Redemption In The Park

Redemption In The Park

If you ask me, it’s slavery. We work at 13% of the minimum wage. What do you call that? The only reason I’m here is because the city’s sanitation workers refuse to work. For much more than I make. Turns out they want five dollars more for every hour on the job. Talking about toxic trash, how it exposes them to health risks, and curved backs because waste comes in tons.

Ethan liked to talk to himself. Not out loud of course; he’s not crazy. But when his thoughts wander off, he has discussions with himself. Probably because it’s the only place he feels free these days. His opinions, reflections, speculations, and debates surge inside of him. Ethan has no choice but to process it all. To examine. To talk to himself as if he’s having a conversation. He knows how he got to where he is, but this talking-to-himself business gives him insights as to how he got there.

Larry said they’re called hoppers, Ethan remembered. I don’t know why. I don’t care to know why. All I know is: they’re on strike for more money. That’s why I’m here. Inmate 495963. At Latoya Correctional Facility. At least that’s the official name of the dump with no windows. A minimum security prison, complete with a double-fenced view, barbed wire, and nothing else for miles. The mirage in the desert; the illusion of life in a deadly place.

Ethan quite literally hears the voices in his head. They’re mostly him; random thoughts, bouncing from side to side like ping-pong balls, alternating as they deliver their two cents. It makes the days pass faster–not bearable–but faster.

On this spring morning, Ethan was doing his rounds with a few other incarcerated men like him. He’s been up since five, following his morning routine without–fortunately he thought–hiccups. In the game of the proverbial hide-and-seek of prison, trouble always finds you. Being around felons, means always being on high alert. Ready to react, not think, just strike. Just survive.

Once in a blue moon, Ethan hears himself think of something he’d like to revisit later. To ponder. Maybe even research at the prison’s library. When that happens, he likes to scribble in his small black notebook to keep a record of it. He never knows when he’ll revisit the thought; in prison the clocks on the walls are time bombs. It’s a tick-tock, reminder that you’re on borrowed time. That’s why Ethan always includes the date. Not the day of the week though; he has a hard time keeping track when it really doesn’t matter. Monday is no different than Thursday at Latoya Correctional Facility.

There are cells too; or if you ask me, boxes. 1600 boxes, one of which is mine. On good days, I pretend I own property. Minimum security yeah right, it’s maximum power. Even in my sleep, my nightmares belong to the prison and the caged in mayhem.

The penitentiary guards, excuse me officers–he corrected himself– tell me what to eat, when to sleep, and when to wash off the rancid smell invading my body’s crevices; its folds, the spaces in-between. If you ask me minimum security is just a positive spin on prison camp. It’s for the public’s benefit I guess, the ones behind the white picket fences, the ones herding like cattle every morning for the caffeine jolt needed to face the day. But any way you look at it… incarceration is ugly no matter how you dress it up.

Ethan has been picking up trash for a few hours now, plunging his right hand into slatted bins along long-winding paths of Greenway Park. A lovely place really; serene, with tall trees that were well on their way to being lush again. Greenway, as the locals liked to call this idyllic respite, had dainty park benches reminiscent of old New York. Sinatra’s New York. Just lovely, with none of the bells and whistles of the newer city parks.

At Greenway Park, there’s no food truck in sight, and no farmers market on the weekends. Perfect for simply smelling the roses. The world could use a lot more of that if you ask Ethan. As Wilson–his fellow inmates like to call Ethan by his last name–dives in to grab yet another black trash bag from the bin, he spots flecks of green.

Ethan can’t quite explain why that was strange to him, but he knows it needs further examination. When you pick trash bin after bin, for hours on end, you notice the waste that’s not covered by leftover food or empty water bottles garbage. What the–Ethan hears the voice in his head again. It’s money. Cold. Hard. Cash money. Like in the movies. Two stacks. That’s $20,000, he thought.

Inmate 495963 stands there, paralyzed, except for his eyes darting back and forth between the two stacks. Two, tightly packed $10,000 stacks neatly covered by the striking whiteness of a Dim Sum Yum takeout box.

This is not good, he thought. I mean it’s good, but it’s reallly not good. $20,000! Do I tell the CO Jones? Do I tell Larry? Where’s Larry? He’s never there when you need him, but what can I expect from a convict. That’s a lot of bills. Are they real?

As Ethan considers his option, he looks around to see if Correctional Officer Jones is in his vicinity or busy supervising the other inmates—probably in their own daydream. Like him, they too have to escape prison life from time to time. And what better time to do it than with clear blue skies and a gentle crisp spring breeze.

On the 10th flood of The Riviera apartments, Deacon nervously watches the trash collectors as they work their way down the park’s paths, picking up waste. What a job, he thought, secretly thankful that even in his present predicament, he’s doing better. As he pans an old pair of binoculars to the right, he spots a sanitation worker from Latoya Correctional facility. At least that’s what his neon vest says. Deacon realized the man is peeking into his trash bin. His bin!

Panic overwhelms Deacon all at once. His guy is supposed to be there, picking up the trash not some inmate that’s saving the city a few bucks. Where’s Correctional Officer Jones, Deacon wonders. He glances at his watch; Jones should’ve been there at this exact spot. They agreed fourth bin right after the Welcome To Greenway Park sign. How hard is that?

It’s not my money, one voice says. Still paralyzed, with his body leaning against the bin for support, Ethan is having yet another debate in his head: But I found it; don’t they say finders keepers, the other voice replies. How would I even take it; keep it. I’m going back to my box in a few hours.

The two voices keep advocating for their side. I can help my sister pay for college, cover mom’s medical bills, maybe even get a good lawyer to appeal my case. Maybe I could be free again. How do I carry the stacks though? This money could right all the wrongs I’ve done. I can bring some relief to my family, dare I even say pride? Help them move forward from all that has happened; the conviction, the shame, the undependable nature of my very being.

As Ethan fights with himself, torn between what he’d like to do and what he should do, Deacon is busy pacing by the apartment window. He can’t stay there too long, the $50 he paid the elderly tenant to scope the park only gives him 10 more minutes. He reaches for his phone to find out what’s going on. After all, his brother’s life is on the line.

When Ethan feels overwhelmed, rational thoughts, random facts, and song lyrics calm him down. But at this very juncture in his life, Ethan starts to list off prison musings. How funny it is that in a place where all your choices are taken away, you can choose how you prefer to die. You can be executed by electric chair, lethal injection…I even heard you can choose a firing squad to kill you. However–not popular since 1872. Or how they call it a life sentence, when you’re actually sent to your death.

Ethan snaps back into reality at the chilling thought of death. That’s precisely when he feels a warm presence behind him. It’s Correctional Officer Jones. Ethan steps back hesitantly, as he lifts his eyes to meet the officer’s piercing gaze. His mind wanders nowhere; Ethan is fully present, too here and too now.

CO Jones simply lifts his right hand, forming the shhh universal sign with his index finger, of “not one word.” His entire body, muscles, joints, and everything in between threatens Ethan to be quiet. The Officer is not pleading; he’s demanding. Inmate 495963 steps back, willing his body to move out of the way. Ethan continues to move forward, reluctantly dragging his feet until he makes it to the next bin over, happy he’s picking up trash, and not being trash. His family would be proud.

Back on the 10th floor, Deacon sees Correctional Officer Jones approach the trash bin and dig into what’s meant for him. Deacon sighs in relief, knowing his brother will live another day. He thanks the elderly tenant, and makes his way down as fast as his wobbly legs will let him.

As Ethan reaches his fifth trash bin after the incident, the voices in is head reappear. In there, they can hide behind the privilege of morality, he thought, but out here we’re all the same. No one is above opportunity. When it knocks, no matter who you are, you turn the doorknob.