Pork pie

An impromptu roadie with a dear friend and two new ones who busted out of prison had me dreaming of British pub fare. 

I enjoyed a magical summer that felt too good to be true. When something seems too good to be true, it usually is, and this fall has brought with it a steady diet of humble pie. There have been some lovely moments, like a dope hike I took with my kids, but since Labor Day it’s been setback after setback.

I know staying negative serves no useful purpose, yet I still do it all the time. While I’m far better now at regulating my emotions than I was during my Dark Night of the Soul two years ago, sometimes I still get hit with waves of depression and anxiety.

When I’m feeling down, my go-to move to keep depression from setting in is to keep it moving, especially walking. One recent morning, I was in the early stages of a planned long walk to get my mind right when I got a call out of the blue from my dear friend Jim, who invited me on a caper that would lift my spirits more than any walkathon. 

Jim is an innocence lawyer, and he showed up like a rock for me during my Dark Night days, including driving all the way to Minneapolis from Wisconsin, where he was on a business trip, to take me to the ER when I was having suicidal ideations.

Jim explained that he was driving to a hotel to pick up a pair of exoneree clients—brothers, aged 69 and 70—who had attended his nonprofit organization’s fundraising gala the night before. The brothers had each spent nearly 30 years in prison for a crime they didn’t commit, and he was taking them back to their homes in semi-rural Wisconsin. 

Both were deeply institutionalized and had developmental issues that would’ve kept them out of the military even during their cognitive prime. One carried a chip on his shoulder over what happened to him that sometimes reflected in his demeanor, and the other had Tourette’s syndrome, so you never knew what might come out of his mouth.

Jim asked if I wanted to tag along and keep him company on the return leg.

I live for this kind of stuff. Asking me if I was in was like asking Trump if he likes Big Macs. Yes, please with extra cheese and super size me. I was in like Flynn and down like James Brown. Jim agreed to scoop me from my crib in an hour.

I’m so glad he did. The experience helped put my pain into perspective, and made me immensely grateful for what I’d been taking for granted

Given the characters involved—Jim is almost as outré as me, arguably more so on some levels—hilarity predictably ensued. The brothers’ sometimes crude, often childlike humor reminded me of my own, and within minutes of hopping in Jim’s rental car, I understood why his wife suggested I’d be the perfect companion for the ride. I probably shouldn’t take that as a compliment, but I do. 

We got to know each other fairly well on the four-and-a-half-hour journey, which does not include lunch at Taco John’s, my choice because they serve bean burritos, the only fast food I can handle these days. The brothers, who told me they’d been free for about a year, expressed deep appreciation for the quick-service Mexican culinary masterpiece known as the Potato Olé®.

Neither brother asked Jim for permission to use the restroom like Red in Shawshank Redemption or anything like that, but they were still institutionalized to such a degree that, in some respects, it felt like kicking it with adolescents. I like kicking it with adolescents—at least until the sun goes down—so I thoroughly enjoyed their company.

My favorite conversational nugget came when Jim asked what I wanted for lunch, and one of the brothers piped up with a grin that would make the devil jump back: “he wants hair pie!” My second favorite was when the other brother described a couple of potential paramours as “cute lil porkers.” By that point, I wasn’t sure which one had Tourette’s and which was just a dirt dawg. Either way, both would fit right in with my high school meathead crew, who still make me laugh as a middle-aged man.

The brothers may have been wrongly convicted, but they weren’t angels. They’d had prior run-ins with the law, which made them easy targets for a myopic prosecutor looking to advance his career. That roughness leaked out in their manners and banter, but when we talked about their case, I never heard them badmouth the prosecutor, the jailhouse snitch who lied, or the judicial system that utterly failed them.

To be clear, the state of Wisconsin admits it wrongfully stole thirty years of their lives, yet released them into a world they barely recognized, with neither skills nor pots to piss in. Bless their hearts, when they showed me their homes, I saw poverty that would make most folks crumble.

Wisconsin allows exonerees to petition for restitution of up to $2 or $2.5 million, depending on the case, and the brothers submitted their petitions months ago. The restitution committee, composed of folks from various branches of government sporting important titles and fancy resumes, has been slow walking them for most of this year. I told the brothers that $2.5 million was light and infinity sounded closer to fair. They agreed, but said they’d be fine with the max.

Meanwhile, as the committee members enjoy their comfortable lives, the brothers can barely afford groceries from Aldi and rely on donations from GoFundMe campaigns their lawyers set up.

I doubt the brothers can truly conceive of what they’d do with millions of dollars, and the only solid plan they mentioned for any restitution compensation they recover is to share it with loved ones and charities. No sum could ever repay what the state took from them, but the prospect of restitution at least gives them hope.

At one point, as we wound through the bucolic hills of eastern Wisconsin, one brother pointed toward a hog farm and told the other he should buy one with his restitution money. I laughed, thinking he was joking—especially since the other was the one who likes porkers—but when I looked over, his face was dead serious. I kept my wisecracks to myself.

That was one of the trip’s few quiet moments. Despite all they’d endured, both men radiated gratitude. Even the one with the chip on his shoulder seemed less angry at the system than at the friends and family who’d turned their backs on him—except for his sister, a kind, steadfast woman who stood by her brothers and helped secure their release.

He’s a literal gratitude merchant now, spending his days making block letter stencil cards to thank everyone who ever showed up for him. His brother’s vibe was lighter, more upbeat, and he seemed thrilled at the prospect of eating all the pork pie he could get after decades of prison rations. 

By the time we said our farewells, I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself anymore. Instead, I felt grateful for my family, my friends, my faculties, and my freedom—all of which I had taken for granted.

When we’re feeling down in the dumps, we can consciously replace low-vibrating, negative thinking with high-vibrating, positive emotions like love, joy, and gratitude. No matter what, there’s always something to be grateful for.

A simple way to practice gratitude is to visualize something that elicits it. Tune in to the warm, tingling feeling in the heart space and solar plexus. Now, visualize something wonderful you’ve only dared to imagine in a dream, and tune into the electric feeling in your future self’s heart when your dream comes true.

When I practiced this exercise the other day, I visualized myself on a farm, eating pie with the brothers. 

I hope the brothers get paid and buy that farm. I hope to visit and shake my friends’ hands. I hope the pie is as tasty as it has been in my dreams. 

I hope.