The walls revealed the building’s geriatric age. When
the winter wind howled, the drywall covered concrete blocks whistled—the cracks
were almost too wide to continue to conceal the mice living inside of them—alerting
the residents looking for an alternative way out that Mother Nature would soon
offer a viable escape. Natural erosion was a prisoner’s best friend. Warden
Polish sat in his office, surrounded by floor heaters, wearing a heavy Aran
sweater atop his uniform, which was reinforced by his duffle coat to provide
additional insulation. Despondent over the state of disrepair of his ward,
known in the slammer business as the worst maintained penitentiary in the
system, Polish reviewed the prison’s budget with his head guard, John.
“At this rate, with a crumbling infrastructure and
overpopulation at an all-time high, the inmates are going to be running this
place really soon,” John complained. “We’ll be lucky if we get out of here with
our lives.”
Polish nodded his head. He couldn’t deny it any
longer. The cost of running the prison
continued to skyrocket. Dollars disappeared at a fast clip. There were inmates
seeking higher education funded on the taxpayers’ dime. Many had taken a page
from Suze Orman—they kept more of the pin money they’d earned working in the
laundry room or making license plates, instead of paying off the guards for
greater protection in the yard. Then there were those who made demands of the
prison librarian to acquire more up to date legal materials to be used for
their self-written appeals. All of these additional strains made the anticipated
government cuts, which threatened to lower the guard to inmate population ratio,
that much worse. In a few months, the prisoners would be able to use their
makeshift shivs to loosen the bars from the aging cement walls, finding
themselves in no time at his office door ready to plant those shivs in his
chest. Warden Polish was terrified.
“There’s just not enough money trickling in from the
state legislature because they’re not getting enough from Washington. If the
prison system doesn’t win the Powerball, the inmates are soon going to be out-mates,”
Polish surmised. “I’m just not sure where I can find more money.”
Polish had exhausted every moneymaking avenue at his
disposal to use the contingent of incarcerated men in his purview to help fill
the prison’s dilapidated coffers. He’d even tried using inmates to meet the “offshore”
staffing needs of call centres, especially those working for Air Duct cleaning
services, to no avail. Unable to exercise any self-control upon being cursed at
by the people they harassed with their spammy phone calls, the inmates started
to threaten the lives of the targets of their peddled services. Polish had no
choice but to tell the call centres to find better-behaved telemarketers in
Bangalore, India. At the end of his quickly burning tether, Polish was open to
any ideas, no matter how unconventional or from whom they came. John sat
opposite to Polish, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for the right moment to pipe
up.
“I’ve been toying with an idea. Before I share it with
you, you have to promise not to say a word until I’m done. And, you can’t laugh
at me,” John explained.
Polish smiled. “The floor is yours.”
“Well, as you know, I’m a single guy. I’m in good shape and have average looks. I
hold a job with decent pay. Own my own home. I have brunch with my mother every
Sunday after church. And, I’ve never been charged with a crime. But, for the
life of me, I’m still unmarried at 32, and Charles Manson has a hot chick on
the outside dying to marry him. A mass murdered with whom she can never really
play house with.”
Polish nodded. He, like every other law abiding male
in North America—and perhaps elsewhere in the world—couldn’t for the life of
him figure out how a woman would rather marry a murderer, behind bars for life,
than a man like John.
“I’ve done it all: EHarmony, Match.com, Christian
Mingle, Tinder, JDate, and even JSwipe—heck, Jesus was a Jew, too—but I’ve
gotten nowhere. I even paid one of those fancy, big city matchmaking services a
few thousand bucks out of my 401K to help me find the woman of my checklist
dreams, but she came up with nothing. I even thought about ordering a wife out
of one of those mail-order bride services, where you get a lady from Russia or
Asia, but quickly dismissed the idea. Most are sold into sex slavery and I’m
not one to exploit women—I like to think of myself as a feminist. So, one day
when I was eating my lunch in the guards’ lounge, I saw an eye looking back at
me through a sizeable hole in the walls. It was blind Big Eyed Pete—you know,
the one in for the triple homicide, who blinded his victims so they couldn’t ID
him in court if, on the off chance they survived. Suddenly, I realized that we
are sitting on a goldmine.”
“How do you mean?” Polish interrupted.
“I told you to let me finish, boss. Like I was saying,
we have the ability to make a shit ton of money using our inmate population. If
a guy like me can’t find a woman, but women want the pieces of crap in our
custody, we should take a page from the dating websites and profit off the bat-shit
crazy chicks out there who want to marry an inmate.”
“Are you suggesting we create a Tinder-like app for
dating the prisoners? Are you insane?”
“No, not Tinder. That’s a GPS-based app and it won’t
work. Our prison is in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town only has about 70
women in it, a third of whom are already inmates at our sister prison.”
“Then what are you proposing?”
John jumped out of his seat and joined Polish behind
his desk, where he’d remained seated. Without asking permission, John went
online to show his boss, who’d been happily married for thirty-eight year, how his
concept would work.
“So, you see, what I’m saying we do is set up online
profiles for all of the inmates who want to participate, and who haven’t lost
their Internet privileges for bad behaviour, and we mash up the Christian
Mingle/JDate-style sites with a mail-order bride concept. The women pay money
to join and where a match is successful, they pay another fee to have us
arrange their nuptial to the criminal of their choosing,” John advised.
“Let me see if I understand you correctly. You want us
to create, in essence, a mail-order groom service offering our single inmates
as grooms for sale to young women looking for husbands?” Polish asked. Sarcasm
dripped from each syllable enunciated.
John nodded his head like an eager puppy. “Absolutely.
And, only the single ones. We aren’t in Utah.”
“And, you actually think women are going to pay for
messed up men?”
“That’s putting it mildly. I’m telling you that if
Charles Manson can get married, so can any inmate. Chicks dig bad boys, and we
are plum full of them. So long as we don’t have any law holding us back, and as
long as we use the inmates who have email and Internet privileges, I think this
is a brilliant idea. The money we’d charge the women is no different than if
they paid it to EHarmony, with the exception of one additional fee to take care
of the incidental costs associated with marrying the men off. And, it’s not
like we’re tricking the women either—we’d be upfront about the mobility
restraints on the men on offer.”
Polish, who’d been mildly amused by his deluded
colleague’s imagination, flopped back into his chair. It was not a half-bad
idea. There were no laws in place preventing the implementation of such a
scheme. Polish knew he’d run out of options. He nodded his head at John.
“So, how do we do this?”
“We market it as a ‘last stop shopping before
spinsterhood or perennial bachelorhood.’ With gay marriage now rapidly being
legalized, we should showcase our male wares to both the female and male
populations on the outside. Don’t you agree?”
Polish smiled. He was no bigot or homophobe. Hell, he
ran a male prison and was a big fan of the cancelled TV series Oz.
“No inmate will be off limits…”John continued.
“Whoa, now! Given the nature of some of the crimes
committed by these bad guys, I’m not so sure that…” Polished piped up.
“Hey, if Manson can marry, then why can’t any one of
them?” John interrupted. “Well, not the ones who are already married.”
Polish knew John was right.
“Ok, so we slap on a ‘buyer beware’ disclaimer telling
the women, and men, that they order and marry their selected groom at their own
risk. No refunds. And, for the heterosexual unions, if they consummate their
union and it bears children, we give no guarantees on the quality of sperm or that
the inmate will pay any child support,” Polish prompted.
John agreed. “Makes sense.”
“One more thing, I think we put the unmarried inmates who’ve
got a real shot at winning their appeal and being sprung from jail, on account
of having been wrongly incarcerated, as our featured bachelors. After all, they
truly deserve a chance at happiness.”
“Yeah. And, if they really didn’t commit the crimes of
which they were accused, then once on the outside, their new wives really won’t
have anything to worry about. No chance for reoffending.” John was pleased. He
eagerly took notes as Polish laid out further ground rules for the new venture.
Based on John’s estimates, the prison would be in the black a few short months
after the program was off the ground. They’d be the most profitable prison in
the system.
“There’s one hitch. How do we actually market these
prisoners? Or, the platform in itself?” Polish pondered.
“I’ve thought about that, and I played around with a
few ideas. Want me to read them to you?” John asked. Polish vigorously nodded
his head.
“Ok. So, let’s say we have a death row inmate—the
baddest of the bad asses around—like a Scott Peterson. I suggest something
along the lines of ‘Manson may be off the market, but Scott Peterson is
still available. Sitting on death row, this is a limited time offer. Hurry
ladies before he’s served his lethal cocktail and can’t go for drinks with you.
And, if you do marry him, the Warden will personally oversee to it that you
remain unharmed during your conjugal visits.’ What do you think?”
Polish remained mum. Colour drained from his face at the thought of
chaperoning captives copulating. John recognized that his advertising copy needed
some minor adjustments. John sensed that his dark humour was a bit much for his
boss.
“Ok, how about if we have a white collar guy, like Bernie Madoff? We
could say something like ‘he may have
made off with people’s money, but he hasn’t yet made off with your heart. No
ponzi scheme in this love match. He’s
looking for someone who can bear him children, but don’t expect them to inherit
any of his money to when he dies. Everything’s been seized by the government to
repay his victims and debt to society.’”
Polish was speechless. Impressed with his guard’s creativity, although
slightly disturbed by it too, Polish thought that John’s energy needed to be
funnelled in another direction. Perhaps he just needed to get laid. Polish
shook his head.
“Maybe we don’t even advertise the men, only the service?” John
suggested, noting Polish’s discomfort with his copy.
“That may be the best idea you have yet. Hit me with your advertisement
that will attract women and men to sign up and pay up to date a deviant.”
John knew that the future of his proposed mail-order groom service
depended on his final elevator pitch. He stood up and smoothed out his uniform. He cleared
his throat, ready to hit Polish with the jingle he’d devised—a little ditty he
came up with when he’d been watching The
Little Mermaid with his niece.
Look at our men.
Aren’t they
neat?
Would you say
our offering’s complete?
Wouldn’t you
think we’re the prison,
The prison
that’s got everything?
Look at our men.
Husbands unsold.
How many men
can one prison hold?
Looking at
their profiles you think,
Sure, they’ve
got everything.
We’ve got
rapists and kidnappers a plenty.
We’ve got
robbers and murderers galore,
Want a serial
killer? We’ve got twenty.
Sign up NOW.
We’ll give you a deal, ‘cause we’ve got more…
John held up both of his hands. “I’ve heard enough!”
Polish stopped singing while he still had a job.
“I think I now know why you’re single, and it ain’t your singing voice,”
Polish offered. “You may be as twisted as the people you guard.”
John paused. “That may be true.”
“But, your twisted idea is going to make the prison a fortune, and it
will save our lives.”
“So, can I get a raise?”
Polish contemplated the question.
“No, but I’ll throw in a free profile for you as a featured groom. I
won’t even charge the extra marriage fee should a woman pick you. Something
tells me that the kind of woman you need is looking for a mail-order groom like
you.”
©
2014. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.
