Gumshoe

One of the guards talked to me in a dream lately. In it, I wore the typical green scrubs of the Colorado Correctional System's inmate population, and she wore the white-shirted uniform that the standard guards do. In the real world I've had a crush on this woman since the first day I saw her. She reminds me of someone I still have feelings for. But I have been away from the outside long enough to have become attracted to more than a few of the women who work here.

We sat at a table in the pod's common area (the 'day hall'), exchanging small talk, which, in fact, we've done in real life as well. It was easier now, although I wasn't aware I was dreaming. We were in the future. I had been incarcerated for a longer period of time than I presently am.

For some reason we came to discuss pseudonyms and nicknames. She said that her nick-name as a child had been gumshoe. But then she said that to explain the origin of the name would be to cross a line - in fact that she was already crossing it - a professional distance between inmate and guard that could endanger her job if compromised.

It became clear to me that we were compatible in some way but for our situation. I didn't press the issue. In fact it is very liberating, sometimes, to ponder the gulf and the distance my crimes have put between me and others. I have always felt somehow wounded inside, and in my outside interactions with people it seemed they unknowingly agitated this invisible sore.

We sat in some silence, and it seemed to me that she was coming to a decision -- I psychoanalyze these guards a lot -- many of them are lonely people. And this job, its procedures, and the inmates in their charge, drain them so thoroughly it's obvious. It's easy to demonize and scapegoat the inmate population - they are demanding, after all, and they scapegoat and demonize the guards in kind. But guards don't have much power, or even much of a say in the application of their role in the justice system. And the smarter ones, or perhaps, the more abstract thinking ones, must deal with a kind of envy. It's a low-paying, low-skill gig that affords the workers a lifestyle on par with our own -- much of the staff even eats the same food as us to save money -- but they work these ridiculous shifts; they sacrifice their lives and livelihoods much the same way anyone does at a dead-end job, and they watch us watching TV, sleeping in, sunbathing, exercising, year after year after year. We are free in some ways that society is not. And yet, would you trade your freedom for that? Your freedom to do what, exactly? Meet the girl or guy of your dreams? Spend time with your family? Or merely to eat fast food? Buy things? I hope, for your sake that you are doing things that matter to you, or, believe me, you would be happier here. This is the reality guards face. The ones who do not feel they are doing things that matter exhibit disturbing behavior - almost criminal attitudes. Criminals guarding criminals. They teeter on this brink on a daily basis.

Presently, it seemed, she decided that to bridge that gap would bring her more satisfaction then her job could, and she told me the story anyway.

Her childhood nickname had nothing to do with being a detective, as the term usually implies. As it turns out, her favorite food had been gumbo, and anytime she went shopping with her family she would run to the food aisle that had the variety she most adored. In time, her family began to tease her for this habit.

One day her Grandma had said to her, "don't forget your gumshoes!" while the family prepared for an outing; somehow the name stuck. An old farmer's contraction of 'gumbo' and 'shoe'.

And that was it. That was her story. It was pleasant to hear, and I could tell she felt naughty sharing it with an inmate, just as she could tell I felt special having been her only audience. It was actually sort of romantic.

But only a dream.