Scenes of Prison
29. Management by Mirth
E motion and mood are critical features of prison life, and caseworkers monitor the emotional states of the inmates in their units. It is an ongoing function which we pursue all day every day. It begins when we wake inmates in the morning for breakfast and notice their moods and their reactions to us when we greet them, and this monitoring continues throughout the day. But it isn’t enough just to monitor an emotional state. We also need to influence emotional states when we recognize a need to do so. When people are upset, they need to be calmed down. When they are angry, they need to take a step back. When their spirits are low, they need to be raised. When people are perplexed and confused, they need someone to help them clear their minds and understand their challenges.
Humor was one of the most frequent techniques I used to help inmates manage their emotional states in the prison. I told humorous stories every day. I practiced them, and I tried them out on friends and relatives before I used them in the prison. I actually had a standard.
I would only use a humorous story with prisoners if it elicited a double laugh when I tried it out. First, there was the initial laugh when people recognized the humor, and then there was another laugh after a brief pause to think over the story again. If one of my stories only received one laugh, then I didn’t use it.
I used humor so often with inmates that they often seemed to expect it, and they looked forward to it. When I spoke to inmates and said “Have you heard the story about . . .?” I knew I would have their full attention. I also discovered that an inmate who was expecting a humorous story and listening closely to me would be very compliant, and he would complete any request that I made of him without resistance or delay, for example, completing a strip search. He was compliant because he didn’t want to interfere with the telling of the story by arguing with me. He wanted a good laugh, and he wanted to know how it ended.
In thirty-five years, I told a lot of humorous stories, and I’ve forgotten many more stories than I can remember now. But I do remember a few, and I know they will make you laugh. I am certain of it. They certainly made the inmates laugh.
I'm also looking back on the chapters you've already read. You've been through a lot, and you've got a ways to go. Allow me to lighten your mood now. So here, for your comic relief, because you need it after reading all these disturbing stories about prison, are a few humorous stories. Try them out on your friends and family.
Once upon a time, two young men sat close together at the defendant’s table in a Nebraska courtroom. They were standing trial for an armed robbery, but their attorney insisted they hadn’t done it. A witness to the robbery was on the stand being questioned by the prosecuting attorney.
“Were you present at the time of the robbery?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” came the reply.
“And you witnessed the robbery?” he asked.
“Yes, I did.”
“Other witnesses have said that two men are responsible for this crime. Did you see two men carrying out this robbery?”
“Yes, I did.”
With a grand, slow turn and a few steps, the prosecutor moved until he stood directly in front of the two young men at the defendant’s table. He raised his right arm and addressed the entire courtroom. In a booming voice, he said “Are those two men present in this courtroom today?”
There was a dramatic pause. No one spoke. The two young men, with their heads lowered, glanced at each other. Then, slowly, they raised their hands.
One day, as Andrew approached the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter met him.
“Welcome to heaven. I’d love to let you in, but first, I have to ask you a few questions.”
Andrew swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure this would go well for him.
“Okay,” said Saint Peter. “Were you religious in your life? Did you attend services? Pray? Give alms?”
Andrew shook his head slowly side to side to each question.
“Did you give to charities? Do volunteer activities? Collect money for a charity?”
Andrew continued shaking head.
“Did you give any clothes to charity? Contribute to food drives? Give a dollar to a beggar?”
Still nothing. Andrew was getting worried. Saint Peter was getting exasperated.
“Look,” he said. “I’m trying to help you. You must have done something nice sometime. Think!”
“Well,” Andrew said, “there was a time I helped the little old lady.”
“Sounds promising,” said Saint Peter. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, I came out of the grocery store and found this old lady surrounded by Hell’s Angels. Big, mean, tough. They'd taken her purse, and they were pushing her down and laughing at her. I pushed my way through the group to the lady and helped her up. Then, I seized her purse from the guy who'd snatched it, slapped him straight across the face, and told him he was a disgusting human being.”
“Wow,” said Saint Peter. “That’s impressive. When did this happen?”
“Oh, about ten minutes ago,” he said.
A story from the life of Olaf and Olga:
One day, Olaf became very sick, and Olga took him to the doctor. When the doctor had finished examining him, he asked Olaf to step into the waiting room. He wanted to speak to Olga alone.
“Olga,” he began, “your dear Olaf is very ill. He may die, but you can save him. He needs special care. He needs home-cooked meals three times a day. He needs soft clothing against his skin. You’ll need to iron all his clothes, even his underwear. And he needs lots of lovin’. You’ll need to give him lovin’ whenever he wants it. Olga, Olaf’s life is in your hands. I know you can do this.”
Olga thanked the doctor, and slowly, thoughtfully went to the waiting room. She found Olaf nervously watching as she approached.
“Olga, Olga, what did the doctor say,” he asked. “Will I get well?”
“Olaf,” she said softly, sitting beside him and holding his hand.
“You’re going to die.”
It was three o’clock in the morning, and Jake and his wife were fast asleep. A pounding on their front door woke them. Jake staggered to the door. A young man who was obviously drunk swayed gently back and forth on their front porch.
“Hi. My name is Joe. Can you give me a push?” he asked.
“No,” thundered Jake. “You’re drunk. Get lost.” And Jake slammed the door in his face.
Jake returned to his bedroom and reported the exchange to his wife.
“Jake,” she began reproachfully. “You remember the time it was raining, and our car broke down. We really appreciated that fellow who helped us. Go out and give him a hand.”
“But Honey, he’s drunk,” Jake protested.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “He’s a fellow human being in need.”
Jake had no more arguments to offer. He dressed and went out onto the porch. He peered up and down the street, straining his sight in the dim light of nearby street lights. He saw no cars broken down on the side of the street.
“Joe,” he called into the darkness. “Joe, hey, Joe,” he called louder. “Do you still need a push?”
“Oh, yes,” came the reply. “That would be ever so helpful.”
“Where are you, Joe?” Jake asked. “I can’t see you.”
Out of the darkness came the reply, “I’m over here on your swing.”
One day, Jasmine and Sylvia were playing in the backyard of their house when their big old mongrel dog, Cassidy, loped into the yard to join them. Cassidy had been in Miss Frank’s backyard next door, and, to their horror, they saw that Cassidy had something big, furry, and black locked in his jaws shaking it vigorously back and forth.
The girls caught up with Cassidy, and they recovered the black, furry, and now very still body of Miss Frank’s much-loved, loppy eared, pet rabbit, Fluffy.
“Oh, no,” they both said together. “What are we going to do?”
“Mom will know,” offered Sylvia, and off they went to report Cassidy’s crime.
Their mother listened to the story and examined the corpse.
“Does Miss Frank know what’s happened to Fluffy?” she asked.
The girls had seen Miss Frank leave earlier, and they hadn’t seen her return. They reported this to their mother.
“Good,” said the mother, and she started issuing instructions. They all got to work. Fluffy got a bath and a good brushing. If he hadn’t been dead, he would have looked pretty good.
“Now, go and put Fluffy back in his hutch, and make him look like he is just taking a little nap,” she said. “She’ll think he died peacefully of natural causes.”
The girls followed these instructions, and then they waited for Miss Frank to return. When she did, they watched to see what she would do. They didn’t have to wait very long.
Miss Frank looked at the hutch as soon as she stepped out of her car, and she saw that Fluffy was inside. She went immediately into the backyard, still staring at Fluffy, and she stopped halfway to the hutch, and let out a blood-chilling scream. Neighbors poured into the backyard asking what had happened, and could they help. Miss Frank pointed to the hutch with Fluffy inside.
“It’s Fa Fa Fluffy,” she cried, stammering to find her words.
The girls’ mother had joined the neighbors trying to console Miss Frank, and she spoke up now.
“It’s all right, Miss Frank,” she said. “Sometimes rabbits just die.”
“I know,” stammered Miss Frank as she pointed a trembling hand at a newly dug patch of dirt nearby. “Fluffy died two days ago, and I buried him right there.”
Jake Smiley was a little worried as he stepped into his garden one cold April morning. He carried a spade and a sack of seed potatoes, and he hoped to plant them by lunch. He looked at the cold, wet, hard, dirt, and he had some doubts that he would be able to dig in it. After a few trials, he gathered his tools, went inside, and wrote a letter to his son.
“Dear Arnold,” it began. “I tried to plant the potatoes this morning, but I’m afraid the job has gotten away from me. I’m just too old. I know you would help if you weren’t locked up. I’m looking forward to your release, so I can get the garden going again. Maybe next year. Love, Dad”
Several days later, Jake noticed some unusual activity outside in front of his house. First one police car, then another, then another, then a State Patrol truck, then a K-9 SUV with an eager German shepherd inside pacing back and forth slowly drove by. Soon, they had all pulled up near his house, and they parked up and down the block. On a cue, they assembled in front of his house, and everyone had a shovel. They all went into his backyard, and they set to work digging up the whole garden. They didn’t miss a spot. By early afternoon, they’d finished their work and were all gone. Jake went into the backyard and was surveying the scene when he noticed that the mail had arrived, so he went out to the mailbox and found a letter from his son Arnold.
“Dear Dad,” it began. “Do not dig in the garden! That’s where I buried the bodies! Your loving son, Arnold.”
Jake smiled as he read it. Now he knew why the police had dug up his garden, and he would be able to plant his potatoes after all. He sat down and jotted a note to his son.
“Thanks, son,” it said. “I should have known you’d find a way to help me get these potatoes in the ground. Love, Dad”
Discussion
- Do you ever feel a responsibility to manage the moods of others? Is that what we do when we raise children?
- Is it part of a marital relationship?
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