90 Days and Counting

 

DAY 90! 3 months. A quarter of a year. A whole season. Wow. Like many other prisoners, I have been living under unusual confinement rules, what they call a “modified schedule,” since Covid first hit a year ago.  For the past 90 days, my cellmate and I have been confined to a cell with a bunk bed and a toilet, ostensibly to protect us from the virus.  It’s been epically awful.  

 

For instance, of late, my cellie has taken to eating 4-6 apples or pears a day.  I don’t know if this sudden change of diet is the cause, but he has added a new treat to his repertoire:  4-5 times a day he squats on the toilet next to our bunk and shits out roadkill. Love Canal and Lake Erie can now look at each other with an “at least we’re not that bad” attitude.  My only resort is to spend most of the day with the blanket pulled over my face because at least then I can only smell my own B.O., which I’m more or less immune to at this point.

 

One positive is that I’ve found a way to get my cellie to pipe down when he waves the MAGA flag to get an entertaining argument going. He has an undying love for Stephen King, whom he regards as the greatest writer of our generation. His basis is “look how many of his books have been turned into movies.” When I try to engage in intelligent discourse about how that statement actually may just say that he writes books that make good movies and nothing more, he stands unfazed.  Hemingway, Tolstoy, Delillo, Faulkner, Lee, King. Anyone else think old Steve doesn’t belong on this list? 

Anyway the other day another guy favorably compared Dean Koontz to Stephen King.  Now, I’ve never read a Koontz novel, but I’m guessing his books may fall into the same genre as King.  Well, saying that sent my cellie into an apoplectic fit. I thought he was going to finally challenge me to a duel or something in defense of his writing hero. I filed this away for future reference.

 

Now, whenever the rumblings arise of “That damned Nancy Pelosi!” or “The problem with BLM” or “What’s so wrong about naming a school after Robert E. Lee?” all I have to say is “Man, I can’t wait to get out of here and grab me a good Dean Koontz book” and my cellie freezes like a spotlit deer.  A-ha!  MAGA Man’s Kryptonite!

 

Luckily, in spite of everything, even after 90 days, his attempt to blow up the toilet, and his idolatry of the former President, we do actually get along pretty well.  I’m thankful for having a good cellie.  How we get along, I don’t know, but somehow all considered, it appears to work.

 

Starting on Day 91, I’m going to stop griping.  Maybe, possibly – at least I’ll try.  And hey, you never know.  Day 91 could be the day the cell door opens, we receive our property, we get issued a full set of clothes….  I mean, A MAN CAN DREAM!

Out of the Frying Pan...

 

In Spanish they say, “Mas vale malo conocido, que Bueno por conocer” to describe what has happened to us (We would have been better off with the bad we knew (the SHU) than the unknown we imagined would be better (quarantine on the Unit). Coming out of the Hole means we lost being able to take a shower whenever we wanted, but we do have control over the lights in our cell. We have a tv room, but no way to listen to shows.  We live on a huge otherwise empty Unit of prison cells and hallways where we might run laps or get out and stretch a little, but because of quarantine, we’re only allowed out of our cells three times a week for brief showers down the hall. Somehow, having a little bit of space so close, yet still denied, is worse than being locked in the SHU.

 

As I’ve mentioned before, we’ve been issued these over-sized ridiculous jumpsuits. And for some reason, on the Unit, our thin mattresses have built-in lumps at one end, intended, I suppose to serve as pillows? These lumps are maybe a half inch higher than the mattress itself, clearly pawned off on the BOP by some quack chiropractor hoping to create thousands of neck problems and more business for himself. The only safe way to sleep on these things is to lie flat on your back; otherwise you risk waking up (if you can sleep at all) with a stiff neck or with aching shoulders. A real joy!

 

There is one positive about being out of the SHU. For the first time in months, we have an unfrosted window that allows an occasional glimpse of sunlight. The view, however, leaves something to be desired. Seems to be a tennis court-sized drainage area between our Unit and the outer containing wall of the prison, dank and no doubt mosquito-infested. I’ve only seen two birds dare to land on this mini-Dismal Swamp. Perhaps we’ll see a cottonmouth emerge from the central drain – that would be entertaining!

 

In other words, pretty much the same old shit in a slightly different setting. We’ve been locked in for 76 days now, quite an ordeal for Low Security inmates accustomed to some freedom of movement.  76 days = 1,824 hours. Out of those 1,824 hours I personally have been allowed outside for a grand total of 2.5 hours, for shackled walks to the bus, the office, etc. Only a few of those precious minutes could be considered recreation time, pacing in a glorified dog kennel. But wait, if I add the cumulative shower time and phone time in the hallway over the past couple of weeks, that doubles my total time out of my cell over the past nearly 3 months!

 

Clearly, being treated this way is not healthy, physically or mentally.  It’s hard, really HARD.  Yet in denying my request for Compassionate Release last fall, the judge cited that the BOP has our situation “under control” and Covid “contained.”  I invite this worthy fellow to spend a week with us and perhaps reconsider his judgment.  Being in prison is punishment enough, but being shuffled halfway across the country and being treated like crap for months so the BOP can pretend to be doing something about the pandemic?  That is simply cruel.

 

As for the BOP’s Covid plan? “Despues de nino ahogado, tapen el pozo.” (They covered the well after the child had drowned.) But I guess the judges, lawmakers and the public are buying their BS. Living through it, I can tell you that not since the start of the lockdowns last March have I witnessed anything to make me believe that they had/have/or will have this situation under control.

 

I pluck away, trying to stay sane and healthy, doing whatever I can.  “No hay mal que por bien no venga.”  (There is nothing bad that doesn’t come for good, or as we Anglo’s say it, “Every cloud has a silver lining.”)  Well, let me tell you, this is one damn big cloud.  One can only hope that the eventual silver lining is proportional!

The Upside of 60 Days in the SHU

 

It dawned on me, this blog's editor, that there is no way to accurately share the quite expressive writing in these notes, so thought it might be better, at least this time, to screenshot the actual letter.