“I just got out of
prison an hour ago.”
My hyper-social compulsion to talk to anybody within earshot
had just brought me face to face with the first person I’d ever met who had been
anywhere near a prison, let alone an actual inmate of one.
He didn't approach me.
He was already sitting on the bench before I sat next to him. In fact, he had moved his orange mesh bag
aside so I would have more room. I was the one who started talking to him.
One of those bomb-sniffing beagles with the “do not pet” signs
on its side had just walked in front of me, and I had felt the urge to tell
someone how frustrated I felt about not being able to pet it. So I turned to my left and said, “The sign
says ‘do not pet’, but dang, I really want to pet that dog, you know what I
mean?”
 |
| "It says, 'do not pet', but dang I really want to pet that dog." |
He nodded and kept looking down. After a few seconds, he said, “Do I need to
put my bag on one of those?” and he pointed to one of the baggage handlers with
the wheeled carts. I looked at his
orange mesh bag and could see just a few things in it, like a toothbrush and
some soap. I said, “No. You just carry it with you. There’s a big rack above your seat where you
can put it. “
Then he said, “I've never taken a train before. “ I said, “Oh really?” That’s when he said, “I just got out of
prison an hour ago.”
I was stunned. What
are you supposed to say to that? Before
I could stop my mouth, I blurted out, “Um.
Er. Well. Welcome back!”
Then my compulsion to fill awkward silences with chatter kicked
in, and I said, “Where’s your family?” as I glanced around the Philadelphia
train station for an African American mother, father, wife or kids.
“I don’t have any family” he said as he kept his head down
looking at his papers.
I felt like shit after that.
Me and my big mouth! But then he
handed me his papers and said, “Can you tell me if I’m in the right place to
catch my train?”
There it was. An
actual MUG SHOT of him printed on the second page. Wow. I
was sitting there looking at the mug shot of the guy sitting right next to
me. It was surreal. It looked like some kind of release paperwork
with a train schedule.
“You’re on the same train as me to D.C., so yeah, you’re in
the right place.”
Then he took some money out of his pocket, and said, “I
thought this money was dirty.” I said, “Dirty?” He said, “I thought it was dirty when I
looked at it.” Suddenly, I realized that
he hadn't seen any money since they started putting colors in the $5, $10 and
$20 bills. To him, they looked dirty. Sure enough, that $10 bill looks kind of yellowy-dirty.
Then he said, “I think I’m gonna go buy me something
to eat.” I offered him half of my
Philly cheese steak, but he really wanted to buy something. I said, “I’ll watch your bag if you
want. The food court is over there.”
After 5 minutes, he came back with nothing. “Did you decide you weren't hungry?” “No,” he said, “I couldn't decide.”
Then it dawned on me.
This guy must be on sensory overload kind of like I was when I came home
from Iraq. No, I wasn't in the
military. Between March 2004 and September
2005, I worked as a private contractor for 14 hours a day, 8 weeks at a time in locked-down camps in
various locations across Iraq from the Green Zone and a Power Plant in Baghdad
to the Basra Airport compound. My
meals were cooked for me, my laundry was done for me, my room was cleaned for
me and my movements were highly restricted.
When I got back to the U.S., it
was hard to re-adjust to making normal day to day decisions like what I was going
to eat or which toothpaste I was going to buy at the grocery store.
 |
| Me in the back of a C-130 cargo plane headed to Baghdad in 2005. |
Then he looked at his money and said, “I thought this money
was dirty.” He said it two more times
before it was time to board the train.
Yep. Sensory
overload.
“Where are you from?”
I asked.
“Milwaukee.”
“Oh really? I’m
supposed to be in Milwaukee for a conference in 2 months. What’s Milwaukee like?”
“It’s allright.”
Then it was time to board the train.
“Who do I give my ticket to?” he asked.
I said, “It’s kind of weird.
You have to show it to someone at the entrance to the platform, and then they don’t actually
take it from you until the train has already left. Somebody will come down through the train car
and collect it.
He stared down at the papers and said, “Who do I give my
ticket to?”
“Just follow me,” I said, “and do what I do” as he followed
me down the steps to the platform.
To be continued...
