#myprisonstory

[textales]

“Prison Zone”

Linda watched attentively as the driver carefully hitched the Porche 911 Targa to the tow truck.  “Well, it finally happened,” she said with a condescending tone only a receptionist can pull off without seeming like a total bitch.  “They’ve been calling every day for two weeks….and he just kept avoiding them. I’m surprised it took this long.”  The car belonged to the bank, and they wanted it back since they hadn’t received a payment in months.  Until that day it was driven by the president of the company I worked for in Phoenix.  

We were in the business of making cubicles. Yes, those fabric-covered divider panels and file drawers and other parts and pieces, designed by straight engineers whose imaginations ran wild when naming colors. Exciting favorites included “Warm Brown Value One” and “Inner Tone.” I feel slightly responsible for contributing to the demoralization of America’s white collar workforce and for that I am sorry.  

The company was owned by a Korean guy by way of Portland with some mysterious unnamed foreign investors.  I remember when a bunch of geeky engineers in white shirts and skinny ties came with their calipers and clipboards and pocket protectors.  They would be making “knock off” parts and pieces at a factory in China and we’d be selling them to other manufacturers and office furniture assemblers across the United States.  

I was the Director of Marketing, a big title that came with a little paycheck but the promise of so much more in the future.  Part of the glamour of the job included writing a monthly newsletter that went to clients, vendors and anyone else unfortunate enough to be on the mailing list.  I remember writing a story about how we’d broken into the prison industries business with the prospect of selling millions of components that would be used to make cubicles, assembled by guys in orange jumpsuits.  The headline read “(Company Execs) Go to Prison” and I chuckled at its appropriateness.  

We’d been running in the red for months and the company was completely broke.  A lot of people had quit or been laid off, but a few of us suckers were hanging onto the promise that a big infusion of cash was imminent and we’d be thriving within 90 days. I bought the bullshit for months (plus I didn’t have another job). As long as my paychecks were clearing I’d stick it out.  

In a last ditch effort to find a market for our inferior brand of extruded plastic and aluminum widgets, we looked to the prison industries.  We’d go on a traveling road show, taking samples of our cheap crap to buyers who’d issue giant purchase orders that would save our company.  

The boss and I flew to Oklahoma City where we met one of our sales guys who drove a U-Haul from Phoenix, loaded with panels and parts we’d show to purchasing agents in three states.  I was picked for this gig not just because I was willing, but also because the boss thought I might appeal to some of the prisoners because ��they don’t get much to look at in the pen and outsiders are interesting.”  Is that why he wanted me to wear tight jeans, cowboy boots and a pink polo that was one size too small?  Was he whoring me out?  Truth is, I didn’t mind. It was flattering, however HR- and politically incorrect.

“The skies were Grey Value Two as they entered Gotham City,” I joked as we pulled up to the guard shack at the Oklahoma Correctional Facility.  It was a dismal, dreary rainy day and I remember thinking “I wonder what he’s in for?” as a young good-looking prisoner opened the chain link gate with razor barb at the top.  This was a minimum security place where incarcerated guys made stuff like “offender clothing” (aka inmate coats and jumpsuits) as well as office furniture that was sold to municipalities and the state. Until this project came along I thought prisoners made only license plates.  Who knew they’d branched into other stuff? 

Although my sick fantasies of being whistled-at by prisoners never did materialize, I learned things on that trip. The longest, most boring drive on the planet has to be the Kansas turnpike.  I remember thinking “Please let there be a cow or SOMETHING to look at besides this god-awful flat land and grey skies.” Outside of Kansas City I had a steak that hung over the edges of the plate by an inch or two - and that was the “petite”?  Jesus, no wonder people in this part of the country are so fat. I also remember seeing the biggest snowflakes ever just outside of a Fedex office in Jefferson City, Missouri. Snow? Oh, yeah, I remember snow - it was December and I wasn’t in Phoenix.  

After three days of thrilling demonstrations and telling lies about our company’s financial stability it was time to head home.  On the way to the St Louis airport we stopped at a Wendy’s where a disgruntled white trash girl was patrolling the self-service food bar. She was obsessing as she cleaned continuously with combative, militant aggression.  Those goddamned pesky customers kept spilling stuff onto the counter and breathing on the sneeze guard.  The second someone dripped a drop of salad dressing or dropped a baby corn outside of its container she was on it. Nobody was going to mess up that salad bar.  Not on her watch.       

The road show didn’t bring the orders as we’d hoped and after another couple of underwhelming months things really went downhill.  I knew shit was bad when the entire finance department left. We couldn’t make copies because the copier needed toner and there was no more in the supply cabinet.  We started contemplating whether or not maxi pads from the women’s bathroom would suffice as emergency coffee filters.  No coffee?  Fuck this place. 

We were down to a skeleton crew. Murphy was the ops guy and a dedicated loyal worker, busting ass till the very end. He called from down the hall in a bit of a panic to tell me Dale and one of the warehouse guys were stranded somewhere between Tucson and the Mexican border. The delivery truck, already on its last legs, had a transmission problem. They knew before they left the lot it was risky, but figured they could make it one last trip.  Wrong.  On their way back from the delivery it started whining loudly.  Thankfully, they were able to limp it along to a roadside restaurant before it gave a final high-pitched sigh and died.  They barely made it….the restaurant owner was about to turn the key when they asked to use the phone. We’d meet in the parking lot where they’d leave the truck for someone to deal with later.  Had it been financed like the company Porche the bank would send a tow truck. 

We were all in the same boat - just trying to keep the company afloat until we’d be rescued by a life raft of cash.  I was grateful they picked up a check after the successful installation of the cubicles - we needed it to make payroll on Friday. Since Murph had “Dart Night” I volunteered to drive down and save these poor bastards. Unlike the prisoners in Oklahoma who didn’t give me the time of day, I’d command the attention and respect of Dale and the warehouse guy. They might not whistle at me, but they’d certainly buy me a beer for becoming their knight in shining armor. 

We would meet at the agreed upon place near mile marker whatever on I-19. They’d be easy to spot, with their blue and white pinstriped uniforms, hanging out with the dead white van.  I drove a ten-year-old piece of shit beige Nissan Sentra - wait, it was Tan Value One….this car was one of a handful of my “thousand dollar throw-away cars” that I’d end up giving back to the dirtbag dealer on Van Buren where I got it.  

As I pulled up to meet Dale and the warehouse guy at the intersection of Hell and Nowhere I noticed the temperature light come on precisely the same time as steam started to spew from under the hood.  Oh goddammit the effen thing was overheating!  The red light said “HOT”. No shit?!  Had the temperature gauge worked I would have been able to avoid the problem, but it didn’t and I couldn’t, so now we have two tits-up vehicles and we’re in the middle of the desert and it’s getting dark. This was 1992 and nobody had a cell phone or a radio and the restaurant is locked up and there’s no payphone outside.  Well fuck.

Always the optimist, Dale said there was another restaurant just down the road, back toward Nogales.  “It’s right around the corner,” he said, so we agreed we’d push the car with the flashers on and me running along side to steer.  It was flat ground and I was in the best shape of my life, so what the hell.  We can do this. 

Four and a half miles later we arrived at the restaurant, completely out of breath and drenched in sweat. Yes, you read right: FOUR AND A HALF MOTHER FUCKING MILES. Now it’s dark and we were lucky to make it to this place since it was closing in minutes.  You could have heard a pin drop as we stood there panting in front of three stunned locals who looked at us as if we each had three heads.  “We are the Three Musketeers of Tucson and we mean no harm. We didn’t come for your women and children, we just need water and a phone.” 

The only person I knew who would come to our aid was my friend Bill in Tempe, who, coincidentally, was a prison guard.  He brought a tow rope and used his Toyota truck to pull me and my broken Nissan all the way back to Phoenix in the fog. Like Harrison Ford, he swooped in to save the day. He was our knight in shining armor. 

I was trying to figure out why nobody stopped to help us. At least a couple cars had passed as we were pushing the car down the road. What the fuck is wrong with these people? Then I realized what had happened.  Not to support racial profiling, but I was with a black guy and a Mexican dude who had blue and white striped uniforms.  There were signs on the highway that read: PRISON AREA - DO NOT PICK UP HITCH HIKERS. 

Oh. Duh. That explains why we weren’t showered with offers of help.