On Rejoining Society

First, I would like to state for the record that my intent in recounting the following tale is not to brag, or preen, or pump myself up and toot my personal horn with the air I used in doing so, because I firmly believe that a reasonable expectation of honesty and integrity is our right and due as members of society. Never mind that many fall short or even actively and persistently behave contrarily; when you do the right thing and adhere to the various guidelines and dicta that govern acceptable and proper behavior you are simply achieving a baseline level of decency, doing what you are supposed to do, and do not deserve recognition or praise. Dishonesty is an aberration, rampant though it may be, and we’d all do well in thinking of it as such and not taking the cynical view that everyone is out for their own damn selves. Many are, of course, but belief in the inherent civility of humanity is not an unreasonable view.

However.

It may be necessary to provide a little background for those who may be unfamiliar with my curriculum vitae, such as it is. I haven’t always been a mild-mannered reporter and burrito technician, and in fact could at one time be described as a scoundrel of the first order, an ungovernable miscreant, and a blot upon society’s canvas. V79663 was the designation assigned me by the CDCR back in 2005 and is still in use by that body pursuant to my status as conditionally released (on parole). I first became enmeshed in the system for monkeying around with other people’s credit cards and checks. They released me twice but any lessons I learned from the experience didn’t seem to take, as the third and last trip to the stripey hole was an 8-year jolt (of which I served 7) for two robberies, one of a commercial financial institution.

I was a dedicated and constant user of methamphetamine, and as such subject to all the fascinating and terrible changes wrought on the human physiology and psyche by that insidious chemical. Eschewing food, sleep, and the society of humans (tweakers do not qualify; one hands in one’s membership card to the race upon joining the ranks of the walking dead), I slithered around under cover of night in a condition of physical, moral, and mental decay and stole everything my acquisitive little fingers could get their hands on. I was as indiscriminate in my gleanings as is a Tasmanian devil in the matter of diet, and if there’s anything those little buggers won’t eat it hasn’t been found anywhere near Tasmania.

To my credit, sort of, I generally felt bad afterward, once I’d converted my plunder into meth and had time to think about it. But a conscience that doesn’t do its work before the fact is a pretty poor specimen and a lazy shirker. In its defense, though, it was laughably overmatched (think Money Mayweather vs. Jeff Sessions—a bout I would pay handsomely to see) by a drug jones, whose primacy in the area of human urges is unequaled. Put it this way— I’m very glad I was never put in a position where I had the choice of saving the life of the person I loved most in the world or a rescuing a big bag of dope, because in that moment I could probably contrive a justification for choosing the drugs.

So— you get the picture. I was an unprincipled, dishonest, shifty, perfidious little sneak, and I don’t mind saying so. I don’t like having been, but admitting it is, I believe, a crucial step toward changing.

Cut to the new and improved version of yours truly, a respecter of property and space, diligent worker, payer of bills, ignorer of security cameras, and general all-around good guy. A man who puts money into tip jars. Nothing special, as outlined above—just a man doing what he is supposed to, what is expected as a member of society and the community. I was coming out of the gym one day and saw something glinting on the ground, half buried in a parking-lot divot. It was a ring, and clearly a valuable one. 

My first thought was that someone must be going out of their mind with worry and I went straight back into the gym and polled the occupants, but no one claimed it. My second thought, brief but necessary to acknowledge, was ka-ching! I pushed that aside, though, and posted a notice with my name and phone number. I received a call that very afternoon from a young man who had indeed lost his wedding ring that day and sent me a picture of it. It was his, and we met up later at work where I reunited him with his property. He was overjoyed, of course, and effusively thankful, and there you go. I had an opportunity to do the right thing and I did it. It felt good, and it’s very encouraging to know that I am in fact redeemable as a human being. 

But the thing that really pleased me about the situation is that I was able to be a part of a continuum of positivity. He would, no doubt, relate the story to his friends and family, and mention would be made of the fact that there were, in fact, decent people left in the world and how lucky was he that his ring was found by one of them. It may have branched out in any number of ways, expanding chinks in walls of cynicism and mistrust and reaffirming belief in the innate goodness of humanity. At the very least, I made someone’s day, and whatever ancillary results were effected were the exact opposite of those I used to set in motion with my erstwhile extralegal shenanigans. 

Then, I imagine, I not only pissed people off, but engendered lots of disappointment and cynicism and sentences beginning with things like “What kind of a world is it when…” Which attitudes also travel, expand, multiply, and branch out into the world, ultimately becoming far more powerful than the actual act in terms of damage done.

I don’t suppose this by any means squares the ledger and to do so I would probably require the lifespan of a tortoise and the good-deeding capacity of a whole Jamboree full of Boy Scouts, but it’s a step toward respecting myself and feeling, finally, that I have a place among those who walk in daylight and have abdicated my position among the subterranean hordes.

On a completely unrelated note, the other day at work I was beginning what was seeming to shape up to be a dreary and difficult shift when a customer entered the store. I am generally dissuaded from interacting with the public, being deficient in the sort of perky, bubbly cheerfulness encouraged by the company, and told her that someone would be right along to help her. 

“Jules!” I bellowed toward the back. “Line!”

The shift manager came out and after a brief discussion with her came over to me with a worried look on his face.

“She asked specifically to see you,” he said.

I did not know this person and immediately began imagining all sorts of dire possibilities, but as it turned out she was a fan of my writing and had, through good old-fashioned detective work and sheer Holmesian deduction, tracked me down to tell me how much she enjoyed my work. Words like “brilliant” were tossed around, and she didn’t seem crazy at all. Intelligent and well-bred, in fact, which rather discombobulated me. I’m afraid I wasn’t quite sure how to react to such a situation, it being utterly foreign to my experience, and may have been less gracious than decorum required, but I assure you, madam, that you made my day and probably contributed to the dining satisfaction of our customers that night, not to mention my own self-regard.

Hm. Maybe not so unrelated.