Dir: Jules Jordan
Back in September I was wrongfully imprisoned for four months. I'm still pretty shaken up by it, and I don't feel like myself anymore. Since being released, I've been having difficulty sleeping at night. Conversations with people are hazy and surreal. I struggle to reclaim my place in society and can't help thinking that all those weeks listening to heartrending wails, eating awful food, and performing menial labor have permanently damaged my psyche. It's like Morgan Freeman said: "Hope can drive a man insane."
The saddest part? My wife is to blame for locking me away. She conspired with a very persuasive doctor and set me up. I'm working toward forgiving her, but it's been difficult. We've since begun therapy and are trying to work through it. She's confessed that, subconsciously, she knew when she met me in 2001 that she would eventually send me up the river. I think the problem dates back to 1975 when she was born with two feet, but I'll let the therapist make that call.
I'm no detective, but the simple facts of the matter are that from age two to 13 my wife took recreational tap, jazz, ballet, and hip-hop classes (a rather atypical backstory for such villainy). But from age 13 to 31 she taught dance (we all know the type of seediness that permeates certain dance circles), and for the past seven years she's been a personal trainer (gyms are notorious criminal hotbeds). We're talking about nearly 40 years of shifty movement on her feet, and it eventually broke her.
Without her ever mentioning it, she has battled a demon for the past decade called Morton's neuroma. It finally rendered her incapable of walking the line of right and wrong last August.
Enter the plotting podiatrist.
Speaking directly to my wife's wonderful cleavage, the good doctor told us it was imperative for her to have surgery. The inflamed nerve on her right foot had to be removed immediately. That was the last bit of truth he ever uttered. He turned to look me dead in the eye and said, "It's a simple procedure. She'll be back on her feet in three weeks."
"Three weeks?" I asked.
"Three weeks," he reiterated.
I believed him. He wore a white coat; people believe men in white coats. But he also had a stethoscope around his neck, which should've tipped me off that something was afoot. Why would a podiatrist need a stethoscope?
After performing the surgery he gave my wife his cell phone number and told her to call anytime, day or night, if there were problems. What kind of problems could arise from "a simple procedure," I wondered.
Lots of problems, it turned out. Everything that could go wrong did: infections, internal sutures not dissolving, stitches tearing, etc. "Three weeks" became six weeks, and six ultimately 16, with various casts and boots on her feet, plus the weekly visits to his office so he could look down her low-cut blouse.
All the while I was imprisoned in my house, playing the role of Mr. Mom. I was forced to bathe the children, get them ready for school, cook, clean, and take them to gymnastics and swim class. I did laundry! I don't know how to do laundry! I PAY FOR FLUFF AND FOLD! I was even a PTA mom at their class Christmas parties!
I don't know what it's like in Attica or Mexican prisons, but if it's anything like what I endured—scheduling times to go skate between getting one kid on the bus and dropping the other off at preschool—then I truly feel sorry for the millions of men and women incarcerated in America and around the world. After this four-month bid at home taking care of my wife and kids, I fully understand what Nas meant when he said, "Incarcerated your mind dies." It kinda makes me want to murder...