Ginsburg - Released - Vistas and Byways Review

NONFICTION

"Chowchilla felt like a prison: one square mile,
less than five thousand people."

Photo by Weebly.com

Released
by Matt Ginsburg

By senior year in Chowchilla, my older brother Dave was long gone. He’d left home two years earlier when he turned eighteen, joined the Navy, and was now somewhere adrift in the Pacific. My twin brother Teddy and I had begun hanging out with different crowds. We barely spoke to each other and hardly at all to our parents. They were wary of our friends, furious about the drugs, and fed up with their rebellious adopted sons. For months, we passed like strangers amidst an undercurrent of hostility. When we dined together, it was quick and quiet. We were a family in name only.

Still, I went to school, kept my grades up, and played sports. I was captain of the cross-country and swim teams. I even applied to a four-year college, something few kids in my class even considered. I never thought to mention it. My parents didn’t seem to care what I did or where I was headed. Maybe they thought I had it all figured out. What they knew for certain was that my hair was too long, I liked to get high, and perhaps worst of all: I had my own car.

One evening, my mom asked me and a friend where we were going.

“To pick up some prostitutes in Fresno,” I said.

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. Did she expect a straight answer? How would she know the truth? The upside of being ignored was that I got to do whatever I wanted. I was free to employ the wisdom of a teenager. What could go wrong?

Chowchilla felt like a prison: one square mile, less than five thousand people. Everyone knew everyone, like living under a microscope—a giant eyeball watching your every move. The best job around was assembling truck trailers at a factory on the edge of town.

I’d heard old-timers say high school would be the best years of my life. I thought that was small-town horseshit. It had to be. For years, an oracle-like voice inside me insisted: Life will be better when you’re an adult. You don’t have to settle for this. I totally believed it. Now, the voice was louder than ever, urging me to escape not just my parents, but the whole San Joaquin Valley.

Even though my dad had a bachelor’s degree, college wasn’t mentioned in our home. However, with encouragement and guidance from my English teacher, Mrs. Hobbs, I did everything necessary to apply. We didn’t have honors, or AP, or SAT prep courses, so I didn’t have to worry about those things. My parents didn’t even know when I took the SAT; I drove to the testing center in Fresno after a night of partying.

One of the best days of my life came when I visited schools with my friend Chris. His dad, Mr. Chidlaw, was a lawyer and both his siblings were in college, so he was expected to attend. We talked about rooming together and his dad offered to take us to the Bay Area for a day to see as many schools as we could.

After touring U.C. Berkeley, we ate at a restaurant in Jack London Square on the Oakland waterfront, where I had cioppino for the first time. The waiter produced a bib and carefully tied it around my neck so I wouldn’t splash soup all over my shirt. As he smoothed it across my chest, my smile was bright enough to guide ships across San Francisco Bay. The whole experience—San Francisco, Berkeley, Oakland, and a bowl of cioppino to top it off—was unforgettable. We were a million miles from Chowchilla.

That day with Chris and his dad reminded me of the afternoon after Teddy and I had our Bar Mitzvah. My parents hadn’t planned anything to celebrate. The whole thing seemed like it was more for them than for us, so the father of one of my friends stepped up. Mr. Robertson was a boisterous, barrel-chested man, with a loud laugh, like Santa Claus.

He took us all to Farrell’s, an old-fashioned ice cream parlor, where we indulged in exorbitant sundaes. Then, with raised eyebrows and a wry smile, he suggested a movie; I had the feeling we were in for something special. Blazing Saddles was the funniest thing I’d ever seen. For weeks, we couldn’t stop talking about the scene where cowboys kept farting around the campfire while feasting on beans.

I envied friends whose fathers actually seemed to like them. My dad was cold, sometimes mean, and mostly just disinterested. I was a pretty good athlete, and he played high school football, but he never threw a ball to me, not once. I don’t think he really wanted to be a father.

It wasn’t supposed to matter that the three of us were adopted: Dave from one family, Teddy and I from another. The adoption industry understandably promotes that the adopted child is normal, maybe some adoptive parents wishfully believe that. But it doesn’t work that way. Among other things, I wondered: Aren’t you supposed to see yourself in your parents? I didn’t see myself in my father, not just physically, but in our interests, abilities, and beliefs. And I’m sure he didn’t see himself in me. Still, adoptees are supposed to be grateful because the alternative was surely worse. Who wants to be rejected twice?

My mother was much more involved; she wanted children and was engaged and compassionate. I recall seeing her in the stands at basketball games, watching alone. But I could confide in her only so much. When push came to shove about any problem, she’d either dismiss my concerns or take his side. So I kept family thoughts to myself, tried to ignore them, and just focused on moving forward.

In case my college app didn’t pan out, I took a welding class, a prep course for a job at the trailer factory. Other than swim team and a part-time job, most of my time was spent hanging out with friends, getting high, and listening to rock and reggae. By springtime, I was counting down the days until school was out.

In April, I was admitted to San Francisco State. My high school counselor had recommended it, saying I wasn’t ready for Berkeley but I could always transfer. When I got my acceptance letter, I felt like Charlie with the golden ticket in Willy Wonka, except there was no family, no Uncle Joe to grab hold of, jump up and down and share my excitement with. And unlike Charlie, my journey was going to last a lifetime. I couldn’t wait for fall to arrive. I knew if I could make it through college I would never have to come back.

I don’t even remember when I told my parents I got accepted. I didn’t need to. I’d already saved enough money from selling half a dozen heifers (my 4-H projects) to cover my first year of room and board.

4-H had been my dad’s idea to involve us with the farm. He helped us buy, raise and show heifers at the county fair. After buying and selling a few, I learned that selecting calves with better breeding records increased their resale value. I loved my heifers and won a few show prizes, but a hefty sales price eased the pain of saying goodbye.

I didn’t want to dip into my college savings to get through the rest of high school. But my dishwasher job at a steakhouse in Merced barely paid above minimum wage and I wasn’t keen to add more shifts. The work was back-breaking, lifting heavy racks, stacking dishes, scalding my hands as I unloaded them, struggling to keep up. Every burned fingertip reminded me that I had to get out.

To help pay for all the dope I smoked, I started buying in bulk. I’d break it up into smaller packets, sell most of it to friends, and use the profits to cover my own stash. Technically I was dealing, but it never felt like that. I wasn’t making money, I told myself, just covering costs—my customers were friends. My morals might have been suspect, but my business skills were worse. Looking back, I didn’t charge nearly enough for the risks I was taking.

Sometimes I’d leave home for a few days to visit my friend Winterfield. We’d been friends since kindergarten, staying in touch after he moved away in middle school. He had a wild reputation, even as a kid, and my parents thought he was a hoodlum—Mom once referred to him as “dirt.” Whatever. Now, with our own rides, we partied together despite being 100 miles apart.

Winterfield lived near Santa Cruz and had a brother near San Francisco. I enjoyed meeting his friends and crashing at his brother’s place during our trips to the City, where we checked out North Beach nightlife and tested our fake IDs. San Francisco felt liberating compared to Chowchilla: the energy, the people, the possibilities. Those visits sparked my dream of moving to the Bay Area.

One trip was regrettably memorable. Near the end of my senior year, I drove over to stay with Winterfield for a long weekend. The next day we headed into Santa Cruz, planning to hit the Boardwalk, chill on the beach, and smoke some hooters. I parked my ’68 Cougar a few blocks from the sand, away from the action and kept my windows rolled up because the overcast hadn’t yet burned off.

Most of my stash was in the trunk, but I pulled out a baggie and some Zig Zags from under the seat. As I crumbled buds onto a tip tray I’d nicked from the restaurant, we reminisced about seeing Jackson Browne together on my 17th birthday while Running on Empty played on the eight-track. Our goal that day had been to smoke 17 joints, but somewhere along the way we lost count. I struggled not to laugh at how wasted we were and was so focused on twisting a tight joint that I didn’t notice anything outside—until Winterfield started shouting.

“Dude! Watch out!”

“What?” I said, glancing up, trying to keep my hands steady.

“Stop, dude. Pig!” he yelled, jabbing his finger toward the window next to me.

I turned to my left, still twisting the ends of the joint, and froze. A motorcycle cop, head to toe in black leather with a white helmet, loomed beside the car. He had pulled up silently and was now staring at me as if examining my handiwork. My hands shook, scattering the unfinished joint into my lap.

The cop dismounted his bike and flipped up his visor. My heart pounded, sweat beaded on my forehead. My eyes darted around the car, searching for an exit, but there was nowhere to go. Beside me, Winterfield squirmed in his seat, his face pale as plaster. I gripped my head with both hands; it throbbed, ready to explode.

“Get out of the car,” the cop ordered, his voice echoing with authority. In my mind, time nearly stood still as he removed his helmet and placed it on the bike, as if in slow motion. For a split second, I wondered if he was really there.

I brushed the debris off my lap and stepped out. He took my license, checked the registration, and began searching the car, poking a flashlight beneath the seats. When he finished, he demanded I open the trunk. I knew that was coming—and still, the sound of those words sent shock waves through my body. Blood drained to my feet, and I imagined melting into the pavement, vanishing, wishing I could be anywhere else, or anyone else.

Several ounces of pot greeted him, neatly separated in ziplock baggies. He turned to me with a smirk, tapping his flashlight against his gloved hand. I wanted to speak, to conjure some excuse, but I couldn’t. My mind went blank. I looked away, seeking some sort of salvation in the dirt below my feet.

He called for a backup, then shoved me against the car and cuffed my hands behind my back. The metal bit into my wrists, pain shot through my arms. When the patrol car arrived, he shared a few wisecracks with his blond, beefy buddy, and then they radioed the station. I heard my name repeated several times, the incident relayed in clipped, police jargon. Then came the Miranda warning.

“You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent. . .”

I knew every word by heart from countless episodes of Adam-12, but hearing it directed at me was surreal. I’d seen so many people get arrested on TV and it was always great entertainment. Now I saw myself from a distance, as if it were happening to someone else. But it clearly wasn’t and I was terrified.

My mind swarmed with images of consequences, not immediately, but in the days to come, when I’d be forced to confront what had happened. My parents had warned me a million times about drugs and to stay away from Winterfield. How would I face them, especially my father? We barely co-existed. Would they throw me out of the house? They couldn’t do that legally, could they?

I imagined moving into a motel like my brother Dave did after he left home. Then I thought of college and a weight pressed on my shoulders, powerful enough to make my knees buckle. What would my sentence be? How long would I spend in juvie? I was supposed to leave for college in less than five months. Even a six-month sentence could ruin my admission. Maybe any sentence would. How did all of this work? I nearly vomited when someone grabbed my shoulders and shoved me forward.

Blondie pushed me into the back of the cop car, and I wriggled into my seat. Through the window, I saw Winterfield standing by the roadside, in shock, arms folded, his mouth hanging open and his eyes glazed over as he watched them take me away to Santa Cruz Juvenile Hall. Winterfield could walk away from this; it wasn’t his weed, it wasn’t his car. I knew that, but still I wondered: Why did it have to be me?

The juvenile hall sat at the top of a winding road that snaked into the hills above the city. I later learned that some inmates called it the Hilltop Inn. Behind scratched Plexiglas in the patrol car, I was tossed side to side with every curve, handcuffs digging into my wrists, but the physical discomfort paled next to my humiliation. In Chowchilla, only deadbeats got busted, men who chased high school girls and rode bicycles because they’d lost their license or couldn’t afford a car. Now I was a juvenile delinquent. Would people think I was like them? I could sense my life flushing down a toilet, but refused to break down, holding back a torrent of tears while the two cops chatted casually upfront.

When we arrived, I was uncuffed and escorted to a bare holding cell reeking of disinfectant. As an older officer took my information, the sterile surroundings seemed to shrink, pressing in from all sides. This space seemed designed for someone more dangerous than a teenage pot smoker. After he finished with the paperwork, I was left alone to stew and await whatever came next.

A smiling woman with glasses sauntered toward me holding a folder, looking like a librarian who had located a book I’d been searching for. I smiled back, hoping for good news. Instead, her sweet tone delivered a gut punch: since it was Saturday, my case wouldn’t be processed until Monday. I’d expected to be released into my parents’ custody that day—it wasn’t even noon! My stomach clenched as reality sank in. Two nights, at least, in juvenile hall.

I imagined my parents being told that I was locked up somewhere in the Santa Cruz hills. They didn’t even know where I was: it wasn’t the first time I’d vanished for a weekend. If they ever envisioned a worst-case outcome while I was away, this might have been it. Would they even want to come get me? Those thoughts hung over me, adding to the dread of my future punishment.

When the library lady left, I collapsed to my knees, pressed my forehead to the floor, and cried. An hour ago, I was a carefree, college-bound senior preparing to say sayonara to my hick hometown and start life in the City. Now I was locked up with kids who might be actual criminals. What the hell, I thought, pulling myself together and managing to smile, at least the Spanish I’d picked up washing dishes might come in handy here.

I’d always thought I was too smart for my hometown: I was going somewhere. Reality now seemed colder than the concrete that encased me. I looked on the bright side. Maybe I would end up pumping gas, driving a tractor, or welding if I was lucky. That was better than riding a bike, holding a beer bottle, and whistling at teenagers. Clutching the sides of my head as if I could compress myself, my life felt as empty as the cell around me.

What would happen next? Where would I stay, and for how long? Who would I meet, or more likely, confront? Juvie wasn’t exactly prison, but it felt like San Quentin. I took a few deep breaths, trying to chill and steady myself for the unknown. Then it hit me: the sizeable stash of dope found in my trunk. What were the laws regarding possession? Would I be charged as a dealer? Fuck! That’s exactly what I was, so why not? My eyes welled with more tears: maybe I wasn’t getting out of here on Monday.

After showering and changing into prison garb—thin drawstring pants and a T-shirt—I was led down a long, dark hallway lined with identical cells. I stared straight ahead, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. I was curious who was watching and what were they thinking, but not ready to make eye contact. The man escorting me stopped two cells from the end, turned the key, and swung open the door.

“This is it,” he said, gesturing inside as if he were a hotel porter. “Room sixteen.”

I heard the door clang shut: the cold, hard sound of metal snapping into place. The room was a perfect cube, roughly ten feet in each direction, made entirely of cement. A lump rose in my throat and a chill swept over me. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a harsh light over the spartan space. To my left was a toilet with a plastic sink mounted on the tank. A fresh white towel was draped across the sink, and above it, a tiny mirror that barely reflected my face.

Two thin mattresses were stacked like bunkbeds against the back wall. Neatly folded on the lower mattress were two brown blankets and a small pillow. Halfway up the wall, the top mattress stretched in front of a window covered with steel mesh.

My cellmate was sitting on the top bunk, his back propped against a side wall, legs stretched out. He was tall and thin, with red hair and freckles. He lowered his book and raised his eyebrows, looking me over as I walked in.

The sight of him reading surprised me. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t someone who looked studious. As we introduced ourselves, Rick’s soft voice put me at ease; he gave off a chill, mellow vibe. This guy isn’t scary, I thought. Still, I was on edge: I couldn’t shake the sound of the cell door slamming.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I got busted for pot.”

“Bummer. You from around here?”

“No, I’m from the Valley, down near Fresno.”

He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on me, like he was reading me now instead of that book.

“What are you in here for?” I asked.

“I lose it at school sometimes.”

“Really. How?”

“I hear voices.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“A doctor said I have schizophrenia.”

I barely recognized that word, but I knew it was serious. He didn’t seem crazy. Maybe he was messing with me. Or, maybe there was another side to him, one that came out when he got angry. Still, he was so scrawny that I wasn’t afraid.

He said he’d been there for several weeks.

Staring at the ceiling, he described the daily schedule in a flat monotone. “Three meals a day. We walk outside in the afternoon. That’s it.” He turned towards me. “But things can get weird at night.”

“Weird how?” I asked.

“Most of the guys here are Mexican. Sometimes, they’ll take a guy away. I don’t know where they go.”

“Why?”

“They sing, or yell, or curse. Bang on stuff. They make noise until someone comes into the cell and shuts it down.”

Rick’s voice carried no judgement. His tone was so cool, at times it seemed like he was describing somewhere else. Goosebumps rippled up my arm. “Do you know anyone here?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“I know a lot of guys.”

“Anyone you like?”

He paused. I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, “I don’t like anybody.”

Rick’s bluntness was disarming. Yet he seemed to like me, finishing most of his comments with a faint smile. Sizing up my carrot-top cellmate, I felt like I’d dodged a bullet. We were going to be fine together.

Having someone to sit with at meals or shadow during yard time could make the awkward, unnerving world of juvenile hall tolerable. Rick wasn’t tough, but he knew his way around. I was thankful when he introduced me to some guys at lunch. The food was surprisingly edible—"better than at summer camp,” I joked, and then wondered if anyone had ever been to summer camp. When Rick chuckled, it seemed like he had my back, and for a moment, it felt like we were friends.

The yard was where things loosened up. Inmates clustered in groups, sharing stories or pacing the perimeter. I overheard talk about the barter economy fueled by smuggled contraband: cigarettes, weed, even harder drugs. “You can get anything in here,” a wiry blond guy said, his voice low and inviting as he leaned in so close I could count his crooked teeth. This guy’s a real dealer, I thought, as his offer lingered in my mind.

On Sunday morning there was a knock at the cell door, and a guard handed me a package. It had a sticker on the outside; it was from Winterfield’s mom. Rick was as curious as I was, peering down from his bunk as I opened it to reveal a box of candy, some cookies, and a blanket. I just stared at the contents, everything around me faded as I felt a warm glow and thought of Mrs. Winterfield. She’d probably been wondering about me ever since her son got home. My chest tightened and I struggled to pull myself together and not cry like a baby.

“A blanket!” said Rick. “Wow.”

“She’s really nice,” I said, humbled by her thoughtfulness. But Rick’s comment rattled me. “I’m not surprised,” I added softly.

Rick had climbed down from his bunk and was looking into the package.

“We’ll have a nice dessert tonight,” I offered.

“You’ve only been in here a day!” he exclaimed, his eyes widening. I hadn’t seen him so animated since we’d met. “I’ve never received anything,” he said, his shoulders sinking.

I was speechless, watching the edges of his lips sag with the rest of his body. My excitement drained. I looked away, and for a moment I almost wished the package hadn’t come. When he quietly said what a good friend Winterfield must be, tears streamed down. After an awkward silence, Rick climbed onto his bunk and went back to reading.

I sat down, wiped my face, and stared at the open box; it seemed alive, like a heart beating at the center of the cell floor. I thought of Winterfield’s parents—kind people, probably sick with worry. It felt so good to know someone cared and yet here was Rick, living day to day, with no one willing to send him anything.

For the first time, I felt the warmth, and the weight, of what I’d taken for granted.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur, the meals became routine, the banter was guarded and I hung with Rick as much as possible. Still, we spoke only in fragments. I didn’t learn much about him; he had a very hard shell and I didn’t try to crack it.

Back in the cell, it was generally so quiet that you could hear the overhead bulb humming. But Sunday night, lying on our bunks waiting for the light to go out, shouting erupted from a nearby cell. Angry, violent banging followed. It sounded like all hell had broken loose.

“That’s Angel,” Rick said, unperturbed.

“Who’s Angel?”

“A bad dude. Him and Ricardo. Angel says he’s in here for murder.”

I blinked and swallowed. “What?”

Rick sighed. “Gang members. They like to stir shit up.”

The noise escalated—metal clanging, Spanish and English voices, and a strange swishing sound. “They’re plugging the toilet and flooding their cell,” Rick explained. “They just want to get moved somewhere else.”

Eventually, authoritative voices intervened, doors slammed, and silence returned. Just like that, we heard the bulb humming again. “Guess they’re gone,” Rick muttered, turning over.

A moment later the light went out.

That night was creepy, but I was never worried. By then I figured that strange shit happened in juvie but unless I was threatened, it didn’t much matter. Maybe I was becoming blasé like Rick.

On Monday afternoon, an officer came and announced that my dad had arrived. Despite the uncertainty, my heart skipped a beat at the thought of getting out. I shook hands with Rick, projecting a deadpan expression as though nothing special was happening. I told him he was a cool dude, thanked him for helping me, and wished him well.

I had feared the worst, yet we’d gotten on almost like friends. Over two and a half days, he hadn’t said or done anything strange. Whatever struggles he faced, he never let them show. Maybe he was holding it together for my sake. Whether he was or not, he helped me keep my shit together. I hoped that he would find someone to help him. Maybe someday he would get well.

I followed the officer down the corridor, retracing my steps from Saturday morning. I glanced into the passing cells, seeing inmates I now recognized. Someone called out and I stared straight ahead. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. After signing a form and collecting my personal items in a plastic bag, I was escorted into the lobby.

When I saw my dad, I smiled meekly and looked away. I could sense him looking down at me, his eyes drilling into me like never before. I’d always felt small next to him, but now I felt like a dwarf. He asked if I had all my things and was ready to go. I didn’t expect a hug or any show of affection. That wouldn’t make sense. We didn’t do that. He saw that I was all right; what was he supposed to do? He had come for me and that was enough.

Despite my earlier doubts, deep down I knew that he would come. He had always been there for me in his own way, a traditional way. How did I miss that? I now realized that not everyone could count on that.

Seeing my twin brother Teddy lifted my spirits. He greeted me with a smirk, bugging his eyes, and whispering, “Fuuuck.” It was his way of acknowledging what happened without making a big deal out of it. Tears formed as I watched him twist his face and say silly things, trying to make me laugh, like we were ten years old again. I shook my head. He was just trying to lighten a heavy situation, but I couldn’t play along. Even though I was smiling inside, happy as hell to see him, keen to tell some “prison” stories, it wasn’t cool to show it.

When he realized he couldn’t even force a smile, Teddy pivoted to updates about Chowchilla gossip. Normally, I would have cared, but I wasn’t listening. My mind was stuck on the trouble I was in and how long it might take, or if it was even possible, to reclaim my old life.

And then I saw Lori typing at a desk as we were walking out of juvie. I had to do a double take. What the fuck! Her younger brother had been a senior on the swim team my freshman year—we’d swum the medley relay together. My heart sank. How could a person from Chowchilla be working at the juvie in Santa Cruz?

Until that moment, I thought news of my drug bust wouldn’t make it back home. Winterfield wouldn’t say anything; he lived far away anyway. I figured the only locals who knew were my family. But Lori grew up in Chowchilla, still had relatives there, and she must have recognized my name. A jolt shot through me, the elation that had been building evaporated. I felt like hurling my bag of clothes against the wall. Instead, I stared at the ground and shuffled out. So much for nobody finding out. God damn it!

I was the only one who saw Lori and said nothing as we walked next door to the impound lot to retrieve my car. I had to drive it home and Dad let Teddy ride shotgun. Maybe he thought Teddy would benefit from hearing about my experience, that it might scare him straight. It didn’t work out that way. As soon as we pulled out of Santa Cruz, Teddy pulled out his own bag of weed.

“Jesus, Teddy. You brought that?”

“I thought you would want some, man,” he said, grinning.

Without a hint of irony, he insisted that we celebrate my release. As he rolled a fat one, I hesitated. Getting stoned thirty minutes after leaving juvenile hall felt absurd. But Teddy was going to smoke either way, and with hours of driving ahead, resisting seemed futile. I caved.

“Let’s hoot ‘em up,” he said, firing up the first of several doobies. Mick Jagger blared from the 8-track as Teddy bounced in his seat, clutching a phantom microphone and belting out Brown Sugar. We talked a little about the bust, but mostly we laughed, smoked, and sang, cycling through my favorite tapes. The Hilltop Inn faded into the distance, and with it, the intensity of the weekend. As we roared through the Pacheco Pass toward the San Joaquin Valley, Rick’s face began to blur in my memory, and my three days in juvenile hall already felt like a bad dream.

A few days later, Dad told me that he’d arranged for my case to be transferred to Madera County, where he’d just been elected a county supervisor. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded like a good thing. He wasn’t going to make my trouble disappear. I doubt he could have, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have tried. Still, it felt like my odds had improved.

I pled guilty to simple possession in court—somehow I wasn’t charged as a dealer. My lawyer told the judge that I was a first offender, a good student, employed part-time, and headed for college in the fall. I was stoked to hear him say that last part so confidently. I knew he was only making my case, but until that moment, nobody had assured me of anything.

I got three years of probation. I hung my head, ashamed to be convicted, but mostly relieved the ordeal was over. I knew that probation, however long, was a near total victory. I could have been locked up, missed the start of college, even had my admission revoked. I had regained nearly everything I thought I had lost. As we were leaving the courtroom, I had trouble remaining contrite. I wanted to party!

I didn’t say it at the time (maybe because I didn’t recognize the feeling), but I felt grateful, to my parents and for my life in general. I’d come so close to torching my plans for college, perhaps the rest of my life. And, incredibly, the story never reached Chowchilla. No one mentioned it, not at school, not at the pool, not a whisper anywhere.

As a graduation present, Mrs. Winterfield bought us tickets to see Bob Dylan in L.A., his first concert since playing with The Band in The Last Waltz. As I was anticipating that, a manager at the trailer factory called. Though I’d flunked the welding test, he was impressed by my “initiative” in applying before graduation and offered me a lesser job on the assembly line. I wondered if he would have been doubly impressed to know that I lied about my age; I wouldn’t turn 18 until September. Just like that, I had a union job that would carry me through to college, paying better than any of my friends’ summer work. I kept my future plans to myself. It didn’t seem right to talk about college with my coworkers on the line.

At the end of August, two weeks after giving notice at the factory, I loaded my car with a few suitcases in the trunk and scattered my stereo equipment across the backseat, lodging a speaker in each corner so I could still see out the rear window. I said goodbye to Mom and Dad with a quick wave from the driveway, like I was headed off to the grocery store.

I’d always imagined that leaving Chowchilla would be a moment of exhilaration. Instead, I broke down when I stopped to see my grandmother who lived on the way out of town. She was often quite critical of me, thinking I was disrespectful, shaking her head and muttering in Yiddish. Still, she was happy to see me, clasping my hands, her body trembling from Parkinson’s as a tear trailed down her cheek. Now I saw only a woman who had spent half her life alone after her husband died and loved me despite my faults. Embracing her body, so frail it could have snapped like a breadstick, made me cry. I wondered how many times I would see her again.

I wasn’t particularly close to my grandma either, I thought as I pulled away. But at least I had a grandma. If the past few months had taught me anything, it was that there’s a big difference between something and nothing.

It seemed like there was always someone there for me. When my mom and dad came up short, there was Mr. Chidlaw and Mr. Robertson, there was Mrs. Hobbs and Mrs. Winterfield, my cellmate Rick, and even the factory manager. And, of course, none of that would have mattered if, at the very beginning, Mom and Dad hadn’t been there for me when it mattered most—when I was unwanted. I knew what an empty cell was like and thanks to them I didn’t live in one.

I sped off towards San Francisco in a car stuffed with everything I owned and filled with hopes and dreams. I could have fired one up, but I didn’t need to.

Vertical Divider

Matt Ginsburg received an MFA degree in Creative Writing with a concentration in playwriting at San Francisco State University. His literary work explores his interest in business, economics, and politics. His plays have been read or performed at numerous theaters in San Francisco. He has also had three short stories and three works of memoir published in previous editions of Vistas & Byways. He serves on the Editorial Board of our publication and writes the PREVIEW section of each issue.

Other works in this issue:
Preview

Fiction:
State of the Union

Vertical Divider

NONFICTION

Releasedby Matt Ginsburg

We Welcome Comments

Released
by Matt Ginsburg