The Only Line that Matters

 

This unit’s got 3 computers for the 128 guys living here. They can be used to check emails and account balances, download music, read prison memos, and submit electronic cop-outs (inmate requests). Everybody wants to use these pc’s, of course, so you would guess that there would be some sort of sign-up sheet, assignment by cell number, maybe form a line?  No, no, and no.

 

Remember the stock exchange trading floor in the film Wall Street? All those manic traders shouting, gesticulating, pointing?  If only things here could be that organized. The minute the cell doors open in the morning, all hell breaks loose:  “I’m first!”  “Yo, you got me?” “Who’s last?” Keep in mind that the unit is just one big room with tiers of cells wrapped around it, like you see on tv.  As soon as you step out of your cell, you start calling your spot. So when one of the lucky first 3 guys to the computers finally finishes his work, the scream, “Who’s next?” goes out. Guys call their spots from the shower, while playing cards, or on the phone. Utter chaos!

 

Now suppose you are downloading music? There’s a 15-minute time limit before you have to log off and start over, but doing so is considered a breach of some unwritten rule. Therefore, you have guys actually getting in line behind themselves, saying things like:  “Wait up, I’m after me!”

 

The complainers, of course, get upset about how long they have to wait to use a computer. I try to explain that if “being in line” means you can be anywhere on the unit doing whatever, there’s no real pressure for guys to wrap up their computer work. But the idea of forming an actual waiting line?  No way.  They go, “What, you mean I’d actually have to stand in a real line?”  End of discussion.

 

After all, guys in prison hate lines.  I know, everybody hates lines, but in prison, crank that up a notch.  We have to stand in line to shower, to use the phone, to use the bathroom, to put hot water in your mug, to get in and out of every door.  Lines, lines, everywhere a line….

 

Some guys, however, can transcend line hatred. These zen Yodas have achieved a higher level of existence that I am seeking to attain. Their mantra has been stated many ways, but always comes down to “I’ve got nowhere to go and all day to get there.”  If the chow line eats up a half hour, well that’s 30-minutes closer to going home.  To these guys, all of life is a line, and the only one that matters is the one at the exit door.  So if my life is a 24-7 line to release from prison, why does it matter where I spend a tiny chunk of it on any particular day?  I can be in line to play chess or shower or use the computer, what’s the big deal?

 

The only line that is important to me ends with my foot touching soil outside the front gates. As I told one greenhorn when he asked me why I seem so chill in line:  “The only line that matters to me ends with the start of the rest of my life.”