The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [18]
We drove on a narrow street along the shore of the bay, uphill toward the visitors’ entrance. We were going a lot faster than I would have preferred. Being shackled in waist-chains with a weird seat belt across my chest while speeding around narrow lanes made me nervous.
We passed through several security gates—I could see Mount Tamalpais right across San Francisco Bay—to get to the front gate. We passed the prison parking lot, and there was my unit counselor, briefcase in hand, closing the trunk of the car. I made a mental note to tell him that I’d seen him. I was trying to distract myself from the feeling that I was in a car with three assassins—a car that made no sounds and told no tales.
When the east security gates swung open, we proceeded down the street to a stop sign, turned left onto a ramp, and then drove onto the freeway. I vaguely remember this from when I’d gone to court. So maybe, I thought, I’m going back to court. But noticing more and more sights I hadn’t seen before, I felt a sick sway inside: this was not the direction of the Marin County courthouse.
A sign on the freeway made my heart drop. It read EUREKA. I knew that was next to the Oregon border.
So that’s it, I told myself. I’m being transferred to Pelican Bay, all the way up north, far from my friends in the Bay Area.
At that moment the guard in the back seat spoke for the first time. “So, Mr. Masters, what’s going on with you? What’s the problem with your ears?”
Seconds passed. I could hardly piece together the words. “What?” I said. “My ears?”
“Yeah, your ears,” he said. “Why are we taking you to see a hearing specialist?”
“Woah! Wait a minute!” I said. “Is that where I’m going? To see a hearing specialist?”
“Yeah. We have you scheduled to be at Marin General Hospital for a 9:30 appointment.”
“You’re shitting me!” I said. I tried to bring my hand up to my head to scratch my brains clean, but the chain from my waist didn’t reach half that high.
“Nah! I wouldn’t do that,” he answered flatly. “You have an outside appointment to be examined by a hearing specialist.”
More seconds passed. Then it all came to me.
Nine months before, I’d gone to see a doctor in order to get authorization to use the visiting phone for people with impaired hearing. I’d been having serious difficulty hearing my visitors in the noncontact visiting booths. The only visiting booth with a telephone was designated for the hearing impaired. But the doctor said that he couldn’t provide me the permission slip I requested; I would need to be examined by a “hearing specialist.” It never occurred to me that he’d place me on a list to be seen by one, let alone that I’d be taken out of prison to go to Marin General Hospital.
I felt light as a feather. I wanted to fly, to open my eyes, to look around and remember everything. I couldn’t shift gears fast enough! Now I was on an outing, a sightseeing tour of the world that I hadn’t seen since I was a teenager. The summer sun reflected off the car window, and as I peered out I wished everything could slow down. My eyes became a camera lens, snapping pictures of cars, trees, and houses. I could breathe the air of freedom—sweeter than anything I could remember.
As I stayed glued to the window, I also began to remember how I’d lost my freedom, and all the pain I’d caused for so many people—those awful times. I felt the violence crushing me. As we passed a supermarket, I remembered how I’d once jumped up on a store counter shooting a gun. The thought froze me. How could I have done something like that? I became scared of myself, scared by those years. How could I have compromised my freedom, my sanity?
My spirit was now struggling to be free—free from the chain tight around my waist, free from the handcuffs, free from the conversations I was having with myself, free from the conversation with the guard about my ears and the hearing specialist.
Minutes passed. We got off the freeway and came into a lot of traffic. People of all ages were walking down the street, riding their bikes, sitting and