The Raw, Bold Truth

I did good time in Collins Bay. I ate healthy, worked out and got involved in lots of activities. One was the Collins Bay Olympiad, a special sports day for developmentally challenged adults and youth; in 1974, the inmate committee, together with some staff, had approached the Ontario Special Olympics committee to put on a special event for athletes with intellectual disabilities. It was so successful, it carries on even today. In 1976, when I was there, the inmates worked for months to get everything ready for the athletes and when they got to Collins Bay, each was greeted by an inmate who had been assigned to him. That inmate would become what we called their godfather, and spend the whole day with them, coaching and encouraging them in their competitions. It was great for the little guys, who didn't seem to notice that we wore a uniform, or that we had drawings on our arms. They just noticed the smiles and kind words. For many of us, it had been a long time since anyone had looked at us as heroes and given us a trusting smile. For a few days, we felt like we were really doing something good. It hurt to see those little fellows go back out the gate as they waved goodbye. I used to lie in my bed at night and wonder if my little athlete was okay; was he being treated kindly? Was he happy? I worried that someone wouldn't understand him and maybe be mean to him. I swore I would look him up when I got out, make sure his little life was good. But I never did. I guess I had enough trouble taking care of my own little scared Johnny who lived inside me. One day my LUDO said he thought I should start getting out and resocializing, since I'd been in jail for four years. If I had any chance at all of making it out there, I'd have to learn how to act civilly, so his plan was to ask for several short temporary releases, escorted by an officer. We made plans to go out for four hours one morning, and I thought it would be great to eat in a restaurant again. By seven AM, I was at the front door, waiting for my escort. I had changed into jeans and a tee shirt and I was ready to go. I had twenty dollars in my pocket, money from my institutional account that I had earned from my work in the kitchen in Collins Bay. I hoped that would be enough for both me and my escort. I hadn't bought a meal in a long time. We got a brown Chevy from the car pool, and soon we were headed to town like a couple of teenagers on Saturday night. The young escort was a decent guy, and he joked with me as we talked about where we'd go to eat. We finally agreed that the best place in town was an all day breakfast joint and my tongue was hanging out for some eggs and bacon. Man, I was nervous as we sat down at a nice little table near a window. I'd always liked to sit with my back to the wall, but we'd been seated at the worst possible place; a table in front of the whole world. What if a drive-by shooting...naw, that wasn't going to happen today. Turning my chair so it faced halfway between the window and the rest of the tables, I settled down and tried to think of how good those eggs were going to be. A nice, smiley little waitress came over and slapped down two menus. She looked about twelve years old and had a pony tail. She chewed her gum with an open mouth. "What'll ya have, sir?" she said sweetly. "Oh, I just want some eggs", I said with more confidence than I felt. She held her little order pad up, licked her pencil and got ready to write. "How'd ya like your toast? Do ya want it brown or white? Do ya want it with peanut butter or jam?" I felt paralyzed. "Just white toast and jam." But I wasn't ready for her next words. "How'd ya want your eggs? Do ya want em fried? Over easy? Hard? Sunny-side up? Do ya want em scrambled? Poached? Boiled? Do ya want em hard boiled, or soft boiled? How'd ya want yer eggs?" All the while she stood over me, smiling, chewing and waiting for me to answer as she tapped her pencil on her little order pad. Now I had just done almost four years solid. In the Pen, we always had powdered eggs that were reconstituted with water and scrambled. There were no options. I sat mutely, and just looked at her, as she looked back at me. I must have been quite a site. In my right fist, I held a large spoon, bowl up on the red checkered tablecloth. Using a spoon for everything was a habit I'd developed from inside the wall. We weren't used to being given many tools to eat with, because they could become weapons, so using a spoon was acceptable and nobody had even commented on it before. I had a scowl on my face and must have looked like a big, pouty baby. And the napkin I'd carefully tucked into the neck of my tee shirt didn't help me look any more grown up. Time seemed to stand still as I tried to think of how I wanted my eggs. I just wanted eggs that weren't powdered. Bob, my escort, wasn't much help. He didn't even seem to notice my distress. I just couldn't make a decision, so I said, very loudly, "Just bring me some damn eggs." And I waved my big spoon in front of her face, wanting nothing more than to jump up and run out of the place. I was very happy when she came back with a big plate of bacon and eggs, over easy, white toast and hash brown potatoes. The coffee was terrific too. Of course, I got some looks when I folded up my toast and carefully and politely pushed the eggs and bacon into the fold, then squeezed until it was the way I liked it. Food on the run. Needless to say, I got a lecture on how to behave in public from Bob, and we went back to the Pen much sooner than the four hours I'd been allotted. Bob said we should practice making orders before we went out again, but I knew it would take a lot more than practice. Back in the living unit, I did spend some time learning what it takes to be socially acceptable out on the street. It was far easier when I could get high and not have to worry about what people thought of me. We went out again, three more times, and each time I was uncomfortable, but Bob helped me get through the stress by making sure we went to places like a park where we could get a hot dog, or some other finger food. He was a good guy.