"The American Revolution - Redux"

Chapter 14. Water Boarding

March 10th, 2009
The Cindy Sheehan Domestic Terrorist Warfare Facility, 6 AM

     "Okay sunshine, time to get up," a black-clad guard screamed through the small opening in the thick cell door. "I hope you enjoyed your day of rest yesterday. Gotta let that hand of yours heal up a bit before the fun starts, you know. But the good news is, you get to spend all day with me, now won’t that be fun?"
     "What? What time is it?" Johnnie asked, again realizing where he was.
     "It’s torture time!" the guard responded. "I just love it when I get to deprive someone of sleep. It always starts my day off right! All part of today’s agenda you know. Now stand up, turn around, hands behind your back."
     Johnnie obediently obeyed, suddenly realizing what lay ahead of him and beginning to feel sick.
     The burly guard unlocked and opened the door, entered and again zipped the cuffs around Johnnie’s wrists.
     "Where’re we going?" Johnnie half demanded, already knowing.
     "We’re just going for a little walk, you know, get some fresh air, maybe see some sights," the guard replied, an evil smile cutting across his face.
     "You aren’t going to torture me, are you?" Johnnie hesitantly asked.
     "Of course we are! We’ve already started, with sleep depravation…"
     It's six AM, numb nuts. I got plenty of sleep last night, Johnnie thought.
     "…that is, unless you want to tell us everything you know," the guard said, smiling sadistically.
     Johnnie took a moment, debating whether it was really worth being tortured for something that now seemed so trivial. I mean, he thought, maybe having the Government run everything wouldn’t be so bad. At least I’d still be in one piece, as visions of the Inquisition and the rack shot through his head. No, he finally concluded, there’re too many people who fought and died for my freedom. No, I’ll face my destiny, he melodramatically concluded.
     The smiling guard led Johnnie out from his cell and down the cool hall. Then they walked down three flights of stairs to the basement, Johnnie’s slippers shuffling against each of the cold concrete steps.
     "What’re we doing down here?" Johnnie asked when they had reached the bottom.
     "Oh, we torture everyone down here. See the sound can’t travel very far," the guard happily explained. "Man, you wouldn’t believe the screaming that goes on down here sometimes. It’s enough to get you right here," the guard said, pointing between his eyes.
     "But I didn’t do anything?" Johnnie protested, being led into a small room and seeing a well-worn table with a rusting wash tub on the floor, at the far end.
     "That’s okay! I wouldn’t worry about it. Hey, you ever been water boarded?"
     "No!"
     "Well, today’s your lucky day. Why I just knew it was going to be a good day!" the guard said in his sing-song style, removing the cuffs and forcing Johnnie to lie down on the table, face up.
     As the guard began lifting the thick leather straps across Johnnie’s prone body and cinching them tight, hearing the leather stretch and complain, Chief Club walked in, also smiling.
     "Good morning Bob," he said to the guard. "How are you today?"
     "Just fine warden," Bob happily replied, "just fine," as he threaded a thick leather strap through one of the buckles.
     "Good, glad to hear it. How’s the wife and kids?"
     "Aw, Bob Jr.’s flunking algebra."
     "Oh, sorry to hear that; thought about a tutor?"
     "Yeah, Jackie’s looking into it," the guard nonchalantly replied, reaching for another of the leather straps.
     "Hey!" Johnnie screamed, lifting his head, "what about me?"
     "Oh yes, good morning Mr. Dough. I hope you enjoyed your day of rest and slept well," Chief Club cheerily said, "Big day ahead!"
     Then walking over and looking down at Johnnie said, "Johnnie, have you reconsidered your position? Would you like to answer my questions now?"
     "No, but I’ll take that ham and cheese sandwich!"
     Chief Club and Bob immediately broke out laughing, Johnnie did too. Then Chief Club became serious.
     "Okay, shall we get to it then? Bob, lower the head of the table forty-five degrees."
     "Yes sir," Bob responded, and then began turning a handle beneath the table, lowering Johnnie’s head.
     "So Johnnie, ever been water boarded?" Chief Club asked.
     "No, and stop asking me that!" Johnnie answered, feeling his blood rush to his head, beginning to get dizzy.
     "Well, you’re in for a real treat. Why did you know that this is how we broke the leader of the attacks on 9-11, Khalid Sheik Mohammed? We don’t like to publicize that too much, you know, politics."
     "But I’m a US citizen!"
     "Yes you are," Chief Club answered, also very musical. "Bob, please put the rag over Mr. Dough’s face and fill the water buckets," he said, turning towards Bob.
     "Yes sir!" Bob answered, still smiling.
     Bob walked over and placed a white rag on top of Johnnie’s face, completely covering it, as Johnnie’s rapid breathing began to suck in and blow the rag up, outlining his mouth.
     "Okay Johnnie, one last time. Are you ready to answer my questions?" Chief Club asked, again.
     Johnnie now heard water splashing into the metal buckets.
     "Moe"
     "What was that?"
     "Moe!"
     "Oh, you mean no! Sometimes it’s hard to understand what people are saying with that rag over their mouths. Bob, bring those water buckets over here."
     "Yes sir!" Bob replied, carrying the first bucket over, splashing some of the water on the cold concrete floor.
     "Okay, Mr. Dough, better hold your breath!"
     Johnnie was now in complete terror. Sweat poured from his body, staining his orange jump suit. His breathing was more like a pant, in out, in out.
     "Bob, pour the first bucket!"
     Johnnie said a quick prayer, took a deep breath and prepared himself for the watery-onslaught.
     Then it began. Johnnie heard the torrent of water splashing into the rusting wash tub, knowing that in an instant it would tumble over him, stealing his breath, suffocating him.
     It didn’t.
     "Whaf da vuk?" he said.
     "You ready to talk now?" Chief Club asked.
     "Buf yu didn’t pour da wa-ver on me!" Johnny said, his words muffled by the rag.
     "Damn-it," Chief Club cried, the music now gone from his voice. "I knew this wouldn’t work; frig’in politicians! Take that damn rag off him Bob!"
     "Yes sir," Bob immediately responded, disappointed, lifting the dry rag from Johnnie’s head.
     "Hey, what the hell’s going on?" Johnnie screamed; looking up at Chief’s Club’s now frustrated face.
     "Ah, damn-it, ever since the President started investigating the enhanced interrogation techniques of the previous administration, we’re not allowed to actually water board anyone. We can’t even use a faucet. Wouldn’t look good you know, hypocritically speaking," Chief Club said, looking down at the floor.
     Johnnie burst out laughing, then Chief Club and Bob did too.
     "Shit!" Johnnie finally said, regaining his composure. "You really had me going there; thought I was going to pee my pants!"
     "Yeah, frig’in politicians ruined all our fun!" Bob said. "Damn shame too!"
     "Well Johnnie, guess you’re not going to answer any questions, are you," Chief Club said.
     "No, I guess I’m not," Johnnie replied, laughing again.
     "Ah, it was worth a shot. Guess we’ll have to use the approved techniques," Chief Club said.
     "Approved techniques?" Johnnie asked, beginning to get scared again.
     "Yup, okay Bob, get Mr. Dough off that table and strap him in the chair."
     "Yes sir!" Bob replied, quickly un-strapping Johnnie, tossing the now free leather straps across the table then guided him over to a chair, finally pushing him into it and strapping him down.
     "Okay Bob, bring in the Bose Wave Machine."
     "What, I’m going to listen to hours of blaring rock music now?" Johnnie asked.
     "Yeah," Chief Club answered, "something like that," as Bob wheeled in the music machine and extra large speakers, stopping the contraption in front of Johnnie.
     "Hey Bob, how about a little classical, Beethoven’s Ninth, if you please!" Johnnie laughed and said.
     "Okay Johnnie, are you ready to answer my questions now?" Chief Club asked.
     "Hell no!"
     "Damn-it," Chief Club yelled again, "I knew these new torture techniques wouldn’t work. Damn waste of time, frig’in politicians!" Then calming down he turned to Bob saying, "Okay Bob, put his ear protectors on."
     "Yes sir!" Bob dutifully answered, grabbing the large blue sound protection device.
     "What?" Johnnie exclaimed. "What’s going on?"
     "Oh, well we wouldn’t want you to lose your hearing," Chief Club said, "gotta follow the OSHA regulations, you know."
     "Are you kidding me?"
     "I wish I were, frig’in politicians," Chief Club stated. "Okay, we’re going to blast music until you crack and tell us everything you know. You’ll be getting a fifteen minute break every four hours and a thirty minute lunch break, unpaid of course."
     "What? What do you mean by that?"
     "Didn’t I mention it? You’re on the job!"
     "What job?"
     "It’s part of the President’s economic stimulus package, frig’in politicians!" Chief Club spat out.
     "What’s my job title?"
     "Quality Control Tester, and you get paid minimum wage too, gotta follow the Department of Labor’s work place rules you know, frig’in politicians! Shit, you even get benefits!"
     "Why, I’ve never heard of anything so crazy in my life!" Johnnie exclaimed.
     "Yeah, me too," Chief Club said. "See, this way the President can claim he’s creating jobs!" Then turning to Bob said, "Okay Bob, ready to begin the torture?"
     "Yes sir!"
     "Oh, and one more thing, Johnnie," Chief Club began, "after today’s session, we’d like to talk to you about joining the Shoehorn party, strictly off the record of course, since we’re supposed to torture that information from you; wouldn’t want that to get out, you understand."
     "Ah, sure, I’d be happy too," Johnnie replied, as Bob slipped the ear protection over Johnnie’s head and then turned on the soothing sounds of the seventies soft rock band, Bread. Johnnie happily tapping his foot to Baby I’m a Want You.

***

"Memories of Mike"

"A kingdom that has once been destroyed can never come again into being; nor can the dead ever be brought back to life…"
Sun-Tzu, “The Art of War”









"I just want to celebrate another day of living.
I just want to celebrate another day of life…
I put my faith in the people, and the people let me down.
So I turn the other way and carry on anyhow…"
Rare Earth, “I Just Want to Celebrate”

When I was living in Florida, I picked up a part time job at a Lowe’s. I worked in the seasonal department selling John Deere tractors, weed eaters, air conditioners and patio furniture to anyone I could. I was actually pretty good. “And how will you be paying for that today Mr. So-and-so” was the killer closing sales line; puts the customer on the spot, you know.

Anyway, my manager, a big bear of a kid named Mike Matlin, twenty-three years young, attending the local junior college, was a great mentor for me. He loved life. He loved people. He was an extraordinary salesman who, I swear, could sell ice cubes to Eskimos, particularly if they were retired or female. I mean he’d spy some retired couple or a single mom and he’d be all over them, smothering them with his charm and jovial personality like a heavy quilt being dropped over their unsuspecting heads, blacking out this sun. He was amazing. He racked up a lot of sales. He was a joy to watch. But the best thing about Mike’s approach was that his customers/victims would always go away satisfied and smiling. He knew what they wanted and never pushed. His approach was all personality based. And, as I often observed, he’d make a friend for life. But, more importantly, from a Lowe’s point of view, he’d recruited yet another repeat customer who’d no longer even consider going to The Home Depot, or as we called them, “Sky Net.”

Now, I was a good twenty years his senior, but we got along like a couple of school kids, always baiting each other, the occasional semi wrestling match in the isle, until “the walking boss”, the floor manager, showed up, where upon we’d laugh at our immature foolishness, only to grapple again once “the walking boss” had turned the corner, shaking his head in disbelief. Or, on the weekends, with our cell phones at the ready, constantly texting each other, arguing over the latest football scores, when there weren’t any customers around, of course. Or, restocking the shelves, usually on a “picker”, a type of forklift, me, wearing my snappy red vest, shoeing customers out of the way, as Mike followed, driving the picker to the appointed impending disaster area, where we’d block it off and then manhandle pressure washers, lawn mowers, whatever, up and down on the picker, with the occasional fake drop or toss, trying to catch the other off guard, laughing, until “the walking boss” showed up, again. In retrospect I think “the walking boss” was jealous. Well, he could have joined in the fun anytime he wanted to. Or, at the end of the day, an hour before store closing, Mike and I facing all the products, moving them all the way forward on the shelves, me, working diligently away, trying not to laugh as Mike joked, constantly retrieving his strategically hidden spit cups as he sucked on his Copenhagen, which if ever questioned by Lowe’s in the future, I’ll deny, as this is most definitely frowned upon by management. Oh well…

So, it was a sad day for me when Mike told me that his National Guard unit had been called up. He was off to Iraq as a squad leader. Well, I wished him luck, said a silent pray and soon began to forget, as we all do, just another temporary friend in and out of my life.

I saw him again eight months later. His unit was rotated back. This was before the military began extending the rotations. He seemed just like his old self, began attending his junior college classes again. I asked if he’d seen any combat and he said “No.” The closest he ever got was when a five-hundred pounder landed fairly close, the shock wave knocking him on his butt.

He stuck around for a few months then he was off again. He’d been asked to train with a Special Forces unit for three months.

Time passed and soon Mike returned with wild stories about the Special Forces guys, small, wiry, really sharp, spoke two to three languages and were stone cold killers. He told me about the time he loaded his guys up into the back of a truck and headed off to set up an ambush. Then, no sooner had he flipped back the flap and began to step down when his entire company was taken out by a couple of these small, wiry guys with a fifty caliber, even before his eyes had a chance to get used to the sunlight. We were both very impressed. He then went on to tell me how he was being recruited by them .They saw real leadership and courage in him, as I did too. He was considering it, and the two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollar signing bonus was nothing to sneeze at. But, he had some time before he needed to make a final decision, so back to his classes and work at Lowe’s.

At first it was great having Mike back. And, I admit, I kind of took pride in bragging to anyone who couldn’t get away from me about Mike and his opportunity. I guess in a way I was kind of like a proud father. My boy, going to be rich and learn how to kill our enemies with his left eye brow. Way cool…

But, then something began to happen. I first noticed it when I saw Mike writing down everything, things that you and I can easily remember for a short time, things like telephone numbers, item numbers, even customer names. I was concerned. So, I asked Mike what was going on. And that’s when my world crashed and learned that Mike’s would never ever be the same again. He was having progressively worse short term memory loss. It was from the concussion of that five-hundred pounder; the five-hundred pounder that had exploded just a little too close to him. It was going to get worse. And there nothing anyone could do about it. “It is what it is,” he’d say.

Mike eventually had to drop out of school and leave Lowe’s. He simply couldn’t function anymore. The last time I saw him, he told me that he was applying for total disability.

And all I could do is ask why…

Now, I will never forget Mike Matlin, even though he probably doesn’t remember me.
So, I quote Sun-Tzu and sing Rare Earth, in memory of Mike...

"A kingdom that has once been destroyed can never come again into being; nor can the dead ever  be brought back to life…"
Sun-Tzu, “The Art of War”

"I just want to celebrate another day of living.
 I just want to celebrate another day of life…
 I put my faith in the people, and the people let me down.
 So I turn the other way and carry on anyhow…"
 Rare Earth, “I Just Want to Celebrate”

Change - A Perspective

Yesterday, in Lexington, as I sat on the cold ground with the occasional snow flurry drifting by, staring at a blackened and weathered headstone of a confederate solider in the Stonewall Jackson Cemetery, I reflected on change For surely this young man had experienced change, great and tragic change. He is long dead and I am not. I do not fear death. I fear the process of death for I know there is life afterward. So, I wondered what he thought as death unavoidably approached, his life changing forever, helplessly realizing that inevitable change was being thrust upon him. This sad thought caused me to think about the change that has recently occurred in my life.


As I thought about everything I’d recently gone through, from being a multi millionaire two years ago, to bankruptcy, to leaving my alcoholic wife with my last hundred dollars, to beginning all over again, I realized that change exists in two forms. Change is either thrust upon you or you initiate it. I’ve experienced both.

My wife and I initiated great and financially successful change. Then change was unexpectedly thrust upon us, much like this young solider. We retaliated by initiating change to the falling real estate market but our change was too slow. Change is like that. Sometimes it hits you like a run away train. I wonder if this solider came to realize this too, in his last conscious moments.

Finally, after many months of internal anguish, I thrust change upon my wife for she wouldn’t initiate the change she needed to make. I left her forever, death had come to our marriage, and the process was painful.

Since then, I’ve come to understand that it’s far better to initiate change, to actively make something happen or else things will happen to you, sometimes good, but mostly bad. Unfortunately, you can’t initiate change in another. You can try, as I did, but it will always fail. No, you can only thrust change. It’s either going to be accepted or not. And if accepted than it’s up to the individual to initiate that change. That’s the best you can hope for.

Yes, I thrust change on my wife. It failed. But I also initiated change for myself and by doing so have now found that I’m in a far better place; a place full of opportunity; a chance to follow my dreams; to hopefully touch someone’s soul who desperately needs to be touched, to love and to be loved. I’ve experienced the fearful, terrible dying process of my now dead marriage. But that process is over, the fear is gone, death has occurred. And there is life after death, a fulfilling and bright loving life, all because I initiated change.

So, as I sat there on that cloudy day, the occasional snow flake landing on my journal only to quickly melt away, I thought about change. I shivered as I sat on that young man’s grave, not from the cold, for I was wearing a warm coat. No, I shivered because I realized that this long dead young man whose life was taken too soon never had a chance to initiate his change. He was the helpless victim of overwhelming righteous yet terrible change being thrust upon him. Then, I prayed my wife initiates her own change, as I sat there with my sad brothers - all.

Whacky Buggy Wheels

Okay, there are a number of strange and frequently periodic occurrences in my life that, over the years, I’ve come to simply accept. Everyone’s heard the saying about there never being a policeman around when you need one. In my case, true enough. But I’d like to expand upon this truism, in the case of my reality, to include bathrooms, a cold beer and girlfriends. However, I’ve grown to overcome most of these inconvenient inconveniencies for the sake of my own sanity.

In the case of policemen, well, first of all I try to avoid them. But there comes a time in everyone’s life when a policeman is needed. So, I also always carry my cell phone. There, problem solved. As for bathrooms, I can always find an out-of-the-way bush or back alley, disgusting but sometimes necessary. Beer? That’s easy; always know where the nearest convenience store is located. GPS works well for this and I strongly recommend purchasing a cell phone that has a GPS app. See? Two problems solved with one solution. And finally girlfriends, even easier, don’t have one, became a eunuch, that’s my solution and so far it’s worked well.

But, there’s one vexing occurrence in my life that I can’t seem to overcome; that of always selecting the shopping cart with the bumpy wheel. For some unexplainable reason, every single time I go to Wal-Mart, invariably I always pull a buggy from the buggy queue that has a wheel that is not sufficiently round. And, it doesn’t matter which Wal-Mart I go to, as there’s one every few blocks. Likewise, it doesn’t matter which queue I select, left, right, middle, middle left, middle right; the result is always the same.

I’ve come to realize that this is the great challenge in my life, the ultimate question, like seeking the answer to the big-bang, or why people think Keynesian economics will work in reality, even though it never has. But that’s another BLOG.

Now, I’ve studied this question from a probabilistic point of view. After all, it really is simply a question of probability. For example, if we know the number of buggies Wal-Mart has then we can easily determine the number of buggies with defective wheels. (Of course this is only applicable to a single instance of Wal-Mart as sample sizes and the normal distribution is beyond the scope of this diatribe, thank goodness.) We also know the number of buggy queues Wal-Mart has, five, and again with some sampling over time we can determine the average number of buggies that are queued at any given time. But, to keep it simple, let’s assume all the buggies are queued, we know the total number of buggies, we know the number of buggies with defective wheels, all queues are the same depth, and to make it even easier, each queue contains the same number of defective buggies and I'm the only person around. Then the probability of me selecting a defective buggy is simply:

P(that a defective buggy is in the front of a queue)*P(that I select that queue)

So, given all my assumptions, it’s pretty easy to figure out. If we plug some reasonable numbers (I assume) like total buggies equals 100, ten are defective, each queue is 20 buggies deep and I select the correct queue (1/5) we can conclude that the probability of me selecting a defective buggy is:

100/10 = 10% of the buggies are defective

100/5 = 20 buggies in each queue

20*10% = 2 defective buggies in each queue, then

P(that a defective buggy is at the front of the queue) = 2/20 = 10%, and

P(that I select that queue) = 1/5 = 20%

Therefore, the probability that I will pull a defective buggy is 2%, and that’s not even considering all the real world activities I’ve assumed away. 2% - I simply don’t get it.

In reality, the actual probability is probably closer to the same odds of being struck by lighting.

Anyway, I’ve come to accept this anomaly. It’s simply not worth the stress level. Yet, I continue to consider the mathematics as I embarrassingly smile and push my buggy through the overly-stocked Wal-Mart isles, ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk. Now why couldn’t I have been cursed with this spell when it comes to the lotto? Of course I could always exchange buggies for one with four round wheels. Yes, that would make my life easier. Never mind….

"The Butchering of Beauty"

I attended a meeting in Washington DC this past week and prior to going, I exchanged a number of emails with the assistant of the person I was to meet with. Knowing the business environment, I quickly developed a metal image of this assistant, Amber; a sixty’ish woman, blue-haired with a pleasant smile, reading glasses hanging down around her neck from a beaded chain and wearing very sensible shoes. In short, a librarian.


So, imagine my great surprise when I walked into the office and was greeted by the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Before me stood my Amber; tall, African-American, with deep brown smiling eyes; a vision to behold. And as I swept the shattered glass of my previous mental image from the dusty floor of my brain, calculating the potential of her becoming my future ex wife, I began to notice some details. She had a few blemishes on her face. Her teeth were not movie-star perfect and her breasts didn’t extend into the next time zone. But the combination of her other physical traits with these incredibly minor imperfections created a stunningly beautiful woman. Ah, my Amber. If only…

Anyway, later that evening I was watching an old episode of “Bones” on Hulu.com. This particular episode was about a crooked plastic surgeon and took place in Los Angles, home of the face-lift, breast implants and collagen lip injections. You know, the place where all the artificially “beautiful” people seek their fifteen minutes of fame before the unsympathetic opaque eye of a camera; Herds of thousands of Barbie and Ken dolls seemingly everywhere.

Well, during this episode there was a scene at a sky bar, beautiful blond, skimpily-clad, plastic-breasted women and squared-jawed, human growth hormone-injected, ripped men. And as I watched, something struck me, something crystalline.

When I was living in San Diego I occasionally would go to a sky bar, a top one of the many high-rise hotels, over looking the bay. So I could relate to this scene. And as I continued to watch, I remembered that I had the same feelings then as I did now, but could never codify my feelings into some sort of concrete thoughts. Then it came to me.

Looking at so many beautiful people, all outwardly and artificially perfect in every way, I lost interest. They struck me as, well unappealing. The very same people who all of us ordinary-looking people want to look like suddenly seemed to be merely average, and in becoming average now seemed mundane, everyday, ordinary; just another car commercial. There simply was no exception, no person who stood out, no one that my male eyes would subconsciously scan the room for and then lock on to like a laser. The exceptional had become the ordinary and the ordinary had become the exceptional. My world was rocked.

Then there was my Amber; not at all fitting into my new artificially average measure, not at all appearing plastic perfect, as if stamped and dumped from an endless automated assembly line producing the exact same copy as the one before, like so many Chinese-made happy meal toys. She stood out. She was an outlier on the far end of my newly inverted bell-shaped curve of beauty. She and the rest of us, in my eyes, are now the exceptional, no longer average. My beauty scale has been turned upside down.

And as I came to this revelation, I dug a bit deeper, trying to determine the root cause. Why in the world would someone subject themselves to the brutality of plastic surgery in the first place? Of course there are very justifiable reasons; birth defects and physically abusing accidents come to mind. But, besides all the intense pain, there’s no guarantee of success. Just look at Meg Ryan. She was beautiful before she chose to be butchered and ended up with a gash of a mouth, looking like a carp, instead of the naturally pouty and full mouth she had before. Axle Rose, Joan Rivers, and so many others suffering the same grotesque fate. It must be that these and others really don’t like what they look like. Why? And this realization made me come to the conclusion that the new average plastic-perfect person is flawed on the inside as well. And maybe that’s the real shame.

But not my Amber, a vision of true artistic beauty made from uniquely-imperfect parts; a person who is happy with who she is. Now that’s beautiful! Even if I did later discover that she’s already happily married. Lucky guy!!!

"Ain't Got No Place to Stay"

I have a good friend, someone I’ve gotten to know over the years when I worked as a carpenter. His name is Will Reeves, about as country as you can get; a good old boy who’d never dig into his pockets to pay for a repair. If he couldn’t fix it with his own two hands, it simply couldn’t be fixed, period. He was gifted that way, with his hands. He could skin a deer faster than you can strip your clothes off on the hottest day imaginable. He was and is a true friend, someone who would actually show up to help you move; salt of the earth, God fearing, self reliant, and would give you the shirt off his back, never hesitating once.

I recently heard that he’d run into hard times. As he says, he did it because he “ain’t got no place to stay.”

You see, he lost his job, as so many have these days. He tried to get another but never having graduated from high school, he already had two strikes against him. It’s not that he’s dumb. Far from it, he’s probably one of the smarted persons I’ve ever known. No, he quit high school to go to work. He needed to support his two sisters and his little brother. His father had bailed a long time before and his mother sought her relief from a bottle. A bit cliche, I know, as a lot of stories from south Georgia are these days. But that’s the kind of guy Will is, decent.

Will made a go of it. He did what he could to support himself and those he loves. I’m sure he had to swallow a lot of pride working as a janitor or cleaning other people’s toilets. But he never complained, at least he never complained to me when I’d see him ever once in a while, when he had a few extra bucks for a beer. He simply did what he had to do.

But, I guess it finally just got to be too much. He couldn’t keep up no matter how hard he tried. This recession finally broke him. He and his girlfriend were evicted from their double-wide. He had to get rid of his hunting dogs, sell his truck and hit the streets. He and his girlfriend moved into her parents’ house until finally I guess, she’d had enough too. She threw him out. He had nobody after that.

I’m paraphrasing the following from someone who was at his trial.

“Mr. Reeves, you have been charged with attempted robbery which carries a minimum four year sentence. How do you plead?”

“Guilty.”

“Mr. Reeves, you’ve also been charge with the use of a weapon during the commission of a felony, which carries a mandatory minimum sentence of ten years. How do you plead?”

“Guilty.”

“Mr. Reeves, I don’t understand why you did this? I read the character references submitted to me by your attorney and by all accounts, this appears to be completely against your nature.”

“Yes sir.”

“From reading these reports, it appears that you are highly respected by your friends and former employers. It says you dropped out of high school to take care of your family. Mr. Reeves, I just don’t understand.”

“Ran into some hard times, sir.”

“So, you decided to try and rob a convenience store?”

“Yes sir.”

“But, from the police report it states that you simply walked in, pointed your weapon at the clerk, told him to empty the cash register and after he’d handed the money to you, you told him to call the police, then you reached inside a cooler, grabbed a soda, sat down and waited. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir. It is sir.”

“Why did you do this?”

“Ain’t got no place to stay.”

“Mr. Reeves, I know times are tough. What about unemployment? Did you at least apply for it?”

“No sir.”

“Why not?”

“Excuse me your honor, Mr. Reeves worked as a 1099 independent contractor. He wasn’t eligible for unemployment.”

“What about welfare, Mr. Reeves?”

“No sir.”

“Why not?”

“I don't need no charity. I can take care of myself. Don’t want to be no bother to no one else. Can’t take their money.”

“But Mr. Reeves, that’s why its there, to help when times are tough.”

“No sir. Not me sir. I pay my own way.”

“Mr. Reeves, I must tell you that I’ve no choice but to sentence you to four years for the attempted robbery and ten years for the weapons charge.”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, have it your way. Mr. Reeves I hereby sentence you to four years for attempted robbery and ten years for the use of a firearm during the commission of a felony. These terms will run concurrently. That’s the best I can do. Do you understand Mr. Reeves?”

“Yes sir.”

“Mr. Reeves, is there anything you’d like to say on your behalf?”

“Yes sir I would. As God is my witness, that can of pop was the first thing I ever stole in my life.”

“Mr. Reeves, I believe you. But I’ve got to ask you again, why’d you do this?”

“Well sir, the way I see it, I can’t take no welfare money from those that pay taxes. They already got enough problems. I ain’t goin be no burden to no one else, wasn’t raised that way. No sir. The way I see it, now I’m goin have a roof over my head, three meals a day and a place to sleep. Like I said, I ain’t goin be no burden to no one else.”

“But why’d you do it?”

“Cause I ain’t got no place to stay….”

***

Will's now serving his time in the Florida State Prison, Bradford. May God be with him for now he has a place to stay.

***

Read "The Baby in the Bag - A Politically Incorrect Tale" and my latest "The American Revolution - Redux"

Peace