Lustful Distraction (33)

Every single word written here is an extraordinary exaggeration of events that have played out in my head... based on the stories I have heard from people I have met in jail or while I was dealing with my own stupidity and carelessness, resulting from my own addiction to alcohol and drugs. This is in no way a glamorization of drug use, but a tool to lend some humanity to a subculture that has been demonized and written off as a hopeless and worthless part of our human family. I do not condone or promote any of the behavior or activities herein.

            When I had used every available envelope in my house to fill with the letters that I had written on Bull’s behalf, I began the tedious task of addressing each one by hand to a laundry-list of churches.  In the end I counted ninety-seven envelopes destined for parsonages and congregations throughout southern Illinois and parts of Indiana.  With a giant vase of loose change under my arm and the rubber-band bundled envelopes in my hand I followed my wife to her car in our driveway and we made the journey into Ft. Justice to purchase stamps and relinquish my efforts into the hands of an impatient and frumpy looking mail clerk. 

            My wife, who had offered to help me (which I had regrettably declined) with the folding of letters and their subsequent insertion into empty envelopes, simply accompanied me quietly on this journey.  I was gradually becoming aware that she had been watching me at a distance for some time now, with the vacant curiosity of one cat watching another cat attempting to satisfy an impossible itch.  There was nothing she could do to help me satisfy this suddenly passionate task that I had involved myself in.  The nature of my motive was apparently confusing to her, and she meant to rectify that confusion on our way down the stairs in front of the post office.

“Can I ask what you hope to achieve by mailing that letter off to all those churches?” She asked quietly, while interlocking her slender, soft fingers within my own digits, which felt like they were covered in sandpaper to me at the moment.

“Well, I hope that the good Christian people whom I intend those letters to be read by will be compelled by their conscious decision to live a life according to the teachings of the divine Savior Jesus Christ to take pity on Bull Gunville.  I hope that the words that I have taken such care to describe his unfortunate life so far will fall on sympathetic ears.”  I found myself happy to be hopeful in this moment as I felt the last rays of the hot afternoon sun on my malnourished face and exposed arms.

“How do you think the sympathy of those people you have written to will help him?”  She used her free hand to pull her long, beautiful hair away from her face while she turned to look up at me.  The gesture struck me dumb with a surprising carnal desire that I couldn’t recall feeling the entire time I had been away from her.  Using dope daily had effectively rendered my sexual drives into mute submission for a very long time.  She dropped the captured hair over her far shoulder where it fell gently across her pale purple, button-down shirt.  It was warm today, so she hadn’t felt the need to button the shirt completely.  Lengths of her violet-tinted, auburn hair fell inside the purple fabric, where I saw the stray locks come to rest on the tanned, fleshy curve of her breast.  I was suddenly aware that she had chosen not to wear a bra on our quest into town, and I was grinning at the thought with aching gratuity.

“Well?  Answer me space cadet?  How is this going to help him?”

I could hardly think about an answer to this question, as my attention was completely focused on catching a glimpse of what I had begun to imagine was a firm nipple being hidden by the whisps of glimmering hair inside of her shirt.  I fumbled for my words like a lust-struck teenager.

“I hope that somebody takes pity on him and rattles the states attorney’s cage about her lack of desire to send him to rehab,” I stammered.  I was still grinning wildly, now staring directly into my wife’s huge brown eyes.  I stopped walking and examined the features of her face.  I scanned her small, upturned nose and brilliant white teeth behind full, long lips.  The sight of her mouth called into my currently overactive memory the illicit visions and ghost sensations of her tongue escaping from behind her teeth to offer its moist caress to the most intimate areas of my flesh I had reserved for her use alone over the course of our marriage.  The aching in my inner thighs was fierce and warm as I greeted these memories.  I resisted my instinctual urge to turn her around right there on the concrete steps in front of the post office, and lift her flowing black skirt above her hips where I could only hope I wouldn’t have to negotiate a bothersome piece of lacy, black fabric covering her perfectly round ass and neatly groomed pubic hair before I penetrated what I knew to be a delicately moistened crevice that I had been painfully neglectful of lately.

“Hey there, mister…” My brief fantasy was called to a halt by my wife’s soft, playful voice.  “What’s on your mind?”  It was a rhetorical question, as she obviously had witnessed the lust swirling around in my eyes as I was examining her mouth.  “Wanna find someplace close to work this out, or can you make it back home without making a mess of yourself?”  Her hand fell down between my legs and softly caressed my tightening pants.

“Someplace close, please…” I mumbled, feeling my face begin to radiate with the heat of an impending blush.  We began walking towards her waiting car.

“I was starting to wonder if you were ever gonna fuck me again...” she stated as she let my hand go and stepped quickly to the driver’s side of the car.  I opened the passenger door and slid hastily into the seat, slamming the door behind me.  She turned the keys in the ignition and the car came to life. 

While she was navigating the parking spot in reverse and maneuvering our position onto the street, I pulled the long, flowing skirt above her knees and ran my hand along her inner thigh.  I was pleasantly surprised to find no troublesome fabric to keep my fingers from locating the sweet, moist nub of her clitoris.  As my fingers negotiated the slender vertical lips hiding this hyper-sensitive bulb of skin, my wife stiffened momentarily before she released a stifled moan from behind the teeth she was using to bite down on her full bottom lip.  She released one hand from the steering wheel, never glancing away from the road.  With her free hand she pushed my fingers from where they had found sweet satisfaction further down and into the soft wet crevice.  I slid a solitary finger into the inviting, tight, wet cavity at her hands request.  I was quickly corrected by my wife’s instructive hand as she pushed two more fingers from my hand into her trembling vagina.  She gently pushed and pulled on my wrist to establish a rhythm while she negotiated a sharp turn into the city park.  Her hand slid away from mine to find her exposed clitoris, where she began to massage it gently while I fucked her obediently with the three fingers of my right hand.  Moments later I felt the increasingly fluid response of her orgasm building as she pulled into the far side of the park behind a large dumpster, underneath the shade of an enormous oak tree.  Before she could put the car in park her body stiffened and she finally closed her eyes and screamed joyfully as she found satisfaction and the release of the first orgasm I had provided for her in seven long months.

We made love three times that afternoon on top of her car, parked underneath the shade of the oak tree and behind the cover of the large city dumpster.  When we had finally exhausted ourselves, she turned towards me while adjusting her tossed clothing and picking a bright green oak leaf from her hair.

“I’ve missed you…” she reached for my hands and placed them on her hips, wrapping her own arms around my neck and locking her fingers under my shoulder-length hair.  “Any words I offer will never be able to satisfy the depth of that simple statement, so I’ll just leave it at that.”  She was smiling carefully, and her eyes were glistening with the unyielding promise of tears that had become commonplace in our rare moments of intimate conversations since she had retrieved me from jail.

“I love you… and I missed you too… even if I didn’t recognize it while I was knee-deep in meth and dope-sick,” I offered softly, “I hope you want to believe that I realize it now.  I want you to know how sorry I am that I let this go on as long as it has.”  My spontaneous apology was instantly haunted by the words I had shared with Bull the previous day.

…If you say you’re sorry, then you intend to do that same shit again someday that you’re apologizing for…

But I felt sorry… and apologetic.  I didn’t retract the apology I had offered to my wife, but I began to silently examine the wisdom of Bull’s theory on apologizing in my head.  I truly loved my wife, but I began to doubt the sincerity of my apology, and along with it the validity of my concerns for the emotional roller-coaster my wife had endured as the result of my addictions.  At that moment I began to feel like my ability to feel regret for anything other than Bull’s current position was next to impossible. 

My wife didn’t notice my wandering thoughts, as she was apparently still floating on the cloud of endorphins we had created in this remote corner of the city park.  She closed the distance between us and embraced my impoverished body and the baggy clothes hanging from it.

“I love you too,” as she spoke, I felt her lips moving on the flesh of the arm I was using to return her embrace, “and it makes me happy to hear you say those things.  I prayed really hard that I would have a moment like this with you again… even if it was only one more time.  I forgave you a long time ago when I realized just how hopelessly tangled-up you were with meth.  Don’t apologize anymore… okay?”

“Thank you…” I whispered into the sweet smell of her hair.

She groaned playfully and pulled away from me.  She began to spin happily in several circles as she wandered towards the driver’s side of her waiting vehicle.  “Are you gonna tell me that meth feels better than what we just did?”

“No… meth cannot make you feel like that,” I replied walking to my side of the car, although I was thinking to myself…

But it does make you forget that feeling that good is possible.

This work is the intellectual property of Jerome J. Panozzo.

Reaching Out (32)

Every single word written here is an extraordinary exaggeration of events that have played out in my head... based on the stories I have heard from people I have met in jail or while I was dealing with my own stupidity and carelessness, resulting from my own addiction to alcohol and drugs. This is in no way a glamorization of drug use, but a tool to lend some humanity to a subculture that has been demonized and written off as a hopeless and worthless part of our human family. I do not condone or promote any of the behavior or activities herein.

         I worked feverishly until late that day on the letter I intended to send to the congregation of the church where the state’s attorney had been seen frequently on Sunday mornings during the previous campaign season.  By the time I was finished with the final draft, I had decided that I wouldn’t limit the recipients of the words I had written to only the church where the state’s attorney found spiritual guidance and constituent support on the weekly basis.  I began to address envelopes to all of the churches in the phone books I had access to.  The area I intended to cover was most of southern Illinois and parts of neighboring Indiana. 

            My wife was visibly satisfied with my progress throughout the day following Bull’s phone call.  I ate as often as she delivered food to me.  She asked very few questions about the project I was engaged in, but kept a watchful eye on my progress from just over my shoulder at the computer desk in our home.  I was pleasantly surprised when she corrected several spelling errors in my letter and stated, “Bull’s lucky to have a friend like you,” before turning around to leave me alone at the computer.

            “I’m lucky to have a friend like him.  I should be sitting in there with him right now.”   My words fell into the empty space of the dark room.

            When I finished the letter it read as follows:

Fellow Friends in Christ,

      

        The story of drug addiction is all too common a tale in our area.  The effects that prolonged, untreated addiction to drugs like methamphetamine are devastating to say the least.  I am writing to your congregation today to request prayers and spiritual support for my friend, Bull Gunville.  Bull’s story is definitely not unique, although I feel that with the promise of God’s grace and unending love that Bull’s story can be unique in that it does not have to end tragically, as so many others have.

       Bull has lived all of his life in rural southern Illinois.  He is a father to six wonderful children and extraordinarily loved by all of them.  Bull’s life has been challenging with regards to his education, although he is unfathomably gifted in so many fields of knowledge.  Fields of knowledge which have taken a normal person many years of schooling and experience to become remotely close to the talents he exhibits.  Bull’s struggle with education ended for him after attempting and failing to pass the seventh grade several times.  School teachers at the time claimed he suffered from a learning disability that they were unable to diagnose.  He was immediately withdrawn from school and put to work by his father on the family farm, working on equipment, vehicles, and the practicing the rudimentary arts of physical and mechanical labor.  It wasn’t long before he began experimenting with drugs and alcohol, and travelling down a dangerous road heading towards what could possibly be his eventual demise.

       As the years passed, Bull’s struggle with drugs led him into more and more trouble.  Having spent time in the Department of Corrections on several occasions, his opportunities to find gainful employment became less and less, as many employers view the struggling, recovering addict as a high risk to their businesses, and not worth the opportunity.   After a prolonged battle with DCFS to regain the right to be a parent to three of his six children following an incarceration for manufacturing methamphetamine, Bull recovered custody of the children from his second marriage.  He humbly started the slow process of reclaiming whatever semblance of a normal life that he could in the wake of his troubled years prior.  He was greeted at every interview and job application with slim prospects of rejoining the workforce.   This was devastating to him, as he had a wife and three children at home, and three others from a previous marriage waiting on support checks from him.  With his children hungry at home, and the law breathing down his neck for back support on the children from his first marriage, Bull continuously fought the urge to revert again to using and dealing drugs.  This was a fight which he eventually began to lose.

        In the meantime, Bull’s marriage fell apart and his father passed away suddenly.  Bull was very close with his father, and since the seventh grade had relied upon his father’s assistance and guidance through all of the challenges that life had presented him.  His father’s unexpected death left his estate without a will, which again presented Bull with a challenge, as his father owned a great deal of land, scrap iron, cars, tools, and an extensive gun collection which were now up for grabs among the bickering factions of his family. Bull was one of two rightful heirs to his father’s estate.  Bull was rarely considered by his family during this time… their dismissal of him only adding to the frustration and confusion he was dealing with in the fledgling state of the grieving process.  He immediately began to close himself off to his family in order to protect what he could of his father’s legacy, and the only things he had to keep his father fresh in his memory.  He never allowed himself the time to grieve his father’s death appropriately, and began utilizing drugs again, as a coping mechanism for his repressed feelings of grief and disappointment in his family’s sudden alienation of him.

       Throughout Bull’s years of drug addiction and periods of incarceration, the one thing that had never been offered to him by prosecutors and correctional facilities was rehabilitation and the ability to relearn positive alternatives to troubling situations like he was trying to manage on his own.  I am now working with Bull as closely as I can to try and find a rehabilitation and correctional program that will finally allow him to fully come into his own without the anchor of drug addiction holding him down.  His current law problems could possibly mean that Bull will spend the better part of the rest of his life behind bars. 

       Without the prayers, spiritual support, and promise of Gods undying love and forgiveness, I’m afraid that Bull will miss all of the most important parts of his children’s lives.  I’m afraid that without the guidance and prayers of people with experience in drug addiction and those who are suffering from a great spiritual void, that Bull’s talents will forever go unnoticed and his potential as a human being will be forever lost to the Department of Corrections.   I feel he is truly in need of some sign of hope, and the ability to see the spark of God’s love to prove once and for all that there is a point to this existence, and a bright, overwhelming light at the end of what has been a long, dark and dismal tunnel for him.  I implore all of you to pray for my friend Bull, and keep him in your thoughts during this, his darkest hour.

       There are programs available to people like Bull.  Many of these programs have yielded great results in the most hopeless cases of addiction.  Although he has expressed a legitimate interest in rehabilitating himself, the states attorney in Littleton County has grimly informed him that his fate is sealed:  She intends to prosecute him to the fullest extent that the law will allow, hoping for a lengthy stay with the Department of Corrections without the opportunity for the drug rehabilitation he desperately needs.  This has confused Bull, as he is now asking for help with his struggles, and it appears as though he is powerless to alter his fate.  I am at a loss to help him by myself, and find fleeting solace by praying alone at night for God to guide my actions and discover the optimal outcome in this situation.

       I am requesting your prayers and support in this matter.  I am requesting spiritual guidance for my friend, Bull Gunville.  I am truly at a loss in this matter, and my heart breaks to believe there is nothing more I can do to help him.  Please find it in your hearts and minds to pray for compassion and God’s will to be found in this troubling matter. 

      I thank you in advance for anything you find it appropriate to act upon.

            I was pleased with my efforts.  As I sat silently at the computer desk folding letters and addressing envelopes, my thoughts began to return to the offer Rhonda had made earlier to come get me high.

This work is the intellectual property of Jerome J. Panozzo

Wake Up Call (31)

Every single word written here is an extraordinary exaggeration of events that have played out in my head... based on the stories I have heard from people I have met in jail or while I was dealing with my own stupidity and carelessness, resulting from my own addiction to alcohol and drugs. This is in no way a glamorization of drug use, but a tool to lend some humanity to a subculture that has been demonized and written off as a hopeless and worthless part of our human family. I do not condone or promote any of the behavior or activities herein.

            The next morning, after I had showered and scrubbed the accrued filth from my long-neglected body, I returned to bed and fell into a deeply depressive condition.  The days following my release from jail were filled with awkward hours of silent wakefulness.  My only interruptions were my wife’s hovering attentions and her nonstop, blitzkrieg-style bombardment of food offerings made to me while I lay wide-eyed and nearly lifeless in the bed she returned too only after it was time for her to sleep.  I was grateful for the space and lapse in verbal communication she allowed to exist between us for the first several days.  Although, I could eventually feel her anxieties beginning to overshadow her patience with me, as I continued to refuse most of the food she so hopefully put in front of me.  I noticed that she would visibly perk up and look quietly victorious when I unenthusiastically drank the broth from a bowl of soup to quench my thirst while searching in vain for something to inspire my long-absent appetite.

            I was surprised to find my thoughts wandering towards the idea that I might have better luck eating if I could just get high first.  Realizing the futility of this desire only drove me further into the sleepy depression closing in on me and exhausted my already absent desire to get out of bed, which might have signaled my attempt to resume a somewhat normal existence with my wife, who had been spending most of her valuable sick time from work to attend to my dramatic and unexpected return home.  Finally, it appeared that she had finally had enough of silently accepting my staggering unwillingness to make a satisfactory attempt to nourish myself.

            “Goddammit,” she asserted, stomping her foot on the floor beside our bed and pushing the plate of steaming scrambled eggs, and dry toast back into my line of sight from where I had placed it moments ago.  “Why won’t you fucking eat?”

            “Well, I feel like I’m going to throw up every time I feel food in my mouth!  I feel like I’m going to barf every time I think about trying to eat anything, okay?"  My voice was growing louder and more agitated with every word spilling from my cracked lips.  "I can smell you cooking it from under the mountain of pillows I hide my head under, and it makes me sick to think about swallowing.”  I was actually disgusted with the childish, whining tone my voice had taken, but still I continued trying to explain as  I pulled a nearby pillow over my head, and continued complaining, unconcerned if she was hearing my muffled protests.  “I hear you scraping the pans while you’re out there cooking something that I just know you intend for me to eat and I get angry with myself.  I hear the sound of the microwave when you start it and my anxiety level skyrockets after I hear the beep when it finishes.” 

            I felt the weight of the plate of food she had pushed onto my chest being removed, and I pulled the pillow away from my face to see tears streaming down my wife’s face as she sat down next to me on the bed.

            “I’m sorry, sweetie…" I offered quietly,  "I really wish I could eat.  I really do.”  I pulled my arm from under the covers and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

            “I know I can’t cook like you, dammit… but you won’t get out of bed to feed yourself, and I have to go back to work tomorrow.  I'm going to be completely useless there if I have to spend my day worrying about this kind of shit.”  She was sobbing uncontrollably, and I began to feel the weight of my own guilt for painfully obligating her as much as I obviously had.  I began to realize that the emotional distress I was witnessing at the moment was really only the tip of a titanic iceberg of distressing and horrifyingly emotional breakdowns that my wife must have endured during the time I had spent away from home recently.  The weight of guilt was building exponentially for me, and I felt a sharp pain in my throat and neck signaling my own immediate struggle with the impending manifestation of a tearful breakdown.

            As the tears began gathering in my eyes, and the flood of unaddressed guilt and regret was about to spill over, I was granted some temporary reprieve by the sound of the phone ringing in the kitchen.  My wife stood up from the bed, turning to look pleadingly in my direction.  She held the plate of eggs and toast towards me, “Will you please try?  That’s probably work on the phone.”

            “Set it down here… I’ll get it into me somehow.”

            A weak smiled crossed her weary, tear-streaked face and she handed the plate to my outstretched hands.  “Thank you baby… It’ll really make me feel better.”  The phone continued to ring, as she left the bedroom to answer it.

            I pushed the eggs around with the fork that had been tucked underneath the fluffy, pale yellow mound.  I was obviously stalling, but I was succeeding at convincing myself that I was only looking for an especially tasty looking bite.  In the meantime I eavesdropped on my wife who had now retrieved the cordless phone in the kitchen.

            “Hello?”

            Her greeting was followed by an extended period of silence. 

            “Who is it?” I asked loudly, still focused on turning the eggs over with the fork, but not yet delivering any to my dry, sticky mouth.

            “I think it’s the jail in Littleton… shut up for a second!”

            My attention immediately fell from the eggs I had been agonizing over, as I sat immediately upright to place the plate of food on the nightstand to my right.  I swung my legs out from under the covers I had been buried in for several days and my vision immediately blurred in response to this sudden movement.  I felt overwhelmingly lightheaded and struggled to use my tingling hands and legs to keep from losing the balance I normally commanded, which I was surprised to learn that I had taken for granted.

            While I waited to regain stability I heard my wife’s voice begin a conversation with the waiting party on the other end of the phone.

            “Hello… Bull?  Shit, did I do that right?  Bull, are you there?  …Oh good… It was automated and I wasn’t sure I hit the right button…  I’m just fine, thank you…  I’d ask you the same, but that seems impolite considering where you’re calling from.”  She laughed uncomfortably, “Oh… well… I’m not sure how to answer that, Bull… he hasn’t really talked much, or moved much since I brought him home… uh-huh…  no… don’t you?  …I see…   well, I don’t understand what happened and he hasn’t offered too much… mmmm… I’ll bet.  Will you tell him to eat if I let you talk to him?  …yes… no, barely a thing.  Well, that’s what I thought…” she laughed again and appeared in the doorway of our bedroom holding the phone to her ear, looking at me intently.  “I’ll tell him you said so… here he is… and Bull, for whatever it’s worth… thank you for getting him home… mmmhmmm…okay then…”

            She walked silently around the bed with the phone held out in front of her to where I was still sitting, paralyzed with anxiety and my head still recovering from the swim it had taken when I tried to get up.  I reached out to take the phone from her hand.  When she reluctantly placed the phone in my clammy palm I drew the phone close to the side of my head and began talking.

            “Hey boss… how are you holding up?”  My voice was quiet and shaky.

            “Better than you I hear…”  I was relieved to discover that I could hear the chipper tone in Bull’s voice that I immediately associated with his fierce, mischievous grin.  “Brother, don’t you flake out on me now and land yourself in the crazy ward of county hospital, okay?”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “It means exactly what it sounds like, dumbass.  I don’t have a lot of time to explain things twice to you, as minutes on this phone are expensive, and I’m lucky to have some people in here who have given me a few phone cards to call you with.  Now eat the goddamned food your wife gives you and get your shit together!  I don’t care how bad her cooking is, it can’t be worse than what I have to suffer through in here.”

            “Okay.”

            “You probably have figured out that I told them the truth about shit out on the farm, and I suppose you can kind of respect why I never told you about some of the things I did by myself while you were otherwise preoccupied.”  He was re-interpreting the truth.  I immediately understood that our conversation was very likely being monitored.  “I would apologize to you, but you know how I feel about apologies.”

            “Yeah, boss… if you say you’re sorry, then you intend to do that same shit again someday that you’re apologizing for.”

            “That’s right, I’m glad somebody listens to me.  That makes me realize that I did the right thing by not dragging you down with me on this shit.  You’ve spent a lot of time listening to me, and in turn I’ve listened to you, but more importantly we have taken the time to really hear each other.  I’m not going to apologize because that part of my life is over, and I don’t mean to do it anymore.  I know that you understand what that means, but convincing the state’s attorney and the judge of that fact is another challenge all in itself.  I’ve done time for this kind of thing before, as you know.  Last time I did six years on an eleven year sentence with three years of parole.  I didn’t try to fight that charge or weasel my way out of it by bullshitting my way through rehab or taking a bunch of people down with me.  This time the state’s attorney seems to want me to do twenty-three years of straight time.  I have a feeling that she’s a little disturbed by my lack of desire to bring anybody else with me.”      

            “Jesus Christ, boss… twenty-three years?”

            “I told her that I recognized the importance of drug rehab at this point in my life, and she still wouldn’t budge.  That’s where I’m hoping that you might come into play.”

            “Well, shit… I’m not a lawyer.  You know that.”

            “No, but when I asked about rehab in exchange for a reduced sentence, she laughed at me and told me that she doubted that there was a soul in southern Illinois who would offer a caring word on my behalf, or make a case for even the remotest hope of my having a single thing to offer the community upon my completion of even the most difficult rehab program.  She laughed and said that even with rehabilitation someone like me with my longstanding disregard for the law is a careless investment by the state, and would only put a black mark on her career when I returned to society after being given such an opportunity and continued to make a nuisance of myself when I inevitably returned to my wicked ways.”

            “You didn’t apologize to her, did you boss?” I laughed out loud.

            “Hell no… I didn’t apologize to her or anybody.  That would mean I intended to do that same stupid shit again that landed me in this pile of trouble.”

            “You want me to try and have that explained to her?”

            “Well, not directly… you’re on their shitlist too.  They seem certain that I’m protecting you for whatever reason.  Go figure.”

            “Right…”

            “I feel like I’ve been missing something in my life, brother.  You have to see things from a sympathetic, outside perspective.  More importantly, they have to see things presented to them from a sympathetic, outside perspective.  You seem to have people who care about you right now.  You’re wife and family for instance.  I don’t have anybody since my dad died, and quite honestly I didn’t really give myself any time to really absorb that blow.  I just started cooking and using dope full-time after all that happened.  My dad would be fucking ashamed of me right now for forgetting about him for so long, not to mention dragging Dayna and her son into my explosive life…”

            “What happened to Dayna, boss?”

            “Yeah… Dayna… well, apparently she actually did eat a bunch of xanax while she was drinking tequila that night I got raided.  I guess it’s lucky for her that the law showed up when they did.  She’s in some rehab right now.  I doubt that when she gets her head screwed back on that she’ll even look twice over her shoulder for me.  But that’s okay.  She needs to take care of her son and resolve matters with herself and her family.  I wasn’t helping her with any of that really.  I realize that now.”

            “What can I do to help you?”

            “I thought you’d never ask…”

            “I’m asking.”

            “I need you to help me convince the state’s attorney that I’m not a fruitless investment by the state.  I want to get some help for my addiction regardless of whether or not she intends to send me off to prison for twenty years.  I need your help convincing some real people with some say-so out there that she’s wrong about me.  Hell… I can’t believe I’m saying this, and if you repeat it to anybody I’ll deny it… but I’m starting to think about praying.”

            “Are you for real?”

            “I’m on my last leg here.  Only I don’t know how to pray, man.  Nobody ever thought to teach me when I was a kid…  Listen, I know I’ve filled your head up with a lot of garbage, but this phone card is about to run out.  Write some letters for me, and make some calls.  I don’t want to spend the last part of my life behind bars, okay?”

            “I’ll get on it, boss.”

            “I know you will… and don’t think too hard about anything, brother.  You should already know the truth behind the requests I’m making.  I gotta go, now.  Eat the goddamned food your wife gives you.  You'll feel better.  I’ll call you next week.”

            “I will.”

            I listened to the phone click on Bull’s end and hung up the phone I was holding.  My wife had disappeared from the bedroom without my noticing.  I reached for the plate of cold eggs and toast on my nightstand and devoured every last morsel on the plate.  I was suddenly pained by a hunger for just about every type of food I could think of.

            If Bull wanted me to rally support for him out here, then that’s exactly what I would do.  In a burst of inspiration I dialed a familiar number on the phone which was still warm from being firmly held to my head while I had listened to Bull’s mostly one-sided conversation.  I held the phone to my ear and listened while it rang several times before being answered on the other end.

            “Hello?”  Rhonda’s familiar, raspy voice greeted me.

            “Rhonda, I need you to find out which church the state’s attorney in Littleton County attends on Sunday mornings.”

            “Well, hells bells… when did you get sprung from jail?  Never mind… why the hell do you want that information?”  She sounded confused, but entertained.

            “I’m gonna write the congregation a letter.”

            “I’d ask why, but I’m afraid it’s probably something crazy.  Sure, I can find out that out for you.  Want me to come pick you up and get you high, youngster?  You probably need it about now.”

            “Nah… not today Rhonda, but check with me again some other time.  Thanks, though.  Call me back after you find out.”

            We hung up without the usual pleasantries, and I opened the drawer to the nightstand on my right.  I retrieved a notebook and pen and began to write a prayer request letter to an as-of-yet anonymous church for my friend, Bull Gunville.

This work is the intellectual property of Jerome J. Panozzo

Honest Questions & Questionable Answers (30)

Every single word written here is an extraordinary exaggeration of events that have played out in my head... based on the stories I have heard from people I have met in jail or while I was dealing with my own stupidity and carelessness, resulting from my own addiction to alcohol and drugs. This is in no way a glamorization of drug use, but a tool to lend some humanity to a subculture that has been demonized and written off as a hopeless and worthless part of our human family. I do not condone or promote any of the behavior or activities herein.

            Without much further ado I began signing a seemingly innumerable amount of paperwork securing my release from the confinement of the Littleton County Jail.  Upon the completion of the last bit of paperwork and after being meticulously instructed about the terms of my release from custody by the well-rehearsed Deputy Knowles, I finally found myself shedding the strange smelling orange pajama’s I had been issued days earlier in exchange for strangely familiar and wonderfully clean smelling clothes that my wife brought along with her from my collection at home.  I found that the recent and suddenly distorted self-image I was being haunted by was not at all relieved by wearing the clothes my wife had so thoughtfully brought for me.  I felt as though I was being swallowed by these clothes that had fit me so well only half a year earlier.  Regardless of my inability to feel better in clean clothes, I was nonetheless reeling in the anticipation of walking out of the jailhouse and trying to recapture some sense of normalcy.

            Deputy Knowles walked me to the front door of the jail, and punched several numbers on a keypad above the doorknob.  After a loud buzzing noise signaled the lock’s release he pushed the door open to reveal momentarily painful and blinding sunlight to the eyes in my head that had only absorbed the fluorescent lights of the jail for the better part of the last week.  I took a moment to shield my eyes from the sun with my hand, and was pleasantly surprised to feel my wife’s embrace before I had even gotten my bearings. I returned her embrace as completely as she gave it to me in the small, glass foyer of the jailhouse.

            When my eyes adjusted a bit more to the relentless sunlight, I peered down into my wife’s face and quickly recognized the tears beginning to swell in the depths of the huge brown eyes she used so well to convey most of what I had come to love about her.  In the wake of the surprising embrace that she had wrapped me in, I couldn’t help but notice that she had lost noticeable weight since we had last shared such an intimate moment.  I had never agreed with her when she complained to me about gaining what were unnoticeable pounds over the years that we had known each other, but having spent the better part of the last seven months in complete absence of each other made even the smallest change in her personal appearance seem significant.  Her beautiful, thick straight hair had gotten longer, and I noticed that she had changed the reddish tint of her hair to something that seemed to reflect violet in the sunlight.

            “Don’t cry right here, baby… we can cry at home, okay?”  I reached up and used my thumb to wipe a single drop that had escaped her long eyelashes which had valiantly been struggling to contain this renegade tear’s potential to turn her pretty, petite face into a puddle of emotion that she had been apparently holding hostage for far too long.

            “I can’t help it,” she buried her face in my shirt, “I thought I lost you.  I really did.”

            “Okay, okay… c’mon,” I pleaded softly while my lips rested on top of her head.  I could smell the sweet perfume of the conditioner she used, and was altogether surprised to recognize the long-absent feeling of aching muscles in my both of my thighs which signaled the impending flow of all the blood in my body to the one place I did not want all of the blood flowing too while I stood just outside of this fucking jail.  “C’mon sweetheart, we need to walk out of here before I get a really embarrassing hard-on and pass out.  I haven’t eaten anything in days and I don’t think my body is ready for too much excitement.”

            “Awwwwww…” she looked up at me, pouting a little, while still more tears appeared in her glassy eyes.

            “For real…let’s go.  I am so ready to get out of here.”  I pushed the glass door open and stepped into the free air while my wife still clung tightly to my waste with both hands.  As we were attempting to synchronize our steps, she hooked a belt-loop on my jeans with the thumb of her hand and tugged gently on the pants hanging from my hips.  Several inches of space appeared between my concave abdomen and the denim of the jeans.

            “Oh my God…” she whispered in a hushed voice, pulling back from me while simultaneously lifting the t-shirt I was wearing to expose a portion of my chest and malnourished rib cage.  “Oh my God,” she repeated a little louder.  “We need to get you some food…” but the tears in her eyes were gone as she stood silently looking at my emaciated figure.  “What did you do to yourself?”

            “Nothing that I won’t fix… I promise.” I pulled the t-shirt from her grasp and let it fall into place.  “Can we go home now?”

            I reached for her hand and locked her fingers with mine, as we began the slow, suddenly awkward and silent march towards her car in the parking lot.

            “Can I ask you something?” she was talking to me from behind a veil of hair that obscured the side of her face.

            “Anything you want.” I responded firmly.

            “Can I have you back all to myself now?  I mean… can you really be done with all of this shit and the assholes who come along with it?”  She stopped at the rear bumper of her dusty, dented maroon car and turned to look up at me.  She put her hands on my face gently, and continued, “I really want you to tell me that this is all over, okay?”

            I hesitated and averted my eyes from hers.  The last image I saw of Bull in the monitor standing in his cell mouthing the words and holding the imaginary phone to his head began replaying in my head.  “I don’t really know how to answer that question just yet.”

            One of her hands fell from my face, while the other gently brought my head and eyes back to focus on hers.  “Haven’t you had enough, though?  Why can’t I just be enough?”

            “Baby, I’m out here with you right now because that man in there refused to tell them that I was part of anything illegal that was happening on that farm.  Unless you want me to march back into that jail, and tell that sheriff that both Bull Gunville and I lied to him about my involvement, and possibly go to prison for the better part of the next decade, then we both just have to be content with what we have at the moment and see how this plays out.  I’m sorry, but he secured my ability to be out here, and I am obligated by that to do whatever it is that I can to make sure that he sees an optimal outcome to his current troubles.  Do you understand?”

            She wrapped her arms around me again, and buried her face in the bones of my chest.  “No, sweetie, I don’t understand any of it.  But at least please tell me that you’ll quit using that shit.”

            “Baby, I can honestly tell you that I don’t have any other choice at the moment.  I don’t want to go to prison, okay?  I am scared to death right now and I don’t have any idea about what the fuck is going on in my life.  If it’s a choice between doin’ dope and doin’ time, then there isn’t a choice at all.  I really need to go home now… will you please take me home?”

            “I never thought I’d hear you ask me that again,” she sighed and unlocked the doors to her car.  We piled inside, and as soon as my seat belt was buckled I fell asleep, and was pleasantly surprised when I woke up many hours later in the soft bed I had shared with my wife up until all of this had began.  She was sleeping soundly next to me, breathing softly on the back of my neck.

This work is the intellectual property of Jerome J. Panozzo. 

Going Home (29)

Every single word written here is an extraordinary exaggeration of events that have played out in my head... based on the stories I have heard from people I have met in jail or while I was dealing with my own stupidity and carelessness, resulting from my own addiction to alcohol and drugs. This is in no way a glamorization of drug use, but a tool to lend some humanity to a subculture that has been demonized and written off as a hopeless and worthless part of our human family. I do not condone or promote any of the behavior or activities herein.

            The jailer led me from the room in which I had been talking with Sheriff Doyle to a nearby office which appeared to be the base of operations for the jailhouse.  There was a wall of twenty-three individually numbered television screens to my left which were monitoring each of the cells in the building.  When the husky, vacantly smiling jailer wordlessly motioned for me to turn around so he could remove my handcuffs, I began a futile search of each screen for the familiar image of my friend Bull.  As I felt the tight grasp of the cold steel handcuffs release from my now aching wrists, the jailer pointed to a heavy wooden chair next to a large metal desk at the far end of the room.  I moved to take my seat in the chair, but continued my search of the monitors on the opposite wall.  The jailer noticed where my attentions were focused and offered, “Gunville’s in number thirteen.”

            “Huh?” I looked over my shoulder, and saw that he was pointing to a monitor near the center of the surveillance wall.  The screen he was drawing my attention towards had a worn piece of masking tape in one corner with the number thirteen scrawled in black marker.

            “You’re looking for Gunville’s cell,” he stated matter-of-factly as he squeezed his body behind the hulking metal desk, and sat in a creaky, cushioned metal chair that looked to be about fifty years old.  “He’s in cell thirteen… right there.”  He pointed his finger again towards the wall of monitors.  The monitor marked with a thirteen was seemingly vacant of activity.  “He pretty well knows where to keep himself out of sight of the camera though.  He thinks it makes us crazy.  He’s actually right, though.  It does.”  The jailer pulled an old microphone on a small stand towards him from one corner of the desk, pressed the talk button and leaned down to speak into it.  “Gunville, front and center… wave goodbye to your buddy.  He’s going home.”

            “Can everybody hear you?”  I asked quietly.

            “Nah… not unless I need to talk to everybody.  Gunville is by himself in that cell, though.  Apparently motherfuckers would rather sleep on the floor than share a cell with him.  Honestly, I don’t blame ‘em.”  The jailer chuckled and pushed the microphone back into the corner.

            I watched monitor number thirteen as Bull’s orange-clad silhouette appeared in sight of the camera.  At first his back was to the camera, but he turned around slowly and raised his head up to look directly into the camera.  The image was poorly focused, but there was without a doubt a smile on Bull’s face that I had become familiar with during the tenure of our friendship.  The smile was as fierce and confident in the view of that jailhouse camera as it had ever been in the time I had known him.  Again I saw him silently mouth the words ‘Go home’ into the camera and as quickly as he had appeared in view he disappeared again.    

            I stopped watching monitor number thirteen and sat down in the solid, uncomfortable, ancient chair that I had been directed into.  I began rubbing the dented, irritated marks on my wrists where the handcuffs had previously been restraining me, and nervously ran my hands through my long, stringy hair.  When I had tucked my hair behind my ears, effectively removing it from my face, I was nauseated to feel the greasy filth of my unwashed hair on my scaly, ashen hands.  When I looked down at the hands in my lap, I was even more appalled at the sight of the blackish-green grime underneath the jagged, unkempt fingernails of what immediately began to feel like appendages belonging to somebody other than myself.  I tried to stop staring at my filthy hands, only to look up and find a shockingly alien reflection of myself looking back at me from a two-way mirror on the wall facing where I sat.  My chest tightened as I began to feel the irrational pangs of panic close in on my mind.  If I hadn’t had the ability to find some sense of reality in the movements my body was making, which unrealistically appeared to be being mimicked by the reflection I was witnessing in that silvery glass window facing me, I might never have believed that this image was my own. 

            The eyes staring back at me were glaring wildly from sunken, hollow craters on either side of my prominent nose, which was centered on a vaguely familiar face that appeared to be a covered by pale, glazed skin pulled too tightly over the skull.  The phantom reflection’s hair was hanging behind the ears in strands of stringy clumps.  In an effort to avoid this image I turned my body towards the jailer seated to my right behind the large metal desk.

            “Are you alright, buddy?  You aren’t gonna be sick are you?  You just turned about three shades paler than you were… if that were possible.”  The nameless jailer looked genuinely concerned.

            “Hell, I’m not sure.  But, I don’t recognize THAT guy over there.”  I pointed towards the window-sized mirror, laughed uncomfortably, and found a coffee mug of pens and pencils on the jailer's desk to occupy my attention.

            “Oh… that…” he responded affirmatively, “yeah, you look like shit, man.  What the fuck did you expect?  You came in here four days ago strung out on dope, haven’t eaten a damned thing I’ve sent back there for you the whole time, and didn’t move from that corner you fell into until I came to get you a little while ago.  You should be happy you could walk on your own.”

            “Guess I was tired… but fuck…”

            “You did it to yourself, dipshit…” he began collecting papers from a manila file folder with my name written on the tab.  He held the papers in front of him, thumbing through the small stack, apparently looking for something he needed.  “Listen, you should probably call somebody to come pick you up.  I can dial for you on this phone here, but then I have to go find your bond papers and copy a couple of other things.  I’ll be in the next room, so don’t get nosy while I’m gone.  Just sit in that chair and make your call, okay?”

            “Yeah… sure… you bet.” I was still concentrating very hard on not looking at either of my hands, or the accusatory mirror and the reflection it held that I had begun to imagine was desperately waving at me, trying to get my attention.

            “So, do you know who you want to call?  The sheriff left the number your wife gave him.  I’m pretty sure that means he wants you to call her… but that’s just the sheriff’s friendly suggestion.”  He held up a piece of paper with my wife’s name scrawled across it above the familiar phone number of the house we had shared before I had become estranged from her to pursue the illicit life that had landed me here.  “As hard as you think it’s going to be, I’d make peace with the sheriff’s suggestion… if I were you.” He hesitated briefly for dramatic effect, “but I’m NOT you, and I really don’t mind saying that I am damn glad of that.”

            “No, I don’t mind you saying that either at the moment,” I drew a deep, shaky breath.  “Will you please call that number you have for me?”

            “Sure thing,” he reached in front of him and pushed the button which activated the speakerphone.  He dialed the number, and waited while there were several moments of silence before the call connected.  I could hear the ringing signal from the speaker, and finally the familiar sound of my wife’s interminably sweet, southern-flavored voice answering the phone on her end.

            “Hello?”

            “Ma’am, this is Deputy Charles Knowles over here at the Littleton County Jail.  Sheriff Doyle gave me this here phone number, apparently at your request.  It seems that we have in our custody a man who claims to be your husband.”

            “Yes sir, I’m aware of the situation.”  I recognized exhaustion in my wife’s voice, but more importantly I wanted to believe that I heard concern.  “The sheriff told me that if he cooperated with y’all and came to his senses that he might be able to finally come home to us.  I hope you have some good news for me, Deputy Knowles.”

            “Well, ma’am… if your interpretation of good news is that the state’s attorney over here and Sheriff Doyle have decided that he can be released to you of his own recognizance, then I’m glad to say that I am indeed calling with good news.”

            There was a hanging silence from her end of the phone.  The silence seemed interminable until the deputy interrupted it.

            “Ma’am?”

            I was suddenly startled and ashamed of myself to hear the sound of tears in my wife’s voice.

            “Is he there with you, deputy?”

            “Yes ma’am… he’s sitting right here.  I have to tell you though, he looks pretty rough.  He even scared the shit out of himself when he saw his reflection a minute ago.  I’d tell you to go easy on him, but he really doesn’t deserve it in my opinion.  Do you want to speak with him for a minute?”

            “Thank you deputy, and please… I’d like to talk to him.”

            “You bet,” The deputy reached across the desk and picked up the phone, covering the end used to speak into with his hand.

            “I’m going into the next room… don’t move from that chair… and try not to forget how lucky you are that this woman is making any effort at all for you.”

            “Thanks… I’ll try.”  I took the phone from his hand, and held it in front of me while he got up from the chair at the desk to leave the room.  When he had squeezed back out from behind the desk and disappeared through the open doorway I drew the phone close to my head and listened to the earpiece for a moment before I began talking.

            “Hello?”  My voice was shaking, along with my hands and legs in a fit of nervous tremors.

            “Baby…”  I could hear the tears in my wife’s eyes, and felt the shaking awkwardness in her voice.  She was sobbing quietly and drawing short, embattled breaths.  I felt like it had been years since I had heard her speak so kind a word to me as this one simple term of endearment.  I was confused by the series of emotions ripping through my consciousness as I searched for something profound to say.  I surrendered my pride in a moments passing, and responded simply.

            “Yeah, baby… It’s me.”  All at once words began to fall from my lips uncontrollably, and without regard for their intended recipient, “I’m really scared right now, and I don’t even recognize myself in the fucking mirror.  I’m terrified to look at what I've become… I’m afraid to look at my hands and I’m ashamed to think that you’ll be scared of me too.”  I wasn’t sure where these words were coming from, as I had been unrepentant for all of these things for longer than I could remember at the moment.  Tears began to stream from my eyes silently and without warning.  “I don’t want to do this anymore…  and I am so, so sorry.  I regret what it has become.  Do you really want me to come home?”

            “More than anything, baby… more than anything.  When can I come get you?”

            “Can you come right now?”  I hurt my throat trying to keep it from cracking with a sob.

            “I’m leaving right now… I love you.”

            “I love you too.”

            When I heard the phone click on her end I reached as far as I could onto the desk without lifting myself from the chair I had been instructed to remain in, and dropped the phone several inches from its cradle.  I wiped the tears from my burning face and sat silently in the room.

            As suddenly as the tears had appeared in my eyes they had become absent.  In an attempt to continue avoiding having to look at my reflection in the mirror I looked instead to the wall of monitors on the adjacent wall.  One monitor in particular caught my immediate attention.  In monitor number thirteen, Bull’s figure was again visible to the camera.  His face appeared to be staring purposefully past the camera and monitor receiving its feed.  He was staring directly at where I sat in the hard, uncomfortable chair.  As I watched him staring at me from cell thirteen he silently mouthed one simple command, while holding an imaginary phone to his ear.

            Go home now brother. I will call you soon…

            He looked away and wandered back out of the view of the camera.

This work is the intellectual property of Jerome J. Panozzo