Go To Work

Figuring out after prison what that phrase means

“Go to work, go to work, go to work” I repeated obsessively like a mantra in my head while laying in bed and praying for sleep. How can there be so many bills? How can the money disappear so quickly? How is it never enough? What am I going to do?

Go to work, go to work, go to work…..

I had gotten out of prison not long before and had taken on the role of being the provider for my household. That's what citizen men do, right? That's a cornerstone to being “a good man”, isn't it? Provider.

However I found that this title was far more difficult to earn and maintain than I could have ever imagined. At least, when you're doing it the legal way. I had become accustomed to easy money over the entirety of my adult life. It was never a matter of pulling from some steady income source but rather figuring out how much I needed to accomplish X and just getting that amount.

While still locked up I had determined, based on my wife's accounts, that where she lived was no longer acceptable. The obvious solution was that I hustled up the money, smuggled it out, and simply told her, “Go buy a house”. It barely counted as effort.

Needless to say, the $8 an hour I was earning at the time of my sleeplessness failed to provide a similar degree of financial security.

However I promised the fellas I'd make a straight run at it.

I promised my wife I'd do this the right way.

Go to work, go to work, go to work……

At the time of my release I had spent half of my life in prison and literally every day of my adulthood within those walls. I had plans and goals about what I was going to do and how I'd do it and immediately discovered that they had no basis in reality. Because I had never lived as an adult citizen, I had no concept of what that meant. Therefore my ideas were nothing more than a medieval artist trying to paint a lion based on some explorer's poor explanation. It was just wrong in every way.

But I couldn't be still. Inactivity would be my downfall. Sitting alone in the house I'd find myself wanting to visit my old neighborhood, to go see my old stomping grounds and track down some familiar faces. However, I knew that would have the same results as a recovering addict hanging out with friends who still used, and I had promises to keep.

Go to work, go to work, go to work…..

I was riding in the passenger seat on my way home from my first PO visit, I hadn't had the chance yet to learn how to drive, when I saw a giant “Now Hiring! Start today!” banner flapping on the front of some highway adjacent wearhouse. I demanded that the driver take me there.

“Don't be in such a hurry” he told me, “you haven't even been out a week yet. Take time to get adjusted first”.

“Did I stutter?” I wasn't aiming to be aggressive with a family member but I wasn't one to be coddled or dismissed either. He took the exit and parked out front while I let myself in.

Once inside I requested an application and sat down to fill it out. Thankfully I was already dressed to look presentable to my PO, so I was as about as interview ready as I could've been. Though I didn't understand at the time that being interviewed on the spot was unusual in today's world, that didn't apply for the seasonal position I was aiming for. I didn't even know what seasonal meant.

Walking into the office I opened immediately with “Good for you getting to wake up every day looking like that” upon seeing the woman sitting behind the desk. She didn't respond to my statement beyond brief eye contact, but that was enough for me to know I had accomplished my goal in saying it. Given it was a seasonal position, there wasn't much to this process and I was hired right then and there.

My ride couldn't believe they hired me when I returned to the car and that I started tomorrow. My very first real job. I had no concept that $8 an hour was a joke nor was I even thinking about that. All I knew was I had an actual job now.

I got rides when I could and walked the hour and a half distance when I couldn't. I don't fail. My position was loading boxes with gift baskets of fruit onto trucks for delivery. I'd grab them off the conveyor belt and literally run them into the semi-trailer as if I were doing suicide drills on a basketball court. Moving like they were paying me $50 an hour.

Because I was still penitentiary-fit, a cardio monster with about a 9% body fat percentage, I was able to maintain this pace easily for 8 hours at a time. A floor manager once mentioned that I was literally outperforming the other 9 men on the line combined. “I know”, I told her.

Following the holidays, it was time to pass out the pink slips and complimentary gift bags. I was approached last while sweeping my area. I could always tell when someone was aiming to speak to me privately. The floor manager handed me my slip along with a piece of paper with a phone number scrawled on it. Before I could tell her I wasn't interested she said, “this is my husband's phone number. He's the night shift supervisor at a steel processing plant. I've told him about you. If you're interested, he has a position for you there.” Shocked, all I could say was thank you, to which she replied, “it's brutal work, I'm not going to lie to you. But I think you can do it”.

Go to work, go to work, go to work….

She hadn't been overselling it. The job her husband gave me was indeed brutal manual labor. The company made the steel strapping used in securing heavy loads for transport. 30’ to 44’ gauge steel strapping that had to be clamped with machines. Giant slitters would cut 40k pound sheet steel coils down to size and ran through a line to slit them further into 1 and quarter inch wide straps. Straps that a building size machine would wind up into 100 lb coils that looked like giant records. Coils that had to be cut and moved by hand for shipping.

From 7pm to 7am, I was one of four men on what we called the 100 lb line. Three of the 12 recoilers belonged to me. Every four minutes I would cut the strap by hand, lift the coil off of the recoiler, carry it to the conveyor line, reattach the strap for the next run, and then go band them to be carried on pallets for final shipping while the next run was winding.

When we'd hit quota, which was 200,000 lbs, I literally carried an average of 40,000 to 50,000 lbs of steel by hand each night. 300 lbs in 100 pound increments, every 4 minutes for 12 hours a night. I wasn't carrying them far, but it's still fun to say it.

Fortunately, I was literally built to handle this kind of physical punishment and treated that line like it was a career. And even though I was making more money an hour, it was still proving to be a monumental struggle to provide.

We'd coupon shop and I'd go to the food pantry each week and we kept costs down any way we could. Yet no matter how much overtime I worked, we always ran out of money before the next paycheck got cut. I made less than $200 too much a month to qualify for any kind of assistance so we just had to make due any way we could.

We were critically broke, so much so that I'd only eat once a day when my wife made dinner. I couldn't bring myself to spend money even to eat because every penny I would spend was a penny I took away from my household. The money was going to run out before any more came in and I couldn't be part of hurrying that process along.

Yet I saw money everywhere I went. Meth had become prominent while I was away and I could spot a lab house as easily as I could figure out where the stash houses were. I'd see the guy in the self checkout line in his oversized leather jacket and scuff free Nike’s while swiping an EBT card and know there's a payday wherever he's going. I'd see the expensive modified vehicles outside run down houses and know what's inside would cover all of my bills and so much more. I could recognize where the holes in the dope market were and the opportunities that could easily be exploited. I could set up shop with a phone call. Money everywhere and easy for the taking. Additionally, I knew from the police scanner that this tiny city had no hitters, no shot callers, no hurdles.

I could just reach out and take it…..

Go to work, go to work, go to work…..

I struggled as my promise to do this the right way as it came into conflict with the responsibility I felt to take care of everyone. Was it really the moral thing to just ‘work a job” when it provided them so little? Wouldn't I be a better man doing what needed to be done and giving them anything they wanted? No more figuring out which utility to pay based on the shut off notice dates. No more telling the kids they can't do something because we just don't have the money. No more pretending to have a scavenger hunt Christmas morning because we couldn't afford wrapping paper for the free gifts we'd gotten from a local church.

What if I only rolled one or two stash houses, just to get our head above water?…..

Go to work, go to work, go to work…..

That mantra echoed insensibly, relentlessly, inside my head as if the voice of something outside myself trying to keep me on track. Repeating itself manically as if both encouragement and a taunt. Everything led to that broken record phrase. What had once been inspirational now filled me with shame and rage.

“Go to work?! You want me to fucking work?! I'll show you how I work then!”

I no longer accepted what I had as if I were lucky to have a job at all with my criminal record. If I could make a group of armed gang bangers do as their told as a kid, I could make “the right way” to do what I wanted as well. It was time to go to work.

I picked absolutely every position in the area that paid too much money and that I was completely unqualified for and blanket bombed applications like I was napalming the Viet Cong. I didn't care what the job entailed, I didn't care about how the position called for a college degree or so many years experience or anything else that would disqualify me. I was going to make them take the time to tell me no.

Go to work, go to work, go to work.

It was no longer a repetitive phrase, it was the sound my shield made as I beat my sword against it.

Telling me “No” wasn't a problem as they took turns doing exactly that. One after another after another and I just kept taking the punches while flashing a bloodied mouth smile. I can take this work all day. My persistence is greater than their resistance. I just needed to get into the room with an interviewer so I could sell myself.

Then one day, I got invited for an interview. Walking into that office the man inside stood and offered his hand. Gripping it I pulled him a half inch towards me and thanked him for taking the time to see me. I then proceeded to sell myself using the good, the bad and the extremely ugly.

I put it all on the table. Had this been a fight, it would've been one where the exertion left me coughing up blood afterwards. I brought all of my charm and aggressiveness and everything in between into that room. An interview that ended with a second handshake asking “when can you start?”.

Go to work, go to work, go to work.

Now I wear a suit and I don't have to break my back any longer. My bills are paid, some many months ahead. I have savings and investments and property. We're by no means rich yet my wife and kids want for nothing. My fridge and pantry never run dry. But most of all, I don't feel that force pulling me backwards any longer. I actually enjoy what I do. Turns out I was meant for sales.

That voice had been telling me all along what I needed to do, I just needed the desperation and anger to see what the message actually meant.

Go to work, go to work, go to work.