locking you up or yelling at you.
Still I didnīt want mr Jackson to imagine heīd finally made me kiss the whip, so to speak, and he hadnīt. To me, the CP part of the Crowmill treatment was and would forever be medieval. There had to be other ways to bring on a change in a guy, even if I couldnīt think of any right then. Anyway, I made up a character, a politician, and wrote the paper like he was the one making the speech. on account of the increasing criminal activity. I named him Brad Beatemall. Old Brad was a real tough guy and had no problem whatsoever defending CP, because heīd never have his ass thrashed or have to witness a whipping if he didnīt want to. Brad filled three pages and a half in no time (When I got it back, there was a gold star on the front page, my first one ever).
I went back to work that Thursday. Mr Wechsler had made a cake and all of them wbd me. I just smiled at them, still not allowed to speak, but inside I nearly panicked. They didnīt know _s_h_i_t_ about me. Sooner or later Iīd screw up and everybodyīd be mad and disappointed. It felt allright to be back at work, though, to be honest I liked it even more than Iīd done from starters. Got a break that Sunday when I had to hang around the dining hall again. It wasnīt as bad as last Sunday, but still pointless.
Pepper was publicly whipped Monday morning. Iīd asked mr Jackson to be excused because I didnīt want another reminder right then. Mr Jackson told me to convince him that Iīd be better off not attending the horror show. I said I was fully occupied already, trying to adjust to facts and get on with my life, and that Iīd go there if he told me to but I wouldnīt benefit from it. He asked me how I could tell and I said that I couldnīt, but I didnīt want to expose myself to something that might ruin my progress. Then he laughed and said, well, stay the _f_u_c_k_ out of it, then, and that was it.
The weeks rolled by. I was counting down to D-day all the time. On April 16th I turned 19, and mr Jackson gave me a book, Zen And the Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance, where all the Deuces had written their tags on the flyleaf. My life had taken a strange turn. People treated me like I was OK all the time the kitchen staff, the screws, sometimes even mr Jackson. I donīt mean that they let me do whatever I wanted or anything, but there was less barking and I wasnīt being punished all the time, except that I had to rewrite assignments or was given tricky or strange ones like the ones I told about before. During that period I just got two thrashings. One was for nicking food, stupid _f_u_c_k_ing mistake and I had it bareassed in front of the kitchen staff, which was enough to make me decide Iīd never try that one out again. The other was for backtalk in the shower room and wouldnīt have happened if that _f_u_c_k_ing mr Morales had left me alone, but in neither case I got the full 20. On both occasions I was scared _s_h_i_t_less afterwards that this would count as relapses and revoke the pardon, but mr Jackson told me I had to act out a lot more convincingly than that to be considered incorrigible. Anyway, I kept waiting for my major screwup. I knew itīd come.
The week before my three months were up I decided to bring up the subject with mr Jackson. I couldnīt downright ask him why heīd lied about the tour, but I said that I didnīt understand why heīd told the chief I did well with the victims, because I didnīt with most of them.
"Thatīs the dice of truth, TJ", he said. "You roll it and one side comes up, and it tells the truth, and you roll it again and whatever side comes up, itīs equally truthful."
"Sir, I donīt understand", I said. "You mean if I did well and screwed up at the same time, itīs OK to choose either and call it the truth?"
"Nope, TJ. Thatīs the way youīve handled truth all your life, and doing it frequently doesnīt make it right. Both are right. That tiny brain of yours may not be able to handle the complexity of life, but thatīs it. There are lots of grey shades between black and white." Mr Jackson smiled wryly. "Bet youīll lie awake all night and have a headache tomorrow from it."
"I still donīt understand, sir", I said. "I mean, you were really mad at me, sir."
"You arguing with me? If you donīt understand, then _f_u_c_k_ing think about it for a while and get back to me when youīve sorted things out. If I say you did well, then you did. If I say you screwed up, then you did, too. Whatīs the matter, TJ? Things been too good to be true lately?"
"Yes, sir", I said, lowering my head. I couldnīt figure out how come he hit bullīs eye almost every time.
"Tell me about it."
I tried to explain. It wasnīt easy and I nearly made it sound like Iīd gone paranoid.
"So what if you donīt screw up, then?" mr Jackson asked. "What if nothingīs really changed around here except your attitude? Ever thought about it?"
"Iīll still screw up, sir", I said. "I always do."
"Tell you what, TJ. If you screw up, Iīll kill you. And I mean it. Feeling better? Just put the blame on me. And get about growing up, for _f_u_c_k_īs sake." Mr Jackson got out of his chair, signaling time was up. "By the way, I have a mentor for you. As soon as youīre back and have found your feet, youīll meet with him. Come on now, Iīll walk you back."
Monday, April 28th around 9 a. m., I was standing in the entrance hall, with mr Bell on one side and mr Morales on the other, the former carrying a plastic bag containing my book, toothbrush and paper file. It was sunny outside and the flower bed next to the wall was screaming yellow and blue and green. Soon it would be summer and Metallica was releasing a new album, Johnny Miller told me and also sent me a bootleg demo sample CD. Angie still wrote at least once a week. Even Chris had finally got down to occasional writing. My hair had grown 2". I had my hands cuffed on my back, but these things were like normal to me by now. The only thing I wished for in life right now was getting on with it. I heard footsteps approaching along the gravel path and spotted mr Richards as he turned the corner.
Maybe I will screw up. Maybe Iīll go straight from here. Maybe Iīll get run over by a bus and end up as a beautiful corpse. Wherever I may roam thereīs no turning back. And I _f_u_c_k_ing well still feel like Iīm me.
August 2003
END
Authorīs note: The end of a long journey.....this started out as kind of an experiment and I had no idea what would become of it. Feel free to post feed-back, good or bad, I really appreciate it. Thanx to the guys whoīve mailed me along the way and to the ones whoīve put up with TJ this far. >>>>>>>>>>>Paul