Stragview Stories- His Happy Place

“It’s out by the dumpster, you better send the money. I could get fired for this.”

Mark sighed as he read the message, pulling on his pants as he grabbed his car keys. He’d have to be quick before someone figured out what it was. Kevin hadn’t been wrong. He and Mark could get in trouble for what they were about to do. Kevin could get fired, but Mark could very easily be arrested for trespassing. He didn’t work at the prison anymore, and

Stragview didn’t forget slights upon its honor like someone quitting.

It didn’t matter though, he needed that damn chair!

Mark had been working at Stragview for about two years when he finally hit the big time. When you were male and relatively consistent in your work schedule, it was only a matter of time before they put you in confinement. The Show, as many of them called it, had three quads, one of them being permanently sealed off for some reason, and was the bustling hub of the prison. The two guards he worked with, Sergeant Martin and Officer Rack, were solid as well, and they quickly figured out that Mark was a wiz when it came to paperwork and computer stuff. Both the old timers, both of his counterparts having ten plus years behind the fence, were more about flipping cells and keeping down problems than signing forms and housing new arrivals. As such, Mark was left in the bubble most of the time to run the nerve center of the unit while his new friends went to the floor for fun and games. Mark got pretty good at keeping it all between the ditches, and that was when he discovered his real passion.

Mark had dabbled in writing for years, but something about being inside the epicenter of segregation really brought out the best in his writing. Mark found the process of bunking inmates to be pretty easy and the paperwork was tedious but not too complicated. He usually finished his work fairly early in the evening, which left him lots of time to hone his craft. He'd been working on the same novel for years, a bit of grim dark sci-fi set in his own little universe, but he had never really been motivated to finish it. The novel was a hobby, something to pass the time when he had nothing better to do, and now, as he sat and watched the two go about their daily chores he found that he suddenly had nothing better to do.

He fell in with both feet, and night after night found him at the keyboard of the dorm computer as he banged out chapter after chapter. The longer he worked on it, the more he realized that what he was writing was actually pretty good. Better than good, even. He was writing better than he'd ever written, and whether it was the ambiance or some latent ability coming out in him, Mark found the pages coming together easily. The story was great and the descriptions painted a picture of his universe he had never thought possible. The few people he let read it couldn't believe he had been the one to write it, and they had pressured him to submit it.

“Who knows,” Sergeant Martin said after looking over it before chow one morning, “you might actually make it out of shit hole like this with a story like this one.” Mark had laughed at the time, but he couldn't have guessed how right he would be.

* * * * *

Mark pulled into the parking lot and looked for the dumpster.

Kevin said he had put it behind the green dumpster next to admin, and as he drove around the ominous wooden building, he saw the dumpster in question. The lids were open and Mark could see the flies swarming from here. The bags sat poking from the hole, black and glistening in the midday sun, and Mark hoped none of the smell would stick to his new chair. He had to be quick, he told himself, as he pulled up beside the dumpster and took one more look for anyone who might be watching.

This was private property, and if he was caught out here taking things from the dumpster, they could make trouble for him.

He climbed out of his truck, a bag of trash in hand as he approached the dumpster. He was just some guy from admin who was tossing some truck garbage, nothing out of the ordinary.

As Mark came around to the side of the dumpster, letting the bag fly in a lazy arc, he saw what he had come to for.

The chair was beautiful, just as he remembered it. The wood on the armrests and the feet was stained a dark brown, the faux leather a deep reverent blue. It would support his back and head, cradling it for maximum creativity. It hadn't changed a bit, and he wondered how they had let Kevin take it to the dumpster at all?

A chair this pristine, this undamaged by careless boots and oversized backsides, came around once in a career.

He suddenly didn't care who saw him.

Mark lifted the chair gingerly and put it into the bed of his truck. He carried it the way he might his wife as he brought her over the threshold, and the blanket he had brought made for a fine buffer against the scratchy bed liner. As Mark lifted the tailgate, he couldn't help but smile at the chair as it lay there benignly.

He had it!

The last piece of the puzzle!

Now, he could finally get back to...

“Mark?”

Mark stiffened, turning around slowly as a smile stretched painfully over his face. He recognized the voice, but her name escaped him. The smiling brunette was only about a foot away from him, leaning out the window of her car as she greeted him. She'd been on Mark's shift, they had spoken many times on the occasions when he came to the captains office or found himself on the yard, and Mark might have even considered asking her out once.

Now she was an obstacle, one more thing to overcome so he could return to his work.

“I thought that was you. What's a big time writer doing in a place like this?”

Mark stepped close to her car, grinning as he leaned down and hoping it looked natural.

“Just had to come and talk to HR about the rest of my vacation time. They still hadn't paid me for all of it and I could use the money until my royalty checks even out a little.”

He prayed silently behind that smile that she wouldn't see the chair as it lay there in the bed of his F150.

It was his chair, and she couldn't have it.

“I'm so jealous,” she said, “we're so short handed that I doubt I'll ever get to use any of mine. How have you been?”

“Good. Just enjoying doing what I love,” he said, his mind screaming behind that smile.

He had to go, he had to get out of here, he had to get back to what mattered.

He made a little more small talk before she realized she was going to be late and told Mark she would see him around. He turned to go, glad to be free of her, when she suddenly called his name and brought him back around. He was like an overclocked spring, ready to snap if she so much as mentioned the chair. She had to have seen it. How could she not. It was beautiful, it was captivating, and anyone who saw it would have to have it. He'd kill her right here if she made him. He needed that chair and he'd snap her neck as she hung out her window if she...

“Could you sign this for me?” she asked, taking a copy of his book off the passenger seat,

“I had been carrying it in the hopes I'd see you around. It would be great to have a signed copy.”

Mark sighed in relief, scratching his name on the inside cover before handing it back. He waved as she pulled off, wishing him well as she rolled towards the employee parking lot.

She hadn't even found a spot before Mark was speeding out of the lot and back onto the road towards Cashmere.

No more distraction, Mark had work to do.

* * * * *

The book hadn't been an immediate success. No one had appeared to publish it, no fairy godmother had poofed into existence to make his dreams come true. Mark had shopped the novel around after proofing it for the fifth time, and found someone willing to take a chance on a first time writer. To their surprise, however, the novel had taken off after some shaky reception. It wasn't everyone's cup of tea, grim dark tales rarely were, but as it found its audience, Mark was astonished at the praise he received.

When the publisher called to let him know he had broken a thousand copies, he was tickled.

When they called a week later to inform him it was more like fifty thousand, Mark was astonished.

When he hit the New York Times best seller list, he had taken a two week vacation so he could do a few interviews and some local TV spots.

When his new agent called to let him know that Amazon was interested in a TV adaptation, Mark knew he had arrived.

By then, Mark was already writing his resignation letter. He was thankful for the prison and what they had helped him accomplish, but he would need more time to focus on his work. Amazon was hoping for his take on the script they were putting together, and there were already rumblings for a sequel. The show writers were interested in the chance of a sequel too, and Mark figured he better get to writing one. He'd already started the first couple of chapters, and as he said goodbye to Stragview, he thought his life might truly be about to begin.

Two weeks later as he sat in front of his brand new computer with nothing to show for it, he started wondering what had gone wrong?

Mark tried everything in his power, but the ideas just wouldn't come. He tried taking his laptop to different places. He tried consuming different kinds of media or music as he wrote. He tried immersing himself in different genres, but nothing brought the muse back. His editor was clamoring for new pages, but Mark couldn't give him what he wanted. The Amazon reps were complaining that his notes on the script were lacking too. They wanted big ideas, concepts for the show, but Mark couldn't come up with anything.

The more he racked his brain, the less work he seemed to do, and the only conclusion he could come to was that the last time he had found good output was when he had worked at Stragview. Mark cast that idea aside, though. That couldn't be it. The prison was such a hectic environment, and unpredictable setting. It couldn't possibly be conducive to a productive writing environment.

It had to be something else.

That's how it all began.

That had been the start of his madness.

He pulled his truck into the backyard and came to rest outside the large shed he had purchased. It was no humble storage shed, not by a long shot, and as he took the chair out of the truck, Mark felt giddy with anticipation. This was it, the final piece, the last thing he needed to make everything perfect.

As the door came open, Mark looked once more upon the monstrosity he had created and was proud.

When he had contacted Kevin about getting some things, his old partner had been hesitant. Mark wanted pictures, layouts, specifics on brands of desks and computers, and Kevin had wanted to know why?

Once Mark offered to pay him, however, the questions became a little less important. Mark had constructed the desk first. A long workspace made of Formica and wood, every chip and every ding the same as the one that sat in G dorm, thanks to Kevin's photos. Then the computer, an old two thousand five model that Mark had picked them up pretty cheap. Having it come with the same OS and programs was a little more expensive, but nothing too ridiculous. Then came every basket, every folder, every coffee cup and roach stain present in the booth. A microwave from a yard sale. A coffee pot from a Dollar General. Paper and flyers and all them custom printed. It took months of work, but when Mark finally looked at the finished product, he knew he'd done it.

When he sat down to work, however, he knew immediately that something wasn't right. The windows had been wooden instead of metal, but the computer monitors that he played the security footage through were a stroke of genius. The footage had been hard to talk Kevin into, but the money had gone a long way. Kevin was in a lot of debt, like most CO's Mark knew, and the cash he was getting from the little project was likely helping him dig himself out of it. At least, Mark hoped it was, but he really didn't care what Kevin spent the money on.

When the windows and familiar view didn't help, thats when Mark realized what he needed. The chair was a piece of it, likely the most important, and as he set it down now, he felt sure this would be the moment he'd been waiting for.

He booted up the computer, reveling in the old clicks and clacks that the aged system made as it came up.

He watched the inmates press their faces against the glass as Sergeant Martin and Kevin, Officer Rack, began their count for the day.

He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes as he soaked in the ambiance, and knew that the moment had come.

He opened Windows office, selected a new document, and set to work.

An hour later, he slammed his head against the desk and cried.

The idea's wouldn't come.

This had all been for nothing, an expensive nothing at that, and now he had nothing to show for it.

He was sunk, finished, his candle quenched before it's time.

“Quite an impressive set up you have here.”

He jumped as the voice wafted over him, and spun to find the Warden leaning in the door to his shed.

The Warden was the last person he had expected to find here, and he stood up at attention before he could stop himself. The Warden laughed, striding in as he took in the scene. He was such an odd character, and the sight of him outside the walls of Stragview was a little alarming. The Warden never left the compound, at least, Mark didn't think he had ever heard of him doing as much. Now he was here, standing inside Mark's shed and judging his efforts, and Mark wasn't sure what he expected.

“Security footage, pictures of secure locations within the prison, a chair with the maintenance ID still engraved on it, I've got enough here to have the police put you away for a while. I could probably get Officer Rack too while I'm at it, but I've got a much better idea.”

Mark shuddered as he watched the man circle like a shark, still not sure what to expect. “This isn't going to work, Officer Danbrey. This hollow shell isn't going to give you what you need, and I think you understand that now, don't you?”

Mark nodded, hanging his head in defeat.

“You need the magic that hangs around Stragview, something you can’t get from a chair and a desk. You happen to be in luck, because I need something as well.” He stopped then, and as he smiled at Mark he could swear the man's eyes glinted like brimstone.

“I need staff that are loyal to me, loyal to Stragview. Staff who know that if they choose to desert me, I can take that which they covet at a moment's notice. You want to write, to continue to grow your star? You need Stragview as much as it needs you.” The two stood and stared at each other for a count of five before Mark asked the question the old shark had been waiting for.

“When do I start?”

“Oh, you'll have to go through orientation again, since you've quit. You might even have to prove to your old captain that you belong in confinement again, but I think you'll make it back sooner than you think. Orientation for new hires starts Monday, and I'll expect you in the training building promptly at five am.”

Mark wanted to protest, but he knew now what the price for disobedience would be. He nodded, watching as The Warden stepped out of his shed as he walked towards the road. Mark saw no car, now means of conveyance, and wondered how the old imp had gotten here so quickly?

“And Officer Danbrey,” the Warden said, drawing Mark up sharply, “the next time you think about leaving to pursue greener pastures, remember how far the warden's grass stretches.”

The Warden left him to his contemplation then, smiling as he felt the weight settle on his newest acolytes soul.

None of them understood the magic of Stragview better than he.

It was why he had built the prison there in the first place.

Some of them might tap into that deep wellspring that lay beneath Stragview, but none of them would ever understand it.

It gave them visions, it helped them thrive, but in the end, it only added strings that the Warden could use to make them dance.