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.

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It’s a waste of time wondering how I got here, but my life allows for this useless day dreaming. Today most of my day dreaming is concerned with the present. As a kid—as I suppose is not unusual—my thoughts and dreams were fixed firmly on the future. My dad used to say “the youth is wasted on the young” and Little kids are just wasting time waiting to grow up. My childhood was no different. I had spent my share of sleepless nights lying in bed wondering where I would be twenty or thirty years down the road. Twenty-four years down the road I know exactly what my dad was talking about. I no longer wonder about the future either, the answer to all my childhood day dreams are realized in this small desk and hard plastic chair.

Thinking about this bullshit was useless. Sooner or later I was going to get out from under this desk, push my chair back and walk right out those double glass doors. I might even kick them open, I haven’t decided yet. I had seen the scenario play over in my head a thousand times and the kicking part was just something new I was tinkering with. Not long into my very first day dreaming session I promised myself that this position was just a stepping stone, this desk and the tedious hours of day dreaming that came with it were just a minor delay.

In a year or two I would get out from under this desk, push my chair back and walk right out those double glass doors. With this in mind I never even troubled myself to learn the names of anyone I worked with. Why the hell would I bother? They were making only a momentary appearance in my life, and it would make the separation that much easier. Co-workers could pour their entire life stories onto me and I would nod and smile through every boring detail, but even before the conversation had ended their first girlfriend, where they had grown up, even their name had been lost to me. I had developed a sort of artistry in this process of inattention.

Thinking about this bullshit was still useless, however, so I begin rummaging through the desk draws hoping a guard from the previous shift was kind or stupid enough to have left me something to read.

No luck after two draws have been as my dad would say “turned upside down”, but the third draw succeeded in not only rekindling my faith in the phrase “third times the charm” but also in producing a tattered Sports Illustrate, it was something. Well, something is usually better then nothing this job has at least taught me that.

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.

The magazine turned out to be on a pretty similar par to nothing. Not to deep into the first article sleep emerged as a more tempting option and My eyelids began to droop when…

I pushed the words open and the performance had begun.

He will every so often waltz into Westville County Jail push open the double glass doors and march right up to my desk like he is on a mission for the good of mankind. He’s got a look plastered to his face that suggests a similar urgency, but every so often you catch a sort of half-smile that hints at some child-like enthusiasm.

The doors have already swung shut again and he’s drying off his soaked rain jacket. This man is as my dad would say, “just as predictable as the seasons”. He’s strolling up to my desk with that poised march and any second now he’ll look at me, address himself like we’ve never met before and proceed to tell me who he’s here to see.

He looks down at me and in his condescending tone says…

“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,

He thinks it’s a riot to poke fun at the fact I work the desk here. I guess I see the humor in it if I were walking around in his shoes and fifteen-hundred dollar suit. This position is only a minor delay, however, and I can’t be positive I wouldn’t do the same if the roles had been reversed so I can’t really take offense.

“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.

He knows I’m a standing guard and based on the new fifteen-hundred dollar suits he waltzes in here wearing I assume he knows how to do his job but sitting at my desk in front of an old Sports Illustrated I wonder what else he knows. For instance, I wonder if he knows anything about friendship, about love, about my dreams of kicking open those double class doors and buying myself a suit like his. Glancing back down at my Sports Illustrated I wonder if he knows that the Marlins won the World Series.

Just like my dad used to say: there’s only one way to find out, “Hey Mac, what do you think about them 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?” I quickly check the cover of the magazine just to make sure there wasn’t anything printed there that might have given away this big secret. No, it looks like he does have at least a few other interests aside from his job. I wouldn’t be surprised, however, if knowing this years World Series Champs didn’t some how assist this cause. It wouldn’t surprise me, it’s just the kind of man he is.

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.” That seems like explanation enough, but my little experiment only really succeeded in making me look like a moron.

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

He starts talking again but my eyes drift lazily back to the double glass doors behind him. Suddenly I’m hit by the realization that they don’t swing outwards. I’ll have to kick them open.

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.”