Scott Hollifield

Two things of note happened this week: (1) I forgot to ask my wife to pick up our daughter after school because I could not, and (2) I went to prison.
If I ever do either of those things again, I prefer the latter. It's less traumatic.
Most days, my wife takes our daughter to school in the morning and I pick her up in the afternoon, unless that routine is interrupted by something out of the ordinary, such as me going to prison.
My short but memorable incarceration was part of a tour in which local business people got a look at one of the economic engines of our community - a close-security penitentiary. As long as we don't start shipping criminals to China, this place will put food on local tables for years to come.
On the group's bus ride over, I kept thinking I had forgotten something during the morning rush out the door.
Did I brush my teeth? Check.
Did I leave my collection of prison shanks at home? Check.
Did I ask my wife to pick up our - ooohhh, razor wire!
Rolls and rolls glistened in the sun as we pulled up to the prison, an impressive structure surrounded by the kinds of views that make Yankees want to move here.
Whatever I had forgotten could wait because I was bound for prison, and not in shackles as all those school counselors had predicted.
After emptying our pockets and going through security, we were put at ease by our prison official/tour guide, who informed us the facility had a no-negotiation policy and, in the event of an inmate uprising, we would be treated just like any other hostages. Fine with me. I abhor special treatment, and I was fairly certain I could use one of my fellow tour members as a human shield (and I'm talking about you, Gerald).
But something nagged at me. What was I forgetting?

Did I ask my wife to pick up our - gang members! Our host was talking about gang members!

I tried to keep my questions professional, relevant and focused. It was difficult. I wanted the exchange to go like this:

"Does the warden ever say, 'What we've got here is a failure to communicate?'"

"He's called the superintendent, and no, he never says any lines from 'Cool Hand Luke.' That's a movie. Prison really isn't like that."

"Can any prisoner here eat 50 eggs?"

"Again, that's from 'Cool Hand Luke' and we don't have egg-eating contests."

"Do the beautiful women inmates take several steamy, soapy showers a day?"

"This is a men's facility, and I believe you are thinking of low-budget, women-in-prison movies, which in no way reflect reality."

"If the convicts played the guards in football, who would win?" (OK, I actually asked this one. And I know it's "officers," not "guards," but that's what they're called in the "The Longest Yard" and I was sticking to the script.)

Back on the bus, post-tour, I had that feeling again. What could I have forgotten?

I soon found out.

"I waited 20 minutes in the hot sun after school and nobody came to pick me up! I had to walk home! I can't believe what you did!"

"But I have a good excuse. I forgot and I was in prison."

"You should be in prison! That was terrible!"

"Look, I did my time and paid my debt to society. Can't you forgive me?"

She could not, at least for the rest of the afternoon and on into the evening. Finally, though, she showed a little mercy. On appeal, my charge was reduced from felony irresponsibility to misdemeanor laxity, and I was placed on probation.

But one more missed pick-up and I might as well head back to the Big House.