It was in the brisk November of 2011 when I lost her again to Johnny Law. This was six months after her daring side-of-the-highway, tilling-the-fields-with-a-pickaxe escape in rural Kansas (is there any other type of Kansas?), and almost a full year since she first became known as inmate #78725439429 in the correctional system.
We had a darling little relationship before then, inmate #78725439429 and me. We lived high on the hog in the Hog Butcher to the World, as Carl Sandberg so romantically put it. It was a different time back then – we were still innocent youths, unfamiliar with prison visiting hours and making weapons out of contraband Oral B toothbrushes. As Archie Bunker sang, those were the days.
Until that fateful evening when the long arm of the law reached across the Mississippi, up through the backwaters of Missouri, stopped off for a quick visit in the Illinois state capital to see Lincoln’s boots, and then continued on north, unfazed by boredom, corn fields, or fireworks advertizing. It plunged its meaty claw into the seedy underbelly of the great city, finally scratching its way to our doorstep – more a barnacle on the underbelly than any sort of pustule or abscess. She was summarily plucked away – guilty as the pecan be crunchy, mind you – and spirited back to America’s heartland. I was left bereft of my convict main squeeze. Continue reading