Not enough
Who could blame us growing up?
Above the quiet there's a buzz.
That's me trying.

William Shatner, "That's Me Trying"
---
During the bus rides, I stare out the window and look at the passing cars to pass the time. Whenever I see a Lexus, I'll admit, I feel pangs of guilt not for having injured an innocent party, but because I lost a swank ass car. Perhaps that's why the DA saw fit to put me in here this long. I made mention to a friend of mine that if only I let anguish and sorrow take over completely, the judge would look upon me more favorably. But I can't change the fact that I'm a crass, materialistic bastard. Or maybe it's the feeling that I'm already going to be punished enough for the personal injury, and that the metallic heart I exhibit is a function of bitterness against the legal system. Ventura County: come on vacation, leave on probation!

The true analogue to Shawshank is not that I'm Andy, who eventually crawls through 500 yards of shit-smelling foulness, but rather I feel like I'm Red: the only guilty man here. I look around, and I'm surrounded by short timers. Even Ray, the last of my original bunkies, is gone. So, too, is Pulu, Junior, and many other familiar faces. The cyclical nature of the place is amazing when you're frozen still in your sentence, watching people come and go.

There was a 72-year-old fellow, convicted of his 3rd DUI, this one resulting in 3 injuries (4 if you count the ones he suffered himself) and 1 death. Now, through various pleadings, he came away with just months of work release. The court may not see fit to make examples of 72-year-olds, but 50 years of life experience obviously didn't make this man any wiser than this 26-year-old. The court has dictated that it's okay for 72-year-olds to kill under the influence, and to injure multiple others, but it's certainly not okay for me to do a fraction of the damage. Imagine you're the family of the respective families: if they knew the circumstances of both, which one do you think they'd punish more?

I lied. I look at passing Lexus, and more often than night, I feel magnanimous because my car was more special, by the sheer fact that it was mine. I remember the day I bought it: I walked into the Mission Viejo dealership looking like I was someone who could write a $50,000 check to buy a car outright. And so I did, but I was late in meeting up with Heather. It was a magical evening, playing at Blacker, being Mr. DJ again. There was a lot of stress and pleasure, and it's the spotlight of the moment. I remember scrambling into and out of office max looking for audio connectors. I remember curling up next to Heather in a hotel room on Colorado. I remember the satisfied partygoers, expressing their gratitude over my music selections. These things, and many other memories, pass through my mind when I see a Lexus from my bus seat. That essence of me survived the crash and is passing my current crucible, purifying me to something irreducible.

Red: Rehabilitated? Now let me see. You know, I don't have any idea what that means.

Parole official: Well, it means that you're ready to rejoin society.

Red: I know what you think it means, sonny. To me it's just a made up word; a politician's word. So young fellas like yourself can wear a suit, and tie, and have a job. What do you really want to know? Am I sorry for what I did?

Parole official: Well, are you?

Red: There's not a day goes by I don't feel regret. Not because I'm in here, or because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then then, a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime. I want to talk to him. I want to try and talk some sense to him, tell him the way things are. But I can't. That kid's long gone and this old man is all that's left. I got to live with that. Rehabilitated? It's just a bullshit word. So you go on and stamp your form, sonny, and stop wasting my time. Because to tell you the truth, I don't give a shit.