Ziggy & Sparks

            Guys inside are so often, so alike. They fall into pre-defined categories, caricatures of “typical” inmates. There’s the dirty, hillbilly crack head. He’s with four other guys who look – and sound – the same. Four dumb white guys “talkin bout the time I hit the pipe and the rock. Oohh doggie it melted good,” and they laugh and say “shit man” and nod. They are a portrait, a snapshot of what I think of when I think of rural, blue collar, poorly educated white guys from Southside Virginia who are hooked on a crack, crystal meth, and pills. They’ve stepped right out of Daniel Woodrell's “Winter Bones.”

            There are the young black guys – more teen than men – who preen and walk with “authority” because, well simply because “they from the streets.” Many are “bangers” – bloods and crips mostly, a few offshoot groups pop up. They talk big about guns and armed robberies and turf battles. Yet, to a man, they exude fear. No, in a pack they are dangerous because fear of your peers is a driving force to act tough. Most know that there’s a whole world out there they’ll never see. So they talk about “Henny” and clubs and “makin it rain” with twenties and hundreds except, except most have never seen a paycheck, or a home with a yard.

            The molesters – those middle aged, middle class white guys with their contempt for the system and the “dumb” drug users. Not to be outdone by the rapists – mostly young black men who “took it” they’ll say, but not too loudly because up the road, at higher levels, rapists – like their molester counterparts – are hunted and extorted.

            Yeah, it’s like that inside. Guys fall into categories so easily. Uniqueness means aloneness, and alone you can fall victim.

            Which is why I watch for the “other” guys, the ones who aren’t character sketches. Like my buddy ‘DC.’ No one is like him. He was one of the worst, a rogue; murderous, quick to settle scores, feared throughout the system. And today? I feel like he’s an older brother; I trust him, I respect him, I like him. He’s genuine. He’s like our own “Forrest Gump” – he knew, he knows everyone from the District. Take this little “drop” story:

            “Main man. You know (CBS Sportscaster/NFL host with initials “JB”). He’s from the district. I used to put a ladder up against his house go in and (have conjugal relations) with his sister. So one day he pulls up on me and says, “Bird” (DC’s name in the district), you gotta stop sleepin with my sister or …” Or what, I say, and nothing. He goes to Harvard, I go to robbing banks …”

            Unique. That describes two guys I’ve recently met: Ziggy and Sparks. Two different men: one black, one white; one from rural North Carolina, the other from the Bronx. So Ziggy, he’s a big, burly “country” fellow with a Carolina accent that drips of butter biscuits and pulled pork. To look at him, you wouldn’t think he’d spent over half his life behind bars. And Sparks, with his shaved head and daily quips about the Yankees, it’s hard to imagine he’s down to two years on a straight seventeen (fourteen with the Feds and three with the Commonwealth) after a prior five in New York.

            I first met Ziggy shortly after he arrived here from a higher level. I noticed his CDs – there were a lot of Southern rock discs: Skynard, Marshall Tucker, the Allman Brothers, all bands I remembered from my own days in the ‘70s and ’80s going to school in Tennessee. And his voice, that accent, it reminded me of my parents’ church in Raleigh with the distinct drawl North Carolinians maintain.

            A day or two later, Ziggy pulled me aside. “You used to be a lawyer, right?” Yes, I told him. “You have a blog, don’t ya?” I wondered how he knew (I’m always surprised when someone comes across the blog). “I have a friend, from a church in South Carolina. She reads it.” And after that, Ziggy and I were ok. I noticed his tattoos – many of them relate to his “race.” He’s “tatted” up like a lot of white guys in here who’ve done serious time at higher levels. Just like the young black guys who get into “bangin” so too do white guys. “Stay with your kind.” “There’s safety in numbers.” Ziggy – a man who’d done long stretches in solitary – was part of that side of prison life I’d always avoided.

            A side story. While at the jail in ’09 waiting for transfer to DOC two young “Aryans” tried to recruit me. “No thanks,” I said and then stealing a Groucho Marx line, I told them, “I don’t join any group that wants me as a member.”

            But Ziggy, he isn’t like that. He’s a nice, friendly guy. He isn’t a bigot; he’s not a racist. He’s a guy who came in the system and, out of fear – or a sense of loneliness – lined up with what he was familiar with. Did he have to? Race is a reality “inside” and I can’t help but think that prisons push racial hostility – separate is easier to control than united.

            But Ziggy proves a tattoo is just a tattoo. The heart matters more … which is why Sparks is so like Ziggy.

            Sparks is a big “OG” in a particular street gang. But what was once of utmost importance to him – that street life – isn’t that important anymore. Like Ziggy and his “Caucasian” connections in days before, Sparks has grown beyond the street life. He has plans for a janitorial business. During computer class he uses lab assignments to design and hone his business model. And, like the dozens of other long-term incarcerated I’ve met who decide college isn’t just a choice but a necessity, these two men are well read and comfortable about themselves and their futures.

            I see men like Ziggy and Sparks and can’t help but think of Hemingway’s words, “Everyone is broken in life, and some are stronger in the broken places.”

            So often, we go through life trying to fit in, trying to be who we think the crowds expects. Safety, security can only happen that way, we tell ourselves. We’re wrong. We are much better as who we are supposed to be – no matter alone or how difficult the circumstances – than to be a caricature.

Guilty

            I had a bet with my friend DC. Twenty-five push-ups per count. “Main Man, there’s no way a jury is gonna convict that man,” he said. “Just watch,” I told him. And the verdict came down: “guilty!” Eleven times the word was read. DC – and half the commonwealth – was shocked. I wasn’t. I take no glee in watching former Governor McDonnell’s life come crashing down. I’ve been there. But, having been there, I knew the result beforehand. Allow me some brief observations since I’ve gone through it.

            First, Mr. McDonnell has not honestly come to terms with his actions. Had he, he wouldn’t have put on that ridiculous defense blaming everything on Lady Macbeth, excuse me, Mrs. McDonnell. For years I rationalized and compartmentalized my wrong doing. Help in the community, work my butt off for my employer and my church, tithe to charities – all that I used to balance against my criminal conduct. Then a funny thing happened in late 2007. The rationalizations stopped working.

            I quit sleeping; I started drinking more. And, every quiet moment in my car became a conversation with God. “I’m out of control,” I’d say. “I don’t want to lose my wife and kids; I don’t want to go to prison.” For almost a year I prayed for a divine miracle all the while thinking I’d be better off dead. Then the day came and the call to the company’s president’s office and the five page letter where I was told I was being placed on “paid suspension” while an investigation was conducted over financial “irregularities.” I never read the letter. I knew what I’d done and I knew it was wrong. Then and there I admitted it.

            Gov Bob hasn’t gotten there, even now. Photos of him driving a Ferrari or smirking with Rolex blinging on his wrist and he says, “Hey, it’s ok.” No, it’s not … and he knows it. His own staff begged him not to wear the watch; his security detail tried to get him to avoid the Ferrari. And, Bob McDonnell is a smart man; he’s a decent man. But let me let you in on a little “truth” – good, smart, decent men are capable of doing wrong things.

            His defense, blaming his wife, stupid! You man-up and you take it; you stand there alone and you take the punishment. You don’t throw the woman who gave you five children under the bus to save yourself. A side story: Detective Clouseau (the investigator on my case) couldn’t believe I’d just admit everything. So, he decides there had to be millions stashed away. He teams up with a forensic accountant and schedules a “big meeting” with me. The detective tries to play “good cop” while the accountant is “bad cop.” They tell me they want “the truth” or they’ll prosecute my wife, throw her and my kids on the street. They’ll go on a hunt at work and “anyone” who received anything from me will be fired and perhaps worse. I listen to this bullshit for a few minutes and then I snap. “Leave … my wife and kids out of this! Leave everyone else alone or I swear I will fight and drag this out for years!”

            I’m red in the face; my shackled hands have slammed the table; and, I don’t give a damn what happens to me. There’s a pause, silence, and then the company President whispers to the accountant. A ten minute break and “Alright Larry. We won’t bother anyone …” I make no plea deal; I save the house and assets for my family and ironically I find my equilibrium. No one was responsible for the mess I found myself in other than me. Governor McDonnell needs to find that same honesty inside.

            Then there was the report about the Governor’s reaction to the verdict. He sobbed; he fell apart. Sentencing day. I’m alone in a basement holding cell at the Goochland County Courthouse. My wife isn’t there; she’s ready to file for divorce as soon as certain “settlement” papers are signed that day with my employer. I’m hoping for “time-served.” My lawyer says, “Prepare for two and a half to four years.” I go into the courtroom in shackles on my feet, waist, and hands. I see my parents for the first time in eight months.

            The hearing begins. The Prosecutor, who’s already told my attorney he’s being pressured by my former employer for a stiff sentence asks for thirty years. “They’ll suspend almost all of it,” my attorney whispers to me. My turn and three friends, three men who never have wavered in their belief and support for me, testify about who I really am. Other letters are read including one from a few elderly African-American women who served with me on a local food pantry board. “Jesus loves Larry and would show him mercy. Do the same for this decent man.” I fight back tears. I feel like shit about myself. They feel otherwise.

            Then, I speak. I make no excuses. I apologize to my family, my employer, my friends, and the court. I hear two young women – my paralegals – sobbing as I speak. I finish and I wait and then the Judge sentences me: “fifteen years with the Department of Corrections.” I am given more time that most child pornographers, child molesters, and second degree murderers.

            “Anything else from the defense?” The judge looks down at my lawyer and me. “No your Honor,” I say and add, “thank you.” I’m escorted from the courtroom. I won’t cry; I won’t succumb. I am alone in that holding cell and I repeatedly ask God why He just won’t let me die. An elderly sheriff’s deputy drives me back to the Henrico Jail. He is the same deputy who has driven me all four times that I’ve left the jail to go to court.

            There are no words between us on this trip. I look straight ahead and have no thoughts. We arrive at the jail and he escorts me in and signs me back over to Henrico authorities. My life feels over.

            As he is unhooking my shackles he speaks to me.” Mr. B, you are a decent man. Never forget that. You did yourself proud today. You can get through this.” I have never forgotten that deputy or his words. I’ve often wondered why he chose to speak such encouragement to me. Perhaps my behavior that day really did matter; perhaps it was God sending a message.

            The other morning, one of the teachers I work for asked me if the Governor “will be able to carry himself through this as well as I have.” I was stunned for a second. See, I know how tough this has been. And, every day I feel like I let someone down. I remembered that night after sentencing reading Psalm 27:

            “Though an army may encamp against me,

            My heart shall not fear …”

            And I thought about Hemingway – “A man can be destroyed but not defeated.”

            Governor McDonnell is a convicted felon. And, he’s a disgraced lawyer. He will, in all likelihood, go to prison. He will lose his retirement, his wealth. His marriage is over. His reputation damaged. But if he listens to the quiet voice inside he will overcome this. We are better than these convictions. We are broken, but in those breaks comes rebuilding.

            If he asked me, I would tell him this – don’t fight to save your past; move forward to save your soul.

            Perhaps, just perhaps it is in these failures that God’s true path for us comes through. Good, decent men can overcome their wrongs.

            Grace Potter, what a gorgeous woman with a beautiful voice, sings “Low Road” with this,

            But it’s a low, low road

            You’ve gotta roll down

            Before you find your way, my friend

            And it’s a high, high hill

            You’ve gotta climb up

            Before you get to the top again.

            Someone needs to let Governor McDonnell hear that song.

Barbarians at the Gate

“Robins Williams is dead. His death has been ruled a suicide.” The news broke last night and I found myself thinking about the tragic waste of a remarkable, creative life. Suicide. Why, we ask, would such a talented man take his own life? No one really knows you. The face we put forward masks what we feel. And, Mr. Williams wasn’t alone in his choice of endings.

Ernest Hemingway is my favorite author. His stories, written in simple, direct sentences are powerful and emotionally connect with me. He wrote of men in periods of war and trial; he wrote of obstacles and man’s quest to overcome. He wrote:

“A man can be destroyed, but not defeated.”

He lived as he wrote. As a young man, he went to Europe and served as a member of the Italian army in World War I, before America’s entry. He served with an ambulance team in the trenches; he served and was seriously wounded. He fell in love with a British nurse who then broke his heart. And wrote all about it in prose that clutches at my soul (A Farewell to Arms).

He witnessed firsthand the fascist atrocities in Spain’s Civil War. He climbed mountains; he fished for tuna in the Caribbean; he ran with the bulls in Pamplona. He drank to excess and smoked cigars and slept with a bevy of beautiful women. He lived life to the fullest. He was man, primal and cerebral and passionate and powerful. He lived a life most men could only dream about. And then, he put a shotgun to his mouth and ended it all …

One of my friends was out recently and he remarked how well I have help up over the past six years. That’s right, six years ago Monday I walked into work at 6:30 am a “success” – by everyone’s way of thinking. I had “everything;” or so people thought. And this friend, I am so blessed with real friends, people who have stayed when I’m not sure I would have, people who like writer Charles Bukowski who said “If you want to know who your real friends are, try getting a jail sentence.” – he tells me “there were times I worried you might try and end it all.” And I remembered how close I came; and I wondered why I didn’t end up like Mr. Hemingway and Mr. Williams.

Confession time. It was day six at the jail. I was a mess. Three days earlier, through Plexiglas I’d watched my younger son with tears streaming down his face tell me he loved me; I’d listed as his mother – my wife back then – told me she hated me, didn’t care if I died, and that I would never see her again. Add to that, the jail recorded the conversation and used her demands for “financial information” (she was on the way to the divorce attorney I had gotten her) as grounds to deny me bond – “flight risk.” And, my attorney, my high-priced white-collar crime specialist – told me there was nothing to really discuss with the prosecution. “You already confessed, Larry,” he told me.

I was ruined; I had lost everything; I was ready for it all to end. As I write this I try and remember why I decided to go on. I don’t think anyone wants to die. You just come to a point where the pain, the hopelessness overwhelms you. The barbarians are at the gate and you can’t keep them away any longer.

Depression. Every night I see some “talking head” psychologist – who never treated Robin Williams – talk about his mental condition. Where is the AMA? Shouldn’t they be regulating what theses assholes say? And it all comes down to depression, they say. I’m twenty-one and the outstanding senior of the year at my small, liberal arts college; I have my future by the balls. I can be, I can do, whatever with my life. And then there’s compromise and love … and I think of Damien Rice singing, “Love will make you cry.” You’re thirty and your dreams are deferred and no one, it feels that way, cares.

So you do, you be what people expect. And compromise leads to selling out your soul. James talks about looking at yourself in the mirror and “knowing” and then turning away and “forgetting” the kind of man you are. James was ahead of his time.

I understood God at that moment when the gates flung open and there was nothing to keep the barbarians at bay. It was the first time in years that I slept peacefully.

I knew I wanted to live; I knew I would somehow find my way back; I remembered and again knew the idealistic young man I longed to see in the mirror.

I thought a great deal about that day at the jail and my coming to terms with God as I watched the news about Mr. Williams. Suicide isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of resignation. You just get tired, tired of life. It’s funny, but I work out with a couple of younger guys who always pick on me and say “the old f---er just won’t quit.” I won’t; I can’t.

Six years ago my life changed. I thought it was over and instead a miracle happened and I began to live again. The barbarians were defeated; peace reigned. I thought about all of that this week and I said a prayer for the Robin Williams of the world and for the strength to hold back the barbarians.

It's Alright

I hadn’t thought much about my reaction. Truth is, I’d always kept that little bit of hope, that micro-glimmer – if there is even such a thing – of hope deep in the recesses of my mind that there’d be a “we” again. The card in tonight’s mail disabused me of that dream.

            It was from a friend saying he knew “Friday” (that’s tomorrow!) would be a difficult day but he knew I am “stronger” than I think and I will “endure” this.

            Strength; endurance; great words. Words of hope, and perseverance, and grace. Like I said, I hadn’t thought much about my reaction. Then I read the card and I felt the air go out of me … for a brief moment. Then I did the unexpected, at least to the old me. I opened my Bible and read Psalm 103. For six years that Psalm, “Bless the Lord O my soul and all that is within me bless His holy name,” has sustained me. I read that Psalm moments after I decided, sitting in that cell at the jail when all was lost, that I would go on because God expected me to never give up.

            There was something about those words that told me to endure, persevere, overcome. Every difficult decision, every bad day … or night, I’ve turned to Psalm 103. The pain, the sorrow and emptiness is still there, but it’s ok.

            “How does it feel

            How does it feel      

            To be on your own

            With no direction home

            A complete unknown

            Like a rolling stone”

            Dylan is blaring through my headphones. It’s always Dylan tunes on nights like this. Before I had my CD player in here I just wrote his lyrics down from memory, dozens of his songs, as if those words would suddenly open my minds-eye to what all this means. So I play “Like A Rolling Stone” a dozen times; I hear “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright;” I’m listening to Bob and the Band sing “I Shall Be Released” –

            “They say every man must need protection

            They say every man must fall.

            But I swear I see my reflection

            So high above this wall.

            I see my light come shining

            From the west down to the east

            Any day now, any day now

            I shall be released.”

            And of course, I play “Forever Young” over and over. How could I not? Those words were the first words I spoke/sang to both our sons moments after they entered their new world. “Our” sons; “Our” wedding; “Our” grief; “Our” is no more.

            As I write this, it is the eve of her remarriage. It was inevitable and I’ve accepted it (funny, like I could do anything to convince her otherwise). Every night since that August day in 2008 I’ve finished my day with prayers. They’ve always included her and her happiness and well being. I never prayed for reconciliation. Oh, I hoped for it; I daydreamed about her coming to see me, telling me she really did love me. Those were dreams. But my prayers – I knew what had to happen. So I asked God to watch over her, let her be happy.

            I’m not a strong man. I am weak and I am broken. God, however, in His infinite wisdom keeps telling me to go on. I do. I’m not sure why; I just know I can’t go back, I can’t stay here, I have to go on. I work out five days each week with a young Salvador-American. “O” is cut like a running back. We move weight the likes of which I never imagined I could lift. I’m his “project,” rebuilding me, muscle by muscle. Everyone around here notices how lean and muscular I’ve become. My body no longer looks like that of a 55 year-old man.

            Other guys have worked with us and quit. “Too intense,” they’ve said. I tell O “I’m not a quitter. I won’t give in; I’ll die first.” I have a quote pinned inside my locker from Ernest Hemingway. He wrote,

            “A man can be destroyed but not defeated.”

            I love Hemingway’s simple understanding of the human condition. I see those words as I jot this down. Hemingway, you fucking genius! You know what I’m saying.

            I never got to tell her goodbye. I never got to say how sorry I am and how I only ever wanted her to be happy and love me. I don’t think she ever understood how I felt/feel about her, how I can’t listen to “Shelter From the Storm” without seeing her and wishing, wishing things were different.

            That’s not in the cards. Maybe that’s why I turned to Psalm 103. It says God is bigger than all this and He’s to be trusted. Maybe it’s just a placebo, but I always turn to Psalm 103 and I always go on, and this time is no different.

            “When you go nothing

            You got nothing to lose”

            Bob is right you know. It’s easy standing strong when there’s nothing left to pull at you and say “but what if …” The toughest thing for me these past six years was not reacting, not fighting back, not playing “what if.” So many times in the last year I wanted to write her and say, “please don’t” when I learned she was moving on. But, I couldn’t. “In love.” I learned what those words meant after August 2008. You love someone, they break your heart, still you do what has to be done. My friends tell me how courageous I’ve been; how strong. No one knows how much energy it takes to not write, not fight, not get angry, not quit.

            I look at my watch and know the vows are being exchanged. So, I open my Bible to Job:

            “Naked I came from my mother’s womb,

            And naked shall I return there.

            The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away;

            Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

            And, I’m ok because I know what Job is talking about. I get it. My buddy DC checks on me. “Main man, you good?” He is always there, a brother I wouldn’t have recognized in his days of death and destruction, days of violence and a dead heart; here he is, a man who I love like a brother who knows what tonight is. He sees my smile and he knows I’m good, I’m through this.

            I’m thinking of Jim Croce. It’s November 1981 and my best man’s fiancé; a beautiful girl with huge expressive eyes and the voice of an angel is singing “our” song, “Time in a Bottle.” The song ends, the organist hits the first note and I look to the back of the church and I see her for the first time that day … and she is more beautiful than I could imagine. My life is in front of me; my life is perfect.

            Jim Croce died in a plane crash, too young and too soon. I think of him singing tonight, but it isn’t “our” song, it’s “Operator.”

            “Operator, oh could you help me place this call?

            Cause I can’t read the number you just gave me

            There’s something in my eyes, you know it happens every time

            I think about the love that I thought would save me”

            He laments the loss of his love and wants so badly to call and say “I’m good; I’m happy.” But, he then realizes there isn’t any reason to call her, to say what’s on his heart.

            “Operator, oh let’s forget about this call

            There’s no one there I really wanted to talk to …”

            No one there. Yeah, Jim, you were right. What was so long ago isn’t anymore. And that’s alright. All I can do is move on from here, be the best me I can be, and live, love and forgive. Don’t think twice about it; it’s alright.

            “So long honey babe

            Where I’m bound. I can’t tell

            Goodbye is too good a word babe

            So I’ll just say fare thee well

            I ain’t sayin you treated me unkind

            You could have done better

            But I don’t mind

            You just wasted my precious time

            Don’t think twice, it’s alright”