New Mattress!

Okay, so an update on my quest to maximize my Bid.  To be biddin’ means to tune into not only the above-board approved prison rules, but also the unwritten rules of favors and barters.  What you need duct tape?  I need sugar.  Deal!   

You may recall after months of finagling, I worked my way into the bottom bunk of a two-man cube against the backside of the building, a primo chair in the TV room, a library job, and a coveted brass belt buckle.  My next big goal is an Early Chow Pass, not yet attained.  In the meantime, my ambitious goal became acquiring a new mattress for my bunk.  Not an easy feat by any means.  Logic, infirmity, begging, these will not prevail.  You must run a hustle.  One counter-intuitive but effective strategy is to give up your middle of the road mattress for a ¼-inch thick miserable excuse for a pad in hopes of later swapping it for a brand new mattress.  As you might imagine, this trick can go horribly wrong, but I figured it was worth the gamble.  Even staring down the possibility of sleeping on what feels no thicker than a blanket stretched over a steel bunk.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, even a new mattress in here is no Sleep Number Sealy Postur-Pedic Serta Pillowtop.  It’s just a new 4-5 inch thick plastic-wrapped slab of foam.  But still, something to aspire to.   

So after two wretchedly sleepless nights it was time to make my move.  With medical paperwork chronicling an orthopedic injury to bolster my claim and bags under my eyes to seal the deal, I drag myself down to the Counselor, settling in for the expected evasive back and forth, hemming and hawing and the likelihood of returning in a couple of days for Round 2.  To my surprise, in no time at all I walked out with a brand new still in the bag mattress!  The Counselor had warned me, though, not to let guys see this, especially not the ones who would immediately come begging for one right after me.  So I plotted my course, angling for hiding spots along the way to my bunk, but the whole trip was like a prison version of The Pink Panther.  Stumbling along, hauling a floppy mattress, trying to look inconspicuous.  Aside from enlisted accomplices, only two inmates witnessed my escapade, and they were easily paid off with soft drinks and the reminder that each of them somehow sleeps on two mattresses!   

Twenty minutes later, bed is made, old mattress tossed, and I’m good and ready for a nap.  Dreaming of my Holy Grail, that early chow pass.  I will have to devise a grand plan, this may take some time, but it’s not beyond all hope.  Update to come!

At Last, A Bottom Bunk!

My cellmate goes home next week.  He’s a good kid who made a huge mistake of age 17, resulting in 8 years in prison.  Now 25, he is ready to get on with his future.  I’m happy for him.  I wish him luck and hope he leads a successful life.  He’s been a good Cellie, and when he goes I’ll have to adjust to living with someone new.  That said, his release also brings me a great reward:  I get to move to the bottom bunk!

In an earlier post, I discussed the hierarchy of prison perks, and as you may recall at the peak of that pyramid is bottom bunk, two man cube, backside of the building.  This is the prison equivalent of beachfront real estate in Malibu.  A BIG deal!  In fact as an example of how boring our lives in prison are, guys have discussed dreaming about getting a bottom bunk.  Paying for them if necessary.

So I’m counting down seven days until my first night’s sleep in almost two years not being up top and on display to nearly two hundred other guys.  It calms me just to think about it.  And then there’s this windfall:  I was just allowed a brass belt buckle, replacing the cheap plastic one I’ve had until now.  What’s that old saying that good things happen in threes?  What could come next?  Maybe – could it be? – a pass for early chow?

So, please don’t think poorly of me, but next week when we’re celebrating my Cellie’s departure with noodles and cake, a part of me will also be reveling in my own good fortune!

The Great Tofu Disappearance

I want to come clean about something.  All the Correctional Officers (CO’s) here are not power-hungry, inmate hating psychos.  Some are decent, even friendly and funny (not unintentionally funny due to incompetence, but genuinely entertaining).  Allow me to illustrate this with an anecdote, which we will title The Great Tofu Disappearance.

JR, a buddy of mine, works in the kitchen and was recently promoted to the serving line.  This garners him more pay and the privilege of serving up generous portions to friends.  He has been assigned to what we call the “black side” because almost every African American inmate goes through that side.  White guys use it also, but almost no minorities use the other line, which is known as the “white side”.   This doesn’t seem to have anything to do with intimidation, fighting, or discrimination, it’s just an accepted fact of life in the chow hall.  Okay, so the other night the two entrée choices were Pork or Tofu.  JR looked down at the tofu and thought it didn’t look very filling, so he started ladling out two or three scoops to anyone who asked for it.  Two-thirds of the way through serving all the Units, the tofu ran out, so my buddy called out “Tofu Up!”  No reply from the kitchen.  “Tofu Up!” a second time, then a third, with no response.  Finally, though, Ms. B., the evening CO for the chow hall, came over to see what was up.  Their exchange went like this:

Ms. B:  Why you yelling for more Tofu?

JR:  We’re out.

Ms. B:  Out?  What you mean we’re out?  You stealing my Tofu?

JR: No ma’am.  I’m just a redneck from Alabama.  I don’t even know what tofu is.

Ms. B.:  (In a loud but not mad, more of an amused, tone of voice) Well, we got us a problem.  Cuz never in the history of the history of the Motherf___in’ history of this prison have we ever run out of tofu on the black side!  (This perked up all ears, everyone entertained by her rant.)  You know why, JR?

JR:  No ma’am.

Ms. B:  (She’s African American, which I only mention because of what she is about to say.)  I’ll tell you why.  Cuz every motherf___er in the world knows N_____ers don’t eat Tofu!  (She pauses for effect, waiting for the laughter to die down.)  Next thing you know, we gonna be runnin’ outta mother___in humus!  Humus and Tofu, JR?  It ain’t like it’s chicken.  Where the hell did it go?

JR:  Well, umm, I was just giving three scoops of Tofu to those who asked….

Ms. B.:  THREE SCOOPS?  3 MOTHERF____IN’ SCOOPS!  G-damn I will never understand white people.  Three scoops of tofu when you could have a nice slice of swizzle (pork).  (Shaking her head in resignation, Ms. B walks off.)

Ms. B., by the way, is one of the best liked CO’s, not only because of her colorful language.  She works hard, tries to make the food taste good, and boy is she entertaining!