Sandi came in early today, looking for her mail. Her man Skip is in jail and writes to her regularly — which is not always the case with incarcerated boy friends.
When Sandi gets mail from Skip, she tends to be demonstrative. Everyone in the front half of the Day Center is likely to hear about it, as she clutches the letters and proclaims this latest evidence of his devotion.
Today, she had two letters from Skip, and in the middle of her ecstacy, she showed me his picture. It portrayed a shirtless young man with long hair, not bad looking, but not trustworthy looking, either. (Skip is being held without bond for trespassing and a pending warrant in California.)
The picture was black-and-white, indistinctly reproduced on thin, creased paper, as if it were a photocopy from a newspaper story about a missing hiker.
One letter was sealed with Xs and Os, but the other distressed her. On the flap, Skip wrote: "This is the last letter you will receive from me unless I have some money put in my account."
Inside, more reason for wailing. Skip is reevaluating their relationship. Maybe he won't marry her when he gets out, because he is not sure of her love. If she doesn't put money in his account — which is used for prisoner personal spending — he will know she doesn't love him.
And that will be the end of that.
By this time, some of the men in the vicinity are shaking their heads. They have seen this game played before and maybe even have played it themselves. But it's not their place to offer an opinion when Sandi isn't asking for one.
Skip, she points out to me, has a bed and three meals a day, while she is living in a shelter, without a job, and just barely making it. His demand doesn't seem fair to her, but neither does it seem to strike her as manipulative.
She heads out shortly afterward, complaining about all kinds of injustice, and presumably looking for a way to come up with a few dollars for the man she imagines loves her.
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