A Photo For You, A Visit For Me

(Ester notes: I jumped the gun when I got a photo from Mike over a month ago and went ahead and posted it right away.  A few days later, I received the second piece to that package, which is this story you’re about to read.  I remember looking at that photo and thinking I could NOT remember the last time I saw a photo of Michael with a big ol’ toothy grin on his face.  This piece explains what that was all about.  Enjoy!)

“Have you ever been so pissed you were literally seeing red?

Have you ever been that pissed at someone who is trying to take your picture?  Yes, I’m talking about the jack-ass that has no idea what he’s doing, but wants you to stand there with a grin on your face while he figures out the camera.  Your grin is becoming more fake every second.  Before long, it’s gone completely and you just want to strangle the bastard.

Are you with me so far?

Let me back-track for a second.  My dad came to visit me today (March 7)  This was his farewell visit before he leaves the state.  He’s headed out West to live on the Indian Reservation.  No, my dad is not an Indian; please don’t ask – and if you’re thinking, ‘what the fuck?’ I’m thinking the same thing!

Good God.  Did I just become the male version of Taylor Swift?  You piss that chick off and she writes a song about you.  Piss me off and I’ll write a story about you. 

(If you don't know what this picture is about, don't worry - you didn't miss anything...)

Whenever my friend Scottie talks to me these days, he says, “Oh shit!  You’re not going to write about that are you?”

Last night I told Scottie about my visit.  This time he said, “You need to write about that!”

Guess that’s exactly what I’ll do.

Since I came to prison, my dad has been coming to see me every couple of months.  Those visits are so special to me.  You get to give your people a hug, sit with them, and have a meal together.  This is a chance to leave our day-to-day life back here on the compound and spend time with a loved-one.

This time I was surprised.  I didn’t know my dad was coming.  They called my name over the P.A. and I was told that I had a visitor.  I rush to get dressed and head up front.

Before entering the visiting part, you undergo a strip-search.  Yeah, sucks, but you get used to it.  I get dressed and then enter a big room full of tables.  My dad stands up, I see him, and walk over to give him a hug.

We can purchase food in the visiting park that we don’t get on the compound.  I am a Mt. Dew caffeine junkie J  So I get a Mt. Dew first off.  Then grab some chips and a sandwich.  This is only the beginning.  I weigh 180 pounds and can eat about 10 lbs of food during a visit.  For example: During our visit, I ate two foot-long Italian subs, one spicy cheeseburger, a bag of trail mix, and two fruit cups.  I washed this down with the Mt. Dew and then a Mellow-Yellow.  Get the picture?  I never have caffeine, so I’m jacked.

…Speaking of pictures.

During a visit, you can have pictures taken with your loved one.  Any of the pictures you have seen of me in blue were taken during visits.  So I tell Dad, “Let’s take a couple pictures while you’re here.”  One for Dad to take, and one for you all at J.J.

The guy behind the camera is an inmate.  A trustee, if you will.  He uses a little digital camera, takes your picture, and after the officer approves of the picture, prints it off and gives it to you.  For the first picture, I stand next to my dad.  Looks good.  Next picture, I tell the guy, “Try and do waist-up, and without all my tattoos.  I’m not sure why.  You all know about my tattoos.  Either way, he shows me the picture in the view-finder.  They are nice.  Print them.

About a half-hour later, the guy comes up to me and Dad and says, “I’ll have to take your pictures over.”  Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t like standing in front of a camera.  So I ask the guy what’s up with the other pictures.

He tells me the officer didn’t like them - we have to take them over.  Now allow me to tell you what the problem was.

In the very top corner of the picture, the roof was visible.  Why that was a problem, I haven’t a clue.

Once again, I stand beside my dad and the picture is taken.  He then sets up to take mine.

Allow me to create a picture of what’s happening here.  My dad is about 6 inches shorter than me, so when our picture is taken, my head is at the very top of the photo, and that puts my dad’s in the center.  So when I ask the photographer to put my head in the center, it’s raising the camera angle so the edge of the roof is visible behind me.

Granted, this is also a new camera guy.  He’s a Mexican dude… and he’s about 4 feet tall.  Yeah, no shit!  So here I am, round two on the picture project, trying to smile.

This is how the thing went down:

About the time he should be taking the picture, I hear “Oops.  Hmmm… I’m gonna need you to move closer to me, the roof is showing again.”

(Still smiling, I move a step closer to him).

“Ok… that’s not gonna work.  Now your head is cut off.”

(I’m not shitting). 

Then the dude says, “Bro, you’re just too tall.”

(My patience begins to slip).

I say, “No, dude, the problem is that you’re too short.  Maybe if you stood up, you could take the picture.”

Ok… woops… short-man syndrome.

He looks at me like I just kicked him in the balls… and I wanted to.

My dad is standing there watching this.  And now other people are watching too.

At this point, Ester, could you put the picture up? 

Any of you who know me have seen me smile.  However, if you’ve ever seen a picture of me, I do a closed-mouth smile.  I don’t do the Hollywood smile with all the teeth showing – not me.

About this time, I’m smiling, but I’m talking to the dude behind the camera.

“Bro, just take the damn picture.”

I can’t, the roof is in it.

“Listen, man, I’m running out of smiles.”

Sorry man, move closer to me.

OK, so now the smile is gone.  Now I tell him, “Put me where you want me, do a ‘3-2-1’ countdown, then snap the picture” (before I snap your neck).

I wind up spreading my legs out as far as I can in the splits while he stands on his tippy-toes.  He calls out, “Three, two, one,” then I smile as big as I can.

The smile you see in the photo is from ear to ear.  I have never seen more dimples and laugh lines or crow’s feet or whatever the hell you call that shit in any photo.  Let alone my photo.  My whole grill is showing – I don’t think my face would stretch any more if I tried.

You ever heard of a shit-eating grin?  I’m not sure what that means, but my grin in that picture is telling that camera man to eat shit.  Maybe someone could get him a box to stand on.  Whatever.  After the photo was printed, I look at it and I’m like, “HA!  I look like a dork.”  And the old me would have been like, ‘I can’t show that to all these people!’  For that very reason I was like, ‘Oh hell yeah!  I have to share this with all my friends on J.J. J’

So now I’m posting dorky pictures of myself and making comments about Taylor Swift.  You’re probably thinking J.J.’s headed to the shitter now.

I can’t guarantee you anything, because even I don’t know what will come out of my mouth next.  However, it will be entertaining to say the least!  See you next time J”

J.J.