GNO MAN'S LAND
Sometimes I feel like a bug light for psychos. I just seem to attract them for some reason. As I've blogged about before, federal prison is filled with people from all walks of life. But the one thing that we have in common is that we all saw an opportunity where most people saw a boundary. Prison is also filled with egomaniacs with inferiority complexes and people who just don't think straight and who instead of being content in their ignorance, feel the need to rep their stupidity. Psychos. But in spite of this, the one thing that all people share, both normal and psycho alike, is the need to be accepted and recognized. It doesn't matter if you came from The White House or the outhouse, nobody is exempt from this human trait.
This premise can take on extreme facets though when you're dealing with psychopaths. Like the guy who had "Fuck You" tattooed on his cheek and then growled at me, "What are you looking at?" when he caught me staring at him. Or another guy I met one time that bet me five dollars that he had my name tattooed on his ass. I suspiciously eyed him for a minute after he said this and then I said, "You have MY name tattooed on your ass?" He pointed a finger at me and replied, "I'll bet you five tuna fish that I have YOUR NAME tattooed on my ass." I looked at him for another minute and said, "You're on pal." He promptly turned around and pulled down his pants in front of God and everybody and right there tattooed on one of the cheeks of his hairy ass were the words "Your Name." Needless to say, I didn't make any tuna salad that week. Just like newly arrived Prince Georgie already attracts the paparazzi, I seem to attract this brand of felon. But since I'm merely infamous and not famous, I attract the psychorazzi. They follow me around constantly.
But having said all that, I can tell you that there are some nice people back here. Not everybody back here is a psycho with profanity tattooed on their face or my name on their ass. There are some kind souls who were just dealt a bad hand in life and never quite figured out how to play it. People who wouldn't harm a fly, but who are slow or just easily led. One of these people is a guy who sits on my front porch and who because he doesn't know any better, and simply because I'm nice to him and notice him, worships the ground that I walk on. His name is Gnomez.
I first met Gnomez several years ago when I was at USP Coleman down in Florida. He just showed up one day. I walked out of my cell and he was parked in a plastic lawn chair in the 4 sq foot area in front of my cell that I refer to as my front porch. Then he briefly came thru Lewisburg when I was there and upon seeing me for the first time (while in the main corridor of the prison) he dropped what he was carrying and came running and hugged me while he buried his face in my chest. I finally peeled him off of me and told him, "Get a hold of yourself man! This is prison." Now, he's here at Hazelnut and in my cell block looking perfectly back at home on my front porch sitting there in a blue plastic lawn chair.
Gnomez is Mexican and around five feet tall and he has the dimensions of a soccer ball. He's got about three teeth, but he loves to smile and rep them like they're a full set. He cuts his hair himself using a set of battery-operated clippers and it's always short. Sometimes when he's not wearing a collection of one of his fancy hats, I'll walk by and rub his head and tell him, "That feels just like a horse's chin, Gnomez" and he'll laugh and smile...happy just to be noticed. I gave him his nickname because I'm a giver of prison nicknames, and because he reminds me of one of those little gnomes that you put in your front yard or in your garden. Since he reminds me of this, and since he's Mexican, I named him Gnomez. Predictably, he loves his moniker. He talks with a lazy, sing-song Mexican accent and he calls me "Meester Yeff." Strangely enough, he's not the first one to call me this, but that's a whole other story.
Recently, Gnomez somehow got his hands on a big black sombrero and when I get up in the morning and walk out of my house and see him sitting there in it I feel like going to Pamplona or reading a Hemingway novel. Our usual morning dance starts with him saying, "Buenos dias, Meester Yeff" to which I'll say, "What's up, Gnoman. Do you have any coffee?" to which he'll reply, "No, Meester Yeff, I no hab pesos for coffee." This is prison and I don't trust or believe anybody (I'm talking Not. A. Soul.) so I suspect that Gnomez probably has a stash of coffee in his locker larger than Juan Valdez. But I'll still hand him two empty Styrofoam cups and tell him, "Go fetch us some hot water then" and I'll watch him waddle off to get it. I also pay Gnomez pieces of candy to root for my sports teams. I'll pass him with one of my boys as I'm walking into my house and ask him something like, "Who's the greatest sports team on the planet, Gnomez?" He'll pump his chubby little fist in the air and say, "Eees da Bears!" Gnomez is in prison for illegally crossing the border into the United States. The judge gave him five years. Apparently a special condition of this sentence was that he seek me out and sit on my front porch.
Like so much of this ride so far, Gnomez wasn't in the Bank Robber DVD. But I will say that he's not an unpleasant part of the ride. He'll never cure cancer, be a CEO, or lead troops in battle, but then again neither will I. I do my best to be nice to him because even though I may be a bug light for psychos and have a history of criminal behavior, I don't have a history of abusing my gnomes. Eees juss not Meester Yeff's style.
Sometimes I feel like a bug light for psychos. I just seem to attract them for some reason. As I've blogged about before, federal prison is filled with people from all walks of life. But the one thing that we have in common is that we all saw an opportunity where most people saw a boundary. Prison is also filled with egomaniacs with inferiority complexes and people who just don't think straight and who instead of being content in their ignorance, feel the need to rep their stupidity. Psychos. But in spite of this, the one thing that all people share, both normal and psycho alike, is the need to be accepted and recognized. It doesn't matter if you came from The White House or the outhouse, nobody is exempt from this human trait.
This premise can take on extreme facets though when you're dealing with psychopaths. Like the guy who had "Fuck You" tattooed on his cheek and then growled at me, "What are you looking at?" when he caught me staring at him. Or another guy I met one time that bet me five dollars that he had my name tattooed on his ass. I suspiciously eyed him for a minute after he said this and then I said, "You have MY name tattooed on your ass?" He pointed a finger at me and replied, "I'll bet you five tuna fish that I have YOUR NAME tattooed on my ass." I looked at him for another minute and said, "You're on pal." He promptly turned around and pulled down his pants in front of God and everybody and right there tattooed on one of the cheeks of his hairy ass were the words "Your Name." Needless to say, I didn't make any tuna salad that week. Just like newly arrived Prince Georgie already attracts the paparazzi, I seem to attract this brand of felon. But since I'm merely infamous and not famous, I attract the psychorazzi. They follow me around constantly.
But having said all that, I can tell you that there are some nice people back here. Not everybody back here is a psycho with profanity tattooed on their face or my name on their ass. There are some kind souls who were just dealt a bad hand in life and never quite figured out how to play it. People who wouldn't harm a fly, but who are slow or just easily led. One of these people is a guy who sits on my front porch and who because he doesn't know any better, and simply because I'm nice to him and notice him, worships the ground that I walk on. His name is Gnomez.
I first met Gnomez several years ago when I was at USP Coleman down in Florida. He just showed up one day. I walked out of my cell and he was parked in a plastic lawn chair in the 4 sq foot area in front of my cell that I refer to as my front porch. Then he briefly came thru Lewisburg when I was there and upon seeing me for the first time (while in the main corridor of the prison) he dropped what he was carrying and came running and hugged me while he buried his face in my chest. I finally peeled him off of me and told him, "Get a hold of yourself man! This is prison." Now, he's here at Hazelnut and in my cell block looking perfectly back at home on my front porch sitting there in a blue plastic lawn chair.
Gnomez is Mexican and around five feet tall and he has the dimensions of a soccer ball. He's got about three teeth, but he loves to smile and rep them like they're a full set. He cuts his hair himself using a set of battery-operated clippers and it's always short. Sometimes when he's not wearing a collection of one of his fancy hats, I'll walk by and rub his head and tell him, "That feels just like a horse's chin, Gnomez" and he'll laugh and smile...happy just to be noticed. I gave him his nickname because I'm a giver of prison nicknames, and because he reminds me of one of those little gnomes that you put in your front yard or in your garden. Since he reminds me of this, and since he's Mexican, I named him Gnomez. Predictably, he loves his moniker. He talks with a lazy, sing-song Mexican accent and he calls me "Meester Yeff." Strangely enough, he's not the first one to call me this, but that's a whole other story.
Recently, Gnomez somehow got his hands on a big black sombrero and when I get up in the morning and walk out of my house and see him sitting there in it I feel like going to Pamplona or reading a Hemingway novel. Our usual morning dance starts with him saying, "Buenos dias, Meester Yeff" to which I'll say, "What's up, Gnoman. Do you have any coffee?" to which he'll reply, "No, Meester Yeff, I no hab pesos for coffee." This is prison and I don't trust or believe anybody (I'm talking Not. A. Soul.) so I suspect that Gnomez probably has a stash of coffee in his locker larger than Juan Valdez. But I'll still hand him two empty Styrofoam cups and tell him, "Go fetch us some hot water then" and I'll watch him waddle off to get it. I also pay Gnomez pieces of candy to root for my sports teams. I'll pass him with one of my boys as I'm walking into my house and ask him something like, "Who's the greatest sports team on the planet, Gnomez?" He'll pump his chubby little fist in the air and say, "Eees da Bears!" Gnomez is in prison for illegally crossing the border into the United States. The judge gave him five years. Apparently a special condition of this sentence was that he seek me out and sit on my front porch.
Like so much of this ride so far, Gnomez wasn't in the Bank Robber DVD. But I will say that he's not an unpleasant part of the ride. He'll never cure cancer, be a CEO, or lead troops in battle, but then again neither will I. I do my best to be nice to him because even though I may be a bug light for psychos and have a history of criminal behavior, I don't have a history of abusing my gnomes. Eees juss not Meester Yeff's style.