Another dog day
0525 hrs: "Attention A side, attention A side. 5 minutes to count. 5 minutes to count." Into my dreams intrudes the reedy, hill country voice; into my eyes coughs a dim fluorescent light. I roll over.
0530 hrs: "Attention A side, attention A side. Count time. At your gates, lights on, count time." Rising, descending, shuffling to my cell door, cracking the brights, I stand to be counted.
0535 hrs: "Clear your gates." I climb back into my bunk.
0610 hrs: "First warning for Mainline." I ignore.
0620 hrs: "Final warning for Mainline." I resurrect and dress.
0630 hrs: "A side, bottom tier, take it straight out." Not even breakfast yet and 5 times already I've been told what to do. Get used to it.
Buzz. Clack. Crash. The cacophony of cages being slid open and slammed shut is a racket worthy of Cage himself. A swarm - spooked bees among startled wildebeests - makes its way to and through a single door. Then under a blessed sky, the slow, strange, segregated strut to the chow hall.
Ah, the chow hall. Like some cavernous '80s era NY eatery (see America) with the ambience of a DMV under Stalin (ditto). Loud. The fare: negligible portions of same-toned slabs and piles (who designs these meals?) representing each of the four inedible food groups. I drink coffee, thick and ugly.
Knock, knock on the table goes the officer's fist - time to go. Shuffle (through the din), dump (the tray), wipe (hands on pants), walk. The smokers smoke; the strollers stroll; the players play. I ricochet from group to group, drumming up assignments.
Oh yeah, I'm the block's resident wordslinger: you want it written, I'll write it. My end: cigarettes, a few envelopes &/or some coffee. Sweet.
0650 hrs: The walk is over, stretched as far as it would go. Back in my cell, all Conran brutalism and lughead chic, I swap DOC chambray for my state issue brown. Cards? Why not. A silent game of Texas Rummy with my numbskull cellie. I let him win; he grunts. I win, he quits. Some fun. I can't decide who's worse: this self-proclaimed redneck or the retired coal miner he replaced. Neither know words like 'please,' 'thank you,' 'excuse me,' (most important in close quarters) or 'bless you' - a pet peeve. Let's see, the old guy had a TV. Hmmm.
0755 hrs: "Get ready for yard." Boots on.
0800 hrs: "Yard Out." I'm off. Now the action begins: a dim bulb who drove drunk through two backwoods counties wants to sue both because he was prosecuted twice; a rather large, soft spoken man from Pittsburgh thinks 13 to 27 (yes, years) is way too much considering his chick was only in a coma for 47 days; a singer-songwriter type from the Dominican Republic would like to prevent his deportation once he serves his time for crack trafficking; and a Bullshit County pal from Strong Island who continues to rue the day he ever stepped foot in this too common Commonwealth needs some ammo for the parole board. I comply to all; that's what I do.
Smoke or sinew; hustle or muscle. Smoking's forbidden (really), and weights mean sweat (it's 92 in the shade). Guess which way I go. A menthol rollie, the first puff a real drag (pun), the second - mild bliss. Sneaking it, I'm back in junior high, behind the PE bldg. I knew these intrusionists would eventually make outlaws of smokers.
1000 hrs: In cell, I ignore my cellie, drink coffee and dig NPR, privately. I'm eating non-violent today (Alternate Protein) so I'll go out later, separately; me, some Muslims and a few cats from Bullshit County.
1100 hrs: Lunch. In/Out; nothing special - scrambled tofu on yeastless bread - which is the best they have. Stroll, slow; heat but no hurry. I don't miss my hut. I don't miss my cellie more.
1150 hrs: Skoal boy's bitchin' again - some tough guy. Mr. Simple (minded) Assault. As tears stream down his face and the bellyaching doubles him over. Yawn. This is prison, baby. Deal with it. I hit NPR and jump into Westlake.
1230 hrs: "Count time." Again, I stand to be counted. I wouldn't miss it for the hole.
1300 hrs: "Ed building passes, bring it out and have a seat." That's me, the Law Library awaits. I got a nifty typewriting machine reserved in my name. I gotta write. A hustler's walk and I'm there. Fifty big bad men looking for a loophole, and me in the middle, writing this to you, on the anniversary of my birth. Another dog day down.
Maybe I'll get mail tonight.
Note: This article was first published online in the now defunct Bully Magazine. Supplied with immense thanks to Ken Wohlrob.
