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Monday, July 29, 2013


The tall young, handsome inmate turned to the old worn weathered inmate while they sat in library awaiting chowtime and he smiled.
"Hey pops."
They were two generations of numbers; a finely crafted piece of the department of corrections machine.
The young statistic played video pinball while the old statistic searched nonstop through a thick red binder marked- prisoner stuff.
"There it is," Pops said reaching for his reading glasses.
He showed the younger inmate a memo that was worn from years of use.
"People don't realize you don't have to have some prison funeral. Lay in some pine box out back. Your family fills out this form and you get a street funeral like a free man. The State sends a check to the funeral place," Pops nodded searching his stuff for a copy card.
The young man stared at the dark wrinkled man thinking about the 42 years that Pops had in the system. It was twice the time he had even been alive.
"I got it pops," he grabbed the memo and went to the machine. He made a copy for Pops. He then made a second copy, and slid it in his front pocket. He sighed knowing he would one day need the information. He went back to Pops.