Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org &
Knatz.com / Personal / Stories / Others’ /
@ K. 2008 07 26
On my release from jail I had all I could do to get home, struggling under a very heavy and awkward duffel bag. Back in Sebring I parked the bag at a printing shop, begging a favor from the descendant of a colleague, and walked home: six or so miles around the lake. I knew I had 72 hours to contact my parole officer. I phoned him the next day. He told me that I had had 72 hours to report to him in person: at his desk in Fort Pierce.
There was no train or bus from Sebring to Fort Pierce. There had been no train of bus to Fort Pierce from West Palm Beach, where I’d been shoved out onto the street. Well, I’d been told in jail that 90% of paroles get violated and the parolees rejailed. I wasn’t going to be out for much longer than 72 hours. (I’ve since been assured, by that parole officer, that the stat I’d heard was hooie: most paroles work out just fine.)
But my landlord had an idea. My neighbor, Ruthie, drove to Fort Pierce every day. If she wouldn’t take me there the next morning, he would!
God bless Dan Littlefield.
But Ruthie did take me. And she picked me back up at the end of her day as a nursing student in Fort Pierce and brought me back home, chauffeuring me the more generously as she let me shop for groceries en route.
I’d seen Ruthie walking back and forth to the laundry room, but I’d never spoken to her until Dan told me that she’d agreed to drive me and I went to introduce myself, thank her, and make specific arrangements for the morning. So, then I had the drive time, to and from, ninety or one hundred miles each way, to get slightly, every so slightly, acquainted.
By the time we were almost home she was beginning to confide things to me. I told her that I wanted to repeat one of those confidences on line in my Stories About Others section. Real quick: I’ll improve the telling at a later date if I can find time:
First, you must know that Ruthie had told me that if I had seen a Rasta man visiting her apartment, hanging around (I hadn’t), that was her husband: her exhusband. So know also: Ruthie is an island girl: a very very very fat island girl. Very nice, and probably far from stupid, but apparently a sucker for this no-good (I am assured from all sides) Rasta man.
Now: one time Rasta man had been beating on Ruthie, abusing her, I don’t know, I wasn’t there, she didn’t give details: but this one: she had him arrested. And here’s the whole of the story:
|She then hired his lawyer for him!|
Ruthie is a sweet heart. Thank you forever, Ruthie, for giving me that ride that kept me from going back to jail. But Ruthie is a softie as well as a sweetie. And she’s soft for that Rasta man husband.
(Now that he, a musician, has other women pregnant, what’s she gonna do for them?)
I have other Rasta-man stories to tell: from jail. I loved a couple of those guys.
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