I love movies about prison breaks. I’m obsessed with Alcatraz, I’ve watched all the heist shows. I root out loud for the criminal masterminds, as long as they’re trapped somewhere and trying to escape.
I suppose that’s what makes me a good career counselor: I always believe there is a way out.
Nothing can outwit one’s drive toward freedom.
I stand in the corner of the fugitive, particularly right after they’ve made the decision to flee. I’m there with the clippers, the raft, and the headlamp.
Through the fence we go, into the sewer pipe, up stream, walking for miles until we cross the border and filter into the crowd, unnoticed.
Then it’s back to prison for me. More souls to free. A different way next time, maybe a hanglider off the roof, or we’ll just walk out the front door. (It’s amazing how unattended that door is.)
The thing about being a prison-break guide, and I’m sure Harriet would agree, you can find yourself in your own prison, running up and back on the same path back, from inside to outside, from confinement to freedom.
We get high on the liberation of others, a vicarious dope fiend, reaching the top of the mountain a million times and returning alone, content or zombie-like; I can’t tell which.
I know all the ways out. I see through walls. I’m not afraid of the warden.
But, still, I go back.