Time to Say Goodbye

On the 22nd day of January 2004 I left the Lewisburg Extension Camp, part of the federal prison system reserved exclusively for white collar criminals. I was two weeks shy of my sixty ninth birthdays. Quite a few things changed in the six years that I had been "inside".The time had come for me to see how much the world had changed.

"August Mezzetta, please come to your counselor's office," came over the camps loudspeakers. It was the announcement I was waiting to hear for a long time." How are you today Mr. Morgan?"... I asked. "I'm fine, August"...he replied. "I just heard that I won my lawsuit against the camp administrator and I'm to receive a nice cash settlement and restoration of my former position at the camp."... He replied.

Mr. Dennis Morgan was a long time member of the prison camp staff, whose duty it was to counsel inmates about their progress or lack thereof. He had become hardened by the experience and developed a twitch in his left eye. I chided him on my first meeting when I arrived at the camp. "You aren't related to the Dennis Morgan of movie fame?"...I asked. "He was my father," was the reply.

The federal prison system grants inmates time off for good behavior. A model prisoner can have his or her sentence reduced by as much as fifteen percent. Then the prisoner is eligible to be released to a half way house for up to six months, at the discretion of their counselor, i.e. Mr. Morgan. It is this latter power that causes hardened prisoners to seek the counselor's favor. Sometimes they go to ridiculous extremes, which many counselors know how to use as a fear weapon.

"August, I've reviewed your record and you are eligible for the full six month half way house privilege.". were the magical words. "You'll be released on the 24th of January to a half way house in Ft. Myers, Florida. I assume you'll want to arrange air transportation?"... He continued. "I'm not a wealthy man"... I answered, "And prefer to go by bus."...I continued. Mr. Morgan made a face and replied "Then I'll tell the secretary to arrange bus transportation for departure on the 22nd of January"... he replied.
I left his office in the happiest mood I've known for some time. I was looking toward my bus ride.

Mrs. Blair was the camp administrators' secretary. She was with child, which either belied or confirmed rumors that she liked sleeping around with various camp personnel, of the higher echelon, of course. Her nasty disposition was either a result of her hatred for us criminals or her shortness of stature. What she lacked in the way of facial beauty was offset by her more than ample breast, which she loved displaying behind the low cut blouses she wore.

"You're scheduled to leave the camp on January 23rd for your bus trip to Ft. Myers "she announced curtly. Just before I was about to ask about the date, she cut me short saying "that will be all. You can pick up your tickets next week". "Greyhound can't possibly get me to Florida in one day. Can they?"... I replied as I was closing her office door. "Oh, I'm sorry. The tickets should be for January 22nd" she grudgingly retorted. "I'll make the correction so that you'll get to Florida on time." My decision to go to the half way house by bus gave me an extra day of freedom which was as I had planned.

"Agostino ! You're leaving tomorrow, mi amigo." It was my friend Juan who came to say adios. Juan was the only friend I made at the camp. He was also my Spanish teacher. "Si mi compadre "it's time to say goodbye", I said choking back my emotions. "Wake me in the morning before you leave"... he continued. Juan had two more years on his sentence." O.K. Juan", I lied. My exit was to be as silent as my entrance six years earlier, when my special lady drove me to the facility from eastern Long Island. She was waiting for me in Tampa.

The evening before my departure passed uneventful. A few inmates came by to pick up favors, i.e. clothing, art supplies, reading material etc. .I was in my bed by nine PM as I did most nights and had a sound sleep. At five in the morning I was awake following my usual routine. Most of the prisoners were still asleep as I made my way to the shower room. By six AM I made my way out of my building for the last time and headed for the "bubble" as the guards main room was affectionately called.

"What's up, Pop" ...the young guard on duty asked. He was probably still in high school when I entered the prison camp. "I'm leaving today, boss", I answered. "That's funny, because I don't have you on the exit list." he jokingly replied. We exchanged small talk and then he took me to the same room I had entered in 1998 from where I changed into street clothes that my lady had mailed me. The young guard handed me a new carry bag as a gesture of friendliness. "Nice touch, boss." I thanked him.

My prison driver was waiting in the Ford 150 pick up truck to take me to the Greyhound Bus station in Lewisburg and freedom. The bus was a few minutes late which gave me time to stop in the local deli for the first bagel I had in six years. Yummy! "Pop, mind if I say a few prayers with you before you board the bus?"... My driver asked. "I would be grateful, brother"... I replied.

The bus was a Trailways vehicle which would bring me to Philadelphia and the official Greyhound bus. The bus driver opened the door and I climbed aboard. I took a window seat in the near empty vehicle and let out a long suppressed sigh of joy. Freedom tastes so sweet when you haven't had it for a long time. We rolled slowly down Main Street toward our first stop to Philadelphia, Shamokin Dam. It was seven thirty AM.

I could see the rise of Montour Ridge as we crossed the Susquehanna River. The ridge was the first thing I saw each morning from my cell window. We were old friends. You could discern the abandoned coal mines; and the piles of rubble left in their wake as anthracite coal became too polluted to mine. My mind drifted to that earlier time when coal was king in this region. Now, housing federal prisoners has replaced the economic loss of the coal mines. ""Sunbury, this is Sunbury, Pennsylvania "... the driver announced as the bus came to a stop in front of a run down bodega.

The city is in the midst of a revitalization program, which hopefully will restore its past glory as an important Fort during the revolutionary days and the first city in which Alva Edison demonstrated his electric light bulb at what is known as the Edison Hotel.

You could see the faded beauty of this once proud town. But the loss of "King Coal" had reduced the place to a grimy ill kept hamlet, as so many in our country, where one industry or another is forced to move to cheaper labor countries. Now welfare recipients and retirees looking to stretch their incomes make up the economic vitality of the area. The bus unloaded is passengers, who were now transferring to the New York City carrier. A few of us remained in our seats for the rest of the uneventful journey to Philadelphia. We made stops at Selinsgrove, home of Susquehanna University, Port Trevor ton, Liverpool, New Buffalo, Amity Hall and the state capitol at Harrisburg.

When I reached Philadelphia I planned to have lunch in a Chinese restaurant recommended by a fellow inmate and ex-Philadelphia police officer. Actually, I was so engrossed in what I was going to order that the bus trip went by too quickly. As luck would have it, our stay in the city of good will was cut short leaving no time to exit. I would have to wait until we arrived in the Nations capitol, where I knew of a great steak house not too far from the bus terminal.

We rode along I-95 south making stops in Wilmington, Delaware, Baltimore, Maryland and finally, Washington, D.C. where my steak dinner would be waiting. "How long will we lay over in Washington," I asked the relief driver. "About two hours," he answered. The walk to the Union Station from the Greyhound bus stop takes about fifteen minutes.

The streets were crowded with the end of day workers scurrying to transportation taking them home. I could see the restaurant marquee as I approached along the side of the Union Station and in front of the government printing office. This site was very familiar to me. When I wore a different man's clothes I use to visit a dear friend of mine who worked for the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission.

The restaurant was full of customers drinking and eating after a hard day making laws. I took a small table along the wall and prepared myself for a nice rib eye steak with fried onions and French fried potatoes. The waitress approached and asked, "something to drink, sir?"... "I'll have a virgin Mary", I replied. She returned with my order and asked me if I had time to peruse the menu. "I know what I want, without looking at the menu." "Let me have a rare rib eye steak with fried onions andFrench fries" I continued. "So sorry sir, we only have a limited bar menu." She answered. "I can let you have some roast beef with brown gravy", she continued.
"Then I guess I'll have to settle for a hamburger, rare." I replied.

Back on the bus I observed a younger group of passengers heading for points south.A young man sat next to me. "Where you headed,"I asked. "Jacksonville," he answered.
"I'll be glad to get home," he continued. "I went up to Baltimore looking to find a better paying job and was stuck there. I never found that job." "How long have you been gone?" I asked him. "Four long years", was his answer. "Going back to my honey," he mused.

"Man, four years is a stretch without finding anything in the way of a career.", I continued. "Well you're right and that's why I went down the drug road", he said.." I started making loads of dough and was leading the good life. Even arranged to have my main squeeze, join me at my new digs in a Baltimore condo overlooking the inner harbor. Then I made the mistake of selling a $20.00 bag of weed to a narc. That bought me three years in a Federal Prison Camp" he ended soulfully.

Another young man caught my eye because of his meticulous dress and his near perfect diction. He found a seat on the aisle near the back of the Greyhound and engaged ten or so fellow riders in a one way conversation. "I just started my third new company with headquarters in Tampa. I'm on my way there now. Bought a new high rise condo and my family will be following me as soon as I get settled." He pontificated. The whole bus was wondering why he was riding Greyhound instead of flying one of the major airlines that service Tampa International airport. That's when a quip by Jay Leno came to mind. He said "they tell you to pay close attention to those who are travelling with you and report anyone who looks suspicious. Have you ridden on a Greyhound Bus lately?"

We continue our odyssey south. The driver announces "we'll be making a rest stop at Rocky Mount, North Carolina." The bus pulls into a truck stop and we all get off and head for the rest rooms. I'm surprised by the cleanliness of the place and the aroma of an assortment of foods waiting for purchase at the steam counter. So far my first dining experience away from institutional fare has not been too successful. I'm hopeful things will be better here.

I notice my travelling companion is eyeing some of the food enviously but is not getting in line to buy anything. "Hungry?..." I ask. "No," he lies. "Hey come on. I've been broke two or three times before and I know the feeling. Order anything you want, it's on me." I command. He joins me on the steam table line and orders some food and something to drink. The stretch in the prison camp hasn't erased his manners. He orders just enough food to take away his hunger while maintaining his dignity. We board the bus and continue on our journey.

I'm asleep through South Carolina but wake in time to see the beautiful bridge in Savanna, Georgia. We're continuing west southwest toward Tampa and a new life. Many of the towns we drive through in this part of Florida are small farming communities. There are the familiar signs of past glories, i.e. a few stately mansions, impressive places of worship, etc. I begin to dream about those past glory days in this part of our vast and varied country and wonder if I missed anything while growing up in New York City. But as New York has flourished these small towns have declined. You see the indigent, the migrant farm workers and the few elderly that have moved here to stretch their monthly retirement checks.

I am taken from my romanticizing by the Tampa skyline coming into view as we leave Plant City, Florida. The bus pulls into the terminal and I begin to get nervous. Will Mireille be waiting for me? How will I act when I see her? What is the future holding in store for me in the last leg of my life's journey? I begin to step down from the bus and there at the bus station is Mireille. My mind jumps back to the speech given by Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King on the Washington Mall, "free at last, free at last thank God almighty we are free at last."