Tuesday, February 10th

10:30am. Amazing the stuff these people are able to drag out of you. It really is a learned art. At least in my case. And I don’t think I’m an easy shell to crack. We all get a Councilor upon arrival. Or maybe they get us. Anyway… I’m not sure if we’re matched up in some way, or if it’s just luck of the draw. Did they choose me or did I get thrown in their lap? This is information that I, for one, would find helpful. (I wondered this same thing about my ‘Buddy’ when I first got here. Was I just next on the list, or did somebody honestly think me and Gene might hit it off? Because… I’m not trying to be a dick here, but seriously? That guy needed more help than he was going to find in this place.) Anyway, when it came to handing out Councilors, I got Rich. Rich worked in Radio for a lot of years. This makes me think he was given my case by design. I envision a conference room where someone’s waving my file around and slamming it on the table saying, “Sure, Eischen’s a tough case… He’s not stupid. That much we know. But if anyone can get through to him.. Rich, you can. You speak his language, Rich. Do it, Rich! The World needs him.” But I’m not sure that actually happens. Maybe they just shuffle our files around on the table and eenie meenie minnie mow it. I don’t know. I keep talking about files. I’d like to see mine. In fact I’d like to take it with me when I leave. I mean… I came in here of my own volition. Why shouldn’t I have full access to everything? I’m going to insist on seeing my file tomorrow. Maybe it’s a small decree of Independence, but I’m exercising my right. There is a file to. It’s behind the Nurse’s Station. I’ve seen it referred to often, but almost always from an angle where I can’t see what’s in there. Why is that? Tomorrow I’m going to demand full access. I can’t depend on these people to get it exactly right. Look at the Buddy they stuck me with. 

3:45pm. Earlier, I was talking about my meetings with Rich. That guy’s either my best friend or the worst thing that ever happened to me. I see him every couple of days. It’s not always a planned thing. Sometimes I round a corner, and there he is. Most days we’re all good. A quick hello and we go our separate ways. Other times I must look like I need a good soul wrenching. I can’t give it to you verbatim, and I don’t mean to cheapen the exchange by attempting to do so, but I just ran into him and it went something like this, “I’m good, Rich. Really. I just finally got to use the phone, and I couldn’t get through, so…” His hand is somehow on my shoulder and I don’t even realize we’re walking, until I’m seated in the chair in his office. ”Do you feel like you’ve been trying to get through for a long time now… and nobody’s on the other end…” Shit. I dunno, Rich. Yeah, now I guess I do. He’s good at what he does, and I’m sure he put it much more eliquently than I did. I sure as hell hope so. Otherwise I can hardly justify spending my subsequent lunch hour crying into my chocolate mousse. The food is really good here. Did I already mention that?   

6:00pm. Are you fucking kidding me? I saw my file. There wasn’t much in there that was very interesting. Except maybe THAT RICH WROTE IN THERE THAT I HAVE B.O.!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah. As in B. O. .  I swear to God. And I don’t. Have it. I really don’t. I am hereby giving anyone that knows me, permission to tell the truth if you if you ask them . I don’t. I actually smell pretty good. That’s why it’s ridiculous. And why it sucks so bad.  I know why he wrote it. Oh, I know when he wrote it. I am seriously beside myself right now. (And no, I don’t smell me.) He wrote it after, possibly during the first conversation I had with him. This particular little back and forth, I can repeat exactly as it went down. Because I remember it. Vividly. As if it was not over two weeks ago. Oh my God. I can’t believe this. Toward the end of our chat, Rich asked me how things were going, in general. You know… Was I having any problems? Did I have any complaints about the facility, anything I’d like to change, etc.? I told him I was Golden. I told him that I was having trouble falling asleep at 10 o’ clock everynight… Other than that feelin groovy. And I tossed in (as an afterthought), “I wish I’d brought more than two pairs of shoes. I’m not used to having to wear them for such long days and they’re starting to get stinky.” That’s what I said. ‘…shoes are starting to get stinky.’ Rich wrote down that I have Insomnia and B. O. I swear to God. At first it took me a minute as I pondered what B. O. could stand for. It seriously didn’t even occur to me at first. I was like Buh… Bree… Beehaaavyio… Omygod. Be. Oh. Honestly, I don’t even know what to say right now. I’m numb. Because my file says I’ve got B. O.      

9:15pm. I’m not so much mad that he chose to use it. So he chose to use that little phrase as a reminder from our talk. He could’ve put F. O. He definitely could’ve put F.O. …but whatever. I don’t think he even meant for it to get in there. Rich is my Boy. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me on purpose. It was a handwritten… scribbled on a post it note. The kind of thing you’d barely pay attention to. If, you know… it didn’t tell the World that when they meet you they are going to smell you first. No, I’m mad because he was so careless with it. How do you write that about a person and leave it lying around? And the post it has Complaints scribbled across the top if you were just a person looking through files mine would say, “You haven’t had the pleasure yet, but Mark has B.O. to the point where he actually complains about it, himself.” Nice. It also says I’ve got Insomnia, so apparently it’s bad enough to keep me up at night.  Let me tell you something before I force Rich to write it in there in the morning. On the front. With a Red Sharpie. NO B.O. Not even on my worst day. That file’s going with me, when I leave here, I’ll tell you that much.  don’t care if my Permanent Record shows that I spent a little time in here. I’m not ashamed… But BO?! That’s not happening. That’s the kind of stuff that can keep you from getting a job. Or even an interview.

Tuesday, February 3rd

7:15am. I’m the wake-up guy. Every week we each get a job assigned to us. This week this is mine. It’s an important job. That probably goes without saying. If I am delinquent in my duties, the whole operation comes to a standstill. Correction; If I slack off, the day never even gets started. It’s worth noting that had they given us a personality profile, or even administered the old Junior High “Things you might be good at” test, I would not have been considered a viable candidate for this position. I have trouble coaxing myself out of the rack, let alone anyone else. Yet there I was at 6:05am, a little ray of sunshine, going door to door. Actually, I’ll bet I was a welcome change for most of my peers. The last wake-up guy threw the door open and turned on the light. (He was very lucky that by the time I went to bed every night, I had forgotten my elaborate plans to boobie-trap my door with yarn and a swinging pair of scissors.) Anyway, I take a softer gentler approach; I give a little tap-tappy on the door, open it, and say “Good Morning!” Then I ask if they want the light on. I think it’s appreciated. Granted only half of the guys made it to breakfast yesterday, and about a third missed the first lecture, but I can’t be responsible for what happens after I leave. I’ve got lots of people to get to. Last week I was flag-guy. I loved that job, and I was good at it. Mostly because, due to the three feet of snow around the base of it, the flag stays up all the time. I was pretty much responsible for looking out the window and making sure the flag was still there. It always was. Unfortunately, my watch came and went with no cause to mourn, but had one presented itself, I was ready to take ‘er down to half mast at a moment’s notice. Man, I was a good flag-guy.

3:00pm. So, I guess things are going pretty well. I really feel like I’m ready to get out of here. I’ve been so disconnected from the rest of the World for three weeks, now. I’ve learned a lot… and I’m ready to put those things into practice. I know what I need to do. I’ll never go back to the life I was leading, that much I’m pretty sure of.        

9pm. I’m going to climb out the window. No, I’m not. Yes. I am. Just for a couple of minutes and then I’ll climb right back in. Nobody’s going to be any the wiser. Dammit. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about it. This would be a dangerous mission. The reasons for my insanity… the reasons I’m even considering such a thing, are spread out on the red particleboard desk in front of me. A metal window crank, (also red, but worn almost to a chrome) capable of opening and closing the two long windows in the room. All the windows in this place are of the crank variety. But someone went around and removed all the cranks. To prevent escape, I guess. Seems like such a trivial thing until it’s taken away from you. Have you ever been in someone’s car and they can’t, or won’t, dislodge the kiddie control on your window? Same feeling of frustration, times ten. The window crank, or simply the Crank as it’s known in local lore, has been passed on for generations. It is now in my care. Next we have a half empty box of dryer sheets and one cardboard roll from the toilet paper in the bathroom. Item number four… I’m looking at it right now. Half of a Marlboro Light. A little less, maybe. It’s a Menthol and it’s all bent at the end. I don’t even smoke Menthols, but I’ve had it for three days. 

Monday, January 26th.

6:45am. Boy I woke up in a shitty mood.  Some nights I’ve been sleeping really well here. Last night wasn’t one of them. I’ve been here for 10 days, and sometimes I don’t know if I can make it much longer. It’s not just the no sugar, no caffiene, no salt, no tv, no radio, no freaking newspapers, rules. I got used to those a long time ago. I no longer waste my time on childish pursuits. I’m over things the old me used to enjoy… like talking to girls, or going outside. Things of the past. Okay. I’ll stop there or it’s going to be a long day. Besides, it’s not like I won’t get two dozen other opportunities to share my feelings today. They’re not big on you keeping your feelings to yourself around here. Just try it… see what happens.

9:15am. Western omelette, hash browns and toast for breakfast. Lunch is roast pork, mashed potatoes and stuffing. Man, I’m going to gain a hundred pounds. I had been planning on walking out of here looking fit. A picture of health. Now people are going to wonder if I went to a fat farm. Or when I’m leaving. What can I tell you? When you’re robbed completely of all other vices and food’s all you’ve got… You make the most of it. Did I eat the extra pudding? …DID I EAT THE EXTRA PUDDING?! YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT I DID!!!! God, I think I’m finally losing my mind. The food really is excellent and we have a lot of laughs during meals. It’s one of the few times we get to cut loose a little bit. 

Most of the guys have nicknames. There are currently four Dave’s residing here, so it makes it easier. There’s Mexican Dave, who is actually Peurto Rican. His nickname is Pedro. Preppy Dave used to play on the PGA Tour, and dresses like he’s still out there. Chainsaw Dave was travelling for work once, and got so fed up with a loud neighbor that he got the chainsaw out of his truck and cut a hole in the hotel room wall. Big enough to walk through. I swear to God. And there’s Asshole Dave, because well… he’s an asshole. The other day I mentioned Donnie Osmond and Johnny Guns. Two more nicknames I handed out personally. Donnie’s one of my better friends here. I tried to label him Osmond right off the bat, but he got wind of it and lobbied hard for Donnie Brasco. Can’t blame him, I guess. I still call him Osmond, though. Or just Marie. Johnny Guns got his nickname because, despite being a really good guy, walks around with the sleeves rolled up on his tee shirts. Started out as ‘Gun Show’, turned into Johnny Guns.

The day he got that name, strangely enough, was the same day I found out I already had a nickname, myself. Turns out I’ve had one for some time, actually, and I’m still a little pissed off about that. I’m going to give you this little exchange verbatim, because I still find it a bit confusing. It was the second or third day, and John came walking into lecture ten minutes late. So I said, “You’re late.” And He said, “Yeah, whatever.” Then I said, “Yeah, okay Gun Show!” And everybody laughed. Then Mexican Dave said, “Good one, Shrek!” And everybody laughed again. …Then I turned around and said, “That’s awesome! …Who are we calling Shrek?” And nobody said anything.      For a long time.     Are you kidding me? Shrek?! I”M SHREK??? How do you figure? Let me tell you something, when it comes to nicknames, I’m all set. Got one. It’s Iceman. Has been for years. My last name’s Eischen, so it’s kind of a no-brainer. Eischen… Iceman.

1:45pm. I can’t belie—Are you kidding me? Shrek? I’m Iceman, for the love of… I don’t even know what they’re trying to say. I few brave and well meaning villagers tried to tell me it was meant to be a compliment. Because I’m a big guy… but I’m a sweetheart when you get to know me. Great. Awesome. This sucks. I don’t want to be Shrek. And if you people think I can’t promote my own cool nickname, maybe you’ve never seen the cover (front and back) of my parents’ 1984-1988 Yellow Pages. Yeah. One wouldn’t have to conduct much of a search to figure out whose kitchen they were standing in, I’ll tell you that much. Mine, that’s who. St. Michaels CYO Hoops. JV Red Team. #30 ICEMAN. Those books were covered. Along with the ’chore board’ on the fridge and any other flat surface left lying around. ICEMAAAAAN!   I’m so pissed.

9:30pm. Alright, to be honest with you, Iceman never really took. At any age. I think they called my brother Iceman a little bit, so I let people know they could call me that too if they were so inclined. I told them this often. I don’t know why I couldn’t get people to at least try it… Did I already mention the Eischen–Iceman connection? Seems so obvious. So, maybe I wa thinking this was my last shot. God willing, this is the closest I’m ever getting back to Summer Camp. I had no idea everybody was going to have nicknames. But since they do, I haven’t kept mine a secret either. “…lot of people call me Iceman…” I must’ve let that one slip around the water cooler or the Meds counter a dozen times. Shrek… Whatever. I’ve got to grab a Sharpie and get to work on the Phonebooks. Shrek, my ass… I’m Iceman.