Prison Wars: An Inside Account of How the Apocalypse Happened By Martin Sanger. Martin Sänger

us and working for Quentin.”

      What does one say to such a statement? “Oh, okay. I will. And I’ll be right back.”

      “Take your time, families don’t move according to schedule.” I nodded with a crooked suppressed grin in response and headed down the path.

      As I walked down to the home my head spun with questions. Were they really serious? Could I just leave my job and responsibilities back in Nebraska? What was my home going to look like? Would I be happy here with the perfect family? Was this really happening to me? I came back to my decision to jump on this opportunity that I had arrived at the night before.

      The guest home opened into a nice little living room / dining room combination with an adjacent kitchen. The fixtures, chairs, and rug were nearly all white. The kitchen was separated by a bar counter with bar stools. The front windows opened up to shrubbery that largely obscured the big house. I went to the other room, but there was no exit there. Coming back, towards the entrance I spotted the hall to the bedroom. And there on the bed were red swim trunks with blue trim on a king size bed.

      This was true.

      When I got back up the hill, feeling somewhat embarrassed to have my white hairy legs exposed, Melissa called the kids. “Kids, come on out, were goooiiiing.”

      “So what dya think of the place?” One of the couple asked.

      “Great. I could be happy living there.” I smiled broadly. This was not a mannerism that I traditionally had in my repertoire. But I was glad to feel that I was melting into their crowd.

      “Fantastic.”

      Then the kids came out. Justin was the oldest; He was twelve years old. Samantha was in her terrible sixes when I met her. She was a cute girl. She kept pulling her bathing suit out of her butt the whole day. She must have had a recent growth spurt.

      Justin and Samantha stopped flat on their feet to stare at this ungainly looking stranger.

      “Kids, this is Uncle Marty.” Melissa smiled at me as she introduced me. She was mischievous. I smiled back. “Uncle Marty, this is Justin.” He held his hand out for shaking. “And this is Samantha.” She held her little hand out too.

      “Nice to meet you both.” Not having any of my own, I have always been a little uncomfortable around children. My parents divorced when I was seven and I didn’t have a lot of interaction with families growing up. Family dinners and such rituals are alien to me. I’m never sure what the protocol is. The kids also stared awkwardly.

      “Ready for a day of fun at the beach?” I queried with loud spontaneous enthusiasm?

      “Yeaaaah.” The kids cheered in response to my lame attempt at connection. They snapped out of their trances and piled into the back of the car. It was so easy! Their enthusiastic acceptance was refreshing. I had found the source of Quentin’s enthusiasm. The kids, like him, made me aware of the energy lying dormant inside of me. I have been so groggy and subtly cynical for so long. Being around kids would be healthy for me.

      Quentin drove and Melissa sat in the back. That left the front seat, the seat of honor, open for me.

      “I know we’re not supposed to discuss work, but my job so far is just to know you guys. So can I ask you when you two first met?”

      “I’ve been in love with Quent since I was six. He took a little longer.”

      “I loved you too honey. We grew up together. We got married when I was a junior at UCLA and she was just going off to Indiana University. We wanted to cement our relationship before others intervened.”

      “There were others, when he first got to college,” she spilled what must have been an often repeated little chiding between them. “But that drove him to me.”

      “That’s right.” Quentin seemed a little perturbed at having this little intimacy displayed so openly. She smiled at the little grimace he shot her via the rear view mirror. “We’ve known each other for maaany years.”

      Melissa was thirty-four when I first met her. Quentin had just turned thirty-six. They had been married for twelve years. Justin must have been born right after the wedding.

      In the far back seat, Justin attacked Sam and she screamed. “Maaaaaam. Justin’s hitting me!” “I am not.” Melissa’s combining an admonishing, “Juuuuustin” with a stern look that had a heavy element of silliness caused him to fold his arms and turn his attention out the window. My sitting in the front had nothing to do with me as an individual. It was a family arrangement. Later I learned that Sam taunting Justin, his retaliating and her screaming for Mom’s help was a perennial situation. It happened at least ten times a day.

      Malibu has a lot of spectacular semi-private beachside coves. Zuma was Quentin’s favorite. As we got ready to go down the path that leads to the beach, Quentin reached into the back of the van and pulled out his saxophone case.

      The beach was lovely. We stayed about two hours. The kids made sand castles and swam and ran and walked. Everything they did they did together. All of us swam and played with the kids a bit. I played with them more than Melissa or Quentin. I wanted the kids to get to know me and I thought it would provide a good opportunity for Quentin and Melissa to have a little intimate romantic time.

      They only sat together for about ten minutes when Quentin grabbed his saxophone and went around a cliff to where we couldn’t see him. After playing a bit more, I sat down next to Melissa.

      “Hey Melissa.”

      “Hey Marty! I think the kids like you!”

      “They are so wonderful. I’m usually a little awkward around kids. I don’t have a lot of experience with them. But they are very accepting.”

      “Oh, yeah, definitely.”

      “After playing with them for just a bit I figured out that my insecurities were only in my head. They are just about fun and in the moment. They have no need to judge you. We can learn a lot from children.” I was trying to open up a bit and show that I could be a little sensitive and insightful in a spiritual kind of way. It was a far stretch for this boy from Nebraska.

      “Bliss and peace are often accompanied by a strange lack of interest in judging others.” Melissa smiled at me. Wow.

      “And that is the reason that I have been trying not to judge Quentin’s trip, no matter how juvenile it seems.”

      “Quentin’s charm sort of comes from his boyish nature. There is a lot to appreciate there. He is innocent.” I lamely offered in Quentin’s defense.

      “Yes, very much so, But there is a refusal to seem adult too. I guess the best thing to do is to accept and support others and, as you said appreciate them. I am not interested in judging others.” She didn’t look at me when she said this. I sensed a sort of sad distance in her that I hadn’t seen before.

      Just then I heard Quentin’s saxophone for the first time. It was a slow, ponderous, and spiritual – full of long notes. Then he quickly broke into odds and ends of half-remembered rock tunes.

      Then Melissa offered wistfully, “The profundity of complex mature vision has a beauty that kids are too young to see, even if it is uptight.”

      As I stared at the ocean I felt the waves trying to wear down my constant inner-dialogue about saying the right thing. As the waves pulled back after a crash they dragged a lot of pebbles back with them. As I wrestled for a reply, I fancied that they were collectively saying “shhhhhhhh.”

      “I know what you mean.” I offered after a bit.

      “I believe that you do.” She said with her eyes seemingly focused on the horizon. After a brief pause she turned her eyes to me. “Why do you think that Quent is doing this latest project?”

      “I