ONE YEAR FROM TODAY
by Caleb Slabbert
"For the record, please state your name, date of birth, and time served in Morton Penitentiary."
"Eamon, Eamon McMurrin. Born June tenth, 1961 in San Diego, California. Nine years, I've served nine years."
Nine years, my ass. It's been 2833 days. The only people who measure in years are the people who don't appreciate every moment they have. The very same people who take their freedom for granted. Days, days are God's units, the time you're given to walk, to breathe, to look at the sky, the time you're given to be alive. No, it hasn't been nine years. It's been 2833 days, and every single one of them I've spent rotting in this shithole.
"Am I correct in assuming that this is your first evaluation before the board, Mr. McMurrin?"
"Yeah, that's right."
Assuming this is my first? Who does this asshole think he is, assuming anything about me? You think we're all the same, don't you? When you look into our cage you see a group of a hundred men, all in blue-striped, uniform. We're nothing more than a fucking state-funded zoo, right? To you, we only exist from nine to five. You're paid to wake up, come watch the freak show, and drive home each night in time for dinner. Well, I can make assumptions about you too. I know that every day you watch the same shows on TV. I know that every day you do a crossword puzzle, always the New York Times. You're no different than any inmate here; a slave to routine.
"Initially, I'm inclined to tell you that very rarely will an convict receive autonomy after his or her first hearing before the prison board. Yet, looking at your file I see you've a rather impressive work ethic. Within your first month at Morton you volunteered to help with the community waste management program, hardly popular with the inmates. You've also spent numerous hours in the kitchen, as well as taking the initiative in starting Morton's own inmate-run garden—the very first in the state. You've certainly demonstrated ambition, if nothing else. Do you consider yourself a determined man, Eamon?"
Ohhhh I get it, just 'cause you give me a few compliments and pat me on the back, you think we're on a first name basis now, huh? Go to hell, I don't need your pity.
"No more determined than any other man, I suppose. No one wants to be in jail. Some people just don't have the will to try and get out. Over the years I've tried to seize any opportunity to get out a little bit sooner. I guess you'll have to tell me if it's meant anything."
C'mon, Eamon, you can do better than that. Seize any opportunity? I sounded like a freakin' boy scout. These monkeys don't want a suck-up. They want a drone, a product of the prison reformation process.
"I'm afraid it's not as simple as you think. Early release isn't a reward granted by the prison board for good behavior. It's the final stage in the amendment of the criminal mind. Hypothetically, when we release, and I say we, because it's not up only to us, but to you, there's still the matter of reintroducing the ex-convict into society. We, of course, then take those reformed individuals and set them up with a menial job—usually something involving manual labor. You see, many criminals grow accustomed to the methodical lifestyle that Morton provides, and that's the idea. Where there was once a character governed by chaotic mentality, there now stands one that thrives on routine. Do you follow, Eamon?"
Is this guy shitting me? The 'methodical lifestyle that Morton provides'. Where do these monkeys come up with this stuff? There's nothing assuring about sitting in a eight by ten cell all your life.
"Yes, sir, I understand there's a system."
"Not a system, Mr. McMurrin, a process. A system, now that's for factories and lab-rats. We are certainly not a factory. What's unique about Morton is its emphasis on the individual, Mr. McMurrin. Whereas other institutions reform through isolation, we take an inmate and encourage personal growth."
"I can't say I've grown here at Morton. Changed seems more appropriate."
"We'd like to think you've both changed and grown, Mr. McMurrin. A person can't change without growing, no more than a caterpillar can fly before making a cocoon. If you can't see that, then you have a long way to go before leaving us."
Well, I'm never going to see anything unless I get the hell out of this place. At least I still judge a man by his soul, not the amount of hours he spends peeling potatoes or trimming some bush. It's your lack of integrity that makes me better than you.
"I understand. I only weight change more heavily to distance myself from the man I was, the Eamon McMurrin that came to Morton nine years ago. Ask any man you've released what changed them the most, and they'll all say the same thing. It's the silence, you see. Not the absence of noise. No, not that silence. It's the psychological silence that comes when a man is completely dissociated from the rest of the world. I've had my share of reflecting on what I've done, that's the second thing you do in prison. First, you're angry. You're pissed off at everyone, most of all yourself. Then, you start tothink, 'Hey, maybe I can fix this, maybe there's something I can do.' That's where the transformation starts, the end of the old Eamon and the beginning of the new one. So, you ask me if I've grown? Yeah sure, I have, but it's not the man that came here nine years ago that's grown, it's the new one."
Yeah, that's it. They'll eat that shit up.
"That's an interesting perspective you have there, Mr. McMurrin. We understand it takes a level of personal experience before one can truly empathize with an inmate. But unfortunately for you, the state has made it quite illegal for any ex-convicts to serve on the prison board. So, as with any case, the best we can do is merely attempt to evaluate you."
'Truly empathize with an inmate', what a load of crap. Out of all the people, the state gives you the power to fuck me over. You, the wardens, the administrators, the fools. You are a myopic people. A people who see the scum in this place and nothing else. It's impossible for one man to shine when you won't give him a chance.
"And just how am I evaluated?"
"Before being assimilated into the outside community, inmates must satisfactorily meet two standards. First, they must be deemed non-threatening both to others and themselves. And secondly, we, the prison board must be convinced that the inmate will contribute, not merely subsist in society. And so Eamon, we must ask, what do you intend to do if released?"
This is it, the climax. This is the reason they sit two feet higher than I do. This is the reason they stare down at me. This is when they stop shuffling papers and tapping pencils. This is when they let the sound of intimidation seep into my ears. The one question I knew they'd ask and I don't even know the answer. I'll never know the answer, I never did.
"I suppose I'd take that job you give me, find a small apartment and enjoy being normal."
"Don't you think you're normal here, Mr. McMurrin?"
"No, no this isn't normal, not for me at least. To be normal is to be alive, and right now, I'm suffocating. I want to be outside. I want to be doing something, anything. I've wasted too much time not living. Not just in here, but before as well. I suspect I've never really been alive, but I don't think many people are. It's a luxury to be normal, one that most people will never achieve because they're too self-indulgent to appreciate life. Don't confuse normal with average, though. Average is a label people affix to their own lives to make them feel better about not accomplishing anything. I'm not average, not anymore.
You are all average.
"Your thirst for activity is admirable, Eamon. However, I'm curious as to how you plan to occupy yourself. You claim your appreciation of life has been reinvigorated, yet your grounds for comparison are not only nine years old, but as you said, from an entirely different Eamon McMurrin. If we approved your early release, you should let yourself adjust to society. Like you, the outside world is a different place than it was nine years ago. Perhaps you'd find a simple life sufficient. Remember, you've been living in a routine for a decade now. What was once mundane and ordinary may now fascinate you."
You think you get it. You think you understand what it's like, don't you? You don't know who I am now. You can look at me, you can probe me, you can even deny my early release, but you'll never, ever break me.
"It's the simple life that I would avoid. But not the simple life in your terms. To you, the criminal lifestyle is fueled by materialism, hatred and fear. But it's not, it's even simpler than that, and it took me nine years to get it. The Eamon I was, the way every delinquent, felon and crook is, it all comes from a complete lack of respect for existence. To respect life is to use it, and that's exactly what I expect to do."
You will never respect life.
"Your line of thought is original to this board, Mr. McMurrin. As an inmate, your compassion is unparalleled in Morton Penitentiary. I imagine with time and energy, you would adapt to the outside environment. But, despite your enthusiasm, I'm still not convinced of your emotional stability. I'd like to give you an opportunity to connect with some rehabilitated members of the Morton community. I think talking to some people like yourself might set you in the right direction. I'm going to defer your early release, Mr. McMurrin. You may appeal for another examination before the Morton Penitentiary Board one year from today."
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