One Day We'll Get Out

[Marie]

NOTE: This really happened. All work is copyright KMG, 2005. This is also being published elsewhere for future printing.

(link to nano profile) (http://www.nanowrimo.org/userinfo.php?uid=37459)
----

I had always been 'the good girl'.

I was born in Houston, spending my time bouncing around during childhood between family in Detroit and almost-religious trips with my mother to live in Houston. When things didnt' work out, men didn't work out, or she just didn't have a job anymore, we headed back up to Detroit again. There are blurry images in my mind from her having fights with various guys over big, or little things, driving off angrily or just plain running away, even once I saw her slapped pretty hard. But I was little, there was nothing I could do to stop any of that. Be the good girl and ride it out, hope for something better one day.

One day that day came, and I was sent away from her to live with my dad. I was 13 then, and hurt by it. I didn't want to be seperated from her, but at the same time the constant moving and boxed-in feeling was getting to me. I shut down at school; my grades fell swiftly from As and Bs to Ds and Fs. I turned for mothery guidance to my stepmother, who was happy at the time to help me along and get my feelings sorted out. At the same time, she was frustrated by my mother constantly calling and trying to interfere with the family, and soon began shutting out the rest of my family up north from calling as well. Things got ugly quickly, and the best way I could resolve any of that was to just stop trying to contact anyone in Michigan for a while. It worked, it worked for a while.

For years I walked on eggshells to make my father and stepmother happy. 95% of the time dad was working, and I managed to adjust to stepmom's rules pretty quickly. She took naps in the afternoon, so I had to be pretty quiet around the house. I made sure to have everything clean before she got home. I looked down or out of the window when riding, so she wouldn't think if I glanced at her, that I was giving her a stupid look. If I did, she would yell and lecture me for hours about what jealousy does to people, usually ending with me in tears and with a tremendous headache. But it wasn't so bad, not really. Things could always be worse in Detroit, I reasoned.

As I left middle school and began the 9th grade, things went downhill again. I was 15 and still too young to get a job, and so weekends were spent in the house with the stepmom. Usually she had nothing to do but watch tv or run errands, and that resulted in trouble for me. She found something wrong almost all the time, and yelled at me for it. Soon, that involved beating or wild, crazy, swinging-the-arms-like-crazy-and-will-most-likely-slap-you-this-way motions. When something was put out of place, it was my fault. Sometimes she came around and thought an object sitting on a table had been moved and put back, then came to question me about it. When I told her I hadn't touched her things, she then would accuse me of lying. More yelling, more beating. I would end up in the corner, crying and wishing to be far, far away.

I reached my senior year, holding a job at a local movie theater and working as much as I could just to stay out of the house. I gave my parents whatever money they wanted...just as long as they stayed away from me. I used to work evenings on Fridays at the theater after school, and usually I wouldn't be picked up from work an hour, two hours, even three or four hours later. The stepmom would eventually drive by in a car with rollers in her hair, exclaiming about how it was my father's turn to pick me up that day, but he'd fallen asleep on the couch instead. Then I'd end up hearing it about how terrible it is in Detroit and how I was saved from all of that and how I should still be thankful my father took me in. Right.

I graduated. I got another job during the weekdays. I had no days off now, but I didn't mind. I got credit cards, I belonged to a temp agency. I wore nice suits and ate at nice restaruants during lunch. I was getting somewhere, yet I wasn't. At home, my father and I were already fighting for about a year. I had bruises sometimes but covered them up, they were hardly on my face. Once my stepmom gave me a large bruise on my eye from yelling and flailing her arms at me again, and her marquee ring caught across the skin under my eye. She told me to just cover it with my hair and that I would be fine.

I got depressed again and let things go. I tried applying for college and had everything payed at a local community campus down the street, but had to pull out after my father told me the campus was 'too far' for him to drop me off at. This was months after I heard it for hours about why I wasn't in college, I'm wasting my life, do something with myself already. Houston is expensive and despite the jobs I worked, I still couldn't get out on my own. At least, that's what I was led to believe. I began charging whatever I wanted, because I figured at that point I was never going to leave, and so I'd be able to pay everything off. I couldn't get anything refunded at the college, though, so that maxed out more than one card. I transferred the debt to one larger card and let the others go, planning to pay it off.

But soon nothing I was doing was enough, and I contemplated suicide. I just couldn't handle the pressure at home anymore. I was also depressed about not being able to go to school.. I was sure all my other friends were at U of H or Baylor and having the time of their lives. Meanwhile, I was stuck with abusive parents...who happened to be using me for money. My dad lost his job at one point, and I covered everything for him--on my own. But I was still being convinced having a one-bedroom was too much for me, with bills and such added on.

I don't remember where I heard about Job Corps, but it seemed like a good answer to me. I went down to the local employment center, where I filled out an application and watched a video. It showed students living in dorm-like quarters, living and going to vocational classes to better their lives. Just like a college, I thought! They seemed so happy. I wanted to be happy... and so my mind was made up. The counselor told me the campus in Texas closest to me was located in San Marcos, and that once my application was processed, I could leave the very next day. I told her I wanted to at least go on the tour the week after and see what the campus was like. The lady obliged and penciled me for a tour. She said to get up early, because the bus would leave at 5am.

...That morning I got up at three. That morning I faced hell.

[Marie]

Two weeks later. My father was driving me to the Greyhound station on Main street in Houston. As always, he had the talk radio station going, but I barely heard any of it was I was staring out the window again. We got there and he helped me lug everything to the main terminal, where he hugged me goodbye and told me not to get pregnant. Then he walked off.

The bus didn't board for another hour, so I sat in one of the hard plastic chair and huddled with my luggage the best I could. Virtually everything was with me--a large green suitcase full of clothing, a backpack with the other pair of shoes I wasn't wearing and my personal toiletries, and a smaller bag with personal things, like books, comics, my art supplies, and the coat I wasn't wearing. It was summer, and the only reason I'd worn one of my suede jackets was because it didn't fit in any of the other bags.

There were familes scattered throughout the lobby. At first I didn't see it, but then lot of them I began recognizing from the tour I'd taken two weeks ago. Our bus began boarding, and the students crowded over to the side to throw our luggage into the bottom and take a seat inside. After an hour or two of extra waiting, the driver finally sat down behind the wheel and took off for San Marcos.

It wasn't until we were halfway there that I really got to know any of the other twenty-something students travelling with me. There was Peter, a short guy with glasses who was slightly built, sporting a tattoo on one arm. He was already in the back of the bus making out with a girl named Becky. Becky was short too, and rotund for her age. She had a babyface, but eyes that portrayed she knew more than she let on.

In front of me was a large girl named Francine. She was taller than anyone else and looked like she might've been related to the Hulk. Another tall guy named Nubari was not too far away, talking to a short, frail boy named Eric. Nubari had a wide smile and pleasant tone, but when he spoke, his words were a little misplaced and eclectic..think of a black Pauly Shore, and you've got this guy. Eric was fair and talked quickly; he practically burst with excitement. Later on, he would become a good friend.

Once into Caldwell county, we passed a few signs advertising the famous limestone caves, then turned onto a long stretch of road. And there, our new home dawned.

The San Marcos Job Corps facility was formally an Air Force base..well, no wonder it looked like a prison. I'd seen it on the tour and I thought it was okay-looking, nothing special but I was sure it was better than home. Do you remember the movie "Medal of Honor"? The part where Denzel Washington's character visits Lou Diamond Phillips at the military base where he was stationed? The very Job Corps I was headed to was used for that setting. They had students dress up in military attire and walk around the educational complexes, which were really just remodeled old barracks. The campus wasn't really even larger than two square miles, I imagine.

There was a short stretch of road leading from the main security gate, where the bus pulled up to a small welcome center. We were told to get off, leave our luggage with a few security officers, and then sign in. Students were able to call home if they needed to...I can't remember if I reached anyone or not. A table full of hot dogs, burgers, chips and general partyfoods were set out for us to eat. More students arrived on Greyhounds, one from the Texas-Valley area (Harlingen, McAllen, and Edinburg), while another carried students from the Dallas area. We mingled for an hour and played board games, then were given a small orientation by two RA's.

The RA's there were different than at college. Although at this point in my life, I've never met a college RA, the ones at Job Corps were more like babysitter/teacher than what I imagine they should've been. They told us the rules of the campus, and reiterated the fact that if we left at any point or got kicked out before graduating, we forfeited our transition checks--roughly $2000 for us to use to move out on our own, go back home and buy a car, whatever we wanted. That money was promised to us, and that's what a lot of us were after. It would help us start over.

Ten o'clock came; we were expected to clean up the lobby and go to bed. There were two halls at the welcome center, each being for the respective gender. The girls' wing was a row of large, metal bunk beds with a thin mattress; we were each assigned a blanket, cover blanket, fitted sheet, and pillow; everything but the pillow could be taken with us when we were officially out of orientation and moved into the normal dorms with all the other students on campus. The bathroom and showers resembled those at a high school gym; the only tv was the one in the main lobby. We fixed our beds when they were assigned to us, then unpacked our things when our luggage was returned from being searched.

Each student's locker was large, about eight or nine feet tall and seemed to be made of the same material as the bunk beds. There was a top storage compartment for shoes and books, while the main compartment consisted of a built-in dresser, hanging room for pressed clothes, a mirror and a small rack for a towel or shirt you wanted to set out from the rest. I unpacked the best I could and left the rest inside my luggage at the bottom of the closet. The RA for the girls' wing advised us to not leave anything out, or else it would be stolen from other students. I remember specifically about how my luggage wouldn't fit at first, but after hearing the RA, I made it fit.

The next day, everyone was taken in seperate gender-groups to either visit the uniform department or the clinic. The girls were sent to be examined by the nurses first. We filled out long forms and questionairres, then got our shots. If a student didn't bring his or her shot record with them to prove they'd already received such-and-such type of shot, they got them all anyway. We gave a blood test, urine test, then signed a confidentiality form about any STD test results we would get back.

Wait, STD test?

Job Corps students were from all of the place. From the small farms in Texas to the Big Easy, we all were fit together to learn at one former military base, all two thousand of us. Naturally...

A girl raised her hand during a Q&A session at the clinic and asked how many students at Job Corps typically have AIDS. One nurse told her, in all honestly, there are a few. No names could be given, due to possible persecution those students might face.

We cringed and gave each other suspicious looks.

The RA who drove us to the clinic left for a short while to get the bus, while any girl who was done with her exam was to stay under a nearby gazebo and wait for the lady to return. I sat down and sighed; my arms were covered with band-aids from shots. That day I wore shorts, but tried to stand with my back against the wall or sit away from other people.

Two students dressed in scrubs were close by--a boy and a girl. They both shared a cigarrette as the boy walked about the gazebo, twitching and muttering excitedly. I blinked and looked alarmed. Josephine, who was sitting not too far from me, wrinkled her nose with a disgusted expression.

"The fuck's wrong with him?" she asked the female nurse.

The girl laughed. "Oh, he just smoked some weed with embalment fluid. Fucks you up sometime." The boy twitched again and laughed. His counterpart frowned at him. "Boy, sit the hell down!"

He sat, then turned his head to look at me. "Wass'yo name?"

"....Marie."

"Marie. Marie, you got a boyfriend?"

No, but I'm always up for someone who likes to smoke weed with fluids used to prepare dead people for burial.

The girl smiled apologetically at us, then yanked the boy up by the arm. "We gotta go. Bye y'all!" And off they went, back to the clinic.

Almost immediately after they were out of the sight, the RA returned with a white schoolbus to transport everyone in. "Okay, everyone on!" She smiled. No one said anything about the pothead and his friend.

We got on, when a nurse from the clinic came out with a few papers in her hands. She boarded the bus, tapping the RA on the shoulder and whispering something to her. Then the RA stood and look out towards us.

"One of you is pregnant."

A small gasp. Which one of us was? Well, I personally didn't have anything to worry about in that area, so I just sat and stared.

"...Melanie? Melanie Smith, go with the nurse."

The girl everyone had dubbed Princess, because of her small frame and delicate nature, stood up slowly and headed back with the nurse inside the clinic. The RA shut the door. "She'll be fine." And back we went on our way to the welcome center.

We got back and sat back down in the lobby again, not knowing what to do at that point. Peter was sitting behind me and talking to a friend, when he noticed my lower right calf; it had a large bruise spanning neary the entire thing.

"Where'd you get that from?" he frowned and pointed.

A pause and a smile. "The tour."

[Mushu]

hope there is more, i hooked :D

[Marie]

***
I woke up the next morning with a start. You know how you travel somewhere, sleep in a strange bed, and then realize the next day you aren't sleeping in your own anymore? That's how I was. Then I realized what I'd done yesterday--

"Get up! Everyone get up! It's 5:30, time get dressed!"

The RA was already rousing everyone out of bed. There was no time to stop and remember everything from the other day at the moment. I gathered my towel and a change of clothes, padding off towards the bathroom.

Now this is true for even the regular dorms; there are only so many showers for each wing. There is a seperate place for toilet stalls, and a row of sinks complimented by a large, dingy mirror, but there is almost always a line to take a shower. I guess with twenty-something girls in all and only four or five stalls to take a shower in, you have to wait; that can be true anywhere. I got in line and made a mental note to wear my slippers next time--another thing that is true about the girls' dorms is, there is tile everywhere. It's usually the same decor of tile for the entire floor of each wing, all of it being very cold.

There is also a limited amount of privacy, depending on which dorm a student is placed in. Some dorms are large, hollow spaces separated into "rooms" by setting the large lockers next to one another to carve out living quarters, while the other half are rooms set aside for four or five students to live in at a time. Either way, if privacy is a must for dressing, then you have to resort to doing that in either the shower stall, or the bathroom stall. Neither one of those are the best methods in the world; shower stalls usually end up in wet socks, and the bathrooms have unflushed or stopped-up toilets most of the time.

So like most girls, I just went back to put on clothes next to my bed.

We were gathered again in the lobby and escorted to the cafeteria. By then it was seven; the streets were filled with students going to and from their respective dorms. There were almost no trees, save for a few next to the administration building; the rest of the campus landscape consisted of grass and dried-up soil. This was the countryside, after all, and central Texas isn't too forgiving with its supply of ample shade.

I do have to hand it to Job Corps for their design of the cafeteria; instead of one large, chaotic line for serving students in, it is separated into four, color-coded rooms; orange, green, blue, and red (which I'll explain later). We were placed together in one of the former rooms. Sometime in between that, Princess returned (probably the other night and I didn't notice). She told me the administration would let her stay, but only up to a certain time; by her third trimester, she would have to leave. No girls were allowed to give birth while they were still on campus, nor were pregnant girls allowed to enter the program. Someone else asked if she was going to keep the baby or abort it, to which she replied she didn't know.

There were two incidents later that week at the welcome center. The first happened a day or so later, after we took a tour of all the vocations offered by the campus. I was back in the girls' dorm again, trying to write a letter to some friends. There was a local post office on the campus, and if you had mail, they would put your name on a list to let you know to collect it. Every day people went by during lunch to check the list, happy when their name appeared. Those who didn't and were waiting for something would sadly walk away.

The radio was blasting; we all hung out towards the back of the wing, where there were two windows and a locked door. You could see easily through all of them just by pushing aside the curtain. Shaunda, a girl who was particularly fast and loved to dance, peeked out one of the windows when she heard a knock from the other side. Then she laughed and turned back to us.

"There's some boys out there!"

Living on Job Corps is like living in a very small town. We were set away from the rest of San Marcos, being a community within ourselves. So when new arrivals come every week, a few boys from the regular dorms take it upon themselves to sneak over and check out the new line-up.

There were two of them, waving and beckoning for us to come out and join them. More laughter, followed by a few more of us going to the window to look out.

Another student hung back towards the front. "The RA's coming!"

We ran to our beds. It was supposed to be lights-out by that time. The RA stormed in and turned the lights on again after we were hidden under our blankets. Outside, she said, two more RA's were looking for the boys who'd come over. They knew what was going on, and as punishment, we had early curfew the next day.

Two days later, there was a lights-on in the middle of the night. The RA told us to get up and go to the lobby. Everyone dragged out and sat down, while the boys were filed to join us in a single line and sat one at a time. One particularly short student didn't join us right away, but did later on. His name was Tom and was a stuttering Jesus-freak.

The RA's yelled at everyone for their pranks. Apparently, none of the other boys like Tom and decided to put shaving cream in his bed. When Tom woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, they quickly rushed in and filled his bed with the cream. I twisted my mouth and thought; either the guy was constipated, or this was a prank that involved a lot of people. Eric told me later there were a lot of guys who decided to prank him at once, so that made sense to me. When poor Tom returned to his bed, he plopped right down into what was waiting for him without even looking.

We were reprimanded again with an early curfew. I sighed and leaned back in my chair as the lecture about how we were lucky to be here went on and on. Somehow I'd heard the same song before.

[keitaidensha]

this is horrible crap

and by horrible crap i mean i can't wait for the next one

[Marie]

Uhm..thank you! X3

[Marie]

It was a beautiful clear Saturday. The clouds, which hanging ominously overhead all week, somehow swept over San Marcos without so much as a drop of rain, leaving the sun to shine down pleasantly over the campus. Each student was ordered to pack their bags again, taking out their things from their locker and returning it to their luggage for moving to the new dorms. If a student had run out of room from accquiring new things, they were given plastic garbage bags to put their extra things in.

There were a lot of them. Some kids got the bright idea of sticking tags or writing on the white ones so no one would confuse one bag for another. Other students, like me, stuck with hoarding their things to make sure no one grabbed theirs.

A long white bus pulled up to the center again. One of the RA's carried a clipboard to the front of the lobby entrance and called out names. When we answered, she told us which dorm we would be moving to. The process of taking students in groups to their new dorms took about half a day; I was one of the first to go.

Each dorm is sectioned into clumps of three or four long buildings around the campus. Because the residential and instructional areas are never mixed together, there are sporadic places where each section will pop up. The gym is closest to the entrance of the campus, across the street from the clinic. A clump of dorms lay across another road from there, and further dorm-clumps behind the gym. The local pool hall, which holds two television sets, multiple playing tables, and couches to rest on, is nestled in a corner between two more living zones.

Aside from that, each clump was given a nickname. The clump farthest from anything, shaded by the unsual central-Texas-sight of palm trees and a large willow, was dubbed "Africa".

"Why Africa?" I asked someone later. They said it was because security never patrolled that area, and so no one could hear you scream.

***

My turn finally came for moving. I boarded the bus with my things, setting my luggage on one seat and sitting close behind it. The other girls with me did the same; there were only a few dorm buildings that were co-ed, the rest were single-gender living areas. Students in co-ed dorms were watched closely to make sure nothing was going on, i.e., girls and boys sneaking to the other side to have sex with one another.

We arrived at a nondescript-looking area with three dorm buildings; in the middle was a gazebo, with a few picnic tables and benches for resting or talking. Because it was Saturday, there were no classes. Students were out on the lawn, playing frisbee or football, or walking off somewhere else. A distinct whirring sound came from within one of the dorms.

I was ushered with a few other girls to one building in particular. As we approached the entrance, I realized the whirring sound was coming from inside.

The RA stepped in first, glancing at the floor before moving aside to let us see. A young girl was operating a buffer on the tile area of the entrance.

The dorm smelled of cleaning agents. A big-screen, propped up on a small, carpeted platform, was surrounded by a few sitting chairs. Small potted plants lined the windowsils, complimented by framed generic art and bland wallpaper. Slightly cracked paint ran along the top and bottom borders of the wall, stretching all the way into each wing and back. The sound of doors slamming and a radio playing from somewhere echoed from each wing.

An old woman sitting at the desk next to the entrance took our names and ID numbers, making us sign in before giving us a room to set up in. I was placed in a room aaaaaall the way to the back; I dragged the luggage halfway down the hall, having to stop and move around another girl using a buffer on the tiled floor of the south wing I was staying in. I wondered why there were so many buffers, or why they would want them in the first place when the tile was so old, but kept going anyway.

I was given a locker number and a bed once I arrived in my room. The walls were not covered with wallpaper there, but were hardwood. Two bunk beds were set up inside; no one else was present but I could tell other people were living in the room already. The RA gave me a lock and key, telling me never to lose each one, then shut the door behind her as she left.

And so I started unpacking.

***

Twenty minutes later.

"Helloooooo?"

No response.

"Can somebody help me? ..Please?"

No one ever told me how to get to the top bunk bed. True, I knew how to climb one, but the ladders on these were larger than anything else I had ever seen, with huge gaps in the rails, making it difficult to get on. When I reached the top, I realized just how small the mattress was. How the hell was I going to sleep? What if I rolled off? It was along way down. I toss in my sleep, and the thought of me falling off the edge and busting my skull on the cold, hard tile gave me a new sense of fear. I could just see it--my brain spilling out in a bloody mess all over everything, a terrible end to a life that was barely beginning.

"Helloooooooooo?!"

The door suddenly opened, and a rather tall girl wandered in. She glanced around quickly before moving to exit again.

"WAIT!"

She glanced up, blinking at me in surprise. "Oh, you new?"

I nodded and asked her to help me get down. She laughed and proceeded to show me how to.

[Kenshin]

Excellent story, Marie. ;) Looking forward to the next one.

[Quartermaster]

Hey Marie, dn't take this the wrong way please, your storie(s) are excellent, but will it/they ever end or does it end with "and yesterday I started writing"?

The reason I'm asking is b/c your stories are great and I can be more patient for stories that really don't have an end.

[Marie]

It ends, trust me. This is my life I'm writing about, but this part definately has closure.

EDIT: Okay, I think I know what you're asking. I'm sorry I haven't been posting faster, but these are actually memoires, and sometimes it takes a bit to remember and put things in correct order. Like the first week I was at Job Corps, that took a bit for me to stop and think about what was going on that first week. After I get into it, it'll go a lot smoother.

[Quartermaster]

Yeah, the closure part I meant. Can't wait for the next part.

[co_delphi]

I find it very disturbing that your story of job corps mirrors my experience of the Army so well. Even though I have lived pretty much everything you are telling, I can't wait to see how this continues. I'm halfway tempted to do similiar just with my experiences but I doubt I can write as elloquently as you.

[Marie]

That night, the new arrivals in the dorm were forced to introduce themselves. Each dorm meeting convened at 10pm daily, signaled by a loud schoolbell in the hallway; there, dorm leaders would make general and campus announcements and the RA would speak to us if he or she needed to. RA's rotated dorms regularly, so we usually dealt with many people at a time.

The lobby of the dorm I stayed in was rather small, and seats filled fast. If no chairs were available, it was plausible to sit on the brick platform just below the windowsil, surrounding the defunct fireplace. But by the time I arrived at the front that evening, everything was taken. Latecomers situated themselves on the floor lining the walls and standing near the back. Altogether there were about forty or fifty girls.

First there was roll call. A student would either raise her hand or say "here" when they were prompted to. If someone didn't show for roll for whatever reason, they were marked absent, and dealt with later. This would either result in a write-up or worse, depending on how often they were late, or where they were. If a student received three write-ups, despite however long they stayed in Job Corps, they were kicked out automatically. The maximum amount of time a student is allowed to stay on campus is two years.

The audience of girls in the dorm were generally loud and boisterous. The RA would yell several times for there to be silence before continuing whatever they needed to say. When it came time for the new girls to walk to the front of the room to say hello, it took about ten minutes for the room to be quiet again. Houston seemed to be a popular city amoung the ones said, besides any residence in Louisiana. Somehow I got through it all, and we began our nightly clean-up.

"I don't know what to do," I told an RA. Meaning, I didn't know what chore I was assigned. Chores were rotated on the list; usually each girl was assigned something to clean up, some of the lightest being cleaning the bathroom counter, and the hardest being to buff the floors at night. The RA gave me a sponge from the closet and told me to help wipe down the mirrors in the bathroom.

I returned to my room after I was done, my hands smelling like generic-Lysol-replacement. I wasn't able to wash them because whoever was in charge of cleaning the sink complained about having to clean everything again for inspection; the RA would walk around, making sure the dorm was spic n' span while students prepared for bed. If during her inspection she found something out of place, or a chore wasn't done to satisfaction, that student was roused out of bed to do it again. If they refused to redo it, they were written up.

I had just situated myself in bed, when the door opened. A loud brunette walked in, complaining about something or another to a short hispanic girl who followed behind. I sat up and watched them quietly.

The brunette turned and looked at me disdainfully. "Who's the new bitch?"

I frowned. "I'm Marie."

The hispanic girl smiled and sat down at the bunk caddy-corner from me, waving. "Hi, I'm Amy. You're from Houston, right?"

"Right."

"So am I."

I smiled, and we began a conversation about what side we were from. Alief, I said. Southwest, replied she. What high school? We chatted about HISD versus AISD, the local malls and whatnot, when the brunette interrupted us again.

"Okay, I'm Penny. Don't fuckin' touch anything in here, 'cause it's mine." she pointed to the clock on the desk in between the bunk beds. "And don't touch that either. That's mine too."

I rolled my eyes; she frowned. "Hey, fuckin' listen!"

Amy got into her bed, laughing. "Shut the fuck up, Penny. Marie, don't listen to her, she's just a bitch."

Penny ignored Amy and kept talking. This was mine, that was mine. Where the fuck was I from, again? Oh, fuck that. That sucks. I finally got tired of it and told her to shut up.

Penny didn't like that at all. "Fuck you!"

"No, fuck you!"

It was already the first evening in the dorm, and I had made a new friend.

"Shut the fuck up, bitch!"

"No, you shut the fuck up!"

The door opened, and a smaller brunette with large eyes and a bright smile stepped in. She wore only a tshirt and no socks or shoes. Stopping by Penny's bunk and glancing up at her after she'd climbed to the top, she ignored me and began speaking. "Do you have my CD?"

Penny gave an exasperated, lazy sigh. "It's in my locker."

"Well, I need it. Can you get it out?"

"Fuckin--NO! You see me already up here, right?"

The girl rolled her eyes and left.

I ignored Penny the rest of the night, opting to talk to Amy instead. Amy was pleasant and made jokes, telling that Penny liked to pick on anyone new and to just ignore her. I took her advice, despite Penny's animate talk about beating the crap out of me after classes, and went to sleep.

[Marie]

These were the sounds I would hear during the night: doors constantly slamming, girls pattering down the tiled hallway to the bathroom and back, or to one another's rooms, yelling or the radio playing, the RA interrupting at some point to tell everyone to be quiet, followed by girls screaming across the hallways for each other to pipe down as well. The buffing machine would thrum well past midnight, followed by further door slamming and voices carrying on over inspection. Lights out were immediately after chores were done, but in actuality, a student would never get that much sleep.

The schoolbell rang loudly every morning at 6:15. What I never understood about daily chores was this: they were done at night, no one really used any facilities after that, and then we would clean up again in the morning at 7. Students were expected to buff the floors twice a day, a ritual I saw as senseless and unecessary. I would have understood if a lighter version of cleanup were held before everyone was allowed to leave, but they remained as heavy as they were in the evening.

When getting up, I had to make sure to not hit my head on the plaster cieling. Penny would jump down from her bed and over to her locker, but I wasn't as brave at the time to do that. I was foolish enough to wait for the schoolbell in order to get in line for the showers, but soon I learned that getting up at 5:30 proved a lot more convenient. Even then, the RA would try to stop students from roaming around then, saying no one was able to use anything until everyone else was up. I never understood that either.

Amy and I would usually go for the showers around the same time. When we returned to our room, Penny was already asleep, but using Amy's bottom bunk because she was too lazy to climb to the top. Amy never seemed to mind, but would go straight to her locker to get dressed.

I paused one morning when I realized Amy's morning routine for doing so. She would take a robe, stand in between her locker doors, and drape it outside of them to create a sort of private stall for herself. Everything was covered when she did this except for her feet. I thought that was strange, seeing as there were no boys around, but shrugged it off as her just wanting her privacy. Then I would continue putting on my uniform for the day.

One morning I happened to glance over my shoulder when Amy did this again; our lockers were all facing the wall, so if we turned around at any point, we would see the bunk beds on the other side of the room. I had not yet finished dressing, and stopped when I saw Penny.

She was lying down in Amy's bed again on her back, her head propped up by her hands. I must have had a look of realization on my face when I met eyes with her, because she smirked right back; she had the general look of a man who was watching a woman dress in the morning. Not knowing what to do, I quickly dressed and left. From then on, I used the shower stalls to change unless Penny was out of the room.

[more cheerios]

Gah! Your stories are really interesting. Write faster! : whip whip :

[Marie]

The procedure for choosing a student's vocation began even before actually arriving on campus. On registration forms, there is an option given to circle the class each student is interested in taking. Because of the limited amount of seats in each class, students are only able to initially circle up to two choices.

That choice was made again during the first week, after a tour was given to my group during one of the first few days. Before being let go around 4-ish for free time, we filled out a few forms, choosing the vocation we were interested in. An instructor who was watching us for the day explained the procedure to us even further as we went over the different colored sheets:

"You will make a first, and a second choice on what you want, then circle a third choice if the first and second classes are full. There are two ways to do this: you can be put on a waiting list if your first choice isn't available and be put in either the second or third choice, but if you like the class you're put in and the first choice has a seat open up, you must move immediately to the first class with no question. The second option to do this is to sign a waiver saying that you don't want to be put on a waiting list and settle for whatever class you get."

I had my heart set on computer technology; they had an advance course that taught compu-savvy students courses that would qualify them as IT's. That was perfect for me, and I would be able to return to Houston with enough know-how to get a better job and live on my own--and most importantly, away from my parents. The waiting list for that class, however, took about a year's time to get your name at the top.

"Also--if you finish a class while waiting for another class to open up, you won't be able to enroll. You can only finish one vocation while you're staying here."

Meaning...what? I glanced up at the teacher and frowned. Students who wanted one thing and were depending on it, couldn't have it? Just take what you can get, next in line please?

I sighed and looked down at my paper. I'd chosen computer technology as my first choice, then decided on culinary as the next. When my group took a tour of the culinary building, they mentioned the opportunity of any advanced student transferring to San Francisco for further training. Treasure Island Job Corps, the campus was called. I smiled and thought that was great too.

Finally, I had one last choice to make. I couldn't think of anything else, so I just circled "facilities maintenance" on the sheet and handed it in. I also signed the waiver saying I didn't want to be moved if a seat opened up, because I doubted it ever would for me.

Afterwards, students were given tests on math and linguistics. I passed all of them with flying colors; students who didn't were placed in remedial classes and taught high-school math and language skills all over again. Please keep in mind I said "language skills", not english. As long as you were literate and knew the basics of a high school graduate, that was all that counted.

Something else I remember that I will give Job Corps credit on, is they give students the chance to earn their GED and driver's license. I put down that I didn't have the latter, and so I was put on the waiting list for that. I would not be able to realize this opportunity until seven or eight months later.

***

My group was not immediately placed in a vocation, but rather put in basic social classes that would last us up to a month. Afterwards, students who passed the math and language skills tests were allowed to enter a vocation, while others were put in further classes for a month or two more.

The first month was frustrating for all of us; more than one student yelled at our instructors, asking why we were being taught social skills when we didn't need them. Basic interation sheets, instructions on subjects that seemed to belong in a junior-high class rather than a group of young adults aged 16 to 24...it seemed pointless. Week after week we sat in a class for eight hours a day, wondering why we ever came in the first place. More than a handful of students quit and went back home during this time.

One of them was a young man named Antonio.

[co_delphi]

I hope you didn't get Culinary arts. The only story I have heard from a friend in Job Corps dealt with a person who chose culinary arts and ended up learning how to make hot dogs and grilled cheese.

[Marie]

Oh! I almost forgot. Updates will be coming a lot quicker (read: hopefully everyday) once November starts--for NanoWrimo! I didn't intend this to be an entry for it, but since it's beginning on the 1st and lasts though the 30th, I might as well use this for it. Eh!

Also: from here on out, the story will become grittier and more disgusting. Because I'm writing this with a purpose to document how Job Corps really is, there are some parts that maybe be offensive to some readers. I'm just being honest. This doesn't mean tasteless smut, but just take some discretion. I'll try to imply as much as I can, where I can put it.

[usethendestroy]

Quick question, as I'm not an American so I don't have any idea what job corps is.

It's basically a big army/jail like closed institution that's meant to teach working skills on different vocations?
How highly is it valued, i.e. is a person normally thought to enter the corps from lower middle class or is it seen a last straw for a bunch of never-do-wells?

Oh, and this might seem a bit racist to ask, please do not be offended, but some of the names like Shaunda and Antonio seem black or latin, is there a bias on race, i.e. lot of people from some racial minority?

[Marie]

1. Yes.
2. Generally, but not always; there was one student I remember meeting that was actually the son of a millionaire. Also, the general population of people in the US aren't even aware of the program.
3. Please do not take my writing as something that is racially biased, for I myself am black. All names have been substituted, but I felt that keeping a play on their names or something similar ("Shaunda" had an ethnically related name, as did "Antonio") would keep true to the story. Also note that I never fully describe anyone--rather, I let their actions do the describing for them.

[setrict]

Also, the general population of people in the US aren't even aware of the program.

That's true here, I've never even heard the term before. Great writing so far, thanks for sharing it :D Your style really reads well imo.

[Marie]

[Nano time! <3]
-----

The second week of initiation saw a lot of students pairing up. I don't know why this happened; it seemed to affect every group that arrived on campus. Maybe most students were lonely and thought subconsciously 'buddying up' with someone would help them cope with their new life, or maybe they were trying to replace a certain someone waiting for them back home. Either way, I was no exception to this rule.

One day I'd taken a walk to the gym, chatting away about something or another with Josephine, Tony, and a cigar-smoking wisecrack named Frank. We stopped in the hallway inside to look at the vending machines, and as Frank and Tony wandered away, Antonio approached Josephine.

Antonio was from the valley; he stood tall and walked around with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He listened attentively to conversations and was very polite. He and Josephine held an idle conversation as I looked on, not knowing what else to do and too poor to get anything from the machines on my own at the moment. Giving Antonio a small wave, our little group moved on as the tall boy left the gym for the day.

We met again during class and began talking; where we were from, what we were here for, our various gripes. When it came time for us to take our initial trip to the local Walmart for personal items, we mostly stayed together so we wouldn't get lost.

No one seemed to notice anything until that Friday evening, when he was walking me back from the local moviehouse. As we took the path to my dorm, I looked to the side of the road to find various students from our group, standing or sitting around the front lawn of our dorm and gawking at us. I scrunched my nose.

"What the hell?" I said.

Antonio frowned. "This place reminds me of a small little town or something. Everything gets around fast."

"What you mean?"

A small pause. "...It just does."

I didn't understand, but I decided not to inquire any further.

The next day I was choosing what table to sit in at the cafeteria for breakfast, when Shaunda rushed to my side; she said Josephine wanted to talk to me. I shrugged and took my tray in her direction. Shaunda went with me, a stupid grin on her face, and sat at the table with us.

At first Josephine didn't say anything; she ate her cereal quietly. Then she put down her spoon and spoke. She never made eye contact with me during the conversation.

"You been talkin' to Antonio?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, why?"

She scowled and looked at the floor. "Nothin'."

I frowned and expected her to say something else after that; that something never came. After an uneventful silence, I left the table to eat somewhere else.

***

Into the middle of the next week, Antonio's complaints increased; having a boxed-in feeling, not being able to call his parents back home when he wanted or needed to, angry for being placed in a remedial class after failing one of the math tests, etc. He walked out of class one day in the middle of instruction, and came back with a note: he wanted to leave. He'd spoken with the counselor, and he would pack his bags and get a Greyhound ticket, leaving from the local terminal in San Marcos. I was sad to see him go, but said goodbye and wished him luck.

That weekend after he left, I was eating lunch in the cafeteria with Peter and Becky. Somehow or another Josephine's name came up. As soon as it did, Becky's eyes lit up with michief and she began blabbing away about her.

"...and did you hear she's a slut?"

I looked up with alarm. "What'd you say?"

"She's a slut. Duh."

"Are you fuckin' serious?"

"Yeah! She went down on Antonio the first day they got here," she said as-a-matter-of-factly. Peter nodded his head in agreement.

I nearly fell out of my chair--so that's why she was angry! And when did they have time to do all that on the first day, anyway? We were being watched so close then; we couldn't even leave the welcome center grounds. Security guards patrolled the areas and yelled at any couples showing PDA. Then again, with pot-smoking CNA's getting high in front of the clinic and no one noticing, I guess anything was possible on campus. That fact would reiterate itself again and again during my stay.

[Marie]

The first time I spoke with Cowboy was when we were grouped together in class at the gym for teamwork exercises; he always wore his ranch hat, even when inside a building, and even after the instructors told him to take it off. He laughed a lot and talked about how much he loved Texas, and went on and on about the farm he was from. Cowboy was funny, always making jokes, and was the first to open doors for any girl he was walking with. Everyone loved his personality and general getup, which is why he was given that nickname.

He was also a Satanist.

I was shocked to find out; here, I thought, was someone so polite, yet I stopped to think after he told me that, and realized he never once mentioned God. Not positively, anyway. He said his beliefs weren't centered around worshipping Satan himself, but he supported the general idea of anarchy--doing whatever you wanted, when you felt like it. He grinned and pinched his girlfriend's buttcheeks in public while making eyes at other girls nearby. His girlfriend never seemed to mind, either.

Soon after he explained his beliefs to me, I asked why he was so amiable. He replied, "because I respect people." He also didn't want to be targeted or stereotyped, just because of the credo he lived by. That made sense to me. If you're the nicest person around, would anyone really pay attention to what you actually believed in?

Knowing Cowboy proved to be like removing layers from an onion. As one went further, there were secrets beneath that less and less people knew about. One of the last things he revealed to me was that he was actually from a mental institute, and that the woman who helped him register for Job Corps knew he was going under a false name. Job Corps recruiters are paid on commission, and so it was highly doubtful she was thinking about anyone else's safety when she sent his papers through.

Although Job Corps' outline of admissions states they refuse anyone who is an ex-con, many students admitted to me they were attending the campus as a way to lessen their sentence. "Either Job Corps or jail," the judge says. The former is viewed as a lesser punishment, and so it's chosen; if those particular students are kicked out, not only do they face losing the transition check they would receive, but they would be force to serve their entire sentence all over again.

Cowboy managed to stay on campus, altercation-free, for a few months. He was kicked out by administration after they discovered his true identity.

[Travis]

Fantastic writing, Marie; one qualm - Satanism isn't necessarily about anarchy or the worship of Satan. Satanism, in its truest form, is actually a sort of 'self-worship'. In other words, it's the belief that you are your own god, responsible for choosing whatever path you take in life.

Other than that small nitpick, Good stuff. :)

[Marie]

I understand that, but that wasn't the label I gave him--Cowboy gave that title to himself. (edit: sorry! didn't mean to sound so disagreeable there.)

[Marie]

I was rummaging through the closet today when I came upon my old photo album. The first hundred pages or are actually filled with sketches and doodles the summer after I graduated high school (it was a parting present from a science teacher--much love to her!), and I began using it immediately after taking it home. When it came time for me to leave home and live at Job Corps, I took the book with me.

Back then, I was constantly armed with a Hello Kitty camera and a will to take pictures of anything and everything I could. I have stills of the girls' wing at the welcome center, showing both the bunks and the lockers, the long stretch of road connecting the main entrance lane and the cafeteria, and pictures of various instructional building interiors. Whenever I was able to make a trip out to Walmart to get the film developed, I would. Over time, however, those trips became less and less frequent. The pictures stopped about halfway through the duration of my stay.

One thing I noticed about each picture of a student I took was that they smiled. Not the normal cheesy kind, but smiling as if they were sincerely enjoying themselves. We came miles and miles from home to live in a place for up to two years, enduring frustration from the campus itself and situations we created with one another. The summer brought unbearable heat, rain, and mosquitos; the winters were so cold, we rushed to our dorms and huddled together for adequate warmth. There were fights, there were moments of screaming and days where you couldn't take anymore and cutting your losses and leaving everything behind again looked as good as ever... but here I have pictures today of students in mismatched coats and jackets and oversized hats, dressed like bums, laughing as if that moment was the pinnacle of their existance.

Each photo I took is arranged with a caption on the pages of the hardback, complete with caption; their faces help me remember people I'd almost forgotten. Can't-Get-Right, nicknamed for his haphazard luck and perpetually bad choices, Anna and Andra, the two lovers who lived in the dorm with me, Jareb, a near-annoying hang-on who would end up saving my life, along with so many others.

***

Can't-Get-Right was sixteen or seventeen when he came to Job Corps. I met him on the tour, and as we rode out from Houston together we recounted why we wanted to leave in the first place. I think I identified with him so much because he told me about the abuse he went through with his father. He expressed his general fear of him, but his willingness to fight back at the same time.

I nodded when he said this and looked out the window; we happened to be on I-10, passing by a multitude of buildings that were once a part of my world when I was still in the secretarial business. I thought of the time I mistook a slap heard upstairs back home for my father slapping my stepmother around (though he never did), and went to the kitchen to get a knife. I stayed downstairs, calling him out and telling him he should at least pick on someone his own size. Despite whatever had happened between my stepmother and I, I was still willing to take the fore in any trouble she was going through.

He came downstairs, still angry over whatever had occurred, and we started fighting. I dropped the knife and offered up fists instead; he generally stayed away from me, but reached with one hand to slap the side of my head against the wall. I felt my brain rattle...it hurt so much. I kept yelling in spite of this and trying to defend my stepmother from what I thought was my father's intent to abuse her. After a few hours it was over, and my stepmother managed to seperate me and take me to my room. Once there, she explained that the loud slap I heard was actually my father's leather wallet slamming against the thin wood of their dresser. It was a mistake, but I was only expecting it because of the environment I was in and previous encounters with my father of that nature.

Can't-Get-Right nodded when I relayed the story--we seemed to form a sort of bond over our similarities. Although I didn't see him when I went to the Greyhound station, he arrived a month later.

I managed to get some time after that between classes and talk with him, asking how he was doing. His somber expression from the tour was gone; in its place, a face lit with hope. He didn't want to go back home, and I didn't blame him. I didn't either. He was picked on a lot by other students, but he kept bouncing right back. Later on, sadly, he began sleeping with women on campus who were roughly 21-22 years old. I guess his physique led people to believe he was older than what he actually was.

I can't remember what happened to him by the time I left. One rumor I heard was that he'd finally gotten one of the women he was sleeping around with pregnant; another was that he was kicked out and sent back home. Wherever he is, I hope he's doing okay, and I hope he's finally found happiness.

[Travis]

I understand that, but that wasn't the label I gave him--Cowboy gave that title to himself. (edit: sorry! didn't mean to sound so disagreeable there.)

Hardly any reason to apologise ;) ; I'm interested in seeing how Jareb saved your life.

I'm hooked. :p

[Marie]

...And on the last entry's note, I'll be going home for Thanksgiving. I plan on making the trip as short as possible. I kinda cheated on Nano, so no entry today in order to let friends catch up.

[Marie]

Testing was over. A new week had begun, splitting the group I came with into different directions. While most failed some part of their classes or another, or were destined to attend classes in order to earn their GEDs, a handful accelerated and didn't need anything. One dew-kissed morning I was handed a slip by the counselor at the educational building I normally walked to, instructed to make my way to where uniforms and shoes were handed out in order to recieve my vocational outfit. Nothing was available from the choices I selected, save for one--facilities maintenance.

I started out on my own; the roads were clear and a the morning fog was disappearing. There was a certain beauty to the campus at times like this--the stillness, the absence of noise and constant chatter of adolecents as they ran back and forth between one corner of the campus to another, trying to get to class on time. The birds sang and dragonflies dances over the bare, grassy fields. Remainders or poor excuses for tree saplings poked through the grass, unaware their fate had already been decided. In a few week's time, they would be cut down again, mistaken for weeds. The warm sun broke through the clouds; it reached the earth as if to reaccquaint itself with the dandelions that turned their faces towards it, an invisible smile stretching over the petals.

Outside, the uniforms building was primarily in the shape of an upside-down V. I always liked that particular structure, probably because of the church-y feel it gave off. I entered through the thick, metal double-doors to be greeted by the smell of dust and leather; inside there were shelves and shelves of primary uniforms, and secondary instructional outfits that varied by the desired profession and size. Each vocational uniform only had one color to choose from.

I gave the attendant my slip of paper, which called for an brown oversized jumpsuit that was only accessable through a large zipper area in the front. She gave me a few sizes to try on, then after I chose the one that best fit me, gave me a set of boots to go with them. I took the large shoebox and peeked inside, realizing where the smell came from--all instructional shoes were the same type. Job Corps buys a certain type of tanned leather, steel-toe boots for students to wear while in training. Most of the time they are either a little too big or too small on the feet, and I was given ones that were a little too big. I thanked the attendant and shuffled over to put my shoes on--

"Oh, wait."

I looked up.

"You have to keep your uniform on under that."

I frowned. "...under what?"

"Under that jumpsuit."

It was advised for each student, additional to the maintenance uniform given to them, to also have on the normal polo shirt and khaki slacks underneath. It was like bundling up for winter, only to find the summer sun beating down on you instead. I muttered as I walked (waddled?) out of the building, fumbling across the large field behind it and towards the maintenance building. By this time there were no more dragonflies, but dew-induced mud in certain places made themselves prominent.

What a morning.

***

I finally reached my destination. In the far corner of Job Corps, a field's crossing away from my dorm and next to the water tower, was the facilites maintenance building. A short wire fence lined one side, a water hose gathered neatly and place underneath a side faucet. Two doors faced the front, the smell of wood shavings carried over by the wind from somewhere nearby. I didn't know what door to enter, so I just picked on and went inside.

Naturally, a vocational building will reflect the environment the student wishes to work in after they graduate; this was no different. Almost like a theater or a movie set, a long wall was in the middle of the room I first entered, various tools lining one side. A small platform near the wall was beset with hoses, rakes and yard instruments. No was was in the room, so I wandered until I came to a smaller classroom.

When I entered, the instructor was sitting on the desk casually and talking to a young man filling out a worksheet. He looked over at me with a smile; he was short, wearing a similar polo shirt to what students normally were required to wear, and jeans. He took my slip of paper and began jotting down my name. I was given a few pieces of paper concerning rules and regulations, told to read over them and sign them. After I handed them back with my signature, I sat down to view a video that went over general safety.

Each Job Corps vocation goes at a personal pace. There are no general mass periods of instruction; if there is one, they usually concern announcements or a basic class meeting to discuss something. Because of this, each student can go as fast or as slow as they want in order to finish a course, aside from various time restrictions that interfere.

The first level I was given to complete consisted of reading large textbook chapters and watching safety and instructional videos. I filled out tests, most of them immediately afterwards, and was able to start on hands-on projects only after I was done with everything else. I don't remember the first level of my training lasting more than two weeks; I didn't see anyone noticing, so I stopped wearing my campus uniform underneath the jumpsuit. Summer was at its peak at the time, and my body seemed to thank me as I walked to and from class under the cloudless sky.

There were no girls in the class when I first enrolled, yet most of the boys seemed more than willing to conversate as I went along. Most of the time I complained about standing for so many hours during the day in the sun as I learned how to manually saw a piece of wood, then moved on to whine about how rusty the saw blades were. And why it was so hot. And I hated the jumpsuit. And this wasn't what I wanted at all. My general irritability increased as the day rolled by; I was mainly stationed in the garage where all the sawing went on, jealous that another classmate was able to use an electric saw and I was stuck with a rusty old one that bended whenever I tried to control it. And so I sighed, milling away a the piece of wood I was given until I got through.

When I was done measuring and cutting a certain number of blocks, I initialed them and showed them to the instructor. He said that was enough, giving me an amused smile. He could tell I didn't really want to be in the vocation; obviously he recieved unhappy girls from time to time. As the days went on there, I would prove to be a constant source of amusement--not only to him, but my fellow students.

[Lan]

Too good! I'm hooked too. And I hope you're starting to find the happiness you've been seeking =\

[Marie]

I had become the object of affection with one of my classmates almost as soon as he met me; I didn't know where he was from, but his name was Pierre and he was constantly spouting lines. He was about average height with a slight build, letting down the top part of his jumpsuit and tying the sleeves around his waist and sporting a wifebeater underneath. He had a bright smile and was funny, but I just was never attracted to him. Try as I might, the message never seemed to get across to him.

In between times I struggled with my poor saw to cut pieces of wood or turning my head away from the smell of plaster mix, Pierre would stroll around the corner when the instructor was away to lay on the daily compliments, followed immediately by pickup lines. It was almost strategic; I began wondering if all men planned out their ways of hitting on women before they actually talked to them. I could just see it--Pierre in a general's outfit, pointing at a map of the vocational building with little x's and o's scrawled all over it.

"Okay, she'll be working on assignments here, here, and here. Right after roll call--bam. I want a full frontal assault of laying it on thick, finish it up with asking her out, and we've got it in the bag."

I thought the upside of this would be him helping me with assignments, but that really didn't happen. When I finally managed to plaster a wall, then accidentally hit a hole through it and redo the entire thing, he stood by and laughed. I grumbled and knelt by the bucket of plaster mix, which had become rather thick and doughy at the time, while he approached me for another round of bantering.

"Say, why are you in this class, anyway?"

I frowned. "I didn't know what else to pick."

"Oh, you're on a waiting list?"

"Yeah."

He laughed again. I didn't see what was so funny.

"So why don't we go out?"

"No." This was about the millionth time I turned him down. I have to hand it to him--he never gave up.

"Why not?"

"Don't you have kids?"

"...Yeah, but..."

"No."

"What's wrong, baby?" he grinned and straightened, poised and looked ready to begin stretching his arms and legs. "Don't like a few kids?"

"Not when they aren't mine!"

"..Oh, you have kids?"

"No!"

"They're not so bad." He ran through all five of his own children, talking about which person he had which child with and yadda yadda. How cute they were. Their ages. Where they all were now. Child support, jobs and garnished wages, and then the rest faded into the background, along with the distant sound of an electric buzzsaw a few rooms over. My only thoughts while he was talking were: no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

As if I was supposed to be impressed, he stopped again and continued to ask if I would go on a date with him.

Now before I go any further, I should explain what a 'date' on Job Corps actually constitutes as. There is nothing to do on campus but go to the gym, where there are either athletic exercise activities, an art or music room, a small moviehouse where they play dvds and videos, walking along the roads connecting the vocational and various dorm buildings, the pool hall, or the library. This may seem to be a lot to list, but in actuality, all of these things are limited in their own way and so there isn't much to do once you've gone through them all.

And so there is one last, unceremonious way for a couple to spend their time--the corners of the vocational buildings at night. There are bright streetlights along the roads after sunset, but that particular areas seem to lack lumination alogether. If one were to stand across the road from a clump of instructional buildings, they would notice several students racing back and forth between the shadows, only leaving in a hurry when security cars arrive to check the corners for anyone hiding there. During the day, teachers send their students out from time to time for cleanup, to find clumps of used condoms in some of the darker areas.

Pierre assured me he didn't want to do any of that, but I found it pretty hard to believe, seeing as he had five living examples that proved he couldn't keep it in his pants already. After I said no enough, he just came by to pester me.

I sat by the plaster bucket again one day, taking a break when the instructer left to look after another student. Whenever no one was in the room, I took advantage of that time to slack off; if I finished my assignment early, I would only be set on finishing something else--or even worse, put out in the garage again. Pierre snuck back in the room with a stupid grin, making fun of something or another about me.

I looked back and forth between him and the plaster bucket. Reaching with one hand, I grabbed a nice, glooey amount and threw it right in his face. I don't remember him bothering me too much longer after that.

***

After a large project a few weeks later, I was sent out to clean the plaster tools under the water faucet. I thought it was simple enough, so I hauled everything out there after putting away the unused mix and turned the water on. Inside, students were chattering away; it was close to time for us to be let out, and everyone was packing up and putting things away.

As I ran the tools under the water, I felt a slight pinching on my lower right leg. I had on a jumpsuit, so I thought maybe a sticker caught on the side again; I was always walking through the fields after school to get to my dorm faster. I shook my right leg once in an attempt to get it off, but that pinching feeling was still there. So I finally looked down.

A large beetle, along with several ants, were steadily making their way up my right leg. I don't like bugs at all, so this new discovery was met immediately with a loud scream. I dropped everything I was holding, rushing inside the building. I kept screaming as I flailed my arms helplessly, running and hopping in circles.

"Get it off, get it off, get it off, get it off, get it off, get it off, get it off, GET IT OFF!"

Everyone took one look at me and laughed. Half the boys mimiced me in a silly chorus, or pointed at my leg and said nothing was there at all. I managed to stop and looked down. The beetle and his friends were no longer trying to crawl up the side of my leg. But it knew I felt its pinchers, so...

The instructor asked me what happened, then laughed right along with everyone else. I was sent back out to finished what I was doing, then put everything away. By the time was done and grabbed by backpack to leave, I was barely able to make it to the dorm for afternoon roll call.

[co_delphi]

you know, while in my military career experience my experience was not too unfamiliar to your own. Granted I was no Pierre, but I seemed to exude the idea that sex was a great idea contrary to any form of borth control was out there. I am very glad I was just as successful as Pierrre (or at least so far in this story).

[Travis]

you said 'full frontal'..teehee..

errr..mmm..yeah.

>_>

[kyaa the catlord]

*grin* Keep going Marie, please... :P

I know I should be writing but this is the good sort of procrastination. :P

[Marie]

Hello again! I'm a little stuck, and I need everyone's help. I don't know what to cover next, and plus I want feedback. Since a lot of people have been following along, I really want to do my best and give you something that's worthwhile and doesn't suck. I probably won't make Nano at this point, but I still want to write (hey, I started this before Nano anyway.)

What do you want to know about? What person do you want to know more about? I'll be covering everything anyway, I just want to make sure things stay well-rounded. Any other thoughts, stamina or syntax-wise? Thanks for any input you give. I halfway feel like trashing this and starting over due to second week jitters.

[Lan]

Since you're offerring so nicely, it'd be nice to know more about any friends you had at the 'camp' (I can't remember what you called it earlier), including the one you've already mentioned, and of course, what they did that made them a good friend and so memorable. =) Thanks Marie! You make this newcomer happy to read such good writing.

[Travis]

Since you're offerring so nicely, it'd be nice to know more about any friends you had at the 'camp' (I can't remember what you called it earlier), including the one you've already mentioned, and of course, what they did that made them a good friend and so memorable. =) Thanks Marie! You make this newcomer happy to read such good writing.

Agreed.
You could do one each entry, in order to flesh out each friend you had? Just an idea..

[co_delphi]

I have to wonder...... Suffering from writers block? It feels like I was reading a book and then realized the last couple pages were missing. I need my fix....

[more cheerios]

I think it's kind of cool how every section updates us on a different person. :)

[Kenshin]

Has anyone seen Marie around here? :( I want more, MORE I TELL YOU, MORE!
<_<
>_>
Ehrm... Yeah.

[Marie]

i'm sorry i haven't been around; things on my end have taken a turn for the worse, even before i could finish writing.

i should probably just tell you what happened in order to bring you up to speed on why i am so depressed right now: i met a guy at job corps who was an artist like me, we survived ten months of hell together, during that course i tried twice to get into college and both times my parents wouldn't fill out the FAFSA form so i could and i wasn't able to go, so job corps said at the end of that that i needed to leave because i'd already finished my vocation, which turned out to be culinary ( there was some harrassment that went on in facilities maintenence and so i transferred). i had the chance to go to san francisco, but i didn't go because i was afraid to go to california alone without knowing anyone there.

i ended up moving to san antonio instead with the guy because i didn't want to go back home and there was nowhere else to go. not five months after i got here, a guy attacked me with a knife--during that ten minutes of hell i managed to take the knife from him and stab him in the neck. on that day, i was on my way to my job, and they fired me because his blood got on my arm and i was rushed to the hospital in order to collect that blood as dna evidence that guy attacked me, so consequently i didn't show up to work. they didn't rehire me for a month, and when they did i was given a night shift again. i had to walk down a street about 15-20 minutes after getting off the bus to get home and while i was doing that, i thought someone was following me, so i called my job and told them i couldn't work there anymore because i was so afraid of having a stalker. i never found out if someone was really following me or not.. maybe it was my imagination.

two years, i worked at a job where i flipped out a lot sometimes due to the stress disorder i deal with due to that stupid attack. almost right after the trial was over:
1. i was fired from my job,
2. i was dumped.
the ex and i are still in the same apartment and will be seperating in march. i had nowhere else to go for a job at the time, so i went right back to...right. the place i was working at when i was attacked. isn't this fun? i love going in circles. it's really great.

also, during the two years i was dealing with the trial, my parents attempted to claim me on their tax return and said they had a right to, even though i was living on my own. i had to report them to the irs in order to fix things or else i would have gotten in trouble. we have never repaired our relationship.

right now i am still walking home at night after my shift--yeah, they gave me an afternoon shift again. in january, i will finally be able to apply on FAFSA as independant and get some money for college--what i have been wanting for four years. and so all this time of waiting has now boiled down to two more weeks, which is killing me while i sit at my desk, just like i did when i as 19 and stuck at home, and dreaming of a better day.

last night a guy was following me as i was walking down the street. i supply my own knife now, seeing as i obviously can use one, and had it fully out to where he could see it, but he kept crossing the street after i did and i couldn't shake him. i panicked and went to a dealership today and went to see about getting a car... but they wanted too much money down, i have no cosign, no family here, nothing. i love my life. i just keep going in circles.

i would love to survive for another two weeks and hope to see some light at the end of this tunnel, but i very close to throwing in the towel. i am sick of seeing no point to anything, i am tired of being afraid, and i'm tired of feeling like a target for some bad karma i don't even put out. if i keep doing what i'm doing and nothing better comes along soon, i will either get killed or just give up and kill myself. this is why i am not around, this is why i probably won't come back. thanks for reading, i'm sorry but this story didn't have a happy ending.

[Quartermaster]

i ended up moving to san antonio instead with the guy because i didn't want to go back home and there was nowhere else to go. not five months after i got here, a guy attacked me with a knife--during that ten minutes of hell i managed to take the knife from him and stab him in the neck.

Woot! That's kickass! Very impressive Marie :D

two years, i worked at a job where i flipped out a lot sometimes due to the stress disorder i deal with due to that stupid attack.

Are you sure it wasn't something else? I mean, a knife attack is stressful and all but it could've been that attack coupled with other events (problems with your parents for one thing, or maybe you're aggravated because you haven't found a career yet?) Maybe you should seek out counseling or trauma centers at the women's shelters or something, find somebody you can lay your problems to and try to sort them out.

As for your parents, it doesn't seem like you should try to fix your relationship with them or even stay in contact. Maybe you have guilt issues over that or something, especially since it's near the holidays but please don't worry about them or feel guilty over anything.

While you're waiting for January, maybe you can keep yourself busy by practicing knife (http://www.gutterfighting.org/knife.html) fighting (http://www.donrearic.com/sass1-sleightofhand.html) or going thru the classifieds for cars.

It'd be a shame to lose you now, your stories are interesting and you seem like a great person. At least wait until March, something better might come along and if it doesn't you'd have an appropiate month to re-enact the death scene to Caeser to.

Merry Christmas

[setrict]

You are way too talented to give up now. I honestly can't imagine what you've been through, but someone who can write with skill and heart like you do should be able to have a wonderful life. Quartermaster is absolutely right, you can give up at anytime - just hang on until you can move forward. That's all any of us can do.

It's none of my business, but have you thought about just getting on a bus to a smaller, more quiet town and let life settle down for a while. There are a lot of places out there where you don't have to spend time looking over your shoulder. Even leaving everything behind but a duffle bag full of clothes and a bus ticket is better than giving up. I'd even send you the ticket if you pick the town.

[co_delphi]

While reading the update I could not help but think of the movie "A Long Kiss Goodnight" and wonder if the culinary skills helped you learn to be a knife wielding assassian.

[co_delphi]

Thanks to security settings at work I have not been able to access the message board section from work, and have too much good stuff at home to distract me from checking in here. Today I happened to remember I wanted to hear the rest of this story, but to my disdain I find that not only was I the last person to post on this topic, but that the creator has also not been active since December........ I guess this means I will never find out how the story ends up.