CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY *‘Why they put little kids in here is something I don ’t understand. They ’re at least 13 or 14 but they look like kids, and in the showers you can tell they’ve got a long way to go before they grow up. about making up his mind and the kid almost throws it at him but thinks better of it, just whispers “ Motherfucker” at him and scoots up on the line without getting his sausages. My sausages, I mean. I could have promised him a cigarette for them or just said I ’d beat his fuckin’ head in if he didn’t give them to me. That usually works. You can be written up for exchanging food without staff permission. You can usually do it without being seen, or sometimes if you ask permission they’ll say OK. Not today, though, staff’s in a bad mood and both me and the ankle-biter have already been in trouble today. Don’t hiatter anyway now; he didn’t even get his sausages. Sit down and start eating. On silence until everyone’s gone through the line. Then you can talk quietly at your own table; no talking between tables. But by then they usually start seconds, which is on silence again until that’s done and maybe a couple minutes after that until they call “ scraper” and it’s silence again. So you don’t'get to say much at meals. Except there’s usually somebody who forgets and people start whispering things and pretty soon there’s noise at almost all the tables and staff gets pissed off and starts writing down names. I’m done with breakfast so fast I hardly notice it’s gone. Seconds are called; the first table gets sausages and hot chocolate and hotcakes. Second table finishes the sausages and there’s hotcakes left, only one each this time, and oatmeal and chocolate. Fuck it if I can’t get sausages. Hotcakes are cold and I never could stand oatmeal. Hot chocolate’s OK, but why bother? Too late now, fourth table’s been called. Just sit here on silence and wait for everyone to get their seconds. Nothing to talk about anyway. Ankle-biter pours sugar on his plate and starts drawing circles in it. That makes me mad for some reason, feel like taking a swipe at him but I keep it together. Let him act like a baby for all I care. Don’t hurt me none. Why they put little kids in here anyway is something I don’t understand. I mean, they’re all at least 13 or 14 but they look like kids and in the showers you can tell they’ve got a long way to go before they grow up. No hair on their balls or under their arms and their voices more like kids than grown-ups. Every cottage has at least one, and if you’ve got two or three it can get out of hand. What pisses me off about them is that they can’t sit still. Always getting in trouble, talking on silence all the time and running when they should be walking somewhere and pestering staff when they’re busy or little games like the throwing spitwads that got the TV turned off. And some of them like to talk tough to you and get you mad and then run to where the staff is. 7:20 AM Staff calls “ Scraper!” real loud and everyone gets quiet and sits still. A few who just got seconds hurry to finish eating. Nothing happens. Then about five people realize the guy who’s supposed to do scraper is in D-l and they all want to volunteer for it. Let ’em. I ’ve got my own job to do. So staff picks one and he goes up behind the counter. First table goes up; I get everything ready on my tray. Here we go, napkin in the wastebasket, silverware (show it to the scraper but he’s looking somewhere else) in the soaking bucket and food in the scraper can. Except I’ve eaten all my food. You’d be amazed at how much food gets thrown away in just one cottage in one day. They used to feed it to the hogs when they had hogs on campus out at the farm, but they kept getting bacon or pork fat into it and the hogs would go wild. I don’t know what they do with it now; just throw it all away, I guess. I could have kept my knife if I’d known the scraper would be talking to staff. But then when they counted silverware after dishes are done, they would have put the whole cottage through shake-down and maybe not let the work boys go to work until it was found. What do I want a knife for anyway? Automatic D-l offense if they find it on you and there’s no way to hide it. It happens, though. Out to the flats without saying anything to anybody or tripping or bumping into anybody. Brush my teeth, sit down and try to take a crap. Still haven’t got used to this. No good, it just won’t budge. All these assholes running around like chickens with their heads cut off and I’m supposed to take a crap. Maybe once I’m in school I can get permission to leave class and do it there. Oh well. To the mop closet for the broom, start sweeping the squad room and hallway. Somebody else wants the broom when I’m done so I take my time. Somebody always screws it up after I ’m finished anyway, so 1 never get a good grade for my job. Soon as jobs are done we get our cigarettes. Finish sweeping, give the broom to the guy who’s supposed to sweep the dorms. Go sit down on the bench with the ones who have cigarettes left in the cigarette drawer. I’ve got three packs, enough to get me through to Sunday. They only give you one pack a day anyway no matter if you’ve got a dozen cartons locked up in the office. Some kids around here are crazy about their cigarettes. If they’re out they’ll trade just about anything they’ve got for them. I once got a baseball mini-computer for a pack of cigarettes, but it turned out the guy had ripped it off from somebody else and I almost got in trouble for it. It was true I didn’t know it was ripped off, but then I didn’t bother to ask either. I was the one that got ripped off in the end because I lost the smokes and the guy got his baseball game back. The one I traded with, the one who ripped off the game in the first place, he only got a comment in the grade book when by rights he should have got an incident report, I think. I’m not too sure about these things. They make you listen to a tape recording all about the rules when you first get in Reception, b u t ' 1 couldn’t pay attention, kept looking out the window. 7:40 AM Now I’m set. Full packs of smokes and a new matchbook. My turn next at the smoke table. OK. Don’t even use a match, take a light off the next guy. Just sit back and enjoy. Goes down smooth; I don’t feel like coughing like I used to. Mellows me out. Pretend, just pretend that it’s dope. Yeah, man. Mellowed out for sure. Except it’s more than half gone already and there’s someone waiting for my place at the smoke table. Oh well, enjoy what’s left. After the first one things mellow out; there’s usually a place open if you want to smoke. At 7:55 the work boys leave to go to their jobs. When they’ve gone it’s not so crowded or noisy; all I’ll have to do is smoke or play cards or pool or ping- pong or watch TV if they don’t have the radio on or just mellow out and look at the trees out the window until 8:30 when it’s time for the school move. One more toke before the filter. Nice stuff. Steve Myers is a Portland writer who spent fo u r months on s ta f f at McLaren earlier this year. This f ic tionalized account is part o f a booklength manuscript entitled Going Off. Novi Open Until 7pm Mon-Sat New and Used “Books Cards Calendars “Posters 9 2 2 N .W . 21st at Polejoy 2 2 3 - 4 4 1 6 13
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