Bad Ink

Sitting at work on a Saturday night, or rather, early Sunday morning, I had a random memory of an inmate from a few years back. His name was Randy Manwaring. He had been serving time for a few months before I started working for the sheriff’s department. I started there in January of 2006, nearly three years ago now. Time sure does go by fast--that is for sure.

I worked days back then and always worked the same section every Monday and Wednesday. This was where I would first meet Randy. Randy was 46 years old when I met him, but in a way, he seemed so much older. I suppose his lifestyle is responsible for that.

A relationship developed between us—as much as one can between an officer and an inmate. I liked him. He was a pretty cool dude. Never gave me any trouble and always did what I asked. I would bust his chops and he would bust mine. Basically, just friendly banter to make the day go by quicker.

This type of fraternization is generally frowned upon in this business. Most officers want to rule with an iron fist—lay down the law and have men fear you. All that does is breed contempt, though. Sure, they will listen to you, but only because they don’t feel like being pepper sprayed and then thrown in solitary confinement. Instead, I use words and rationality to get things done. Go figure.

Randy had some of the worst ink I have ever seen. I mean, just horrible, horrible tattoos. The image that will be forever ingrained in my head is a tattoo that he has on the top of his forearm. It is simple three letters: P – A – M. A name—Pam. It literally looks as if a 3 year old drew on his arm with a cheap ballpoint pen. The kind the hotels give you with those cute little note pads that sit uniformly next to the phone. It was an atrocious sight and a constant reminder of what his life used to be like.

He is actually a cousin of the former Major League baseball player, Kurt Manwaring. Kurt had a hell of a career and made millions. Randy has had a career of regret and made millions of mistakes. Their two lives couldn’t be more different. Go figure.

One thing that I will always remember is that he did something that no other inmate has ever done—call me by my first name. He ALWAYS called me Eric. But not in a disrespectful or demeaning way. If there was another officer around or a supervisor was in the area, he would always call me Officer Crandall.

My nameplate says: E. CRANDALL, and one day he asked me what it stands for. People hardly ever ask me that, and when they do, I usually just tell them not to worry about it. But that day I told him. I’m not even sure why, other than the fact that he asked me sincerely. I am such a sucker for sincerity and honesty.

I usually tell people not to call me Eric. I hate it and usually prefer to just be called by my last name. Thinking about Randy (amongst other things) has made me want to stop being called by my last name. It is starting to take its toll on me. It feels so impersonal to me now, like something off an assembly line—no feelings, just an object. I fell in love with someone who NEVER called me Eric—not even during sex. It was odd, sure, but I didn’t let it bother me. Now, however, I regret not getting the chance to hear her say it.

Randy got released towards then end of 2006. I would be overstating it if I said his departure was “bittersweet” because that really wouldn’t be appropriate. I was glad he was getting out, for his own sake, of course. I wished him luck, he told me thanks, and we shook hands. I think that is another thing that the administration doesn’t like, but I could care less about that. I am a human being before I am a Goddamn corrections officer.

When Randy walked out that door, he took the name “Eric” with him. No one before or since has consistently called me that. If I could talk to him right now, I would likely embarrass myself with my ridiculous PMS-like emotions. But I would like to tell him thank you for calling me by my first name, no matter how much I hate that name.