Get Him a P-Number

Without being able to find humor in the face of adversity, a person can go crazy.  As you might expect, we have plenty of adversity in prison and therefore an abundance of laughter, too.  It helps us cope.  Often, the humor will be a result of a wry observation on prison life.  For example: 

1. We can’t buy pencils, because they can be made into a weapon, but we can buy razors!

2. The Dairy Drink we are sometimes offered in lieu of milk lists “Non-Dairy Creamer” as its #1 ingredient.

Both ridiculous, both true!

The second major source of comedy is what’s known behind bars as “That Boy Just Ain’t Right” or “Get him a P-Number”. (A P-Number is the ID given to inmates on the psychiatric unit.)  Characters who fall into these categories may not be intending any humor, but their peculiar comments and antics are entertaining.  The two main actors in our unit’s Theatre of the Absurd are my old Appalachian mountain buddy Billy Joe and a fellow known as Half-Baked. (He got that nickname after someone commented, “His Mama popped him out of the oven a little early.”)  The anecdotes I’m about to tell have become part of Unit Lore.  Now it only takes one keyword dropped into a conversation to set off the laughter.

Ailment: 

One morning, I pass Billy Joe in the hallway and note that he is looking particularly disheveled and wan.  Against my better judgment, I ask, “How ya doin’ Billy Joe?”  
    “Not so good, man,” he replies.  “I’m sicker than a Motherf_______.”
(Keep in mind that Billy Joe has his own sickness rating scale that is a little different from the one your doctor uses to rate your pain.  From least sick to most, the scale goes:  (1) not so good, (2) sick as a 3-legged dog, (3) sicker than a Mother______, and (4) cut down the pines (to make him a pine coffin).
    So I reply, “How so Billy?”
    “Well,” he says, “the doctor tells me I got 13 ailments.  Six major ones and eight more.”
    “You sure about that Billy?  6 and 8 is 14, not 13.”
    “Dayumm,” he sighs, “I’s getting’ sicker by the day.”

Choice:

Billy Joe walks into the tv room and announces:  “I’m a goin’ home boys!”
    “What you talkin’ about BJ?”
    “Well, they got new rules about Armed Career Criminals and it’s getting’ me out!”
    “You sure it applies to you, Billy?”
    “Hell yes!  It’s RADIOACTIVE!”
    “Say what?”
    Billy Joe stares at us as if we are stupid children and repeats, “Yeah, goin’ back in time, y’know?  Radioactive!”  He shakes his head and walks out, mumbling, “No use talkin’ to these idiots.”

Ghosts:

    Another evening in the tv room, Half-Baked leans over to ask his neighbor a question.  Those of us within earshot assume it will be a question about the tv show.  But no, that would make too much sense.  Once he sees that he has everybody’s attention, Half-Baked poses the following riddle:  “To earn your freedom, would you rather spend one week alone at Alcatraz or one week alone at a closed down Insane Asylum?”
    I chuckle lightly, assuming the others will, too, but to my surprise they fall deep in thought.  I offer up that all things being equal, I’d choose Alcatraz, because from there at least you can see the lights of San Francisco.  Everybody looks at me as if I'm crazy.  What about the ghosts haunting both locations?  The tortured souls seeking revenge?  As the only non-believer in evil spirits, I take a step back while the debate heats up.  One guy eventually decides he would rather serve eight years here than spend even one night with the ghosts.  Finally, however, Half-Baked tops them all.  His face grows serious as he prepares to drop some knowledge.  In a quiet, solemn tone he explains, “Think about it guys.  Alcatraz got the ghosts of gangsters, rapists and murderers.  An insane asylum’s got women.  So you could be bangin’ some hot ghost-chicks, not fightin’ for your life!  Easy choice!”  At that, Half-Baked leans back with a satisfied look on his face.  I'm waiting for the laughter.  It does not come.  As I walk away, though, I hear the conversation turn to what it would be like to have sex with a ghost. 
    I wish I was making this up.  As odd or funny as these stories may be, they are so commonplace here that no one ever doubts their veracity.  I’m just thankful for the free comedy!

Crazy is the New Normal

In prison you quickly realize that your definition of normal needs an adjustment.  Allow me to illustrate.  Start off by establishing in your mind a “Sanity Scale” with a range of 1 through 10.  1 is a well-adjusted, self-actualized person, 5 is someone slightly off-kilter, and 10 is a totally batshit crazy individual.  This is not an even distribution, but your typical bell curve with a few 1’s and 10s on the end.  Everyone would like to believe they are a 1, but most of us are more 2.5-3.  So, as with any good measuring tool, we must properly calibrate it.  To do this, we will consider one of the more – if not the most – popular conspiracy theories heard in prison:  the true cause of the 9/11 attacks.   

You will not have to look hard to find a person who will tell you that the U.S. orchestrated the attacks.  Maybe outside prison, that person would be considered a 5 on the Sanity Scale.  Depending on how outlandish the rhetoric, he might even approach a 10.  In the Bizarro World of federal prison, this theory would not rate above a 2, because most inmates would agree with it.  I have given up debating the topic.  After all, nothing can change the mind of a zealot.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, if you consider the entertainment value), 9/11 plots are only run of the mill conspiracy plots in prison.  Each of the following theories merits at least a 5 on the Sanity Scale in my opinion, but in here they barely move the needle.   

In no particular order, here’s the rest of the Top 9 Most Popular Conspiracy Theories in prison:

1. During Hurricane Katrina, the U.S. government blew the levees on purpose in order to wipe out the poor neighborhoods and make New Orleans a “white city”.

2. The BP oil spill was a government plot, too.  The spill could have been capped immediately, but was not, so the U.S. could control the world’s oil supply (how this makes sense, I can’t explain).

3. The Illuminati run the world.  For example, the Pope (chief of Illuminati) told John Boehner to step down or he would be eliminated.

4. The flu shot given in prison contains a microscopic tracking device, because Big Brother is always watching.

5. The U.S. government creates and tests new diseases on prisoners, in order to find the best way to eliminate all black people.

6. The food in prison is doped for many reasons, but the two main ones are estrogen (to make us all gay) and a secret testosterone-killing agent to make us weak.

7. The recent Supreme Court Gay Marriage ruling is a plot to “gayify” America.

8. The light towers give off signals that weaken people in order to control the masses.

These theories are widely accepted truths in prison, which leads me to ask, “Are the mentally unstable more likely to end up in prison or does being in prison make you mentally unstable?”  Which then leads to the bigger issue of whether or not inmates are being given the help they need to reenter society.  From this side of the wall, the view is bleak.  Mental illness, for the most part, goes untreated.  Unless you are aware enough to go ask for help, treatment is just a few pills, and the people who need help the most don’t have it together enough to seek help.  Something needs to be done.  I don’t have an answer, but at least now I know there’s a problem and can work on being part of the solution.

Where Can I Get Me One of Them Yamahas?

Religion in prison is not just a spiritual salve.  For many inmates it offers immediate material benefits if you can play the hustle.  It’s not just about faith, strength, brotherhood or forgiveness of sins.  It’s about getting one over on The Man.  Which plays into an important rule of prison life:  If you can get something more than what is standard issue, you must take it.  Even if you don’t need it or want it, you take it solely because you can get away with it, thus sticking it to the administration, AKA The Man.  This is why a guy who is always complaining that it’s too hot, who wears shorts in the dead of winter and walks barefoot on the yard once the temperature hits 50 degrees also has four blankets.  Is he supposed to have four blankets? No.  Does he need four blankets or ever use them?  Of course not.  Why then does he worry over these blankets, hiding them during shakedowns and constantly fretting that they might be confiscated?  Because they represent his victory over The Man.  Other guys hold onto their jackets past the turn-in date, hoard plastic utensils swiped from the chow hall, or pack a shoebox full of condiment packets they will never use.  You’re not supposed to have these things, so having them is a win.

How do these scams relate to religion?  The key is that various religious traditions come with privileges.  For instance, if you are Jewish, you can get kosher food daily and order special meals at Passover.  I have never seen such a clamoring for Matzo!  Approaching Passover, interest in conversion to Judaism really picks up.  One guy I overheard say, “Instead of converting, where can I get one of them Yamahas?”  As if wearing a yarmulke alone would be enough to qualify him for a Jewish diet.

If you’re not into kosher food, is it possible you may have Native American heritage?  If so, you can wear a brightly colored headband.  But even better, you can participate in sweat lodge ceremonies that include smoking a ceremonial pipe filled with real tobacco!  Now that smoking is banned in all Bureau of Prisons facilities, an amazing number of prisoners with heavy tobacco habits have discovered Native American ancestors.

Not a smoker?  Perhaps Islam will appeal.  Muslims are entitled to a prayer rug, prayer oils, and special bag lunches of food each night during Ramadan to break their daily fasts.  Prayer rugs are multi-purpose, of course, and come in handy to keep your feet warm in the morning.  As you might imagine, school cafeteria-quality linoleum tiles get cold, and no self-respecting prisoner would ever allow his bare feet to touch the floor.  As for the prayer oils, they work in a pinch as a substitute cologne when a loved one comes to visit.  Just splash on a little prayer oil, and you’re ready to see your wife or girlfriend (hopefully not at the same time, if you happen to have both – one guy did that and ended up with neither).

And then there is Rastafarianism, which comes with one major perk, arguably the best of all, the Rasta Crown.  This is a black knit skullcap with yellow, green and red stripes that is allowed to be worn in places where everyone else must remove their hats, such as the chow hall, the library, and medical.  Though this privilege also applies to the Jewish yarmulke and Muslim Kufi, the Crown wins on style points (think Bob Marley vs. your local rabbi for who looks coolest).  Plus, the Crown is not easily acquired.  The Rastafarians are very discerning at weeding out uncommitted wannabees.

I understand that the whole idea of adopting a religion just to garner a few privileges seems hypocritical.  But prison is a unique culture with mores that are different from the outside world's.  It all comes back to the Scam The Man mentality.  Get yours, even if and especially if The Man doesn’t want you to have it.  While I don’t condone thinking this way, particularly in regards to religion, I’ve come to appreciate it.  Now I just have to figure out the best way to tell the family about my new name:  Rudeboy Mohammed “Old Bear” Ibromowitz.

The Rules of the Game

I’m sure you’ve heard the old saying, “You learn something new every day?”  Despite the routine of the prison experience, I’ve discovered that this saying is more true here than anywhere else I’ve lived.  And what you learn in prison is likely to fall into a category along the lines of “I Couldn’t Make this Stuff Up.”  For instance, allow me to introduce one of my neighbors, Billy Joe.  An Appalachian mountain man in his late 60s, Billy Joe could easily be the model for half a dozen characters from the tv show Justified.  He has spent most of his adult life as a guest of the federal or state prison systems.  I’d stayed clear of him and couldn’t imagine that he might be able to share anything interesting from his limited experience of life on the outside.  This all changed one day when he sat down opposite me and commanded me to listen up.  Usually something of a goofball, his seriousness at this moment caught me off guard.  I put down my book, thinking that maybe I had misjudged Billy Joe, and readying myself for some homespun mountain wisdom.

Satisfied that he had my attention, Billy Joe opened with, “Listen up city boy, I’s about to learn you somethin’ good.”  My mind raced, what could it be?  Some pearl of wisdom about life in prison?  How to deal with the tedium? The boredom?  The loneliness?  Possibly a cautionary tale so I wouldn’t end up a lifer like him?  No, Billy Joe had more important fish to fry.  He was ready to share an ultimate, hard won secret, which he labeled “My Rules for Runnin’ Whores.”  This being your lucky day, allow me to pass along this knowledge to you, pretty much verbatim as he said it:

Rule One:  One, two, three, or four whores is good, but five are too many.  Just trust Billy Joe, he said, five are hard to manage.  Plus, they don’t all fit in a sports car.

Rule Two:  Never keep your guns, dope, money, and women in the same place.  If you get busted, you lose everything and your charges will be worse.  Plus, you can never trust a woman not to steal your dope and guns.

Rule Three:  Don’t ever hit your women.  It’s much better to control them with dope.  (Apparently, on the Pimp Humanity Scale, hitting is less advisable than enabling an addiction to a deadly drug such as meth, crack or heroin). 

At this point, Billy Joe paused, and I thought he was finished.  But he had more wisdom to impart, boy did he have more.  He had to think about whether I could be trusted with his final and most important rule.  As a newbie to prison life and a city boy, he wasn’t sure I was ready.  He took a deep breath, thought things over.  Then made a decision.  The theme song from Shaft played in my head as I prepared myself for his gift of the Holy Grail of Appalachian Pimpin’, which I here quote:

Rule Four:  “Get a midget, a sexy midget.  Guys will pay anything for a midget.”

This was it.  No explanation needed.  He stopped, as if he had imparted a known law of the universe.  Gravity, Inertia, Entropy, and Midget Prostitutes.  Period.  Lesson over.  You can thank me later.  Billy Joe wore a satisfied smile on his grizzled face.  He stood up and walked away without another word.  Class Dismissed!

The Hardest Part

      I have gotten used to people wanting to talk about “what is the hardest part of being locked up?”  If we take away the most obvious – missing your family and friends horribly – I think my answer often surprises people.  Not that it doesn’t make sense, it’s just something about which most people don’t think.  My informal polling of those who have written, visited, and called has provided the top three contenders for perceived hardest part of being locked up:

1) A forced schedule – not being able to do what you want when you want
2) The people – the common view that convicts are bad people
3) The food – prison food, ‘nuff said.

Let’s take a look at these and I will tell you why each is not as bad as you might think.

      A Forced Schedule.  In jail, you are told when to eat, when to exercise, when to shower, when to do your laundry, the list goes on and on.  While this can be annoying, it does add structure to your day.  It helps you avoid the trap of sitting on your bunk all day wallowing in self-pity.  Do I miss the impromptu trip to Starbucks or the day of meandering errands around town?  Of course, but the imposed schedule is not the hardest part about being locked up.

     Okay, so if not the enforced schedule, it must be the People, right?  Again, I disagree.  Most of the men I have met in jail are just normal guys who made a mistake.  Often they did nothing that many others don’t do, except get caught.  The majority of convicts want to stay out of trouble, serve their time, and rebuild their lives, even those convicted of more serious crimes.  Do you have your hardened criminals, your unstable recidivists, your outright sociopaths?  Yes, but they are the minority and can generally be avoided.  I found that the people may be different from what you are used to, but people are people and you can make friends anywhere.

     That leaves us with the Food.  I am not going to lie to you, we are not talking fine dining.  In fact, you would be hard pressed to even compare it to Denny’s.  Some of the meals served are truly disgusting – mystery meat covered in mystery sauce, with a side of soggy mystery vegetables.  However, at least every other day, one of the meals will actually be tasty, palatable enough to keep you going until another good one comes along.  Surprisingly, no matter how awful you think something is, someone else will like it.  You can enter the world of Jailhouse Barter and double up on the meals you like in exchange for those you don’t.  You learn to live with, and at times even appreciate, the food.  So if it’s not the Schedule, the People, or the deadly un-gourmet Meals, what is the hardest part of being locked up?

     To answer the question, I want you to think about something.  On average, how many times per day do you think you have physical contact with another person?  From something as brief as a pat on the back, to a hug, a cuddle, a kiss…anything?  10?  20?  30?  I know my number on the outside would have been pretty high.  I hugged and wrestled and and snuggled quite a bit with my wife and kids.  Now try to go a whole day without coming into physical contact with anyone, not even your pets.  Imagine doing that every day for a week, or a month, a year, 5 years.  No one to hug when feeling down or to celebrate a happy moment, to roughhouse, to encourage – nothing!  That is the hardest part.  The deprivation of touch, the lack of the most basic human instinct of physical companionship.  Simply put:  It sucks and it’s lonely!

A Hail Mary

 

I had spent almost 60 days in custody when my lawyer pulled off a minor miracle.  We’re talking a 99-yard Hail Mary pass as time expires, a 40-foot buzzer-beating 3-pointer, a walk-off Grand Slam.  You get the picture.  After being told I had little to no chance, I was granted bond while awaiting trial.  I would get to go home for a little bit.  Try to mend some of the wounds I had caused.  See my family.  Talk to a therapist.  Strengthen myself physically and mentally for the difficult road ahead.

People had told me it would happen, but it surprised me when I got this weird feeling of actually missing jail.  Human beings are amazingly adaptable and take comfort in the “known”.  I had come to know what to expect each and every day in jail.  I was now faced with the unknown.  How would my family treat me?  Who would be mad?  Sad?  Who would abandon me?  Who would and could still love me?  I now understand those guys I met in jail who spoke of life being easier for them on the inside than out in the real world.  I made a vow to myself to never let that happen.  It will be just another hill to climb and I will face it when I come to it.  Reclaiming my life will be a long battle, one I am only just beginning.  I think many years from now, when I look back, it will have all started with the Hail Mary!

You Gotta Have a Plan

          One thing you quickly learn behind bars is that inmates always have a plan.  This plan may be as large as beating their charges or as small as getting an extra lunch tray or brokering a deal for surplus sugar packets in exchange for salt and pepper.  Regardless of how realistic or outlandish the plan, they will be convinced that it will work, with the fervor of an evangelical preacher.  What follows is one of my first experiences with a fellow prisoner who stuck to his plan until the bitter end – while in the meantime mightily amusing the rest of us.

            The quiet of our 4-man block was broken by the sound of a door opening and a new guy being dragged down to Cell #5.  He kept asking the C.O. (Corrections Officer), “Can I make a phone call?”  He was told that he had a call before coming down and it wasn’t his time for the phone.  He would have to wait until later.  In this jail, the guards came by  twice per hour.  Cell #5 stepped up his game a bit:  “C.O., I gotta call my Mama!” 

            “No.”

            “C.O., can I make a call, I gotta call my Grandmama!”

            “No!”

            At this point, one of the guys asked what he was doing, because if he ticked off the guards, we would ALL feel the repercussions, mainly in the loss of some privileges.  Cell 5 told us not to worry, adding, “I got a plan!”  Well, we might as well have popped some popcorn to settle in for the show.  About an hour later, after dinner trays, #5 once again called out, “C.O., I don’t feel well!”  The guard came in to ask a few questions.  #5 said he was dizzy, warm and thirsty.  The guard asked if he needed some ice, or what would help and, you guessed it, #5 said, “If I could just call my Mom.”  The answer was, of course, no, and that he should shut the ____ up.  The rest of us were now having trouble stifling our laughter.  We figured this to be the end of it, but #5 still had plenty of Plan left.  He had fallen quiet when we next heard the jiggle of keys signaling the guard’s return.  Mildly disappointed, we assumed he had given up and that the show was over.  I would never again underestimate the power of “A Plan” and the determination to see it through.  As soon as the cell block door opened, #5 started moaning and clutching his chest like Fred Sanford (for you younger readers, look up the old tv show Sanford and Son on the Internet), calling out, “C.O., I think I’m having a heart attack!”

            The guard was in a tough spot.  He probably figures that the guy is faking, but he can’t take the risk of an inmate dying on his watch, so he calls the nurse and the show resumes.  Within minutes, a nurse, a medic and three guards come bursting in and open #5’s cell.  If he isn’t having a heart attack, he is putting on a pretty good impression of one.  The nurse finally decides that this is just a case of indigestion.  One inmate points out that #5 did eat everyone’s serving of butter-soaked, salt-coated collard greens for dinner.  The nurse calmed her patient, gave him some Maalox and was getting ready to leave when she asked, “Have you ever had this before?”

            To which #5 replied, “Yeah, you know what would help?  If I could call my Mama.”  In unison, the guards shouted, “No!”, closed the cell and stomped off.  Any reasonable person would assume that to be the end of it.  But in here, you have to leave reason at the Cell Block Door.  We encouraged the guy to give it up, but he told us he had one last trick that was sure to work.  Next time he heard the guard coming, he started flipping out, yelling and screaming, banging on the bars.  The guard hurried in to see what was up and #5 said the magic words to get attention, “I am going to hurt myself.”  In a flash, three guards rushed in and carried him away  kicking, screaming, and flailing about like a maniac.  We all assumed he had really lost it this time.  Then, at the very last moment before rounding the corner the noise stopped and we heard, “Before you throw me in the Hole, can I make a phone call?”  Even the guards laughed.  And for the record, it did not work – no phone call!