A DAY IN THE LIFE OF... S. Rae Smaltz 2009

fARTsThe section covering Fashion + ArtsWriting and layout design by Julianne MurrellMay/June 2009

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Don’t Buy Me Flowers By Chelsea Wittenbaugh

My satin shoes with the studded buckles and my perfectly cut spring jacket don’t

belong in this room of cream painted cinder block walls and cement slab benches. The boy who sits next to me has his green high-top shoe taped together all the way around with duct tape and his pants are at least four sizes too big for his small frame. The girl across the room blabs away to her girlfriend on her cell phone about all the guys she is dating while this one is locked up. Her bling is enough to light up the whole room and I have no idea how she manages to dial on that cell phone with the length of her pink plastic fingernails. Or how she manages to keep all those earrings from becoming entangled with the phone. “Oh girl, let me tell you about this one” she exclaims and the whole room seems to sigh in agony. Then there is the waiting wife with her five children – five children. She can only take two in with her to visit so the other three will be left in the waiting room alone to stare through the glass and see if they might catch a glimpse of their father on the video visiting monitor. There are the older couples that look so worried and act nervous the whole time; they clearly don’t belong here either. None of us belong here, that’s what makes it so uncomfortable.

Almost every week it’s the same people – what dedication I think, to have to add a jail visit to your weekly schedule, I don’t even come every week, I try, but there are weeks I miss. What keeps us all coming is unfounded hope – hope that, after all this is over; our little jailbirds will learn their lesson and change their ways. This is what we cling to. So no matter what shoes we’re wearing, or how out of place we are, we connect as the used, forlorn, love-sick and lost souls that try to save those that can’t and don’t want to be saved. There is no glory or grandeur in our cause, only tragedy.

Visiting hours are the guards’ least favorite time of day. Maybe it’s because we don’t have to follow the inmate rules and the lack of control irritates them. Or maybe it’s because they don’t want to acknowledge the sadness and embarrassment in our eyes, or think about how we suffer because of the mistakes of our loved ones. It’s always easier to see the seriousness of the situation from the outside. I remember in health class when we

learned about the abuse cycle: the guy gets angry and hits his girl, she stays thinking it won’t happen again, he apologizes and they’re happy until he gets angry again, hits her, she stays thinking it won’t happen again, he apologizes and buys flowers…round three and so on. In my mind I could never be that girl…I’d just leave. That was never me – until I dreaded the days Cody came home with flowers. No matter how he screws-up or what he does to me, I always forgive him. I still think that he’ll change, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, right? After all this, it will be fine. I’ll be fine.

At 7:02pm they announce the next round of visitors – the same set of instructions drones over the speaker cut into the corner of the bullet proof glass the makes up the guard chamber. The buzzer sounds as the door unlocks and we step, one-by-one, through the metal detector. Mr. Saggy Pants has to go through three times before he’s cleared. I glance down again at the crumpled piece of paper that tells me my station. Uncomfortably I sit down on the flat metal stool – from one hard surface to another…but then nothing about this is soft or easy; I chuckle inwardly at the irony even though I don’t really find it funny.

I know the routine: my piece of paper is placed on the chipped Formica shelf beneath the console; I check the time again against the digits displayed on the monitor…I’ve got another 13 minutes to wait. From my pocket I pull an antiseptic cloth that I’ve smuggled in to wipe down the receiver; a process I complete in a few swift motions. My little cubby is safe with its hard plastic blinders and I’m glad to be separated from the tensions of the waiting room. I smile to myself knowing the smile I’ll see on the screen when he sees me, maybe because I secretly hope that I could be a reason for him to change.

My attention for the next hour will be solely focused on the flickering image of my guy who always looks crumpled in his greens - the label on his pants and shirt stating his DOC number and conviction date are faded from the time he’s done already. He got five years with a two-year tail, a lenient punishment in my mind for the crimes he was convicted for, considering all the others he wasn’t. The video monitor flashes on and I immediately pick up the receiver, “Hi Baby!” My enthusiasm cut short as I ask, “What happened?” trying not to sound upset as I see two black eyes and crooked nose greet me. “I wrote you about it in my last letter,” he says, knowing that I’ll understand that to mean he can’t tell me about it now. The world on the other side of that screen is not forgiving. “You look great,” he says “and I’m diggin’ what you’ve done with your hair.” He hates it, or he probably doesn’t remember what it looked like before, but he knows me well enough to know that it is different.

We talk about music. I tell him about work and fill him in on some cute story about the dogs. He asks if I’ve talked to so-and-so lately, and then remembers one of our stories. “Remember that time we went camping and

it was so windy the tent kept collapsing – and you being determined to stick it out, tied it up to the side of the car” he starts. “And how you tried to cook the drumsticks by wrapping them in aluminum foil and tossing in the fire – they were burnt to hell on the outside and still raw on the inside” I continue. I get lost in our little world every time he tells me one of our stories…it’s almost like were older and wiser looking back at the sweet times of our youth, only without a porch swing or the sour-sweet taste of lemonade. I try desperately to hide that fact that each “remember when” breaks my heart a little more.

He reminds me to put money on the books for him, complains about the food and asks me if I’ll be able to visit next week. We don’t talk about why he is there or when he’ll be out unless he needs to tell me about a new court date. Before I know it, the one-minute warning flashes over the screen and we hastily issue our “I love yous”. I smile brightly because I know better than to let him see me cry. He disappears from the screen in the midst of blowing me a kiss that I pretend to catch anyway. The receiver snaps out of my hand and back into place with a force that shocks me and I fight to hold my hot tears back.

I make my way through the tunneled hallway and locked doors, gasping almost for a breath of fresh air. On the way out, my previous miserable companions are all smiling: they’ve done their duty and are on their way back to the comfort of their carpeted existence. This may only just turn out to be a bad dream, though I’ve pinched myself too many times to know it’s real. For the long drive home I play my music as loud as I can stand it – pushing the pain down further with every boom of the bass. As I pull into my designated parking spot at my apartment complex I’m spotted by my nosey neighbor and avoiding her is now impossible. She’s in a chatty mood as I walk up and check my mailbox…the aforementioned letter from Cody tucked neatly inside. I hide it between the pages of Glamour as I turn to say hello. I can convince anyone that all is well and find it easy to entertain her small talk.

On the way upstairs the relief and release hits me all at once and I fumble to get the key in the lock. If I can just get inside – God Damn it! The dogs are barking now and I am about to crack – the lock finally turns and I push the door open, dropping everything on the floor and scooting around the pooches. Defeated, I shut door with one swing, falling against it and slide down into a puddle of tears. The dogs are whining and ready to go out but I give myself a full minute to cry and another to pull myself together before reaching for the leashes. Right now I have to be the good doggie mommy and after that I have to be someone else, and after that someone else. My night will end with a few glasses of merlot and some pills from my slew of quick fixes. Tomorrow I’ll pick up the pieces and get on with the motions of my life. And maybe tomorrow I’ll be the girl that really does leave him.

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