ENC 1101-B3 & B4: Writing for Discovery

This was my single and solitary motive for adopting the profession. I wondered where I might have been if perhaps governing factors were deviant. This begs the question: was there a steady paycheck to be had in the pursuit of women?

This was always a pertinent question when addressing my personal ‘would-of and should-of’s’. When I was younger I had always been quite adept in the area, and it would come to no surprise that I even found satisfaction in that sort of niche, if only for a time. This idea sauntered through my thoughts as I opened the car door. The rain was there to meet me and it made it’s presence felt by brutally striking my shoulders and head.

I slammed the car door shut, and despite the cold, hard rain recoiling off my shoulders continued in my sauntering. It wasn’t my good looks that made me recognizable among a sea of similarly good-looking faces; rather it was my mastery over the human language. Women drank my words like a precious wine, their species had developed a great affinity for praises ensued by their own names. This weakness warranted a laugh—but my profession was in part presentation—so in response to the foolishness of women my face remained cold and indifferent. I slammed the car door and briskly made for a pair of double doors at the far side of the building.

No, a philanderer would not have maintained my interests for long. Women proved too easy a prey. They were to easily mastered and ultimately offered little challenge. Challenge led me from chasing women to working a courtroom, the evolution of things warranted another laugh but still my face remained resolute. The courtroom is where I was introduced to my next real venture but this, in time, proved even less satisfying then beguiling women. Within a court of law I saw too many rules, too many formalities, my opponents would hide behind these formalities and subsequently escape the full wrath of my argument. What cowards they were, I would have brushed them from the courtroom like raindrops off my jacket if not for the damned ineptitude of the courtroom. I threw the now dry jacket over my shoulder and continued to the doors. As always, in defiance of my best efforts I couldn’t help but release a gentle smile upon reading the words painted across them. They read: Maximum Control Facility, Westville County Jail and they invariably raised a tinge of excitement through my otherwise blank demeanor. I pushed the words open and the performance had begun.

My profession was in part a play, and my success was dependent on how well I performed my role. In this act I am attempting to convince my audience of my own superiority. I am better then they are and for this reason they will respect me and adhere to my wishes. My audience here was a few ushering guards and a receptionist.

The “receptionist”—as I had at one time mistakenly referred to him—was a burly, dark-skinned man who insisted upon the transgression that his proper title was that of “standing guard” and that he just happened to be guarding the front desk presently.

“Excuse me Receptionist.” It suited my character to ignore lectures specifying the man’s “proper title,” and similar to icing on a cake his disdainful reaction was too precious not to taste.

I continued, “I’m representing the State of Indiana in the litigation of State vs. James Chalmers. I’m here to see the defendant.”

The guard had his nose buried deep within the pages of last month’s Sports Illustrated and my interruption seemed to have succeeded in reminding him that he was at work. His eyes rose on slightly from the pages, “Oh, it’s you, Mac, goddamn you know my proper title is Standing Guard”—my proper title wasn’t Mac either, but the guard made a point to address me as such upon every visit. If I failed to address him properly, I suppose it was as sort of sweet revenge to do the same.

The guard shook his head, “I know, I know. It’s always ‘State vs. some psycho’ whenever your ass bothers me. I figured you’d be ‘round sooner rather then later. This one has got some résumé.” The guard’s eyes drifted lazily back to his magazine and in a tone directed half toward me and half toward himself asked, “What do you think about ‘dem Yanks. They going all the way this year?”

Pointing out inaccuracies was a useful tactic in promoting ones superiority and I need not waste the opportunity, “The Florida Marlins won the World Series two weeks ago.”

“They did?” With a look of perplexity plastered to his face he quickly flipped to the cover page of his magazine to confirm the date. “God damn, you don’t say. Good I’m sick of those bastards buying it every year.” He shot another quick glance at the obsolete magazine and tossed it into a nearby trash can.

I briefly considered mentioning that it was the Angels who took the World Series last year, but decided rather to restate my initial intentions, “I’m here to see the defendant.”

He sat back in his seat scratching his head without physically scratching it. I suppose he was wondering where the hell he had been the last two weeks, still he managed a response, “Course you are Mac, nothing but business with you.”

He turned his head down the opposing hall and signaled a man at its far end. “Hey, Charlie! You can play the role of receptionist for a few minutes, Mr. Chalmers has another visitor.” His gaze reverted to mine and said, “this one should be a challenge.”

This was a rather curious comment from the dim “receptionist”, and was perhaps worth analyzing if time permitted. But time did not permit and the guard quickly snatched a steel ring adorned with keys, walked around his desk and started down the opposing hall. He reached a gate and unlocked it. I hurried to the now open gate, but along the way my sight of path caught the breast of the passing guard heading for the desk my guide had just left vacant. In dark blue stitching embroidered in his uniform read, Frank.

I followed through the gate, and it was again locked. It wasn’t long before I was reminded of the slowness with which my guide walked. It seemed as though his slowness along this trek through safety gates and security stations increased with my particular feeling of urgency.

Some way down the corridor the guard attempted conversation, he directed his voice over his left shoulder where I was walking and said, “This one is trouble.”

This was yet another curious comment. “I don’t doubt it,” I replied. “I haven’t met many Murderers that weren’t.” My role forbade from returning the courtesy of a directed response, perhaps even a response was a little out of character.

A response did divulge a hint of familiarity, and prompted by the success of his last comment the guard continued, “well, I’ve met my share of ‘em also and they ain’t never cause me any trouble from behind a steel door and concrete walls. Not like ‘dis one has at least.” His words remained guided over his shoulder in my direction.

At that moment we stopped. “Alright, this is you Mac,” the guard removed the steel ring from his pocket and plunged the specified key into the lock.

I finally suffered a quick glance in his general direction. This glance was followed by a nod of appreciation. He had fulfilled his duty, and for this I could unfurl a bit of civility while still remaining in character.

The guard returned my nod, and in his slow tedious manner stepped to one side of the cell door leaving elbowroom for my admittance.

This was his single and solitary motive for adopting the profession. In the wake of disappointment that ensued my weariness with shortcomings of the courtroom I stumbled upon a new challenge. It took a distorted mind to end a life, but I dealt with this sort of distortion on a regular basis. Murderers were thieves of the most precious gift of all, and it was my duty couple with my pleasure to bring them to justice. I observed after a time that the same distorted mind that was so efficient and suited for stealing life was in turn potentially capable of anything. Within these thieves existed my ultimate challenge. These individuals had crept so deep into the delusion of their own minds that they became unable to recognize anything but their fabricated reality. To make these monsters realize and subsequently profess their own guilt was a challenge truly worthy of my efforts.

With this thought in mind, I crossed the entry and settled into the darkness within.