+- Ravenblade Forum (https://ravenblade.net/forum)
+-- Forum: The Commons (https://ravenblade.net/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=1)
+--- Forum: Off-Topic (https://ravenblade.net/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=9)
+--- Thread: A summer nights tale. (/showthread.php?tid=167)
A summer nights tale. - Travis Cox - 04-13-2019
The following is a true story. This event did happen. The exact phrasing has faded due to the entropy of memory but I have done my best to adhere to the exact as much as I can, and to the intent when I cannot.
In early 2011, a certifiable psychopath, who does not deserve to be named, murdered a female guard in the Washington State Reformatory Chapel. A deed similar to his previous acts that resulted in his life sentence.
This horrible act of madness is not the topic of this retrospection but the backdrop of its telling and in no way meant to trivialize or reduce the severity of that act.
In response to this tragedy the Department of Corrections responded in kind. They removed two cherished bastions of solace. Rare safe harbors amid the chaotic dissonance of our fractured conformity. They stripped from us the last two meaningful conduits of purpose and belonging. That is, they shut down the hobby shop and the music program.
Yours truly, at the time, was involved in both. In the hobby shop I was spinning clay and tooling leather. In the music room I was playing guitar in my band "Travy Trav and the Trav Tones". ( Any correlation between the name of the band and an over inflated ego of the author is purely coincidental. I assure you. I am awesome)
The hobby program never recovered from this tragedy. It is now a fading memory of a bygone era to which we can only reminisce and lament. The Department was doing what it does best, take without reason.
A year later, however, the music room was poised to make a comeback. A miraculous recovery only experienced by coma patients in daytime dramas. Back but strangely different.
Within a month what equipment survived was dug out of storage, dusted off by caring hands, and tuned to perfection. As prisoners we are professionals at improvising with what we have for what we lack.
Some 47 prisoners prepaid the quarterly fee to participate in the program. 47 harmony starved souls flooded the gate. The dilemma? Scheduling the desires of those 47 into full band and practice slots constrained by the immortal limits of time and space.
This marks the true beginning of this tale...
It is a cool, quiet evening. A soft breeze blows through the open bars of my cell front. With it comes the smells and sounds of a hundred year old prison block slowly settling down for the night. The jingling of antique keys against a guards leg as he makes his last round, a burst of laughter from the tier above, and on the breeze the aroma of a well cooked summer sausage.
It is about nine o'clock, well after lockdown, when the Recreation Specialist steps up to my porch. He's not a uniformed guard but he's a cop all the same. He's wearing plain clothes and a baseball cap. I can tell by the look on his face this is not where he thought he would be spending his evening. I am already stripped to my skivvies and under the covers enjoying a little zombie box before checking in. He, clearly not expecting to find me so early in the bunk, excuses himself and starts explaining his interruption.
He does his best to avoid my disdainful gaze as he states, "Mr. Cox, I've recently received your quarterly payment for the music program. I'm sure you already know that we have limited band and practice slots. Some Offender's (That's the term they use to degrade us, we are in a state of perpetual offense) only want access to practice slots, and that's good because we have a lot of them. However, we only have one band slot per time block. If you want one of those you may only get one a week."
After a slight pause with no response from me he goes on and asks the question he came to ask,
"What do you want to do in the music room?"
(Foolish Mortal, he should have known better)
After but a moment's consideration I throw off my covers, with a flourish a bull fighter would be proud of, and leap proudly to my feet. Still in my tighty-whities. I take one aggressive step to my cell front and grasp my cage firm enough to make it rattle in its hundred year old tracks. With an age worn rebel scowl I look the Rec Specialist dead in the eyes, allowing him no escape from his folly. And in my best Dee Schneider falsetto I sing out,
"I WANNA ROCK!"
The entire block falls silent. The Rec Specialist, clearly shaken by my enthusiasm quickly takes a step away from the open bars and stares that stare of surprise people get when a too long caged animal refuses to eat. That innocent stare of shock, as though they are oblivious to this clear departure from sanity.
Realizing my cage door still holds he collects himself and asks further, "So... you want a band slot?"
To which I reply, "That'll do."