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148 ​16 In fourteen weeks of Attending Children, only two days—4K and then 3D with Jensen—register as utter throwaways when I wanted to apologize to the juveniles, to my superiors, and to the taxpayers who fund my salary. The two weeks on 5D, which included a shift with a fellow new-­hire when the cellblock didn’t go to shit, have upped my confidence. Running a smooth 5G the night Jensen covered for Milton did likewise . I’ve also executed half a dozen Medical Movement shifts with not one juvenile, including the fourth-­ floor broods, raising any hell in my ten- or twelve-­ juvenile hallway transport lines. Preemptively, I threatened write-­ups for any illegal talking in line when I arrived at their cellblock doors for the escort. The 4K and 3D floggings nearly seem a worthwhile exchange for their lessons learned. And in a vicarious way, the impromptu special programs on 3E and 3J, when my coworkers of similar upbringings as the inmates lectured them about why they need to change their lives, are encouraging too. My optimism is peaking such that I have volunteered for overtime—$105 take-­ home per eight-­ hour shift. This will help me shovel more dirt onto the memories of 4K and 3D. I figure I’ve neutralized half of one of those bad days by pulling 5G with Jensen. Doing overtime on a new block somewhere possibly with another new attendant might satisfy me that I am closing in on even ground. Meek-­ mannered Supervisor Taftmont solicited me for his upcoming shift, and I needed to prove that I don’t beg off every challenge like I did that potential second 3D round with Jensen. Overtime could be anywhere in the building. I approach Taftmont at the front desk. It’s October and Sunday right before 6:00 a.m. “Dostert, 3A,” he says flatly. Again, no smirk, just like 149 c h a p t e r s i x t e e n he’d pointed me off to 3D as if every cellblock in the jail is the same and every attendant who might work with me on those cellblocks is the same. My stomach muscles tense up and in. I don’t ask who will be my 8–4 coworker. It’s not 3D or the fourth-­ floor, but it’s also not 3F, 3J, 3K, 5G, Medical, or Medical Movement. I’ve yet to do a full 3A shift, only a partial shadow one night when Attendant Edison was off. Breakfast is a pleasant bore with the 12–8 man in charge and then in saunters Attendant Newton, 3A’s regular 8–4 children ’s attendant. Newton is strong, I’ve heard, and he is here, so I won’t have to grow any more hair on my children’s attendant chest today. A plain man in a Bears jersey, he hardly looks upbeat, but I like non-­ smilers here. Physically, he is no more intimidating than me but obviously possesses the magic I’m trying to develop—a control of the inmates with your eyes and your mouth. He takes the console, and I take the TV area with all fifteen inmates—a luxuriously low resident count. A campy action movie plays, but it’s a relief that this overtime won’t pose any great obstacles. The inmates, none appearing younger than thirteen , hardly move in their seats much less break the no talking rule and challenge me to stop their misbehavior. I’m cheating again—leeching Attendant Newton’s influence in commandeering this silent TV area. Were Attendant Jensen sitting at that console, the inmates would be yakking, and being new to this cellblock, I’d have to answer their challenge and silence them on my own. To prove I’m not Elmer Fudd, I should hope for a second crack at 4K or 3D with an Elmer Fudd. But for an easy $105 instead, that challenge can wait. Within the hour, my head twitches right. Steel snaps against steel, and the unit door bangs shut behind a tall gray-­ suited stranger. Attendant Newton cuts off the television, training his eyes on the console panel. Our tall middle-­ aged visitor looks past Newton with no greeting either, strides by the common area tables, and rounds the glass partition to enter the TV area. Breezing up the rows, he stops in front of the blank screen and thumbs open a Bible. Special programs go down...

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