Jailhouse Block

"You didn’t get ANY warning? There wasn’t one sign?" Those are the two most frequently asked questions when I recant the tale of Prison Boy and our brief time together. Excuse me…I’m getting misty.

With the number of dates I find myself going on, my circle of friends are at a complete loss as to how to separate who from whom. The Midwest is not known for it’s plethora of diverse names, so the Bill’s, Matthew’s, John’s, etc., tend to pile up when you are going through them like Weight Watcher’s rejects at an all you can eat buffet.

Consequently, it became easier for them to simply refer to each of my dates by his specific eccentricity or psychological abnormality. We have many, and most of them will probably get their own column, eventually. In the Spring of 2002, Prison Boy was thus added to my roster. (I swell with pride at the thought.)

I think the first rule of thumb I forgot when accepting each of the three invitations Prison Boy asked me out on was the Serial Killer Claus. Ladies (and men for that matter, but there has only been one recorded case of a female serial killer, so she may just have been having a seriously bad hair year), remember one basic fact when assessing whether or not a date is worthy of your time a second time around: Serial Killers are never tapped as psychotic maniacs UNTIL the bodies are already found. Prior to that, you can bet your Estee’ Lauder Free Gift with Purchase (It is retail value of $60) that every person who ever knew him, when asked, had this to say about Freddie Krueger: ‘He was pretty quiet. Always friendly. A pretty good neighbor.’

The Serial Killer Claus: Any man who is pretty quiet, always friendly, and a pretty good neighbor should be suspected of also being a serial killer only until the complete background check comes back on him.

So, I accepted my first date with this nice, fairly reserved young man. I will say that, I saw him in short sleeves, and there were NO TATTOOS VISIBLE! Our first date was a lunch date, and he did not salivate at all when the bread appetizer was brought out, nor did he show a particular fondness for plain ol’ H2O. He was a very pleasant person, and we had a terrific lunch. He was a pleasant companion.

Later that evening, he telephoned me to tell me what a nice time he had, and he would like to see me again. I was up for it. He had really nice eyes, and he was a gentleman. (What did I know…he’d been in prison. I may very well have been the proverbial woman training wheels he needed to reintegrate into a non-prison dating environment) Again, I reiterate…no strange behavior presented itself, and at all times during the conversation, he came off as pretty quiet. Always friendly. A pretty good neighbor

However, one thing did not make sense during our conversation. His tale of his split from his ex wife just didn’t have a good time line. It didn’t really make sense when you posted his tale of the split from what time frame he gave me regarding said split. Now, having been divorced myself, I can appreciate how you aren’t particularly proud of splitting with a spouse. But most of the details are seared into my memory with a pretty reasonable degree of accuracy, and the same holds true for most of my friends who are divorced as well. It’s not the kind of thing that slips your mind when you are preparing for the State to officially confirm that yes, you are a failure at marriage.

In my quest to be fair, I wrote that off as just me being too judgmental. Everyone takes heartbreak a little differently. (I find shopping therapy is my best healer. That and breaking stuff) Cut the guy some slack. You remember what it was like when you first started dating after the divorce (How can I forget? I refer to it as ‘My Dinner with Anxiety.’) So, I ignored the intuition that serves me well when I listen to it and prepared for the next date: Dinner and a club.

OK…we go to dinner. Very nice time, AGAIN. We go to the club. Great, gentlemanly escort. Although, he was getting a little too…intense. And, he kind of let it slip about his living arrangement: With his family. (He is in his early 30’s. That is just wrong unless you have been financially swindled, the crew of This Old House has moved in, or just being released from prison. Which I later found out was how he'd spent his summer vacation, but I digress.) Ohhhhh kaaayyyyyy. Yes, by now, I’m quite sure most of you women out there are going ‘Uh, hello! What part of Freak did you not get from that?’ Hey…it took me 6 times to pass college algebra: I tend to not pick some things up with the speed of light.

Be that as it may, he was still a really nice date, and date three went much the same way. Although, he did want me to know he was going to the east coast on business, and would I like to get together with him when he returned. Well, I told him yes, but in that way that you know when he returns, you are suddenly going to be very, very busy with work and not have too much time. (Sure it’s weasely, I know…but the guy was pretty quiet. Always friendly. A pretty good neighbor. Why try to damage these pleasant qualities?)

Hey! He said he was going to be gone for two weeks. The earth was created in 7: A lot can happen, y’know?

Day two of Prison Boy’s trip: I get a collect phone call from him (Once again, What about this didn’t scream Jerry Springer audition?), which he explained was because he lost his phone card and he didn’t want to run up his friends phone bill (So I guess running up mine was somehow OK?). We talked for longer than I realized when I heard that most dreaded of sentences: I have something I need to tell you.

Ed Note: I will pay good money to the person who can come up with a better phrase than that with which to preface REALLY bad news. Just by nature of hearing that sentence, you already know what follows it is going to supremely suck. Can’t we get a little sugar with the medicine, please!

What does he tell me? Well, his ‘business’ is really with the Connecticut State Court system, and, depending on the outcome, he may not be getting back very soon, as he is facing jail time. Now, the particulars aren’t important because the particulars are nullified by the fact it includes JAIL TIME! By this time, I am furious, as well as seriously hacked that Prison Boy WAITED an hour into the conversation before dropping this getting-ta-know-ya bit on me. (Factoid: A 1 hour and 15 minute collect call is $74.43, and something tells me Brainiac didn’t use 1-800 collect!)

He tells me he will call me the next day and let me know how it went. This is where I have to work on my boundary issues, because I was literally feeling sorry for this poor slob (This does not mean that there would be any pity-coitus involved with that upon his return, but I did have a marginal degree of pity for him for reasons only me and my therapist should discuss). So I tell him to at least let me know how it goes.

Cut to Wednesday evening. Phone rings and a monotone computer voice says: YOU HAVE A COLLECT CALL FROM AN INMATE AT A CONNECTICUT STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY.’ (I shit you not, dear readers). This should be stunning, I tell myself, and accept the call. I know, since my mother works in a prosecutor’s office (Oh, the irony isn’t lost on me with this point, BTW), that the call will be a maximum of 15 minutes, so I accept it.

Well, Prison Boy didn’t have such a good day in court, and his legal infractions were enough to warrant 11 months and 13 days in the pokey.(I’m not sure what you have to do in Connecticut to warrant that kind of time, but DAMN!) Why didn’t he get it taken care of sooner, I ask? Seems he was held up when he had spent the prior year in a correctional facility somewhere in the 4 state area! What next would I find out? That he was also the leader of a Columbian Drug Cartel?

Suffice to say, Prison Boy’s following attempts at contact were abruptly halted, as I promptly blocked all calls from that Connecticut State Correctional Facility. He attempted having his mother call me once to plead his case. OK, Norman Bates, switch to decaf for God’s sake! And I was dumbfounded as to why I didn’t see this in the first place.

Now, I realize that I couldn’t have known about his prison record (up to this point, I always assumed that former Jailbirds had a much harsher look about them and were in no way able to behave as men who were pretty quiet. Always friendly. A pretty good neighbor.) But there were MAJOR red flags in his behavior that, in retrospect, really should have sent me running for a restraining order.

Where I failed most was in not trusting my intuition. We are given intuition for a reason. It’s nature’s way of allowing us to think twice before we attempt certain things. I go into my darkened apartment. My intuition tells me if something isn’t right. My intuition told me to leave certain jobs, other situations, etc. And 90% of the time, it’s right on the money.

But, what I was actually doing was confusing intuitive warning with judgmental assumption. I strive to be as non-judgmental as possible. I realize I have certain issues or hang ups that can filter my perception of people or situations. So, in overcoming that, I work towards accepting more people and situations that I normally wouldn’t, because I’ve found I learn a lot more that way.

Intuition tells us to pay attention to that which we don’t concretely know. You don’t KNOW something specific isn’t right…you just know it’s not. That’s intuition. Trusting yourself and your ability to navigate life’s many obstacles with a minimum of disruption: That’s intuition. I’ve learned in my past two years of living single again that, in retrospect, my intuition warned me about negative situations before I got into them. I arrogantly assumed I knew better. (Prison) Boy, was I wrong!

So, with prison phone calls on permanent block, I have settled back into my humble existence. I have had several dates since Prison Boy, and all with men who didn’t give me a ‘Haven’t I seen you on America’s Most Wanted before’ feeling. I leave judgment to the experts. Especially those who dole out 11 months and 13 days to felons who can’t seem to figure out how to spell 1-800-collect.

However, Ladies, beware. In the spring, f you have a date with a man who seems pretty quiet. Always friendly. A pretty good neighbor, think again: It could be Prison Boy. But we are safe until next March.