Cruel and Unusual Punishment

Part II

As our reader may recall: In the January 4 posting Ma MacElliot was thrown in jail after an indictment for her sixth DUI. In addition to the inconvenience of the slammer, Ma is now forced to deal with a troupe of bothersome, deadweights trying to better their haut monde standing by living in her dilapidated trailer and feeding her cats (creatures which she does not quarter there, nor tolerate on the premises). Now the pests have taken to visiting her behind bars further invading her privacy.

The next morning the visits continued. Apparently Thursday was Visitor’s Day too. A tearful, hunched over figure in black emerged from the shadows of the minimum security visiting station. It was Ma’s grandmother. She was crying.

“Oh hello Margaret, what is it this time? Loose a tooth? Break a nail? Accidently drop a faulty nuclear device on Grand Junction?”

“Hello, Ma. I can barely stand to see you like this. I heard what happened and just wanted to visit you. Is there anything you need?”

“Fewer visits would be nice. I have had most of my kin here already asking for favors. What do you want?”

“Want? Oh please my dear. I don’t want anything. I just hoped to….”

“Hoped to feed my cats, water my plants, drive my car around?” said Ma.

“Well, the place is empty for four months and I am tired of the shelter,”

was her frustrated response.

“No, mom. My trailer ain’t much but at least it’s standing. What about the doublewide I gave you in 2006? How about the money that was supposed to pay your electric bill last fall? As long as you like Polish vodka more than American heat I will refrain from investing in your comforts.”

“Well you insolent, unappreciative daughter….just like your father, no respect for the woman who brought you up in this cold world. I must have been insane to come here. You’ll see me no more!”

“Good. I just got rid of my lazy husband and now you all have descended on me. OK, you win…I have $47 in an STP can on the porch shelf. Take it all, unless Merle snatched it on his way out the door. I don’t have anything but that lousy, old trailer house and the clothes on my back. Do you want those too?

A prison guard approached Ma’s cell and told her she would be receiving a call from her son, Blacky, the next day. He wanted to talk about what she would be doing with her trailer for the next four months. He was the worst of all of the MacElliots.

“I thought he was doing time on an honor farm in California,” she muttered back.

She remembered when they had stayed with her, not all at once, but a few at a time, eating her food, drinking her beer, using her toilet paper, sleeping on her furniture. If even one of them had offered to pay me back…or even taken out the trash it would be different.

First cousin Sal moved in for a few days back in 1988 and it was 1989 before I could pry him out of the place. Thanks to my good biker buddies, the Lil’ Sons of Bitches, over in Cortez, he won’t be coming around again.

Then it was an in-law, Little Eva and her seven or eight kids, none of whom are potty trained. I’ve had whiners and wannabees, bullies and bullshitters, muscleheads and moochers, thieves and gladhanders…and all from one family!

“They can’t be after my paltry Social Security check, can they?” she pondered. “Fortunately most of them have yet to figure out where that money comes from and none know quite how to go about cashing something like a check.”

“You gotta work some to get the check when you get older,” Ma tried to explain to Eva. “And you have never worked so chances are you won’t be getting a check.”

Then the second wave hit. Unbeknown to Ma the brood, with legal and extended bloodlines, had stuck around for scene two. The visits increased and length and intensity. Her sister complained about her cousin. Her aunt could not stand her brother-in-law. Her son had flattened his uncle’s nose. There was nothing to eat. They were cutting off the power on Tuesday.

They had yet to cross the threshold to her tin palace but they were camped all around it. They were perched, waiting for her to blink. Waiting for her to cave-in to their demands. She would not.

One thing about sitting around a jail cell all day is that it makes one stubborn. It also gives one a lot of time to think things through. Aunt Cecile has rented a studio apartment in town so as to be close for visits. Uncle Al has hooked up a shower in the barn. Eva had registered her seven or eight monsters in the local school.

“I had my ducks in a row, damn it,” mused Ma.

The next afternoon Ma recounted her family trials with her prison counselor, Samuel Dulles Sharpe, who offered a supportive ear. He was so tired of But I’m innocent hard luck stories told in the bowls of another failed institution. He was so bored. This woman sitting across from him was an imbecile. She saw the world in black and white and he desperately needed diversion. He decided to encourage her, willing to clean up the mess afterwards. Besides, he would be retiring in eight months and he began to see that a stirring of this particular pot would be a fitting farewell to the prison hierarchy.

Sharpe smiled and told her that since she had only violated a state law she was sent to a state lockup and that since she was considered low security risk she had ended up here. He said that she would have committed a more serious offense she would be in the cat bird’s seat, and doing her time in maximum security, much nicer digs than the county jail.

She listened without a word.

“Or if you had really done it up and committed a federal offense, like, say, advocating the violent overthrow of the United States government, you’d be sitting in a bright, new cell. Clean sheets and a view! Watched over by G-men who would monitor you for terrorist leanings and anarchist tendencies.

“You’re stock would skyrocket if you were a federal prisoner,” said Sharpe muffling a smile, who had grown cynical after 30 years in the system. He saw no rehabilitation or much attempt at helping the convicts prepare to reenter society.

He laughed out loud.

This whole façade is just a holding tank where petty criminals make all the right connections so as to learn the tools of the trade and prosper later when they rejoin the real world, he thought.

“Or you could bribe and guard, or plan an escape…or maybe tie a bed sheet out your window,” he whispered to Ma, his puffy, red eyes darting back and forth in silly apprehension of snoops and eavesdroppers.

Further obsessed with her immediate enigma, Ma meekly asked about the food at the federal joint and wondered if her family members could ever find her in one of those bright, new cells.

He laughed again.

After Ma asked enough legal questions to pass the Bar the session came to a close. Ma had learned three things:

First, if she had committed a felony she’d have done more time but maybe in a max security facility that severely limited visits, maybe even solitary confinement if she earned it. Second, if she had violated a federal law she would be going to a shiny federal prison somewhere between Homestead and Nome where they’d never find her. Third: It wasn’t too late to secure a little peace – Advocate the violent overthrow of the US government? That doesn’t seem too far-fetched.

Sharpe, now enjoying his bit of system sabotage, accompanied Ma to the prison library where she consumed everything she could about political subversion, bomb building, militant history, civil disobedience, Lenin, Trotsky, Huxley, Mencken, Orwell, Pearse, Einstein and Darwin. She had never been motivated to read anything but supermarket tabloids and lottery tickets before but now she was on the verge of dismantling her previous existence and embracing a new life as a political extremist! She now had a purpose. It felt good.

To be continued on February 4 posting