Chapter Four

Potato Zone

Jerry Chatworth was an experienced social worker who had seen all kinds of cases. Not much surprised him. He was a hardworking agency employee with several years of seniority, and he had a part-time private practice on the side. He actually managed to support his wife and their daughter on his income. Life was not easy, but he loved his work, his wife was understanding, his daughter was not quite a teenager, and he felt like he had done all right in his 38 years. What could go wrong at this point?

On Wednesdays, Jerry made his rounds at the county jail. There were always some of his alcoholic patients in jail, awaiting their court dates and sentencing. They were usually arrested for D.U.I., disorderly conduct, assault, or robbery. They were always under the influence of alcohol or drugs when they committed these crimes. This was one of the disturbing aspects of his job: the arrest rate and repeat incarcerations among a certain percentage of his caseload.

Jerry's optimism for his incarcerated patients was sometimes ridiculed and sometimes appreciated. Some inmates referred to him as Jerry the Jerk (and this was the least offensive of the derogatory pet names), and some referred to him as Jerry the Gentleman. Jerry had learned not to get discouraged with the abuse, and to accept the compliments graciously. He tried to maintain objectivity and neutrality, but he was human. Verbal abuse came with the territory. He knew that he had to behave professionally. But as a man he could not let the inmates view him as a sissy just because he was a social worker.

The drive to the county jail gave Jerry time to reflect. Today the heat was oppressive. Jerry turned his car's air-conditioner on high, put in a music tape, and mentally planned his advocacy strategy for his patient, William Bloomfield. William had gotten drunk over the weekend and was arrested for assaulting a police officer. Since he had prior convictions, William was facing a heavy prison sentence. Jerry was already thinking that the best he could probably do for William would be to get him a psychiatric exam and, pending the results, recommend that William be permitted to finish out the end of his prison sentence in a rehabilitation facility.

Jerry arrived at the county jail and went through the usual security check. The guard had brought William into the telephone room. William was already waiting on the other side of the security glass-divider. William looked strangely happy. He picked up the phone, greeted Jerry cordially and began talking non-stop without giving Jerry a chance to structure an interview.

"Look, Jerry, I already know everything you want to say. I could do your job standing on my head, I've been through counselling so many times. You're a good guy, but you don't have anything to offer me and society doesn't have anything for me, either. It's too late for me now. I couldn't catch on to things when I was in my 20's, and now I'm too old to start over. I'm 38 years old, Jerry. I never graduated from high school, never got a G.E.D., I have a prison record and I can't even find a minimum wage job."

"I got drunk on purpose, Jerry. I wanted to get arrested. Jail is where I belong. I don't have anything else and nobody wants me. My girlfriend threw me out. I refuse to live in a shelter. I'm not smart enough to go to school. The only thing I know how to do is to cook, and there aren't any restaurants that will take a chance with an ex-con like me. Employers are afraid I'll rob them or come to work drunk and wreck the place."

"It isn't like the olden days, Jerry. My parents were alcoholic and died young. My grandmother raised me. She had a little shack of a house and a vegetable garden. We grew potatoes, string beans, corn, cabbage, tomatoes. We had a few chickens for fresh eggs. We had a milking cow. We picked wild berries. We were poor, Jerry, but we ate well and we had each other for support. My grandmother had a million ways to cook potatoes. She fried them, baked them, boiled them, mashed them, and even made pies out of them."

"That was the only time in my life that I was ever happy. And the only time that I was ever sober. My grandmother kept me alive and I was happy with our simple existence. After my grandmother died, the state took her property and put me in foster care. I ran away and then I started drinking. I can't take the stress of modern life. Nobody lives like Grandma anymore."

"Don't feel bad, Jerry. It isn't your fault. I know you tried. This is my decision. This is the only way I can survive. The court will send me to the state prison. I know how to survive there. I'll find some other guys like myself. We'll play cards and make bets with our cigarettes and deodorant and writing paper and stuff. I'll use the exercise equipment a lot. I'll play basketball and watch T.V. I'll get enough food. I know how to watch my back. There are preachers who visit weekly, so I can even save my soul. So, don't try to talk to me about counselling and support groups and educational assistance and halfway houses. I have everything I need in prison."

"Besides, my being here keeps a lot of people employed. Recycling myself through the prison system helps keep the economy going. I'm a part of things just by being a drunk and a criminal. I know that sounds sarcastic, Jerry, but there's an eerie reality to it. Society doesn't need ex-cons taking jobs away from average citizens. Society needs us in here where our presence creates more jobs for average citizens."

"Look, Jerry, I'm going to hang up now. I want you to know that other than my grandmother, you're the only person that I ever trusted. Someday we'll meet again in the Sweet Bye and Bye. Grandma will be up there frying potatoes and she'll be singing and we'll all sit at the table together. Good bye, Jerry. Don't visit me again." William hung up the phone, stood up and turned his back against the window.

Jerry had no choice but to pick up his notepad and leave. He walked slowly and hesitantly out of the jailhouse. He had wanted to give William hope, wanted to make a plan, wanted William to still have the opportunity for a productive life. Jerry felt so helpless. He dreaded going back to the agency. He would have to write a progress note and then close William's chart. It would be a solemn process.

William's monologue would haunt Jerry throughout his career. William was convincing, and even enlightening in some aspects. Jerry could feel William's despair and he could respect the practicality of William's decision. Jerry had always coped by moving forward. The world is always changing, he reasoned within himself, and no one can stop it. Can they? Jerry located his car and just sat inside its air-conditioned cocoon for a while, perhaps himself trying to stop the world for just a few minutes. The heat was brutal today. Finally, he drove away. He had work to do. He would stop and grab a hamburger on the way back to the agency. (Written 11/17/03 - Reprinted 12/01/10)