Running the Books: The Adventures of an Accidental Prison Librarian by Avi Steinberg Page A

SWEEEEEET! Ya need ya estrogen levels balanced by a pro. Make a bitch forget reality, speak in ancient tongues and shit … But like I said, I aint tryin’ to step on no one’s toes cuz that’s not the type of bitch I am. But on the up&up and low low I gots to make a proper attempt though, cuz I’d kick myself in the ass, ass backwardz if I didn’t attempt to get the goodz, knowin’ that I wanted a piece of the pie … So, ya crown jewels make a nigga rob banks. Only if ya crown jewels shine ma, like I know they do. An Italian princess like you should never be anything less, always have ya jewels shine … and if you feel the need to be unfaithful, then it be what it be ma. Go for yourz … now thatz the shiiiiit! I like the answers as usual. You keep shit rockin’. Here’s some more questions girly girl .
1. When is ya man getting out of jail?
2. Have you ever had a 3some?
3. Have you ever had a 4some?
4. Would ya ever pose for “Girlz Gone Wild”?
5. Can you skip the jail house panties, and just stick with the Georgia peach (straight up and down)?
6. Have you ever seen a man cry?
7. Does your office space have room for 2?
8. Have you ever had cyber sex?
9. Do you see yourself with a future? A different future?
10. Can I get a Woop Woop?
11. Can we be friends?
12. Can we be m.t.j.f.? [more than just friends]
13. “Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?”… courtesy of Chris Tucker
14. What’s ya fave movie?
15. What’s ya fave flavor?
16. You want to smoke an “L” with me?
17. You want to smoke the judge who sent you here?
Her Secret
    One night, Martha dropped by to say hello. A hooker hooked into just about everything, Martha was a notorious gossip who would hang out at the library counter, reading aloud from the newspaper’s police log and offering a running commentary on the catalog of recent crimes, the vast majority of which were committed by her relatives, close friends, neighbors, and an endless train of acquaintances named “Timmy” and “John John.”
    “I knew that ho was headed to jail! … Oh Christ, not Timmy! … Tony, you dumb fuck!”
    And on it went. It was hard not to like Martha. If she had been remotely trustworthy, I’d have hired her to work the library detail.
    That night, Martha leaned in across the counter.
    “Hey Arvin,” she said. “You wanna know something?” She was smiling like a crocodile.
    “Probably not,” I replied.
    “Your friend, Jessica,” she said, using Solitary’s Christian name, “she don’t come to your class no more ’cause she can’t look out that window.”
    “What a shame,” I said. “When I teach a class on window gazing, I’ll sign her right up.”
    “Yeah, funny. But she’s got her reasons.”
    “Oh really, why?”
    “She wants to look out the window cause her son’s in the yard. 3-3’s in the yard same time as your class. Poor girl goes to your class to catch a view of him. You get what I’m telling you?”
    I must have looked incredulous because Martha straightened her back and placed her hand over her heart, as though she were about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. This woman took her gossip as a solemn duty.
    “Honest to God,” she said, carefully enunciating her thick Boston ohwnest ta Gowad . “She ain’t seen the kid in like ten years or something, and then, like that, her baby boy shows, wearin’ blue.”
The Man in the Lime-Beige Plaid Suit
    Jessica’s son wasn’t the only unexpected arrival. My good friend Yoni had been prison-bound for a long time—possibly his whole life. Like many a rambling man before him, Yoni’s adventures ended pitifully by the side of a lonesome Tennessee highway, police flashers ablaze in his rearview mirror. The officer took one look at his car, with its tinted windows and its Support the Troops bumper sticker (placed there in order to curry favor with cops). One look at Yoni’s hippie getup, at his roguish dimples. The car was searched—an