Count Time

Nine p.m.  All inmates in their cubes.  Eight phones stand watch.  Silent.  Lonely.  “Feet on the floor!”  160 men do as they are told.  Prisoners.  Obey.  “Stand here!”  “Sit there!”  “Move, now!”  The eight phones wait.  They want to help.  Not yet.  They remain silent.  Count continues:  68…72…75….  Feet shuffle, edging towards the hallway.  Don’t cross the threshold.  Never disrupt count.  The SACRED COUNT.  Pulses quicken.  160 men, only 8 phones.  Hope.  Anticipation.  Excitement.  The feelings are palpable.  Appraise the competition.  Cube 42:  Wearing headphones, headed to tv room; Cube 57:  Laundry Bag; Cube 56: Playing cards.  Mentally checking them off.  44:  Pacing, eyes bright, definitely scoping out a phone.  140…143…145.  The footsteps stop.  Heads pop up.  Don’t disrupt Count!  Never interrupt Count!   “Who’s talking?”  You can hear your own heartbeat.  “Start over!”  Groans all around.  Who was it?  “Dude in 28 was sleeping, Bro in 18 was singing, 37 doing ink work – during Count!”  We start again.  “Feet on the floor – counting!”  Staring.  Willing everyone to be quiet.  Control.  Us against Them.  Individual defiance?  Hurts us all.  36…42…46….  Hurry up, please hurry up, the phones are waiting.  110…114….  Impatience.  Whispers.  Mumbles.  But Count goes on.  THEY want it over.  THEY want to sit down.  THEY want to take it easy.  We feel sorry for them?  Hah!  They go home when the shift is over.  We stay.  Obey.  We wait for the phones.  154…158…160.  Count clear!  Movement, voices, a collective sigh.  Eight phones, each identified by a number.  4560, 4561, 4562…4567.  I’m second in line.  Still following the rules.  Don’t stand too close.  No “ear hustling.”  9:30 pm.  Phones on!  Dialing.  Ringing.  I watch.  I no longer see phones.  Reflected in the faces of my fellow inmates, my friends, my prison family, I see what the silent, impassive phones really are.  A child’s smile.  A father’s encouraging words.  A mother’s plea for strength.  A shared prayer.  A lonely girlfriend.  A severing of ties.  Hope, pain, love, anger.  I see and hear it all.  Ten minutes have passed.  You can feel the desperation in the voices, that longing for the connection to last.  Phones are lifelines, keeping them from drowning.  Their feelings, good or bad, are REAL.  Even the lows beat not feeling anything at all.  Better than growing as cold as the walls that confine us.  My turn.  I reach for the receiver, eager to find out what the phone will become for me.  Knowing that for 15 minutes I can escape.  I can stay afloat until the next time.  The phones will wait.  Silent sentinals.  “Time for 9 pm Stand-up Count…!”

A Prisoner's Journal

My name is not important.  I am a man.  I am a son.  A brother.  A husband.  A father.  AND.  I am a prisoner.  If you are honest with yourself, that last statement changed your perception of the first four.  If you can legitimately claim that the word prisoner didn’t conjure certain ideas, then I would like to attend the ceremony commemorating your sainthood.  We all know the story of the American Prisoner.  Son of an unwed, most likely teenaged, mother and absent/abusive/neglectful father.  Brother of siblings fathered by different men, all living together so Mom can collect more welfare.  Husband who runs around on his wife, stepping out with the Boys.  Father who will most likely not be around, be abusive, or end up in Prison.  The thing is, I am not going to tell you, at least for now, the truth.  I am not defined by being a Prisoner.  I am not defined by any one of those roles.  I want you to read this blog and see me as you or anyone else wants to be seen:  As a Human Being.  A man with hopes, desires, dreams.  A man with good days and bad days.  A man trying to get through every day the best he can.  A man deserving of dignity and respect.  Hopefully you can have an open mind, hearing what I have to say.  If not, then just write me off as another tragic example of “The American Prisoner,” because that will make it easier for you to sleep at night.

Note:  This is not a novel.  I am not a professional writer.  I am not a journalist going on assignment.  I am just a guy sharing his thoughts and feelings.  I hope you like it or hate it, laugh or cry, or all of the above.