how big is the applicant pool?

it's all about the clown paintings.

i didn't know about the prison gift shop until a co-worker of mine decided that she really wanted to try to have lunch at the prison. through little birds of dubious merit, she had heard that there was some sort of cafe at san quentin which was open to the public. it didn't really seem possible, what with all the violent offenders and pedophiles milling about the place, but what the hell, it couldn't hurt to find out. i tried to imagine what kind of food would be served at the prison cafeteria. would we only get spoons? i imagined bright fluorescents and the low murmuring of people talking about their incarcerated loved ones. i thought about mashed potatoes. definitely a lot of mashed potatoes.

it only took us a minute and a half to drive through the tiny town of san quentin and find ourselves at the gate of the prison. a guard stood bored at the entrance, contemplating the dinner that he would be able to enjoy later that evening. perhaps his wife would make lasagna. we followed the signs to the parking lot, stopped the car in the midst of cars plastered with anti death penalty bumper stickers and wandered to the gate only to discover that there was no food to be had. the cafe was a big deceit to get us to the prison gift shop.

a lonely inmate sits at the far wall of the prison gift shop and he's more than happy to tell you anything and everything about any item you appear to show the vaguest interest in. as a matter of fact, the cashier will talk to you about anything you're willing to exchange dialogue with, whether it be the weather, politics, or what it must look like a block down the road. you are his outside world.

clown paintings. spacescapes painted on black velvet. lots and lots of sketches/paintings/sculptures of women. birdhouses built from cigar boxes. you name it. if it can be made without a sharp object, you'll find your own hand crafted prison artwork, right here in the heart of san quentin. if you could have the same people manufacture each of these a thousandfold and include difficult to read instructions in simple, but confused english, this would be china.

the visit to the prison gift shop was several years ago. i had always lamented the fact that i didn't bring any money with me to buy a spacescape, but i figured, 'hey, san quentin's only five minutes away, right?'

take your tv time machine, crank the dial a couple years forward and a different co-worker asks me to take him to the prison gift shop. in anticipation of getting my very own velvet spacescape, i made my two dollar sacrifice to the atm and off we drove towards prison. upon arrival, we were dismayed to discover that the shop was closed.

closed?

the sign in front of us taped to the front door indicated shop hours of 9-12 on monday, wednesday, friday. i checked all timekeeping devices and was assured that we fell well within those parameters. what was the deal?

a different guard stood in front of the gate that sat adjacent to the gift shop. i suspect that he was contemplating more a lunch plan rather than dinner this time. he just kind of had that look to him. distraught over the state of the gift shop and the tantalizing birdhouses which lay within, anthony approached the guard and asked why we were denied our gifts.

"oh... we had to close it down for awhile," replied the guard, a little too jauntily for prison. "the cashier's on parole."

dejected, anthony walked back to the gift store window and peered at the items inside.

"don't worry," i reassured him, as he longingly looked through the glass and bars towards the incarcerated artwork "we'll try again in a couple weeks..."

"...maybe he'll break parole."

<03.17.02>

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