Page 40
May 27 2012
Day 21
Subject: When I Spilled 16 Trays
Today I was a cart runner with Beau. As normal. Breakfast, we delivered eggs, cheese, and bagels. At lunch, we delivered mixed vegetables, garlic bread, “american chop-suey” and strawberry rice crispy treats. All made with love, to be sure.
While delivering trays and turning the cart into the doorway of D-Pool, I misguided the momentum needed to slide the cart smoothly into the doorway while I directed it. While turning, it slammed into the jam of the door, causing a mountain of vegetables and chop-suey to rain down upon me as I quickly struggled to hold the trays back and keep them from falling.
It was over in an instant. Peas, string beans, noodles, and ground meat littered the floor for about one hundred square feet. My heart had stopped. My face was red-hot, and I could feel my torso dewy with instant perspiration from the embarrassment. How could I have screwed up something so simple?!
The guard in cell block D, Mr. Coyle, who must have heard the sound of falling trays and seen the reactions of his inmates inside, turned to check out the scene from the window. He was not smiling, but in shock at what was surely an unexpected view.
“I’m so sorry!” I announced so he could hear me through the glass. “I’ll clean it up!” I said, as if to the benevolent overlords who I assume are listening to my every word through the call boxes that line the hallway walls.
“How many trays fell, gentlemen?,” the disembodied voice in the wall responds. I recognize the voice to be Mr. Pangelini, an exceptionally kind and professional jail guard who the inmates call “George”. I count the wounded as I pick them up off the ground as quickly as possible.
“I count 15. We’re getting a recount now,” I said to the voice in the wall. “What do you count, Beau?,” I ask as Beau lifts the last of the fallen to my cart.
“15 trays, 1 suicide, and one muslim,” we finally respond.
“Okay, boys,” says George.
When I returned to the kitchen with the now-ruined trays, I saw Don, the kitchen manager, on the phone. I could see him mouth the words “15 trays” to the men preparing the meals. I had recounted them while walking over and realized it was actually 16. I got the attention of one of the workers and communicated on my fingers, “It’s 16!” No one is happy, and I feel my body overheating with embarrassment. My feet felt detached from the ground ¨C could I be dreaming?
“I’m really sorry,” I say to the room when the kitchen door opens. Beau and I take the carts for the next block and continue our route. When we turn the corner, we can see that the guard on shift supervisor duty (I think Mr. Irwin is his name) is standing with two boys from R-block who are holding mops. “I’m sorry!” I say to all of them as I pass.
“It happens,” the friendly guard responds with a smile.
When I return to the kitchen for the last of the lunch carts, Scott the jail chef turns to the window and puts his fists on his hips like a superhero. In a booming announcer voice, he says, “Captain Cliche says, It’s water under the bridge’.” I thank him for his forgiveness as I accept the final cart. “It happens. Just keep it under 100.” He smiles and I feel somewhat relieved.
When I return to R-block to eat my meal, the guard, Mr. Delpha, says smiling, “16? That’s got to be close to a new record.”
“Ah, well, yeah. That’s not the kind of record I want,” I respond sheepishly, hoping the guys in R-block are blissfully unaware of my slip-ups.
“What’d you do, hit the door?,” Mr. Delpha asks.
“Yeah.”
“It happens,” he reassures me. I’m still embarrassed and feeling like I need a shower to wash off the combination of sweat and shame.
I fly up the stairs to wash my hands off in my cell, and as I wash them, I replay the incident in my head. Most striking to me is the consistently positive and professional attitudes of every single jail employee I encountered during the mishap. What a relief. This could have been made so much worse.
I am my harshest critic. All it would have taken for me to feel the need to lock myself away in my cell for the rest of my day is one snide comment from a jailer. That never happened. No one rubbed it in. Everyone tried to make me feel better. Of course I will never let something like that happen again.
I am impressed beyond words at the professionalism and kindness with which the staff handled my mistake, and I am grateful to them all. I feel so fortunate to be surrounded by such wonderful people. I only hope this blog post can serve as a small token of my appreciation for their understanding. Thank you, everyone.
If you were moved by this story and would like to reward excellence, please write to the jail superintendent, Rick Van Wickler, at 825 Marlboro Road, Keene, NH 03431. Or call them at 603-903-1600, and leave a message.
