i willn't be a prisoner

i'll stick you in the gut with a shiv

I am constantly looking ahead to the future, usually between one and five days.  I suspect that I am not alone in this, as most people from the time their week starts on Monday morning are looking ahead to Friday evening, when you are allowed your scheduled visit to the prison yard.  It’s two blissful days of perceived freedom before Monday comes again and they lock you back up.  As Jaime said to me the other day, “this is no way to live.” 

There are 365 days per year and approximately 260 workdays.  Let’s imagine that your company gives you the four major holidays off, Christmas, New Year’s, Thanksgiving, and the 4th of July.  Let us also assume that all four of these days fall on a week day.  Lastly let’s say that your company is generous and gives you fourteen days of paid vacation.  Between weekends, holidays, and vacation this comes to 123 days to pump iron, play basketball and instigate gang fights in the prison yard and 242 days per year locked up.

I meditated on these numbers as I sat staring at the padded taupe colored walls of my cubicle prison.  If I did this for ten years I will have spent 2,420 days waiting for the weekend.  That comes to over six straight years without a weekend break, of day to day general unhappiness.  When I think about it in those terms I question why I would subject myself to this.

There are some people, glass-half-full people who will make the best of this situation.  They will find the little things to enjoy, give meaning and motivation to their everyday life.    I am not one of those people, the glass is clearly half empty.  Instead of drafting a plot heavy escape plan involving a map tattooed on the left buttock of a cellmate, I would become complacent.  I would complain every day and wait impatiently for the forthcoming weekend, which will flash by me.

I wonder if our concept for prisons is all wrong.  Perhaps we should convert them into office buildings and instead of cells, inmates will sit in cubicles droopy eyed in front of piercing  computer screens. They will compose emails and submit invoice, and once an hour their boss will come in and give them a pep talk about their work performance and how to meet their goals.

At the end of the day the cubicle door will be opened and they will slowly file down the hallways back to their rooms.  There they will make their own dinner, do their own laundry, and if they’re lucky they will have just enough time to watch a soul sucking rerun of Two and a Half Men.

After decades of time served they will be released into freedom, having spent the best years of their lives slaving away for a faceless corporation, they can now enjoy their golden years.  They can watch all the Two and a Half Men they please and worry about whether or not medicare will cover the blood pressure medication they need thanks to their years spent in the corporate world.

I wonder if implementing this would cut down on prison overcrowding, or in the end would some lawyer get a judge to rule it cruel and unusual punishment.

* * * 

I almost catch myself longing for the life of an inmate when I realize that the differences between their life and mine are vast.

I don’t have to worry about getting stabbed in the gut with a shiv.

I don’t have to worry about dropping the soap in the shower.

Lastly, when inmates get their time in the prison yard they are closely watched by men in guard towers holding rifles.

My free time is mine to do as I please, it is not an illusion like the prison yard.  Weekends are only an illusion of my own perception.  Inmates are in prison for the long haul, death or parole are their only escape, I on the other hand am free to go at any time.

So why don’t I escape?  Like most, I’ve got bills to pay and vacations I want to take.  I’ve got to go with the highest paying job that will accept me just so that I can do these things.  Don’t I and others out there deserve to find work we love to do?  Work that makes us excited to get up in the morning, work that keeps us from always looking forward to the weekend?

We do, and I do.  I’ve been complacent and let the prison guards slowly construct a cell of padded walls around me.  Because I don’t want to look back in ten years and wonder what I’ve been doing with my life, I am planning an escape.  I’ve had someone bake me a series of cupcakes each containing another instrument to help me in my jailbreak.  On the outside I will find a job, one where I can be happy.  It may not be exactly what I want right away but few things are.  I will make it into what I want, and not spend my life looking forward to another day off in the future that will only end up a mild disappointment but rather looking to the next exciting day of work.  I proclaim, I will not be a prisoner!
posted by: brian snider

a giant slab of meat

this is when she stopped

When you live in a city like Los Angeles or perhaps any city, you can only be there for so long before an uncontrollable urge to flee takes hold of you.  Before you know it you find yourself in the drivers seat tightly gripping the steering wheel, barreling down the highway with the city disappearing over the horizon behind you.

By February 2008 that is exactly where Jaime and I were.  Now that both of us had jobs and we’d begun to develop routines, the day to day life of Los Angeles was getting to us.  We’d been in Los Angeles four months and didn’t feel any closer to achieving out dreams that we had been in Seattle.  The weight of the pressure to get this done was weighing heavily on us and it was time for a break from this life.

On a Sunday morning in January Jaime and I jumped in the car and headed off to Las Vegas for the day.  Our plan was to return late that evening but we ended up driving in the wrong direction for nearly an hour.  We decided instead to turn around and go back home.

This time we had reservations at the Mirage and printed out directions on google maps.  We were going up on a Sunday and returning the following Monday, because that was when the rooms were the cheapest and we both had Monday off.  This was the weekend after Chinese New Year and the week before Valentines, so this was our treat to one another.  We made reservations at Kokomo’s a restaurant in the Mirage that specialized in seafood. According to the website the average check was $65 and that sounded reasonable enough to us.

The previous year Jaime and I took our first vacation together.  We went all out and spent a week in Vegas at the Bellagio.  For our big night out we had dinner at Prime, one of the premier steak houses in the city.  The price was steep but the steaks were delectable.  This time however we were on a tighter budget and Kokomo’s seemed like a decent alternative.

It’s 4 1/2 hours from LA to Vegas, Jaime and do it in 3 1/2 without getting a ticket.  We arrived early afternoon on Sunday and checked in.  Vegas is like a night club it looks good at night, dark, sexy, mysterious with flashing lights.  When you turn on those lights the illusion is broken, the floor is covered with spilt drinks, sweat, spit and garbage.  The walls become visible and all the mystery vanishes.

We walked the strip for a while, checking out all the changes that had occurred in the previous year.  By late afternoon we decided to hop in the pool for a quick dip before dinner.  In the winter most of the pools close early and we were too late.  We decided instead to throw a few dollars away in the black jack machine before dinner.

Kokomo’s had seemed like a nice place that wasn’t too expensive but right away the atmosphere failed to live up to expectations.  Located just off the lobby it boasted a multitude of plastic plants and a pathetic dribbling waterfall.  A far cry from the secluded 1950’s nightclub feel of Prime.

The waiter brought us our menus and there were plenty of options, from crab to clams, halibut, prawns, steaks, and lobster.  The only problem was that there were no prices on most of the menu, instead in small print next to the description of the entree it said MP (market price).

When Jaime asked the price of the lobster,I nearly crapped my pants when he answered, $150.  Similarly the crab was $115 and the prawns and clams were about $100.  That left a couple of steak and fish dishes under $50.  I found some overpriced salmon for $25 but Jaime was struggling.  We came for the seafood and it was way out of our price range.  We wanted to just get up and leave, find another restaurant.  There was one just around the corner we’d been to before and loved.  We should have just left but I was concerned about getting into another restaurant without reservations and we ended up staying.

In Jaime’s frustration she settled on a 32 ounce prime rib steak for about $45.  After she placed the order I thought about the size of the steak, 32 ounces?

“Don’t you normally order 8 or 12 ounces?” I asked.  Her eyes grew big and she began to giggle.

My salmon was brought out on a dish served atop asparagus and rice, then they wheeled out Jaime’s steak on a stretcher and slapped it on the table.  It was a behemoth slab of rare prime rib steak, no sides just a tiny cup of ajus.  At this point all we could do was laugh about the entire situation.  The table next to us was occupied by a group of cougars who were already drunk and growling and howing looking for some young studs.  The dinner had been a complete bust but there was nothing short of good entertainment to keep us occupied.  Jaime ate less than a third of the steak before declaring that she was full.

We had the waiter pack up the meat in a box for... later?  It wasn’t until the elevator ride back up to our room that I realized where we’d gone wrong.  The website had said, “average check” they were talking about average check per person.  Who goes to a $65 meal and eats alone?  Back at the room I placed the steak in the bathroom sink and covered it with ice, hoping to salvage it.

The remainder of the evening when exponentially better than dinner, we stayed out till 2 a.m. dancing and drinking.  The next morning we got up early and had our dip in the pool then walked the strip until it was checkout time.  Sadly I had no way of keeping the steak cold on the drive home and ended up throwing out $45 worth of meat in the hotel trash.

I drove us home so the trip took closer to five hours through the desert back into LA.  When we walked through the door of our apartment I felt refreshed.  It had been a brief vacation, hardly even worth noting, but what I remember now, is that even a $45 slab of meat couldn’t ruin a chance to get out of the city even if only for a night.