unpublished

So much for the redemptive powers of holy basil. The food tasted good, but I’m in the same situation as before. No use in calling the health center this weekend, they won’t be able to do anything for me until next week. I was in such a hurry to get out of the hospital, but they just had me sitting there doing nothing for four days. That gallbladder’s going to have to come out sometime, wish they had taken care of it while I was already there.
My co-worker Squishy is complaining about her cell provider again--had to call customer service, who we assume was outsourced to India. She’s having language problems and is getting quick frazzled. She knows how I feel about the subject, so she makes her xenophobic comments as far away from me as possible. Something about “those people” needing to learn to speak English blah, blah, blah . . .
The problem may just be that the person on the other line is speaking English—the Queen’s English—and Squishy’s using her biker mama jargon with them. Or maybe Squishy can’t hear a d###ed thing from too many hours on the back of a Harley. Darn Indians. Not speaking English. What the heck?! Just cuz they outnumber us by 3-to-1. This is our world.
I just love my co-workers, I really do.
I think Dell outsourced their help desk—I had to call them not too long ago. Didn’t have any problems communicating at all. My mom’s accent is pretty thick, though, so everyone else is understandable by comparison. Everything’s so over the top at the worksite, though. Everyone’s better than everyone else and so above everything.
What we do? We monitor felons. House arrest—that sort of thing. And we do warrants. Facility escapes. Supervision absconders. It’s not a lot of fun, we make the best of it I suppose. Your skin gets pretty thick after awhile. We crack jokes about stupid stuff. Easier to laugh than to cry.
Like the time I called a home because I showed the subject out-of-bounds. His mom and girlfriend both came to the phone in hysterics. The subject had O.D.’ed and the coroner was carting him off. How was I supposed to know? We’ve had a handful of suicides since I’ve been here. Lots of other drama, though—husbands, wives, significant others busting the equipment, busting up the offender, etc . . .
Lots of ex-guards working here. Lots of attitude, most of it bad. People leave the facilities for lots of reasons, I guess, but some are forced out. Some are attacked, beaten, shanked, jumped. This worksite is the Island or Misfit Toys. I knew that coming here, but I still came.
My compassion level is pretty low these days, but consider the company I keep.
I call felons with issues. I don’t call the ones that come home on time, or whose equipment is working fine. Often their families/roommates have their own issues. And my co-workers and I all have our fair share of issues as well. Issues with each other, issues with ourselves. Chock full of issues. We aren’t law enforcement. We aren’t parole/probation officers. You wouldn’t
know it to hear us talk. Felons bad. Us good. If it were only that easy. Some of us are on this side of the phone by the grace of God alone.
Sometimes I wonder if some of us should be on the other end.
My co-worker Julio got jumped while he was a guard. The dude just exudes nastiness. He talks down to everyone. Cracks jokes about the offenders and their families. I’m about ready to jump Julio myself. The dude’s so messed up, but he can’t see that. It’s everyone else’s problem—everybody else has issues except him. I guess he never got counseling after the attack. Who’s bright idea was that? He’s only back working for us because Workman’s Comp. made him take the interview, take the job.
Another co-worker, Paul, has been trying to get his brother a job here. We used to monitor Paul’s brother. He’s an ex-felon. Paul knows this. Knows the department won’t hire an ex-felon. So why the heck is he trying to get his brother in here? What kind of sense does that make?
Julio’s been hanging out with Paul and his brother at the bar, I guess.
Doesn’t Julio know he’s rubbing elbows with an ex-felon? He treats them like dirt while
he’s at work, but apparently it’s alright if they hang out at the bar. I’m expecting life to make sense. Sometimes that’s asking for too much.

Cheyenne’s not doing so great. Speech was beginning to slur, so they did an MRI, found some growth in her brain. She requested that they shave her hair when it begins coming out. My little Nan (10-year-old daughter) asked if she can cut her hair and donate it to Locks of Love. Man. I keep hoping and wishing things will get better, but I’m just in denial. It’s not good at all.