Thereโ€™s this line in Eat Pray Love about Quest Physics. The idea that life is a spiritual journey and everyone we encounter along the way is our teacher, nudging us down the path to enlightenment. I believe this. My most recent teacher is Big George. He moved into the bunk next to me when my friend Menu went home. The exchange was about as seamless as the Obama/Trump White House transition.

George is a 300-pound, 47-year-old man, but mentally heโ€™s somewhere around age 10. It took all of two seconds of conversation to realize this. From the moment he dragged his property down my row and plopped down across from me, I knew he was going to be a character. I had no idea…

โ€œCan I borrow some cookies? What are you writing? Are you eating again? Who sent you that letter? The Dolphins suck!โ€ Big George has not shut up since he moved in. At first it was funny. Then it was irritating. Finally, it reached the point where I had to keep my headphones in at all times. Dude is driven by the compulsion to contaminate every precious sliver of silence with mindless chatter. He canโ€™t help himself. Even as I write this, heโ€™s sitting over there, two feet to my left, narrating the comings and goings of the dorm in his signature whiny nasal voice. Big George doesnโ€™t talk. He squawks. The only time he ever shuts up is when heโ€™s shoveling food into his face.

A few months ago he says, โ€œYou think youโ€™re so cool just because you wrote a book. Iโ€™m gonna write a book and itโ€™s gonna be way better than yours.โ€ Then a couple weeks later, โ€œHey Malcolm! You wanna be in my book? Iโ€™m a CIA agent with two samurai swords and I own a car dealership with a strip bar on the roof. Buy a car and get a free lap dance!โ€ Heโ€™s been over there writing away ever since.

Full disclosure: I was dealing with a vicious bout of writers block for most of 2019 so it was especially infuriating to look over and see his pen gliding effortlessly across his notebook while I thrashed and groped for words. Occasionally, he would catch me staring at the blank page and hit me with that halfwit smile of his. โ€œWhat are you doing over there? You havenโ€™t written anything! Iโ€™m already on page 85.โ€


โ€œWanna read a little bit?โ€ he offered one day.
I did not. But thereโ€™s this egocentric part of me that looks in the mirror and sees a writing instructor, sent to assist the unwashed and illiterate. So I sighed and held out my hand.

It was worse than I imagined. Third-grader handwriting, atrocious punctuation, no indentation. The words that werenโ€™t misspelled just trailed off into scribble. I looked up to find him smiling like an expectant chef who had just served up the house special. He raised his eyebrows.

I told him it was garbage. Told him he was trying to fly before he could walk. Told him he should learn the fundamentals first. He needed to write good sentences before he could write good paragraphs, much less good books. He was highly indignant, insisted that I read more. I shook my head and handed him back his manuscript.

โ€œWrite me one good sentence and Iโ€™ll think about it,โ€ I said. โ€œOne simple sentence, but it has to be capitalized, punctuated, and spelled correctly. Can you do that?โ€ He tore a piece of paper from his notebook and went straight to work, tongue out, brow furrowed in concentration as he made his letters. When he finished he passed it across the aisle and gave me the chef look again, obviously very pleased with himself. I glanced down at the paper. โ€œMy name is Georg!โ€ Almost, man.

It didnโ€™t take long for the rest of the dorm to smell blood in the water. Prison is similar to the schoolyard. Remember the bullies from your childhood? They didnโ€™t have spiritual awakenings and change their lives. They grew up and came here, where they perfected their methods of cruelty. โ€œLook at you,โ€ one sneered at him the other day. โ€œItโ€™s people like you who make me realize that things arenโ€™t so bad after all.โ€

He shrugged innocently. โ€œWhy? Whatโ€™s so special about me?โ€

See what Iโ€™m saying? Clueless. Big George was born with a โ€œkick meโ€ sign on his ass. Of course, he doesnโ€™t make things any easier by constantly drawing attention to himself. Iโ€™ve even gotten in on the action. One day when he wouldnโ€™t shut up, Mr. Benevolent Writing Professor himself pulled back a rubber band and snapped him right on a fat roll. โ€œOuch!โ€ he exclaimed. โ€œWhatโ€™d you do that for?โ€ It left a red welt. Not one of my finest moments.

But it may have been a defining moment. Quest Physics. Life is a spiritual journey and everyone we encounter along the way is our teacher. Even the Big Georges of the world. Especially the Big Georges. Thatโ€™s not me. Prison is oppressive enough without some dick popping you with a rubber band just because youโ€™re different.

Which brings me to New Yearโ€™s… The best holiday in my little corner of the universe. Way better than Christmas. Nothing like another year down, another year closer to home. I spent the final week of 2019 like many citizens of the world, taking personal inventory, getting my house in order, figuring out my goals and resolutions for 2020. For me, itโ€™s the usual suspects โ€” finish current novel, write more essays, build strength, increase flexibility, hydrate, read more, listen better, be more efficient with time… But this year, kindness and tolerance surge back to the top of the leader board. I lost my way over the last 12 months. It took a CIA agent with samurai swords to lead me out of the wilderness. They say that when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. Iโ€™m fortunate to have crossed paths with Big Georg.

Love you guys. Happy 2020!