morning. He thinks we may be able reach a compromise.” And I knew exactly what that compromise would be. I’d be transferred out of Alcatraz and into a penitentiary tailor-made for delinquents, which was relatively agreeable, since these institutions typically had shorter days. But what if I was mistaken? What if I did end up in juvenile hall? Five minutes into the meeting I turned on the waterworks, hoping it would hit a soft spot, which it did. After an hour-long lecture, they handed down a comparatively lenient sentence – one year of probation and a ten-month stretch at Meanwell, a year-round probation school located in another city. That’s right, no summer vacation for me. The Dean wrapped up the festivities by shaking a contract in front of my face and stating sternly, “If you do not abide by the conditions stated in this agreement, you will be sent to juvenile hall!” Knowing damn well that I’d dodged a major bullet, I snatched the paperwork from his hands, and signed it immediately, before they changed their minds. Then I emptied out my locker, and bid Alcatraz adieu forever. I was scheduled to start at the new place
on Monday, and was dreading the three bus commute, which meant I’d have to get up an hour earlier, but I certainly wasn’t going to complain, as it beat the alternative. Before setting foot on the campus itself, I knew that Meanwell was the school for me, and the faculty’s blindness was the icing on the cake. Every morning before class, the students would congregate at the grocery store parking lot across the street to exchange drugs and get wasted. It was tragic, but what do you expect? When you dump a bunch of incorrigible delinquents into the same habitat, they’re certainly not going to influence each other in a positive way. I can see why prisoners are rarely rehabilitated. Meanwell was stocked with characters straight out of a black comedy. One of my favorites was a long-haired, flannel-clad Hessian named Jay, who’d recently served a stretch for bludgeoning his mother with a Wiffle Ball Bat. I repeat, a Wiffle Ball Bat. His security blanket was a dog-eared paperback copy of Golding’s Lord of the Flies. He was never seen without it. He was never seen reading it either. He also held full-length conversations with himself, and performed medleys of barnyard animal sounds from his desk at the back of the classroom. For reasons
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