Unique Sobriquets

So I have a new job in the typing room at the library, and that is definitely better than the old gig in the video room.  The video room was basically an unventilated closet -- no conversation, no mental stimulation, and a location directly across the hall from a doorless bathroom.  Three straight hours a day of listening to the melodic sounds of men on toilets, well I can't say I'll miss it.  Anyway, the real point of my post today is the wild names people have in here, which I find endlessly entertaining.  In the past two days, I've chatted with the following people:  G-Money (see earlier post about how this mild-mannered Jewish guy got that name), Road Rage, Cheese Puffs, Tin Man, Big Cheese, B-Rad-Bono (the artist formerly known as Half-Baked), Pookie, Puma, Ant, Two-Soups, Cockroach, Twin, Strongface, Christian Gangsta, and D-Lo.  Occasionally, of course, there are problems, such as when a guy wants to fill out a form in the library and you have to ask for his "real name."  Then you have to explain why the name "I always use!" does not count.  Weird, too, when you hear a name called over the Intercom and have no idea who that is, because everybody is only known by their prison nickname.  Nothing profound coming to mind about this, nothing introspective or deep in the slightest.  Just a shrug and a chuckle.  Many of us never dreamed we'd be spending our days with fellas bearing such unique sobriquets.  Now if you will excuse me, I'm off to teach Cheese Puffs and G-Money how to crochet!

Trivial Pursuits

After nearly two years of reflection and writing, I still don’t think I’ve been able to convey how it feels to be in prison.  I do know that I’ll never be able to listen to complaints about being “trapped” at home during inclement weather or “stuck” in an airport or "delayed" in traffic again.  Prison is a whole ‘nother level of all that.  Yet we find ways to fight the mind-numbing boredom, after all, I’ve learned that it is not necessity but incarceration that is the mother of invention.   Life here sometimes reminds me of the contrived hi-jinks I remember so well from childhood sit-coms like Gilligan’s Island and Hogan’s Heroes.  The island castaways and World War II POWs of these old shows found ingenuous ways to while away their 30 minutes a week, but you can take their creativity and multiply it by at least ten in here.  Got a tin can, some paper, tape, cellophane, a pair of old socks?  Guys in here can build you a home-made deep fryer, a tattoo gun, an amplifier, a speaker, a sandwich press, a cheese grater and slicer, locker shelves, a hot plate.  I’m leaving out a lot of the improvised inventions, but you get the point.  I’ve even seen eyeglass lenses ground and fitted to new frames!

We’re like a Silicon Valley think tank in here, minus a few things like California weather, gourmet food, awesome pay checks, and general hipness.  But otherwise, like those think tanks, we’re just people who have all day every day to solve problems and devise new products.  Oh yeah, another difference:  Whereas the tech geek’s reward for a cool new device may be a big bonus, ours is more likely an extended stay in a private one-man suite in what the administration calls a Special Housing Unit, but that you will remember from old movies as “the Hole.”

When we’re not inventing sleep masks out of old underwear, we have found that an entire day can be happily spent debating 70s and 80s sit-coms, guessing locations and main characters.  For example:  What's Happening?  (L.A.); Different Strokes? (NYC); Good Times? (Chicago).  Without irony, I can say that every day here is an extended game of Trivial Pursuit.  So what’s the big deal about being in prison, then?  Just remember that we do all this stuff primarily to keep from dwelling on the fact that we’re stuck here.  The human spirit is amazing, after all.  I have met some of the most mentally and spiritually strong men in prison, men who can hold their heads high whether they’re leaving soon or not so soon with their dignity intact.  Let me sign off with an apology for the lack of focus this week, but at times my mind drifts.  Hope you enjoyed the ramble.  Much peace and love to all!

Schoolin' G-Money

A new guy, G-Money, dropped by my cube a couple of mornings ago looking overwhelmed.  Before I go any further, let me explain the origin of his nickname.  G-Money is Jewish.  His cellie claims to have never really known a Jewish guy before now, his knowledge limited to, “They’re all rich!”  So that’s the Money part of his moniker, but why “G”?  Does his real name start with G?  Does his hometown start with G?  Nope on both counts, so what is it?  We asked the cellie, who looked at us as if we were total complete morons, then took a long pause and replied, “G-Money – as in Jewish money?  G-E-W-E-S-H Money!  Got it?”  Well, after that story the name stuck.  We now have a prim and proper upper middle class Jewish inmate who will forever be known by the incongruous nickname G-Money.

But now, back to our original programming, G-Money perches on the stool in my cube with that old familiar What-the-F-K-is-Up-With-This-Place? look on his face.  How, he asked, can anyone be so nonchalant when surrounded by such odd people and behavior?  I tried to recall if anything particularly unusual had happened that morning, but then wondered if maybe I’ve just grown immune to the things this newbie found weird.  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a minute and then opened them again trying to meet him where he was, attempting to erase the past two years from my life.  How does prison look and feel, I tried to recall, to a newcomer?

G-Money waited patiently, no doubt counting this as yet another oddball behavior he’d have to deal with, as I walked a lap around the unit.  What had thrown off his equilibrium?  What had him questioning his ability to cope?  Was it the pre-op transsexual Native American with a shoulder length perm and homemade red bra showing through her t-shirt as she ran – yes ran! – down the hall mopping the floor?  Explaining to anyone who asks that running somehow makes the floors cleaner?  Was it the guy ironing his boxers, the same boxers he ironed yesterday, and the day before….?  Was he thrown at the sight of a guy getting his, um, man parts tattooed with a homemade tattoo gun?  Quesadillas grilled with a clothes iron?  Perchance, the storeman smuggling fruit out of the chow hall in his underpants, then selling it as “Fresh from the Warehouse?”  The guy shouting at the top of his lungs, making sure he can be heard throughout the building and disrespecting any human within earshot as he raves on about "MF’ers got no respect!” 

I returned to my cube and sat opposite G-Money, then looked into his eyes and calmly said, “Nope, nothing unusual going on here – seems like a normal day in the unit.”  Pause.  LAUGHTER.  When we stopped laughing, we had a serious talk.  Human beings, we agreed, are incredibly adaptable.  A survival adaptation in prison is developing a behavioral filter.  You learn what to pay attention to and what to ignore.  If you can’t find some way to live at peace with your reality you cannot grow or flourish as a person in this trying environment.  I think G-Money can get there.  For now he’s trying to grasp what I’ve written about many times before:  1) you can’t make this stuff up! and (2) If you don’t laugh, you’re gonna cry.  So you might as well pop some popcorn and enjoy the show.

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!

The Hot Sauce Rule

Where is a condiment more than just a condiment?  Federal prison.  It’s all about CONTROL!  How can the authorities exert control via condiments?  Hot sauce.  Yes, hot sauce.  If you are a regular reader of this blog, you may be thinking that I’ve finally lost it.  All I ask for is a little patience, and I will explain.  This latest power trip started when the Captain and Warden instituted a policy mandating that the only item an inmate can bring into the chow hall is a bottle of hot sauce.  Ketchup?  No.  Mustard?   No.  BBQ sauce?  No way.  Mayo?  Negatory.  Get the picture?  And why?  A logical question.  My first thought was that it had to do with money.  Maybe the BOP has some vast underground warehouse stocked with hot sauce that can be sold to us at exorbitant prices?  I haven’t entirely dismissed this theory, but admit it’s unlikely.  After all, it would save them money if for example we could bring our own ketchup to the chow hall on hot dog day, when they hand out cheapie packs.  You’d think that less packs used = less packs purchased = more money saved, right?

Allow me to interrupt this blog entry to relay what just happened here in the library.  The library – the hub of education, enlightened thinking, rehabilitation, and staff wanting to help us succeed.  So a guy just asked a staff member for a pen or pencil, something to write with.  He just got here today, his belongings haven’t arrived, and he has no money for the store.  He has to fill out some paperwork, but doesn’t have any implement to write with.  The staff person informed him that “WE” don’t provide pens or pencils for inmates.  He asked why and was informed that it’s not in the budget.  He pushed the issue a little bit, not being rude but expressing some frustration with the reply.  The staff member loudly rebuffed him with, “Well, if people like you would stop being criminals, we might have more money for less people!”  At that, a hush fell over the room.  Even in a library, you’ve never seen 20 or 30 inmates so quiet.  To you, of course, this may seem like an inconsequential moment.  Just brush it off, you say.  Ignore it.  But to us it’s not that easy.  All day all the little demeaning, humiliating things add up and eventually take their toll.  I mean, all the guy wanted was something to fill out GED forms, a step towards bettering himself.  Instead, he was reminded in no uncertain terms that he is just a criminal, an inmate, and “he’s got nothin’ comin’.”

Okay, back to my regularly scheduled blog topic:  the hot sauce only rule.  Could it be that we have a world-renowned culinary arts program that not only offers rehabilitation but career skills?  Um, no.  Allow me to save some time here.  There is no reason for the hot sauce only rule.  If asked, the reply is always that answer so well known to three year olds:  “Because I said so.”  And of course as with every ridiculous rule we do what we can to circumvent it.  Enter Lieutenant ______, we will call him Captain Condiment.  This guy roams the chow hall, using his eagle eye and incredible sense of smell to root out offending condiments.  He is the scourge of mustard, BBQ sauce, mayo, salad dressings, etc.  Oh his pride as he puffs out his chest and confiscates another bottle of contraband ketchup.  I can picture him at home, binging on episodes of OZ or Prison Break, smugly bragging to his buddies about the Heinz he took off the dangerous 87-year old in the wheelchair who is serving time for driving drunk on federal property.  Where does he put the seized condiments?  A Batcave trophy room?  I know we all feel safer with Captain Condiment on the job, making sure we know who has control around here.  Even with something as inconsequential as hot sauce.  Well, I’m off to dine on pancakes and oatmeal.  Hmm, wonder if I tried the hot sauce on the pancakes?