The Library Chair

I am a librarian.  In a prison.  I earn 25 cents/hour.  And under the circumstances, I would not trade my job for anything.  Definitely for me the best work assignment on the compound.  Why, you ask?  Is it the quirky cast of characters mentioned in a previous blog post?  Is it access to books at what may be one of the top prison libraries around?  First crack at magazines and newspapers?  All good benefits, no doubt, but what really makes this the best prison job is (drum roll) the chair!  Each day during my shift I get to rest my behind on what has to be the most comfortable chair in the compound.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not some $2000 ergonomic masterpiece from Sweden, but we’re talking at least maybe high-end Office Depot.  It’s amply padded.  It has lumbar support.  Adjustable butt support.  It spins!  How did such a luxury find its way to the prison library?  I can only imagine that it was ordered by accident and rather than admit a mistake or take the time to fill out the paperwork required to send it back, they just left it here.  My back and rear end sure are grateful for that!

Because comfort is hard to come by in prison.  Our bunks are metal with a minimal mattress.  TV room and chow hall chairs are molded plastic.  The seats on desks are swing out stools.  The floor is industrial tile and the walls are cinder block.  Prison attire is poly or cotton/poly blend – I mean, the INHUMANITY!  But seriously, sometimes I go to work early just to sit in my wonderful chair.  It’s gotten so bad that I’ve even dreamed about this chair.  And if someone has the audacity to plop down in MY chair during my shift, well, it can get ugly.  After all, as we all know, librarians have sharp tongues!  But sometimes, on a beautiful 60-degree day when the yard is open for activities, the library is empty.  Then, I can lean back, prop my feet up and take a nap in MY chair.  Ahh, heaven!

3 Versions of the Truth

Flipping through my dictionary, I come to the word truth:  The real state of things, agreement with fact or reality.  Simple, right?  In prison, not so much.  Here, I’ve learned, the truth comes in three flavors:  (1) the Truth, (2) Prison Truth, and (3) the Real Truth.  Here’s my best shot at explaining the differences:

The Truth:  This category includes assertions (usually in the form of bragging) that may or may not be true, but are of little consequence.  Debating would just slow down the conversation.  For example, some guys are looking at car magazines and one brings up the Porsche he used to own.  Big deal, everybody just rolls with it.  We have no idea if he’s just made this up and we don’t really care.  Example Two:  Watching Miami Vice on tv and somebody claims to have lived there, even though he has previously said he was from Texas.  He does know the geography, landmarks and hotspots, so the story is plausible (of course he could have learned it all from Anthony Bourdain).  But no one cares.  Gassing like this goes on all day.  As they say, “you can be anything you want to be in prison” and as long as it’s not too outrageous, it’s no problem.

Then there’s Prison Truth:  These are the Yard Legends (ie, urban legends but behind bars) that are bolder, more audacious claims, but still accepted because they serve a valuable purpose, typically getting one over on the Administration.  For example, “I saw a guy smuggle four dozen apples from Chow Hall, hidden in his clothing!  He even got searched and didn’t get caught.  He baked twelve apple pies and everybody got a slice.  Next day the same guard stopped him and commented on his weight loss.  Dude replied, “Diet and exercise!  You should try it!” 

Now is any of this true?  Not likely, but we all wish it was so we let it pass.  As with the guy who supposedly faked having two inmates in his cell for two months to keep from getting a real cellie, another guy back in the day who demonstrated insane strength, etc.  Occasionally, though, we do take as shot at truth-checking, though our lacking Google, Siri or the New York Public Library Help Line makes this a challenge.  Recently a guy claimed to have owned the largest car dealership in Alabama.  Yes, he knows cars and a homeboy of his verified that he sold cars, but largest dealer?  Hmm, I could use my precious phone minutes to call a friend and find out.  Definitely not worth it.  So he wins this round of Prison Truth.

Now we come to The Real Truth:  This, finally, is probably what you think of as true.  The Real Truth mainly comes into play in arguments over sports facts, scientific information or some other clearly researchable claim.  You can go to the prison library to prove most of this stuff.  But sometimes stories are so outrageous, yet unverifiable inside, that they necessitate making an outside phone call.  Like there’s a guy who claimed to have been on Death Row until the President pardoned him.  The call was made.  A lie.  Now his credibility is shot and he can barely pass off everyday “truths.”  But then there’s this other guy, smelly and disheveled, rarely leaves his cell, who really is worth $80 million.  And what about the meek and mild bocce player who was a notorious gangster?  In those cases, we’ve got no alternative but to fallback on the old saying, “You can’t make this shit up!”  And that’s the TRUTH!

Death in Prison

A correctional officer (C.O.), prison guard, died over the weekend.  He had a heart attack at home.  I am sure he is mourned by family and friends, and I feel sympathy for them.  I am truly saddened by any loss of human life.  CO Jones was a decent guy, treated us fairly, and at times was even friendly, though he made it clear that he was not any inmate’s friend.  He kept things simple:  he was staff, we are inmates.  We’re fine with that.  We respected him, because he treated everyone – black, white, Hispanic, whatever – the same.  He didn’t do favors but if, in prison parlance, “you had somethin’ comin’,” he made sure you got it.  I don’t know his first name.  May he rest in peace.

Inside – not counting the suicide I wrote about in a previous post – six inmates have died of natural causes over the past few months.  I knew all six by face, some by name.  Some guys in here form bonds as strong as brotherhood; you know everything about them.  Spouses on the outside may support each other, too.  We are a community and look out for each other.  You live in a 7-1/2 by 10-1/2 foot cubicle with one or two other guys and you get to know each other pretty well, whether you want to or not.  These people who died were our friends.  Three were found unresponsive in their bunks by their cellmates.  The other three were in obvious distress. 

 

A dark joke here is that no one ever dies on the compound.  Somehow they always hang on until they reach the prison's medical center.  Old timers tell a tale like something out of the movie Weekend at Bernie’s of a dead body propped up with staff talking to him as they rolled him in a wheelchair to medical.  There’s a story about a body that fell off a gurney, clearly unresponsive, and a staff member pretended he had jumped off the cart and scolded him for goofing off.

When the prison guard CO Jones died, they shut down the entire compound for the day and held a Town Hall meeting to counsel us about his death.  The chaplain, the psychologist, the counselor, and an administrator took turns talking with us.  We prayed.  We were told that help was available if we wanted to talk to someone about the tragic passing of this prison guard.  We were asked to consider his death as a cautionary tale about taking better care of our health.  We were told to let ourselves mourn.

Now compare this to what happens when an inmate dies.  Every few months a hastily typed and scanned memo appears on the electronic bulletin board listing the names of inmates who have died.  It often has typos and sometimes even misspells their names.  No memorial service is held for any of them.  There is no Town Hall meeting.  We are told to stop saying, “they found ______ dead.”  No prayer, no counseling, nothing happened, so shut up.  The feeling is that we are not allowed to mourn.  The Administration would probably tell you that they are maintaining order, trying to keep the place calm.  But we inmates understand that the real message is that their lives mean more than ours.  We are not worthy of a dignified death.  We “got nothin’ comin’.”  

I can’t tell you what the Administration’s reasons are for what they do.  But after awhile perception begins to feel like reality.  In here this reality has been explained to me by a fellow inmate as follows:  “They try to take away everything, they don’t let you do nothin’ here, not even die.”

What Would You Do for a Good Cup of Coffee?

While putting these words to paper, I am sipping on an absolutely magnificent cup of coffee.  Yes, I've been to Italy, Paris, NYC, New Orleans, Quebec City, etc., and I’ve tasted the finest brews to be found, but at this moment nothing compares to my cup of Maxwell House Instant.  Confused?  Concerned for my sanity?  Well, calm down, everything is okay.  Allow me to explain.  Why is this cup of cheap instant mud so stunningly good?  Well, we need to go back about two months to a scene that took place outside the Chow Hall.   In one of the strange things about prison, you are not allowed to take food from the Chow Hill back to your unit.  They claim it’s about sanitary conditions, but in reality they just want us to spend more money at canteen.  So you’re allowed to keep a locker full of food, but only if you buy it.  Although it’s free if you eat in the Chow Hall, they call it stealing if you walk out with food. 

We like to use the term “liberating.”  There is no major consequence for getting caught, however, they just toss out the food and send you on your way.  When you leave the Chow Hall, guards line up to randomly search you, so to make it out with some food, you have to run that gauntlet.  Okay, so where was I?  Right, two months ago.  I had never taken anything out of the Chow Hall, but finally decided it was time to take a shot at it.  The plan was to sneak some milk out so I could put it in my coffee instead of some wretched powdered creamer.

I did my homework and scoped the place out, looking for a pattern I could exploit.  Who was searched most?  Which guards were the most enthusiastic searchers?  Where would I hide the pouch of milk?  I even took notes, which I carefully flushed on the day I went after the Crown Jewels.

On D-Day I pulled some loose sweatpants over my shorts, the plan being to slip the plastic bag of milk into my shorts pocket.  The baggy pants would obscure the package and if asked to turn my pockets out, instead of getting patted down, I would be safe.  Breakfast flew by in a blur.  I was entirely focused on the task at hand.  As I passed my tray through the dirty dish window, I slipped the milk into my shorts pocket.  Or so I thought.  As I turned for the door I realized that I’d made a horrible mistake.  I could not abort the mission, traffic was coming behind me.  I made just enough eye contact to seem casual and kept walking. 

All the while the milk, which I’d missed getting into my pocket and was barely stuck behind the elastic waistband of my shorts, was sliding slowly down my leg.  I tried to save it by flexing my knee, walking with my right thigh parallel to the ground, looking like some kind of one-legged pimp strutting with an ill-fitted prosthetic leg.  I was sure I was caught, but I was determined to carry this through to the end.  Only a couple more strides and I’d be free of the search zone.  Alas, it was not meant to be.  Gravity, as it will do, won out.  The bag found its way down my leg, slipped past the loose cuff of my sweats and landed perfectly on top of my foot just as I was striding forward, so that it soared into the air like a Hacky Sack.  Landing splat on the floor right in front of the guards.  Needless to say, the place erupted in laughter, guards included!  But despite this acrobatic performance, they didn't even let me keep the milk!

Fast forward to this moment.  My java is a perfect blend of instant coffee, powdered hot chocolate and fresh milk.  I’m such a skilled liberator now that I can sometimes escape with two, count ‘em, TWO milks!  One for me and one for my Cellie.  And here’s my big secret – I’ve prison-rigged a hidden spot on the bookshelf behind my desk to conceal the mug when I have to.

So maybe you’re at Starbucks when you read this on your phone, sipping your double mocha latte with a twist, but I have to tell you no coffee has ever tasted this good.  Because with every sip I'm symbolically thumbing my nose at the Man.  Tastes like freedom!

A Man Died Two Nights Ago

He was not sick, he didn’t fall down the stairs or suffer some other tragic accident, and he was not a victim of violence.  He got out of bed, walked to the bathroom and took off his shoes.  Unlaced his boots and tied one end to a hook on the back of the door.  He then secured the other end of the lace around his neck and sat down.  By all accounts, at least 10 guys used the bathroom, possibly in the neighboring stall, while he slowly strangled himself.  The administration locked down his unit, while they tried to determine how this could have happened without anyone noticing.  It was finally discovered when someone noticed the man's unmoving feet sticking out under the door of the stall.  Of course, the immediate question is, “Why?”

Facts have trickled out to us inmates, mixed with rumor and hearsay as usual.  Staff does not want us to know what happened.  They appear to be more concerned about blowback on them rather than caring for the inmate and his family.  Did he ask for help that was ignored?  Could he or should he have been found sooner, maybe soon enough to save his life?  The story from the inmates who knew him is that a motion for a sentence reduction was denied.  He had already been in prison for ten years and was facing that much more.  Why was he in jail?  I don’t know and I really don’t care.  A man died, a life was lost, and yet nothing changed.  We were called to count, we were searched, we were told not to ask any questions, we were expected to carry on as if nothing had happened.  But something did happen.  A man lost Hope, he lost the will to go on fighting.  This happened in the building where I reside and I’m supposed to just ignore it?

I did not know this man, but I will show him respect.  I walk away when guys gossip.  I ignore those wanting to joke about it or belittle the situation or the person.  I refuse to not feel.  I will remain humane.  I will try to help those who seem to be losing hope.  A man died two nights ago.  I cried.  I cried for him.  I cried for his family.  I cried for all of us living here that are expected to ignore the loss of a human life.

Tired

Have you ever had a day that was just “tired”?  A day where you were drained of energy or out of patience or stuck on a treadmill or just worn out by hard use?  Well, that’s pretty much every day in prison, and in prison all of those situations apply.  For example:

Drained of Energy:  Even in a relatively safe and non-threatening prison, it takes more energy to do everyday chores than on the outside.  You have to prepare yourself each morning to get out of bed when you wake up and realize again that you are behind bars.  Another day facing the reality of punishment for the sake of punishment, punishment intended to teach a lesson that you’ve long since learned.  If you ask me, 75% of the people I’ve met in here have been in jail too long.  One, five, ten, even twenty years in some cases, what is the point?  A perfect example of the Law of Diminishing Returns.  So you wake up to this futility again, and some days, you just don’t have the energy to face it, you’re just flat-out tired.  Shower?  Work out?  Forget it.  But you can’t fall into the trap of wallowing in your bunk all day.  As I’ve mentioned before, prisoners have an “us against them” mentality, the inmates versus the system.  If you don’t get up, it looks like “they” have won one.  So every day, no matter how I feel, I tell myself, “Today’s not the day they break me.”  (By that I mean the criminal justice system and the indifferent Bureau of Prisons.)  How do I re-energize?  What works for me is thinking of something I can do to help someone else.  May sound crazy, but a humane act in an inhumane environment, showing that someone cares, refusing to pick up the fiddle and play the “woe is me” pity party tune, it helps me get going, and before long I can say, “Okay, that’s one day closer to leaving.”

Out of Patience:  I’m a pretty patient person, most of the time.  That being said, prison could try the patience of Mother Teresa.  Any system devised by the BOP is inefficient.  Mail call, meals, count, laundry, you name it and I guarantee you that a marginally organized middle school student could think of a better way.  But the typical institutional BS isn’t the worst of it.  This may sound funny to you, but I am out of patience with the mangling of the English language perpetrated daily in this place.  For example, one guy always says, “I’m gonna tell you one thing for sure, two things for certain…” but has never (as far as I’ve heard) listed three items.  Not to mention that if you are sure of something isn’t that the same as being certain of something?  Another example:  “Lebron James is LIKE THAT!”  To which I replied, “Like what?”  I was then told, “No, he’s not like anything, he’s LIKE THAT!”  The fellow then explained, “Ben & Jerry’s ice cream is LIKE THAT!  Beyonce is LIKE THAT!”  Okay, fine, I still don’t know what they are like, but I imagine it’s a compliment.  Hopefully, my blog is LIKE THAT!”  Further or farther?  Good versus well?  They’re, their, there?  Don’t go there.  I’ve also lost patience with the persistent negativity.  Okay, yes, I get it, we are all in prison and prison sucks, but we don’t need some guy announcing it like the town crier all day long, with details of each and every way it sucks, every day, all day long.  I could go on, but I’m sure you get the point and are losing patience with me for dragging this out so long.  So let’s move on to the third way we get tired.

Stuck on a Treadmill:  It’s not just the constant repetition of complaints all day, it’s also the same guys telling the same jokes and stories while sitting in the same seats at the same tables watching the same tv shows or playing the same board games at the same time every day.   Like in my post about Groundhog Day, I don’t know if there is an original thought to be had most days.  Does every guy have to slam the dominos or cards down on the table every time as if trying to break the table in half?  One guy came by my cube one night while I was playing cards with three friends.  We were playing hearts, drinking soda and talking.  Guy leans in the doorway looking totally perplexed.  Finally he asks what in the hell we’re doing?  Playing cards, dude.  He shakes his head and says, “Dayum, white people play cards funny.”  This results in a comical conversation where us four white guys try to play cards like the black guys do, slamming cards down like hearts is a contact sport, insulting each other, shouting, “Cracker!” or “Whitey!” with each slap of a card.  Umm, where was I before this little digression?  That’s right, the lack of originality in all of our interactions.  Well, I guess occasionally there’s a ray of light!

Worn out by Hard Use:  This is simple, you’ve been there.  In prison, though, the whole environment is worn out, if not broken.  The chairs, bunks, showers, workout gear.  Everything is patched together or prison-rigged.  When the administration is asked about getting new mattresses or pillows or chairs, the answer is invariably no.  The reason, of course, is no budget for it.  Maybe they could let some of us go and fix stuff with some of the $78k they spend to house each of us for a year?

Speaking of tired, right now I am feeling the most common type of fatigue.  I need to go to bed.  I’ll say this, in addition to being patient, I also happen to be optimistic.  I believe that things will get better.  I realize that there is always someone worse off than me.  I am blessed to have family and friends who care.  More than anything, that’s what keeps me going, their love waking me up when I’m feeling beat.

Happy New Year!

Thank you for taking the time to visit my blog.  Most of you are family and friends, so you probably had no choice or my mom would hit you with a guilt trip.  Writing is therapeutic for me and hopefully you enjoy these tales from behind bars.  Please pass the URL along to anyone you think might be interested – whether they know me or not.  Or tweet, post – whatever it is people do nowadays.  Also, feel free to post comments or email if you have questions.  This blog is not monitored by the Bureau of Prisons and I cannot get into trouble for anything said.  Much thanks to T, the blogmaster, who maintains this site.   Even though I have no access to computers in prison, he’ll mail me any feedback you leave, and I’ll respond.  Might take a few days, but we’ll get to you. 

Here at the beginning of the new year, I just wanted to say to my family and friends:  Without your support I would not be where I am today.  Wait, that sounded bad.  What I mean is, without you I would not be doing as well as I am.  With all of you on my side, I know I am going to be fine.  No words can describe the depth of my feelings for my wife and children.  Even in my darkest moment, I have never lost sight of the light burning bright with your Love!  Peace and love to all in 2016.