The moment that I read Kenny's letter was an awakening to me. He explained that he had followed my story on the news closely, and found out where I was being held. He didn't know if he should write for his family's safety, but he figured that he knew me well enough that I wouldn't come to harm him or his family. The letter was touching, as he reminisced about the times when we were younger and he joked about how he felt like he was always helping me out of jams- like when my father died. This is how I knew what a true friend was. After all this time of not being involved in his life whatsoever, he felt it important to reach out to me and give me words of wisdom. He wrote about his wife, Kate, and his two children ages 4 and 2. He said that Kate had overcome a long battle with acute myelogenous leukemia, and because of her remission, the family found a new found faith in the Lord. He ended the letter with a bible verse from the Corinthians: No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation He will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it. As a rather unreligious man, I chose to ignore it, but still appreciated it all in the same.

Seeing how awful solitary confinement was, I tried my best to avoid it at all cost. I did what I was told, and when I was told; and even though my thoughts of Yolanda sometimes overtook me, I tried my best to remain level-headed. I actually liked being on good behavior. I often got made fun of by the other prisoners for what they called "giving into the big men", but I didn't care. My mindset was focused on finishing out my sentence in the least painful way I could. I needed to get back to my love, Yolanda, and my best friend, Kenny. I decided that if given the chance, I would mend all things broken in my life. I would tell Kenny how much his letter meant to me, and maybe even admit that I teared up while reading it. I would tell Yolanda that she had never left my mind for one minute during my sentence and tell her how important it was that her and I remain together.

I requested permission to be seen by the parole board. I was granted permission rather quickly. I was so nervous the nights before my interview that I had not slept or eaten. I looked in the mirror to give myself a pep talk before going to the interview and noticed my hair stringy and disheveled, and huge bags under my eyes that were sunken deep into my skull. I looked like a killer. "You are not that person, Bandy.", I told myself. My eyes were fixated and serious. "You are a good person, who just happens to love too much. And that is NOT a crime,". I continued repeating this over and over again until I was taken away to my interview. I walked into a room that was made of concrete walls and floors. Still in shackles, I was ordered to sit down in front of about ten different people, ranging in age, race, sex, and size. They sat about twenty feet away from me at a long, metal table. I was quick to assume that a few were psychologists from the questions about my childhood that they had asked me, and some were judges, or another type of governmental aide by the emphasis on my guilty plea. I explained everything with the upmost honesty that I could and exaggerated nothing. I figured that I knew I was a good person, and that would show through my actions, regardless of personal hygiene and appearance. I was asked about my meltdown in the laundry room and explained the meeting with Yolanda I had a few days prior. They took notes when I admitted that I had been in solitary confinement for a few months and I knew that their decision was made. Should I have lied?

I laid awake for a few nights after that awaiting their decision. I was so tired that when it came time for morning chow, I dropped my tray full of food. I was so weak, I could barely process what was happening, let alone collect the energy to clean it up. Because of my exhaustion and clumsiness, I was forced to skip my meal that day and sent to my cell. It was just before we were allowed out in the yard when a guard came to my cell with a letter from the parole board. My heart sank and I contemplated waiting to open it, but before I could even finish that thought I had already torn it open. My parole had been granted. Suddenly, I remembered the bible verse Kenny had written and it all made sense.

Prison Saga Part 2

One week after seeing Yolanda, I took a long look at myself in the mirror. "Not bad" I said to myself. My eyes were clear, my beard was thick, dark and about two inches long, and my hair was cropped short. My brown eyes spaced perfectly apart to look neither like a rat or a grazing cow. My skin was pale but clear. My straight nose with a slight hook. No bags under my eyes and no wrinkles. I smiled at myself and then shut my mouth to cover my crooked brown teeth.

Besides the immense conflict in my mind regarding Yolanda, sadly prison was one of the better periods in my life. I tend to view things as a glass half full kind of guy. For example the clothing was itchy but there was always a clean pair to change into. The guards always laughed at me when I soiled my pants and they thought it would be a proper punishment to make me work in the laundry room. The laundry job wasn't so bad though. It would be me, three other inmates, and a single guard in the room. The job consisted of sorting the pants, shirts, underwear and socks into different piles. There were four industrial size washing machines. Each one was meant to wash a specific garment. Even though the machines were actually the same, we had to follow this silly system to avoid mixing the clothing up. Once we loaded the machines, we sorted the next load and then waited around shooting the shit. One day I told the guys about Yolanda. I explained how I accidentally killed her lover in the stock room, and how she visited me and told me to forget about her. They encouraged me that other girls were out there and that it was foolish to continue loving someone that filed a restraining order against me. I thought back to the time I first saw Yolanda at the park. She looked so beautiful, but then I said "Bandy, you don't understand beauty. You need to escape this prison and open your heart to all the wonders of the world."

My pep talk to myself continued for some minutes as I reminisced about Claire who brought me food in the park and Kenny, my only childhood friend. As the buzzer rang when the dryer finished its cycle, I screamed out loud "Yolanda! You may have my heart, but I don't fucking love you no more!" The guard ran towards me and attempted to restrain me. I swung my arm around with all my force and smacked my forearm across his face. His nightstick flew out of his hand into the air as he toppled to the floor. I heard the sound of a swarm of guard's hard soled boots racing towards the room. We all lay on the ground and covered our heads to endure the seemingly never ending beat down. I was the last person to be interrogated regarding the incident and pleaded guilty to the story that the other inmates formed.

I was sent to solitary confinement for my actions. This was in a separate building located to the west of the four main prison buildings. The Hudson Correctional Facility was much different when I was there. Standards of prisoner treatment were harsh and bordering on torture. I was locked up in a small dark cell in this separate building and stayed there for an entire month. The room was large enough to stand and lay down in but not much bigger. The floor was cold cement and they didn't provide me with a blanket. There was a faucet with salty tasting water and a few loaves of stale bread.

When I was finally released from solitary, I was in a very agitated state. I uncontrollably opened and closed my mouth in a way that looked to others that I was chewing on something. My eyes were no longer clear and now riddled with red veins. My the skin was clinging tightly to my now visible cheekbones and my face had a hollow look to it. I was more pale than ever before in my life. When I got into my regular cell, there was a letter for me waiting on the bed. I looked at the name of the return sender and couldn't believe my eyes... Kenny!

Much of my time spent incarcerated was spent dodging glances, staying out of people's way, purposely not making friends, and of course, thinking. I thought about everything from my father to if this is where I imagined I would be in however many years. I kept coming back to the same conclusion, its all Yolonda's fault. Everything. Everything that happened. Even when I didn't know her I some how rationalized her involuntary involvement in and event in my life. I became angry because of these thoughts.

Four years passed and I got called down to see a visitor. I swore under my breath, but my stomach contained butterflies at the anticipation of who would be on the other side of that glass window. I sat down at seat number three and picked up the phone before even looking to see who was there. "what.", I muttered. "Hello, Bandy." My eyes grew wide and with an open mouth I looked up to see her. Yolonda. All the hatred I had built up in me seemed to disappear in the matter of a second. My heart leapt and raced and the knots in my stomach became tighter. She had a shorter hair cut now but still the same radiance she had always portrayed. The purple blouse she was wearing made her blue eyes pop, and the gold cross necklace that hung perfectly on her chest made her seem more angelic than ever. She somehow made the simplest things look like that of royalty. "Wh-..Why..or...who...aa-.." I couldn't form a complete thought because of the shock that overtook my body and temporarily paralyzed me and my ability to speak. She laughed and said hello again. "Why are you here?" was all I could think to ask her. She looked confused as the smile drained from her face. "Aren't you happy to see me?" she asked inquisitively. "Of course I am, I just..Its been...I mean, I'm here because...-" "I know". She looked at me for a minute and I felt like she could read my thoughts. I instantly flashed back to the last time I saw her as I was being carried away in a police car. "I'm so sorry" was all I thought reasonable to say. She smiled and said it was ok and that she was here to tell me something important. I perked up and rested my elbows on the small counter in front of me. I was thinking of the things to say in response to her confession of love towards me. I mean, why else would she come to see me? Why else would she remember me after all of these years? It was obvious that in her time away from me, I had latched onto her mind like a leech and refused to let go. To this, she decided to give in and miss me terribly each day until she finally broke down and realized it was time to come confess her undying love. What would be the appropriate response to something so great? Could this even be real? I didn't want to react too suddenly and make her think I was crazy...although, I might've already done that with the whole murdering her boyfriend thing. But I didn't want to be too passive and push her away. "I'm getting married", she said suddenly, "I wanted to come tell you because I don't want any problems when you get out. You need to forget about me and you need to move on. You're a great person and you have so much-.." I stopped listening because of disbelief. My heart just broke all over again and my anger flared up at twice the rate. How could she come in here to tell me that? Why wouldn't she just write me a letter? Why would she need to tell me at all? I interrupted her with the only response I saw fit which was "don't flatter yourself, bitch." Her jaw dropped as I hung up the phone and the guards escorted me back to my cell.

I walked briskly, well, as briskly as I could with shackles around my ankles, and with tears in my eyes. I would not cry. Men don't cry. Especially in prison. I kept coming up with different reasons in my head why I could tell my cell mate that I was clearly upset. I layed down on my bed and stared up at the ceiling in hopes that the tears would listen to gravity and just go back into my eyes. This didn't work. I began to weep as my thoughts overtook me. I should've said something different. I should've listened to her. Maybe she was going to tell me that she was just getting married for the remainder of my prison sentence so she wasn't lonely and then she would divorce him upon my arrival back into society. "This is fucking crazy.", I thought I said to myself until my cell mate replied with "I hear you, boy, I should've been out a looooong time ago.." I wanted to bash his head against the wall for intruding on my moments of introspection. Just when I was about to react on such a brilliant idea, I realized that it would only get me more jail time, which in turn was longer that I was away from Yolonda, which was longer that she had to be with her husband, and be unhappy without me. I couldn't have Yolonda be unhappy with a false marriage. Therefore I released my clenched fists and imagined a way to escape.

Days passed and the only conclusion I drew from my mind running in circles around Yolonda is that I loved her. I really loved her. Never once did I think it was unrequited, although in retrospection, I should have because it would've saved me from what was about to come next.

Bandy Prison Part One

After months in a holding cell and enduring the embarrassment of a public trail, I was sentenced with voluntary manslaughter. I was told by my public defendant lawyer that this sentence is sometimes called a “Heat of Passion” murder. For some reason I laughed when he told me this. Well, I had fifteen years to find a reason why I laughed because that was how long I was locked up. I'll get to my conclusion on that in a bit, but first let me tell you how prison was.

Being faced with the fact that my freedom in the world was lost took me months to get used to. At first I didn't talk to anyone and suffered from visual hallucinations. When I tried to sleep, Yolanda's eyes appeared underneath my own eyelids. For the first year, it never was important or upsetting to me that I killed a man. That fact was just an inconvenience that put a barrier between me and my love.

My inaugural year was fairly uneventful because I was in a secluded cell. I threatened suicide often because that ensured my single cell occupancy. During this time, I started getting used to the feeling of being imprisoned and began to adapt. I read for more than half of the time that I was awake. Reading so much started to open my mind to subjects I've never considered. Philosophy, history, and romance novels were my favorite types of books. The mixture of these subjects showed me for the first time that I can relate to people and gave me a feeling of confidence around others. I stopped acting suicidal and slowly started being a more reasonable human being. On a good day, I tried to joke with some of the guards. My sense of humor never went over well. They usually told me “Shut up Bandy” and banged on the bars of my cell with a baton.

In my second year I fared much better. I was moved into a larger cell with another man. When I was escorted to the new cell, the man was sleeping face down on the top mattress of a bunk bed. He had a bush of dark hair shooting in all directions. He wore the standard prison attire, but his seemed especially fitted to accentuate the large muscles of his body. He slept without a sound while I moved into the new cell. I hung up a picture I drew on the wall and put my books on a stack in the corner. I laid in the bottom bunk while cracking open a paperback book. When I'm nervous, it's hard for me to retain what I'm reading. I got to page sixty of the book when I heard a rustling above me. This made me realize that I had no idea what I just read. I didn't even know what book I was holding.

The bed started shaking and a pair of legs swung over the top bunk and swayed near my face. My new roommate coughed a few times. He then yelled “Yippee” and jumped out of bed and landed on his feet facing me.

Hey, guess we're roomies he said.
Yeah, I said and started nervously laughing. He looked me hard in the eyes for an uncomfortably long time and then finally broke my gaze by looking at the book I had sitting on my chest. He stared at the book deciphering the title and then looked back into my eyes. He started laughing obnoxiously loud and began snorting. He started to lose control of himself and even passed gas. I had no idea what was wrong. I looked down at the book and read the title, The Complete Idiots Guide to Amazing Sex.

My heart started pounding, I knew this was my only chance to make a good impression. I thought fast and looked at him directly. “Hi, my name is Bandy. I'm in here for murder.”

I guess by now you are wondering why I chose the name BandysBeard for this website. Ever since I was 18, I could grow a thick, full, and dark beard. I often admired pictures civil war generals and adventurous mountain men for their facial follicle prowess. Being homeless and on the move leaves me with little choice. Carrying around razors and shaving cream, and finding a private place to clean up has always been more hassle than it's worth. Due to my natural ability to produce an unusually bushy face covering, I decided early in life to let my beard sprout to the fullest.

When I went in to ask Yolanda for the job, my beard and mustache was trimmed neatly to about half an inch in length. The first months at my new job went surprisingly quick. Yolanda taught me how to run all aspects of the bakery including the working the cash register, washing dishes, and making baked goods. I had an instant knack for mixing and cooking flour laden treats from my years of cooking for my parents at home. When I was a kid, I had to invent foods with a sparse pantry sometimes filled only with a 50lb bag of flour, sugar, vegetable and salt (fried dough was a favorite of mine!). I always dreamed of the day when I'd have infinite ingredients at my disposal. With Yolanda at the Vanilla Tea Bakery, the possibilities were endless.

I was working steadily for around a year and was becoming really comfortable and confident about myself. With the money I earned, I moved into a one room apartment on the top floor of a building in the industrial district. The place was the first that ever truly felt like home. The noise of trains rolling along the tracks outside was very calming to me and reminded me of my train-riding days. I felt almost complete, but something was still missing in my life.

In my last post I mentioned that Yolanda and I fell in love. Unfortunately this is more a delusion of mine than actual reality. I began to have such strong feelings for her. I tried to flirt and playfully tease her, but my games were rarely reciprocated. After some of the worst days at work, I went back to my apartment and sketched pictures of Yolanda while crying. It was as if she couldn't fathom that her and I could even be together. She often talked about crushes and the dates she went on. I usually humored her, but it was torture for me. Sometimes I was so frustrated at her lack of interest in me that I locked myself in the work bathroom for hours.

The day when I lost my job still makes me nauseous when I think about it. It started off like any normal day for me. I rolled out of bed excited to go to my job and be with Yolanda. The bakery had ordered a few dozen too many eggs that were nearing expiration, so I had took a bunch home throughout the week. I made myself a giant garlic and onion omelet with six of the questionable eggs.

I left my apartment and walked the twenty blocks to the bakery. It was a brisk fall day which made me reminisce about the time my mother raked all the leaves in our yard and formed a giant pile for me to jump into. As I walked along whistling a flat blues tune my stomach started slightly rumbling like the agitated ocean before a hurricane.

When I got to work the door was unlocked, but Yolanda was nowhere in sight. I looked around the main room and didn't see her. I started to hear this strange noise like animals fighting coming from the back storage room. We occasionally had issues with raccoons breaking in and eating the bags of sugar. I figured this would be a repetition of that previous event, so I grabbed a broom and headed to the back. As I got closer, the noise sounded less like beasts and more like humans. I opened the door and saw Yolanda laying naked on a cardboard box with a man's head between her legs. I was at first shocked and excited to see my love naked. That feeling lasted for about five seconds until I erupted in a nuclear explosion of jealous rage. I took the broom in my hands and started whacking the unknown man in his head. The first blow was enough to knock him on the ground. He laid there unconsciously with a pool of blood forming around his head. I looked around in a moment of clarity and saw Yolanda's angelic body convulsing in horror. She looked at me as if I was a murderer. Her look shocked me so much that all of a sudden I felt a soft warm mass appear in the back of my pants. At this point I must have passed out. I woke up in a 10 by 10 foot jail cell smelling like sulfur...

well, I know I said I would update this regularly, but..I've been out of commission and kind of still am. Remember that little girl who brought me food? Well, she did.

See, the problem with being homeless and, I guess, any type of person, really...is that people have a stereotype about you. Her parents found out she was bringing me food. I feel as though any parent should congradulate their child on doing something to help a person out. Especially someone as young and innocent as 8 year old, Claire. She was so excited the night that she brought me food that I thought she was going to shoot confetti out of her ears if she held the plate any longer. She told me with her eyes gleaming that her parents made me a special dinner, a seperate dinner. There was a huge chicken breast and a drumstick, mashed potatoes, and a vegetable mix of green beans, carrots, and corn. I love corn and carrots, but I hate green beans. Claire sat there vivaciously next to me and watched me eat while telling me about her previous week at school while I listened intently, but focusing on nonchalontly picking the green beans out of the mix. I saved the chicken for last because it was what I was most excited about. The smell alone made the hair on my arms stand at attention and when I could barely wait anymore, I tore into the chicken drumstick like it was the last one on earth. I devoured everything on that plate and even ended up mixing the green beans into the mashed potatoes, trying to trick my mind and make me able to eat them. When I was finished, she took the plate and smiled and asked how tonight's meal was, as she reitterated the fact that her parent's had made it special for me. I said that it was very good, told her thank you, and asked her to also thank her parents. I slept the night with a full stomach, but woke up early to my stomach grumbling and turning. I quick ran into a nearby patch of trees (which had become my own personal commode) and unleashed a shit storm, quite literally. I soon felt the color flush from my face and was joined by an overwhelmingly high body temperature. I started taking layers of my sweat-soaked clothing off until I was down to my underwear and socks. I tried to walk back to my bench, but collapsed and vomitted three times. I was so weak that I just laid in the brush next to my vomit and feces and slept for what seemed like forever. Shortly after, I woke up and vomitted again, but this time I was shivering. I hurridley put all my clothing back on, while remaining on the ground because I lacked energy to stand up. I didn't even button my pants since just the thought itself was a chore. The moment I put my pants back on, my stomach started grumbling again. Panic overwhelmed my body like a tidal wave. As I stood up to move, I got so dizzy that I collapsed again and made friends with the notion of my death. The only thing I asked God for since my protection from my father was for me to not be crapping when I die. I fully accepted my fate and started to weep a little at the thought of leaving nothing, but everything behind all at once. When I was finished my second bowel movement in probably two hours, I collapsed again, with my pants down, layed in the fetal position, and fell asleep for a couple minutes. The only thing that awoke me was the realization that if I do, in fact, die right now, I won't be shitting- but will have my pants down. After adjusting myself, I laid down again and thought about who would find me, if they would tell Yolanda, if they would know to bury me next to my mother, if Claire would realize when I didn't meet her at the bench, and many other things like, for example, if anyone would even WANT to come down into the brush since the awful smell probably radiated for miles. I would rot in this spot. Nobody would know, and nobody would even care. I shed yet another tear over this thought and sat up to see if I was still dizzy. I sat against a tree for a minute or two and got up to make my way back to the bench. I felt like if I could at least make it back to civilization, that someone would see me die, and maybe...just maybe...someone would care. I slept nearly all day and only woke up once more to vomit. The next few days my vomitting and diharrea subsided gradually, but my stomach cramps remained until yesterday.

Right before writing this I had looked up my symptoms on the symptom checker on webmd and realized that the chicken that night, HAD been a little gooey. I had gotten salmonella.

Well, its been almost a year since I've written in this...Honestly, I've been meaning to, but I don't quite know how to illustrate to people what has happened. My life has basically crumbled before me in the matter of months, although its been happening slowly since my parents passed. I have been homeless again for the past few months. I slept outside and in the same clothes, as before, but this time it was a lot more difficult since I knew what it was like to be well-established. I feel like the transition from having nothing to even less was way easier to deal with then the transition from having it all to nothing. We will have time to catch up later, as I will make it a point to write in this again. Through the horrible weather, the people staring, the inquisitive children, the persistent sickness, and the lack of any materialistic belonging, I know I at least have this to write. Sadly, its the only thing I have.

When I remembered that I had to do this, I slept on a bench close to the library for several days and noticed that the employees locked every door except the side one closest to a row of homes. Luckily there was a bench on that side of the building too which quickly became my home the next few days while I checked out how I could sneak in. Although it was a public library, the employees would never let me go in, not even to use their facilities. I tried not to make eye contact with the employees because I felt like they could easily peer into my mind and know I was plotting to break into their library and use their computers...but then it hit me. It wasn't THEIR library, it was mine too! I had just as much right to be there as any other person. After all, it was a public place, was it not? No where on the library did it say "welcome everyone except for Bandy". It was that night that I placed all my fears behind me and walked through the unlocked door. I chose a computer that wasn't near a window in case someone would pass by and see the light. The whole time I was there, my stomach tossed and turned thinking "what if there is a cleaning person that comes through". My anxiety skyrocketed so much that I immediately turned the computer off and left the premises immediately. Apparently, I still needed a few days to think my plan through. Now I'm here. Typing quickly and keeping an eye on the time. Before I came to sit down, I passed through a break room where I saw a Nature Valley Oats n' Honey granola bar just sitting on the counter. I felt like it stood up and begged me to take it out of its misery. Feeling bad for the poor lonely granola bar, I made him a new home in my tummy. From the letters he sends, I hear it's better than the counter top. So, all is well.

Last time I wrote, I talked about Yolonda. Well, I got my job at the bakery, and Yolonda and I quickly fell in love. We had to remain professional among the high school kids who worked part time on the weekends, but during the week, we were all play, no cookies. All a memory now. I have to go back to my bench. There is a little girl who always sneaks food and water out to me in the middle of the night, so I don't want to miss my daily drop off.