The man next door is a strange one. On the outside he appears to be the same as you and me, but there are signs that he is different from you and me. He’s quiet. And he never stops scanning his surroundings. When you talk to him, he never looks into your eyes for long. He is always looking around. Whenever possible, he stands with his back against a wall.
I wonder about this man with the guarded look in his eyes and a sadness that I hope and pray is never in mine. We went out to eat one time and he was almost rude in making sure he sat where his back was to a wall and he could see all entryways.
As I grew to know and understand this man, I couldn’t help but think, but he seems so nice? He was so gentle with little children and animals. With grown-ups, he was sometimes short, harsh.
And then one day I found out why this man was the way he was. He was the first Prison Officer I had ever met. He told me some little things about his work, and I thought, my God how can he go into that place every day and do his job? How can anyone do a job like that? He told me that even women work in there and work around killers and rapists every day. How can they do that and remain human?
I knew then that I had met a real person, not some fake that brags about having a dangerous job, but one that did his job with no fanfare or glory. And it made me proud that I could call a Corrections Officer my friend.
Take care,
The Old Screw
