I'm Thankful for Life in the Weird, Weird West

I could live somewhere else. Somewhere with trees. And rain. And public transportation. Maybe somewhere with an exciting nightlife. Maybe somewhere with any nightlife. I could live somewhere that I could get a meal after the late movie.

I could.

But, seriously, why would I want to?

I had court hearings in both district courts at the same time on Tuesday. Two revocation hearings on two of my people in one court (Both got slammed. They'll be eating Stovetop Stuffing courtesy of the Institutional Division of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice this Thanksgiving.) and three guilty pleas in the other court.

(Revocation Hearing: When a person is placed on felony probation they are sentenced to prison and that sentence is suspended as long as they complete the probation. If they screw up, a warrant is issued for their arrest. They sit in jail - no bond - until the Court hears their case. The State presents evidence, which usually consists of the probation officer's testimony and the defense makes a case for extenuating circumstances. Then the Court decides whether to continue the probation or to impose the original sentence.)

Luckily the defense attorney for the three cases in the second court had an early morning plea in Big Flat City, so those hearings were going to be delayed an hour or two, allowing me to be in two places at once. After my revocation hearings ended, I made my way to the other courtroom to join the wait.

When I got to the arena, most of the players were already on the field The bailiff and court reporter were there, as well as the Assistant District Attorney assigned to this court. The three defendants were seated on the front pew, wearing matching orange jumpsuits and shiny silver shackles. The sheriff's deputy who'd brought them up from the jail sat next to the door, his chair tipped back on two legs and head resting against the wall. I threaded my way through the gathering to my chair next to the DA at the prosecution's table.

We chatted back and forth for a while. The court reporter told me her brother's book has just been published. Her twin is one of four Texas State Archaeologists. (Did you even know we had state archaeologists?) He just wrote a book about the Red River Indian Wars that took place in this part of the state.

The DA and the deputy were arguing about football.

There was no joy in Mudville this week, since the Raiders from Big Flat City laid down for those Oklahoma hicks in last Saturday's game. The DA is a rabid Raiders fan and the deputy is a life-long traitor to his roots. His house is adorned with Oklahoma memorabilia. He told us how he won two shirt bets and a hat bet he had riding on the game. He also won $40 from another deputy - who vows to pay him in pennies.

The more he gloated, the more the DA grumbled. The rest of us joined in the discussion - this is Texas after all. The longer we waited, the more we talked and eventually the boys in orange even got in on the action.

The main topic of discussion was how the die-hard University of Texas fans were actually rooting for Oklahoma in this game, which is no doubt one of the precursors of the Apocalypse.

One of the defendants was an especially vocal UT fan. The longer the conversation continued, the more he felt the need to contribute. The deputy, who was thoroughly enjoying the situation, egged him on. After one final comment from the crook on how, essentially, the Raider's loss was just a matter of the universe setting right the cosmic hiccup that had resulted in the Raider's victory over UT just a few weeks before, the DA slammed a case file down on the table top, whirled in the chair and favored the soon-to-be convict with a steely glare.

"Do you want a longer sentence, or what?!?"

The assistant DA...is a woman.



Who wouldn't want to live here?

I went to college for this?

"I drink too much. The last time I gave a urine sample, it had an olive in it." - Rodney Dangerfield

We did surprise drug tests this morning. At the city's recycling center, which is the fancy name for the big, stinking barn where probationers sort trash into piles of the reusable and the disposable. There's no heat in the big tin barn. Only a cavernous expanse of trash. No air conditioning either. I'm so glad I don't have to do community service.

You can imagine the lovely restrooms they have there. They're clean, thanks to community service workers, but the toilets are rickety and wobble back and forth, making the concrete floors a damp and sloppy mess. The paint is peeling off the walls and the sink sported a huge green pattern of crusty water deposits that covered the bowl as a result of an ambitiously leaky faucet. The bare bulb over the sink lends a certain Alcatrazish sort of ambiance to the whole scene.

We had one woman who just couldn't go. There's always one. It wasn't that she'd been drinking or using drugs and her urine was going to be 'dirty'. She just can't pee on command. I don't blame her. I can't do it either. And I certainly couldn't pee with a stranger standing over me, watching to make sure I don't dip the cup in the toilet water or try to cheat by some other even less pleasant means.

Of course it was cold this morning -- only a few degrees above freezing and sitting on the pock-marked toilet seat must have felt like sitting on a penguin's nest. We'd tried twice already and now the rest of the crew was all done and she was the last to go. She'd drunk half a gallon of water and I had the faucet in the sink trickling suggestively onto the porcelain. It was working - for me, if not for her. The woman shivered and chattered while pushing and straining to fill the cup.

"Relax," I said, hopefully soothingly. "Just relax your muscles and let it flow." Where on my resume should I list 'Can talk urine out of a turnip'?

She tried and tried and strained and pushed. Then I heard an unmistakable noise. I bit my lip and feigned deafness. Her shoulders slumped.

"I farted," she said, totally unnecessarily.

"Keep trying, hun," I sighed. "We can't test a cup full of fart."

This is such a glamor job.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

I love the shape of these stones. Love it a lot. Love it when it's a window or a mirror or an opening in a wall. It's cool.

Drunk class was a little shorter than usual tonight. Not my best work, I'm sad to say. And it was good material - thinking errors and lots of Ablert Ellis-ish stuff. But Magdalena had the flu and Ray had a swollen jaw and massive toothache. Rick got arrested last week for yet another felony DWI and he didn't show up. Kenny was bored and Othello just wasn't getting it. Larry, in the front row, was really into it and working hard, but I think that might have had to do with the butt-chewing Mindy gave him earlier in the week after she found the photos of him on Myspace. The photos with the beer bottles. And the mixed drinks. The photos that were taken in a bar. And date-stamped.

Stupid Larry.

We were all a little bummed tonight. Meh. Thankfully, two more weeks and we're done!

Things I wish I HADN'T said...

Had a meeting today with a relatively new guy - a sex offender. He's generally doing what he's supposed to do and our task today was to make an appointment to get a DNA sample from him.

Part of his probation is a requirement to attend counseling. The sex offender counseling program we have here has a long and unwieldy name. We generally refer to it by its acronym. I hate it when people talk in acronyms and jargon. It's been one of my pet peeves for years, yet I do the same thing all the dang time. This was one of those times. Thankfully, however, the letters don't spell anything cutesy, so I've not been reduced to calling it "sox" or anything. (Sex Offender Counseling).

"So, Joe, have you missed any meetings at ~long string of random letters~?"

"What is that?" he asked, seeming genuinely worried that he'd missed something important.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I mean the ~long unwieldy name~." I glanced up from my paperwork and met his eye apologetically. "I know. It's quite a mouthful."

The minute I said it, I wanted to bang my head on the desk. Suffice it to say that given Joe's offense, this was a particularly poor choice of words. His jaw dropped. I don't know which of us was more appalled. I cleared my throat and We skipped right over the rest of my questions on that issue and went straight to the community service and payment discussions.

Some days it doesn't pay to open your mouth you should just stay in bed.

Argh!

The end.

Reason #238: Why I Love My Job

Delbert is a doofus. Not a bad guy, just a doofus. He has some minor developmental disabilities, and, bless his heart, he tries. But he's just a follower, a minon, a boot-licker. He recently lost his job as a dishwasher on the grave-yard shift at the all-night pancake house because he developed an allergy to soap. I'm guessing he's also developed an allergy to toothpaste, as that would explain the current lack of dental hygiene.

Delbert is a talker. He loves explanations. He thrives on the sound of his own voice and the exhaustive detail that he can impart regarding even the most insignificant of activities. He's also very inclusive and willing to tell anyone and everyone all about his daily affairs. This is why the ladies in the front/back office send me evil vibes on the days he reports.

Thankfully, Delbert has only two months left on probation. If, by some act of cruel fate, he is unable to finish paying off his fine, I'll pay it myself just to get him the hell out of here. I know a couple of staff members who would no doubt be willing to go halves with me on it.

Today, I suffered through a long-winded explanation of why he overslept on Tuesday and missed his appointment. I'll spare you the details. Then he asked for a travel permit to go to Cool City on Saturday. I didn't ask why. I didn't want to know. I just gave him the permission and stood up to try to usher him out the door.

"Ok. Have a good time. Stay out of trouble. See you next month," I said, reaching out for the doorknob.

"I have to go to Cool City because my sister is in a beauty pageant."

At that point, my hand frozen in mid-air just above the doorknob, I wanted to shoot myself. There was no way this was going to end well. I knew I needed to open the door and shoo him out and go on with my day.

Instead I just sort of stared at him, open-mouthed. I didn't say a word.

"...and she needs a dance partner."

Inside my head, I was being all self-congratulatory for maintaining my stoicism and constraint. Even though I was standing there like a slack-jawed idiot, I had managed to refrain from both speaking and giving in to a fit of uncontrollable laughter. I again reached for the doorknob, knowing that I had to get him out of my office before he continued his story and completely razed my self-control.

"I'm really good at break dancing."


This was when my tongue started to bleed.

"And I do a lot of country dancing, like two-step and stuff. I'm not too good at country wine dancing, but I do that sometimes, too."

My vision began to blur and I was afraid I was going to pass out from choking on the laughter caught in my throat.

"But it's too bad my sister doesn't want to do any of that. She can't make up her mind if she's going to do the tango or the cha-cha. Have you heard of those?"

Mute nod.


"Well, I have 'till Saturday. I can probably find a class and learn them right quick."

"Uh... well..."

"Usually my dad would be her partner. But he can't do it this time 'cause he just had surgery and he still has this open wound on his leg and they won't stitch it up 'cause the boil can't heal if they close it and..."

"GOOD-BYE, Delbert!"

Just two more months...two more months...

In Which I Get Punked...

Roger has been in trouble for a while now. He's a scheming little jerk. He worked out a nice little scheme involving the theft of some farm implements. They take a pretty dim view of that sort of thing around here. So, to avoid having his neck stretched by a group of red-faced guys in John Deere hats, he plead guilty and took probation.


Since being on probation he's been rather lazy and tends to "forget" to report. Two months ago I got really tired of his little games and we had a bit of a Come To Jesus meeting. I told him I was not going to waste my time hunting him down. If he can't report, he can go to jail.


I also told him the only reason that I haven't already filed the paperwork to have him arrested was the fact that he owes his victims $3,000. If he goes to jail, they won't get their money. That wasn't fair to them. So, I told Roger I had a deal for him. He would be getting his tax refund soon. I wanted it. All of it. He would be getting enough to pay off the restitution. That way, when he screws up again, I would have no reason not to have him arrested. He could pay and stay free, or he could go to jail.

I'm not above a bit of old-fashioned extortion.

The next month, Roger came in and whined about how he was barely getting enough money on his refund to cover the amount I was demaning, and he had to let his wife have part of it - it wasn't just his. I told him he should have thought of that before.

Today, he came in again and made a payment. He paid $2,000. That was about $800 less than the total amount of restitution. I sat at my desk, mentally flipping a coin. How much of a witch did I want to be about this? He hadn't been behind on payments in the first place. He's been paying me almost $200 a month every month, even the months he skipped his appointments. Two thousand dollars is a lot of cash. Did I want to quibble about the $800 that isn't even due yet? I finally decided to give him a hard time about it, then let him off the hook.

I retreived his sorry carcass from the waiting room. When he sat down in my office I gave him the evil eye and demanded to know where the rest of the money was. He claimed that was all he had. We both knew that wasn't true, but I glossed over it a bit, and told him if he will continue his $200 a month payments and not miss another appointment - not to mention doing his community service - I would call it even and not put him in jail. For now.

"So you're going to take your boot out of my ass?" he asked.

"That's one way to put it," I answered.


He agreed. We went through the other information we needed to cover for the month. Then as he was about to leave, he motioned to my right hand. "You were wearing your Wonder Woman bracelet when I came in here last month," he said.

That was rather surprising. I didn't know he paid that much attention to my accessories and I was especially astonished that he recognized the bracelet for what it was.

"Have you researched Wonder Woman's background, any at all?" he asked.

I told him I knew quite a bit about it and he asked what I knew about the guy who created Wonder Woman.


"His name was William Moulton Marston and he was famous for something totally unrelated to comic books, but I don't remember what it was," I told him. (Just FYI - he invented the lie detector.)


He nodded thoughtfully. "You should look it up on the internet," he said. "You don't know anything about his personal life - how he lived with his wife and their two kids and his housekeeper and their two kids? You should really look it up - you'll learn some things that will probably make you look at Wonder Woman in a whole new way."


I wasn't really sure what to say to that - just sort of raised my eyebrows and said I'd check it out. Then I made a big, big mistake.

I reached out towards him to shake his hand as he stood to leave. He took my hand, looked down and then back up at me. His eyes had an malignant twinkle and he laughed out loud. Then he walked out the door.


Needless to say, I was rather confused. I immediately sat down and googled Mr. Marston. This is what I found on Wikipedia:

Dr. William Moulton Marston (May 9, 1893 – May 2, 1947) was an American psychologist, feminist theorist, inventor, and comic book author who created the character Wonder Woman. Two strong women, his wife Elizabeth Holloway Marston and Olive Byrne, (who lived with the couple in a polyamorous relationship), served as exemplars for the character and greatly influenced her creation.


Ooookay. Well, the polyamorous bit is a little weird, but whatever. I read on...


Marston's Wonder Woman is often cited as an early example of bondage themes entering popular culture: physical submission appears again and again throughout Marston's comics work, with Wonder Woman and her criminal opponents frequently being tied up or otherwise restrained, and her Amazonian friends engaging in frequent wrestling and bondage play (possibly based on Marston's earlier research studies on sorority initiations). These elements were softened by later writers of the series. Though Marston had described female nature as submissive, in his other writings and interviews he referred to submission to women as a noble and potentially world-saving practice, leading ideally to the establishment of a matriarchy, and did not shy away from the sexual implications of this:



"The only hope for peace is to teach people who are full of pep and unbound force to enjoy being bound ... Only when the control of self by others is more pleasant than the unbound assertion of self in human relationships can we hope for a stable, peaceful human society. ... Giving to others, being controlled by them, submitting to other people cannot possibly be enjoyable without a strong erotic element".



About male readers, he later wrote: "Give them an alluring woman stronger than themselves to submit to, and they'll be proud to become her willing slaves!"


It was at this point that I laid my head down on my desk and tried to make up my mind whether to laugh or cry. This was when I realized what a horrible mistake I'd made when I reached out to shake Roger's hand. It wasn't until I stretched my hand out towards him that my sleeve pulled away from my wrist and he could see what I was wearing where last month I'd worn the Wonder Woman bracelet.

Damn that Hot Topic gift card...