Same Day Every Day

Wake up call here is 6:30, but I am always wide awake by then, usually for two or three hours. I retire, as required, every night at nine o’clock when the lights go down. Not that it actually gets dark, mind you. I can see my surroundings clearly enough no matter what time of day it is. It usually takes me a couple of hours to fall asleep. I have to wait until fatigue finally overcomes the onslaught of depressing thoughts that come rushing to my mind, a cacophony of regret and frightening images.

When the morning bell rings, I try to lie still, eyes closed, pretending that when I open them, I will be home. Some mornings if it’s summertime, I imagine I’m on vacation, spending a week at a luxury resort. Inevitably, I peek if only to confirm that I am still in the same tiny, gray-walled space. As of this morning, I’ve been incarcerated for the last 1,825 days. Five years of my life are gone. I’m still a relatively young man, only 48. I have another ten years to serve, though, and assuming I get out then, (big assumption) I won’t be young anymore.

Let me say that I wish with all my heart that I could have that day back. I shot a man I never met before in a fit of rage over a mall parking space. He threatened to yank me out of my car and “slap some sense into me,” if I didn’t back out of the space he said he was waiting for. I am not a big man. He was.

Very calmly, I pulled my gun out of my shoulder holster and told him to back off. He took a step back, his face still angry. I got out of my car. As I turned my back on him he gave me a light shove. He called me a jerk and a few other unprintable names. I turned back toward him, pulling my weapon out of the holster again. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something in his hand. It was big and shiny. In the concealed weapon carry permit class I took, the instructor said, “Don’t pull your gun out unless you plan to use it.” I shot him. As he fell, I could now clearly see the cell phone drop from his hand. Later someone said the man was about to call the cops. We’ll never know.

I stood my ground. I felt sure I had been sufficiently provoked and threatened to justify defending myself. When the cops got there I handed over my weapon immediately and explained. There were a few witnesses being interviewed by the other officer. One of them caught my eye and pointed his finger at me. “You’re a murderer.”

Others were nodding their heads in agreement. I was shocked. At first, I was determined to go to trial, unable to admit that I simply lost control of myself. My attorney was patient. He finally got through to me a week before the trial was scheduled to start. The district attorney was willing to offer a plea bargain, fifteen to life. My wife, who witnessed the incident, urged me to accept the deal.

And so I sit in the penitentiary, every day the same as the day before. I spent my first year in prison reading the Bible and praying. I worked in the kitchen and spoke only when it was absolutely necessary.

Bible reading and prayer help the spirit, but don’t shorten the interminably long days and nights. I took some courses. Eventually, I found a few guys like me, men who had one excruciatingly bad moment that cost them their freedom. We commiserate some, but shared misery is not a balm for what ails us.     

I throw back my thin blanket and stand. It’s Sunday. I can go to church service after I eat a bland breakfast in my cell. I haven’t decided on that yet. I get to walk today too, in a small circle, alone (my choice) between high narrow dirty brick walls with a wire mesh fence overhead so I can see the sky and breathe fresh air.

When murderers are about to be sentenced, hoping for leniency, they are known to say, “If I could trade places with the deceased, I would gladly do so.” After they spend enough time in jail to grasp how long and lonely life is, they mean it.