10 Things NOT to Do in Prison

A lot of my blog posts address things you should do to get along in prison.  Today I’d like to give some examples of things NOT to do, all of which happen to have been attempted by the same person, the forever clueless G-Money.  As one old-timer put it, “That boy is a crash-test dummy, just keeps on slammin’ his head into the dashboard again and again.”  In no particular order then, here are Ten Things NOT to Say or Do in a Federal Prison:

1.     Drop your trousers to change clothes in an open pod or cube (as G-Money did on his first week on the Beach here).  When advised not to do this, he compounded the problem by stepping right into…

2.     This reply:  “How ‘bout you don’t look at my ass?”  (Um, seriously?  I mean, never EVER accuse a man of looking at your butt unless you are prepared for a harsh consequence, which in this case was a swift punch to the face.)

3.     Do not go on about how your sentence is just a blip in front of guys who are serving 10, 15, 20, 25, 30 year bids.

4.     Do not openly refer to fellow inmates as “you prisoners.”

5.     Do not talk about how you will refrain from ice cream or candy or soda for the duration of your blippy 18-month bid (no one wants to hear it).

6.     Do not openly compare your case to others and explain why you got less time.

7.     Do not go into the tv room and sit on top of someone else’s blanket, then when confronted tell the guy to “lighten up, it’s just a blanket.”  (In here, a cardinal rule is that you do not sit on, touch, or move someone else’s stuff unless you have express permission.)

8.     Do not lecture a guy that he may not understand what you are saying because it may be over his head.

9.     Do not express anger at being gloved (in prison parlance this means losing a card game 5 times in a row, a full glove) in gin for the 4^th straight time by your truck driving redneck cellie, grab your cards and storm out of the cube. (Being a poor loser in prison is a license for trouble.)

10. After “taking the ball and going home” re 9 above, do not then attempt to smooth things over by explaining that you are simply not accustomed to losing games to those clearly of inferior intellect.

Maybe some of these transgressions seem silly to you, but here in prison, let me just say that each is an offense for which getting punched in the face would be considered a perfectly reasonable punishment.  Luckily (and incredibly), so far G-Money has only suffered that one punch out, though he has been threatened and yelled at too many times to count.  Most of the guys seem to have decided that he is a clueless, short-timer, smug asshole, not worth the trouble to straighten out.  For all of us, at least, he does provide some entertainment.

AAAGGGGGHHHHH!!!!

Last night I was sitting on my bunk with my earbuds in, listening to the radio and crocheting a holiday blanket to donate to charity.  In my own little domestic bubble.  I did not want to look at, talk to or hear another human being.  Just minding my own business.  Can you picture the scene?  Peaceful, right?  WRONG!  Nothing is ever calm or peaceful in prison.  You can seek a moment of relative quiet, try to carve out a little space, but never with much success.  So, as I sit with my radio and crochet, at last I can’t take it anymore.  I unplug the earbuds, set the radio and blanket down on my locker, pull out my stool and climb up onto my desk, so I can see over the room divider.  Then I scream:  AAAAGGGHHH!!!  (I’m not a big guy, but I can be loud, just ask my kids.  They used to put me on restriction for their events, ordering me to yell only at half volume, and other spectators would sometimes ask me to pipe down.)  So, when I shout this time, all eyes turn my way.  The block falls silent and I let loose:

“I can’t take no more, no mores can I take!” (to quote the wise philosopher Popeye).  Starting at one end of the dorm, I point down the rows, singling guys out as I go.  “You, yes I know you a “mans”, you’ve been telling us all this same thing for nine month at insane volume.  EVERY day at 6 am.  Furthermore, I know that “one of these days someone is gonna make you do sumthin you don’t wanna do.”  Well get to it, will you?  Either smack somebody in the head or shut the F__K up!

Ok, next.  You, the Where’s Waldo on Meth looking fool.  No, you were not head diesel mechanic for Werner Trucking for the entire nation.  You can’t even change the batteries in your radio.  You do not have an architecture degree on the side from the University of Nebraska.  I don’t know if Nebraska has an architecture program, but I do believe a prerequisite would be the ability to speak coherently.  And no, you were not the lead singer of a chart topping country western band.  When you sing at church the minister falls to his knees and begs the Lord Our Father to deliver him from the agony.

Dude with a tattoo that is “an exact copy of the solid gold badge” you had on your “clubbin’ car”!  Well, I hate to break it to you but it’s Aston Martin, not Ashton Martin.

Hey, guy who calls himself the “Black Warren Buffet.”  You did not under any circumstances earn $125k per day currency trading for over three years.  Every day, “right off da rip.”  Over $45 million?  How do I know this?  Well, you’re serving a 15-year sentence for selling crack.  Something you claim you did on the side for just a little cash.

To this whole crew over here, I do not care how much you “love the gun,” how many free bodies you killed, how much product you moved, or anything else about your glamorous criminal exploits.  One, I don’t believe you, and two, I DO NOT CARE!

To the dude who likes to scream at his Baby Mamas on the phone.  Any clue why they won’t send you any money?  Maybe has something to do with you calling them b__ches and whores and ordering them to send some money or else?  Have you noticed you are in prison?  Take what you can get and shut up.

In fact, and this goes for all of you, anything you care to tell me about what a badass you were on the outside, understand that there is not a chance that I could ever care less.  You were not Jay Z’s manager, you were not drafted by the Cincinnati Reds (you can barely make our softball team), you did not spend three years in solitary at Leavenworth for strangling a guard, nor were you set up and sent here by the President because he fears what you know.  Nobody in here was a CIA hitman, and no, you were not a Viet Nam war sniper.  How do I know that?  Well, you’re 54 years old, for one thing.  So, um, you were like one of those notorious 9-year old American snipers in Nam?

My rant coming to an end, I announce that I want to be left alone!  I do not want to talk, I do not need someone to confide my problems to, I do not need a distraction from my concerns.  I know my problem:  I’m in prison.  So, thanks for caring, but sometimes you can even get sick of words of inspiration.  You wake up and see the damned bars and beyond them the barbed-wire coiled fences between you and the world and you just want to be left alone.

I opened my eyes.  I was still sitting on my bunk with my crochet project in my lap.  I’d dozed off.  Earbuds had fallen out.  Hmm, maybe I really should climb up on the desk and unload, tell everyone what I think.  I looked around at the relentless, everyday jabber and clamor.  Put the earbuds back in.  Turned up the volume.  Picked up my crochet needles and went back to work on my blanket.

Death of a Friend

My friend Bill was taken to the prison hospital last week, where he died in their hospice unit.  A 64-year old man with pancreatic cancer, he died alone, though if they’d considered taking him to an outside hospital, maybe his family could have been at his side (there, of course, he’d have been chained to the bed even as he breathed his last).    Yes, Bill was a prisoner, and he never claimed to be innocent of the crime he committed.  He already had cancer’s death sentence on him when he was tried and convicted of extorting money and given a 20-year sentence he knew he’d never outlive. 

They tell us there’s a program of “compassionate release”, but in Bill’s case, he hadn’t served enough time to qualify.  He begged the guards to let him spend his last few days in his cube, among the friends he’d made during four years in prison, but they wouldn’t hear of it.  He’d hoped for a slice of pumpkin pie and to trade snacks from his holiday bag at Christmas, maybe thank the guys who’d lifted him up when he was down, but nobody is ever allowed to die on the Unit.   That would be bad for statistics.  The public can’t hear that people die in prison.  So during his last days, facing the cold fact that he would never again take a breath outside of these walls, no friends, no caring, no empathy.

Before they took him away, Bill told us not to mourn.  Up until the end almost, he was out on the yard playing softball and racket sports.  If a guy failed to hustle, he’d admonish him, “Hey, I’m a walking corpse, what’s your excuse?”  Bill never felt sorry for himself.  He wanted to die with dignity, and I have to think that he did.

I hate this place.  I hate what they do to people.  I won’t let it infect me.  I won’t succumb to anger.  I won’t become bitter.  I won’t lose hope.  I won’t let these walls change my heart.  That’s my position always, but you know what?  Today, I hate this place.  Today I am angry and sad and disillusioned.  Tomorrow, Bill will be gone, but the rest of us will still be here.  The sun is going to rise, I’ll get off my bunk, and it’s going to be a beautiful day.  What other choice do I have?