prodigal-gamer

The letter arrives on a Friday, two weeks exactly after my sentencing. I have known since then I was going to lose a not insignificant portion of my life to the Kentucky Department of Corrections. Now I have a start date for that sentence, more or less. The state has given me a two-week window within which to report to my local jail: Big Sandy Regional Detention Center. Jen and I decide it’s better not to delay this any longer than necessary. We have already transferred all of the financials to her solely, so I’m able to “enjoy” the weekend. We have dinner at Rocco’s, our favorite local restaurant. For being effectively in the middle of nowhere, they serve the best Italian food I have had anywhere. I have the calamari appetizer, Italian wedding soup, lettuce wedge, and bone in veal chop. I wash it down with half a bottle of wine, Louis Martini, Jen’s favorite. I’m stuffed, but force myself to have a piece of carrot cake and coffee as well. “Daddy,” Erin—one of our favorite waitresses—

“Patterson!” Sgt. Green calls my name. “What?” I ask reflexively, but quickly add “yes, ma’am.” I try to be respectful toward all the correctional officers, but I actually like Sgt. Green. I’ve always had a thing for younger women. And red heads. Under different circumstances, I think we could have been good friends. “Quit daydreaming and get over here. You’ve got a visitor.” “What?” I again ask reflexively. I’m six weeks into my sentence, and prison life has already made me mentally sluggish. I hate to think what a dimwit I’ll be by the end of my sentence. But a visitor! “I’ll escort you to the cafeteria.” “I know the way, ma’am.” “Obviously, but it’s policy. I thought you were supposed to be smart.” “I don’t know what ever gave you that idea, ma’am.” “Me either.” We proceed in relative silence—just the slap of my bare feet and the clomp of her boots on rubberized concrete—to the cafeteria. “Patterson, party of two,” she says, making a sweeping motion with one arm toward an