Miranda POV
I threw my thick down winter coat onto the chair and flopped face down onto my bed. I didn't even bother to take my boots off, which will be to my demise later when I have to walk through the wetness of the melted snow on my carpet, but I just couldn't deal with the world for even one more minute. Of course, I’m never truly alone and my dog jumps up behind me to prove my point. She is eager to see me after a long day at work and starts to lick my neck and face with her coarse, wet tongue, and as gross as it actually is, I still find it comforting. It's not her fault I'm in such a crabby mood, and all she wants is to be let outside for a good run and to empty her bladder. It only takes about two more minutes of licking (and whining) before I can't stand the guilt, so I get up and take her outside, not bothering to put my coat back on this time.
The wind is absolutely freezing and you’d think I’d expect the sudden chill to my core, afterall, I do live in Alaska; but, it never seems to amaze me how cold the world can actually get. Huh. I guess that's true in more ways than just weather. We’ve gotten at least two feet of snow over the last week and while even a quarter of this amount of snow would shut down any other city in the nation, we are not so fortunate. It literally takes an act of God for any business or school to call a ‘snow day’ and trust me, we have plenty of acts of God to choose from. Just last year, we had to experience category 4 hurricane strength winds, before the stores finally figured it might be worth it to board up the windows and call it a day. The year before that, a major earthquake destroyed the highways and sinkholes buried houses around Wasilla, the suburb where I live.
A big black tail repeatedly smacks the back of legs. “Hey Beebs, did you miss me? Only one more day until the weekend.” Great, now I’m talking to a dog. Well, if you saw her you wouldn't blame me. Black lab mixed with some husky made the perfect combination for a loyal, smart, stubborn and super-cute best friend.
As I walk back in the house, I hear a familiar ring tone blaring from my phone. Amanda. She set her ringtone to the tune of Queen’s “We are the Champions” after our last game night at her brothers house, where we whooped everyone in both scattergories and charades. “Hey girl. What's up?”
Amanda’s been my bestie for about six years now. We met at a managerial training conference in Anchorage (a long, boring conference). During the afternoon training session, I saw Amanda hiding in the convention hall lounge, sipping on a whiskey sour. Her eyes grew wide when she recognized I was also from the conference, until she realized I, too, was hiding in the lounge. Ten whiskey sours later, we declared our bestie status and it hasn’t faltered since. We’re probably more opposites than any other set of besties but I know she always has my back no matter what, and that is my definition of friendship.
“Just making sure you're not going to bail on us tomorrow night.” Shoot! I totally forgot I’m suppose to meet her and a few of the other girls from our art class for a wine and paint night. I hate those things-everyone painting the same damn thing, Why on earth would I want the same exact painting as everyone in my class. It’s not like I even want a painting of a dolphin hanging in my living room. Quick! Think of an excuse…”Umm….”
“Don’t start with that, Miranda. You’ve dipped out the last two months and you promised me this time! I cant sit alone while those snooty bitches talk about their latest manicure and cleaning hacks. If I hear one more ‘just add baking soda’ I think I’ll punch one of them in the nose. And, seriously, I dont know whats going on with you but you do this every Christmas. You need to snap out of it. Maybe after painting, we can check out the club and get you some dick. Maybe a couple of knocks into a headboard will clear that overactive brain of yours,” she laughs. Leave it to Amanda to pitch random sex with a stranger as a solution to my mood. But then again, that is her solution for nearly everything.
“Easy for you to say.” I tell her. Amanda never fails to get male attention when we go out together with her long legs and bleach blond hair. While, I’ve got more of the girl next door look going on, Amanda looks more like she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her hair is always perfectly curled, while my chestnut locks are usually pulled up on top of my head into a messy bun. While she’s thin and stands five foot nine, I’m much shorter at five foot five with a more athletic build-my legs can only be described as thick and muscular. I figure that’s due to summers filled with hiking and well, anything else I can do outdoors. In the summer. Can I emphasize that? Summer! I’ll pass on the blizzard currently happening in my yard.
……….
The wine and paint night is over and I successfully avoided going to the club with Amanda. It wasn’t so bad, after all, and I’m happy to report we didn't have to paint a dolphin. It was a pumpkin. Which is a hell of a lot better, but still a room full of pumpkins that pretty much all look the same is not exactly what I’m going for when I think of art. Or when I think of living room decor. I guess the class instructors were going with the fall theme since next week is Thanksgiving.
Since I was surrounded by pumpkins all night, it reminded me to call my mother to see what our plans are for the holidays this year. Personally, if I could skip them all together I would. The materialism of the holidays has done nothing but increasingly depress me over the last several years. Every year it gets worse and worse. I guess it's fine for the Santa Claus’ in our community, the ones who thrive on giving once a year so they can brag to their friends about their generosity. I mean, at least they're giving back, even if it's once a year. For the financially oppressed, like the families I used to work with, the holidays are nothing but a shame and guilt riddled hellscape that causes depression. The more closely I look at it, the more I can see that it's nothing but an intentional societal failing. Damn! I’m more of a grinch than I thought I was.
“Hey, mama. I was just calling to see about the holiday plans,” I inquire.
“Oh, Miranda! I was wondering when you’d call. Your brother said you're in your usual holiday funk.”
“I’m just choosing to ignore the social programming.”
“Okay, if that’s what you say. Should I assume you don't want any pies then?”
“Umm. No, I definitely want the pies.” My mom makes the best pies. Everything from scratch. Blueberry is my favorite as she uses blueberries I pick near Denali National Park each year. It may take two hours and a strained back to get a single gallon of berries, but they are always worth the hassle.
“That’s what I thought.” Why is it that talking to my mother always makes me feel better, even when we are only talking about pies and dinner dates. I guess that is what mothers do, provide us with a safe feeling even when we don't know what we are fearing.
Laying on my bed, the fluffy, white comforter covering my bare legs, I scroll through social media. I rarely take time out of my day to look on these sites, however, tonight I feel like I am deserving of a mindless treat and begin with watching the latest dance trends and lip syncs. I move on to snooping through the pictures of past friends and see who has succumbed to the rapid ingestion of consumerism. Once I am satisfied and have convinced myself that there is no hope for humankind, I go to close the app, but pause when I see something that catches my eye, a post from a girl I haven't seen in years.
“Human connection is the gift. Can anyone take a few moments this Christmas to remind my cousin in prison he is not forgotten.” Intrigued, I click the link….
Joel POV “Johnson, you got mail.” I hear the CO (correction officer) say as he shoves an envelope through my cell bars. The envelope hits the concrete floor face up and I turn my head on my pillow enough to notice what appears to be female hand writing on a standard white envelope. “I’m surprised anyone gives a shit about the likes of you.” He’s such a dick. Why can't he just keep his fucking mouth shut. If I was anywhere else, I’d shut it for him. I glance back at the letter. Who the fuck would be writing me? My cellie grabs it off the floor before I can get to it. “From Miranda Harris. Joel, you have a woman or what?” I wish. But, I’ve never even heard of this person. “Shut-up, Shotgun.” Yeah, we call my cellie, Shotgun. Apparently, he got the nickname because he shot his father and two of his uncles, all in the head with a shotgun when he was nineteen, but no one really knows for sure why he did it. We get along pretty good since we both got sentenced young and have b
Joel POV Shotgun moved over to sit on my bed and I draped a blanket like a curtain from the top bunk. I then stretched a sheet across the front of the cell, blocking most of the view from the cell door window in case a female CO walked by. I stripped off my clothes, soaped up my washcloth, and started to wash off starting with my upper body. My arms and chest were sore from today's work out and the veins in my forearms protruded as I glided over them with the washcloth. At least that is one benefit to this life, years of prison workouts have resulted in my body being covered in thick muscles, matching my height of six foot two. I am no longer the scrawny, uncoordinated adolescent I was when I was first sentenced to this hell hole. I also have a shit ton of tattoos and while some are truly exquisite works done by some amazing artists I've met along the way, others are just scrawls with prison ink completed out of boredom or as a favor for other inmates to practice on blank skin.
Miranda POV “What are you doing here? I thought you had the week off, “ I tell my boss, Nancy, as she walks into my office. I was really looking forward to having a week without anyone bothering me. I can get so much more done without the constant distraction of small talk and meetings that take forever when a simple conversation would suffice. It's just like the coffee mug Amanda got me last year for Christmas says, “This meeting could have been an email.” Nancy is in her late forties and she's the type of woman who is fighting aging hard. She has her hair dyed an entirely too blonde color that doesn't match her features, and is always talking about which facial creams are reducing her wrinkles by adding collagen or Retin A or whatever new wonder chemical removes crows feet. Last year she swore by a cream that boasted they used human sperm in their secret anti-aging solution. Damn, Nancy, if you want sperm on your face I can think of a few easier ways to achieve that without
Miranda POV My mind keeps wandering back to the letter I received even after I completed my nightly routine of taking care of my dog’s needs and chatting up Amanda so she doesnt run off and do something crazy, like call over some stranger she met on social media. Ever since her break up with her long term boyfriend, David, she has started meeting men through different social media apps and even some dating or hook-up apps. It doesn't really bother me. I mean, to each is his own and her sexual business is just that-her business. I’m a strong believer that no one should be shamed for who they are attracted to and/or if they have any kinks or fetishes as long as everyone involved is a consenting adult. As long as it does not include any vulnerable populations or animals, then their preferences are their own to manage. I've got enough of my own life to manage, to worry about judging others. The only worry I have about Amanda is that sometimes her actions seem unsafe. Just last week
Joel POV “You dicks ready to get out of lockdown?” the CO barks as he walks by finishing count. “Really?” Shotgun asks hopefully. Me, I never get too hopeful. When it comes to the COs in my pod, I’ll believe it when I see it. I’ve been disappointed more than once and have learned the hard way not to be too optimistic when it comes to promises from the ones in charge around here. Once the CO has passed, I flop back onto the bottom bunk and turn on a television show. Not so much for me, but Shotgun doesn't have a television and I know he will want to kill some time watching something before they hopefully let us out for breakfast. The entire prison is sectioned into pods that hold around eighty men. There are two floors of cells that circle an open area in the center. On the bottom floor, the center circle holds two phones, two televisions, and two kiosks where we can plug in a tablet and download games, music, and emails from a secure email site. The showers are also on the botto
It almost feels like freedom, to be out of lockdown, to be walking around again, even if it's just in our own pod and around campus. It's dinner time now, Shotgun and I are standing in line for chow, talking while waiting for the doors to the cafeteria to open, when the COs escort in a large-built, light skinned cat. We both recognized him from other pods as it's pretty common to be moved around a lot. He goes by the name of Richmond. Shotgun and I both look at each other knowingly. The word is they moved him because someone in his pod set up his younger cousin, but we’re pretty sure the narc he’s looking for is in fact, in our pod. We know something is about to go down by the way he’s carrying himself and looking around. Richmond carries his property into the cell that is empty, continuing to look around. Shotgun and I shift ever so slightly to keep whatever is about to happen in front of us. We know he is part of a group of friends, or what the COs refer to as a ‘gang’ and a hand
Miranda POV I’m happy to report I was able to make it through Thanksgiving without being further traumatized by scarecrows or anything with the words pumpkin-spiced attached. Thanksgiving turned out to be a nice lunch with my mom, step-dad, and brother. It was practically painless and really, who can complain when my mother’s blueberry pie is involved. I just got off work and ran to the grocery store and of course I am assaulted by the holiday regalia the second I walk through the sliding doors. I maneuver as fast as I can around a gray haired man wearing scraggly jeans, ringing a bell over his empty money bucket for a corporation that claims to be religious and non-profit, but I know better. They make the public believe they use the donated money to help poor children and recovering alcoholics when what they really use it for is to pay their executives fat Christmas bonuses. Shame on them pretending to be santa. ‘They should rename their whole corporation Satan's-Army’ I think
Miranda POV Its true, I do feel comfortable writing to Joel; more so than I have ever felt with anyone else in person or via mail or rather email since I haven't actually written a hand letter since I was in second grade and Mrs. Sendrick wanted us to learn about the history of the United States Postal Service. I should be thankful to her now that I have the skills to properly write and letter and address an envelope, but I can't forget how she mocked me, calling me “poor baby Miranda who lost her new crayons.” Those crayons were the one thing I wanted for Christmas back then and she laughed when they went missing. I’m pretty sure mean Bobby White stole them as he had the whole sixty-four color pack mysteriously show up in his desk the next day and I seriously doubt that his parents bought him those crayons when he never even had a lunch. Even after he stole my crayons and called me “poor baby Miranda” for the entire year, I still snuck granola bars into his desk when he wasn't loo