Transcript
Naked Destiny I feel instead of hear a squeaky groan come from my chest in reaction to the sharp pain penetrating my eardrums. They fixed the loudspeaker last night. The same loudspeaker I paid Dennis 4 Ramen noodle soups to disable a couple of weeks ago. I was hoping for a longer reprieve, but over all the money was well spent. My cage is located in such a manner as to perfectly convey the demon speaker's scream from hell. One can avoid the resulting pain with a pair of earplugs, but I got caught sleeping, this morning, in more ways than one. In general it's the male guards that turn the loudspeaker volume unreasonably high intentionally, just as it's usually the males who cannot resist playing on the microphone, reveling in their sudden God-like power. The women guards, again in general, tend to conduct themselves with, maturity when assigned the microphone. And these general behavior traits carry ever to inmate-guard interactions. Women act more professional than the men, and the males are more likely to play with their authority, antagonize and harass. 1 wonder what, a Sociologist would make of that. Noisy awakening followed by the disappointing discovery of no electricity in the cell. No power means instant coffee made with cold tap water. I don't know if you've ever tried mixing instant coffee with cold water, but it's like impossible to dissolve the granules, and they come floating to the top in little blobs of yuck. We the disposable, call this rugged concoction a ."John Wayne." Which makes no sense to me; didn't John Wayne have campfire to warm his coffee? I try not to believe in bad days. I like to think that people author their own realities with their attitude. But it does seem like some days stubbornly insist on their own course. A John Wayne cultivating rancid fumes on my breath, I drag my feet in a line of subdued inmates making our way down a long and long hallway of endless red brick. We pass through occasional crash-gates made of steel bars, guarded by bored souls dressed in Confederate-grey uniforms who ignore us this early in the morning, but will later become formidable obstacles; their obstinacy mirroring their growing listlessness with the passing of the day. There are narrow bright yellow lines painted, on the e.ray concrete floor, one on each side for prisoners to walk. The much larger middle lane, is reserved for the slightly more human prison employees. Much of the inmate traffic, 'is "job" related and," I too am part of this unfortunate quest' . I look over the shoulder of the man I'm following and up ahead, standing dead center of the hallway, is a tall Bossman with his pudgy hands resting on his prosperous belly. (Using my amazing capacity for creativity, I'll call him Bossmian Smith. And yes, the guards are actually addressed as "Bossman". I couldn't believe it at first, but here in the South, this term, for authority, rooted in slavery and Jim Crow tradition, survives. Ironically, so does picking cotton with slave labor.) Bossman Smith: He sports a tobacco-stained walrus mustache, speaks with an exaggerated Southern drawl, and wears a perpetual sneer in the presence of inmates. If I had to guess his first name, I'd say it had 2 parts: Billy Bob seems likely, an exquisite stereotype of a redneck. He's rough, he's dirty and he's damn proud of it. Billy Bob will never be mistaken for a genius and his family tree might resemble a telephone pole, but he's crafty-mean, like a farm, cat playing with 3 mouse. A position of authority has got to be a wet-dream come true for a man like Billy Bob. I find myself meeting the eyes of Bossman Smith and I quickly look away. but it's too late. He crooks his finger at me, the equivalent of flashing lights atop a police-car. I feel so stupid. Any veteran knows better than to make eye contact when an asshole works the hallway. "Get out of 'em boy," he tells me. Billy Bob loves strip-searching. Treats it like rape. I've been strip-searched a thousand times and while these personal invasions aren't pleasant, one can get used to anything. Bossman Smith however, takes it to another level; the guy gets off on humiliation. My newly awakened body was already semi-shaking from the cold air in the hallway, even before this traffic stop. And as I remove my clothes, gooseflesh ravages the exposed flesh. I'm involuntarily in front of this of this evil man and that carries its own brand of humiliation. Billy Bob gropes my clothes slowly and methodically while I stand naked, defiantly staring at all of the dressed people walking by, as if I'm damn proud of my trembling body and shriveled penis. Most of the passing people look away, especially the female employees, while others study my body at leisure, ignoring my glare. "Run your fingers through your hair," demands Bossman Smith. "Ya gotta nice head a hair, boy, now open your mouth and lift that tongue." "Now take them cold fingers a yours and lift up that nut sack." "Now the best part, turn around, bend over and... spread those cheeks nice and wide... cough!" Billy Bob sneers, drops my clothes on the floor and the search is officially over. I bend to retrieve my clothes. I keep my head held high and wear my own sneer, but Billy Bob has victimized me and we both know it. The prison laundry is my next stop this lovely morning, it' s my designated "job". Forty-eight hours a week, no vacations, no pay, no choice. But it beats picking cotton. The huge laundry is filled with gigantic industrial machines and I walk up to my clothes-dryer and give it a hug. This truck-sized machine puts out impetuous heat that will fill you with dread in the summer, but following my chilly degradation, I'm. feeling rather fond of it. This particular dryer I mash my body against is called Bronson Burner. A few years back some gang-bangers forced a kid named Bronson into this machine and turned it on. An ugly event, but years later the laundry workers rarely miss an opportunity to say "Bronson Burner", with macabre satisfaction. Bronson Burner and I are close associates. I load and unload tons of fabric from his bowels every day. You could call it a give or take relationship. My morning ages away in the monotony of embraced cloth, broken with the occasional Yoga poses the workers around me mock. The hours of labor and focused breaths have almost helped me gain my emotional equilibrium from Billy Bob's Birthday Suit Bash when word comes down that one of the big washers has broke down. This is frustrating for laundry workers because the loss of that washer will clog the whole system. We don't get to leave until all of the laundry is washed and folded. You can imagine how welcome overtime is to a slave. See what I mean about bad days? Am I imagining this? The afternoon finds me sitting on the cement, waiting for a load to dry, wishing I were allowed to bring a book to work. A school-bell rings and it's time to be counted. Dozens of inmates pair up in a line, playing, bickering, bitching, while the guards try to settle us down. Similar scenes are taking place all across this huge penitentiary. Ever since an escape embarrassed the state prison system some years ago, they've counted 8 times a day. Counts are the most predictable yet chaotic routines of prison life. A count can last anywhere from 30 minutes to 4 hours, depending on how many mistakes are made. Isn't that a wonder? Counts^-are amusing and frustrating. Amusing to watch guards make fools of themselves and get verbally crucified by their supervisors in front of everyone. Frustrating because you're stuck wherever you are during count-time including the damn laundry. I've never been quite sure how the count gets confused so often. Granted, Bossman jobs pay far too little to attract college graduates, but even children can count. I'm sure there's a reason I cannot fathom for the convoluted miscounts. I've finished drying the last load, but this day stays true to course; they cannot clear count. I've been at work for 10 hours and 20 minutes and it turns out the final tally will be 12 hours and 20 minutes before my shift ends. As I walk back down the hallway, on the lookout for Billy Bob, I feel an intense longing for my cage. I know there's nothing nice about a prison cell, but it's the one place I can relax. As long as I'm surrounded by the volatile mix of guards and inmates, I have to remain vigilant. Prison is no place to walk around with your head up your ass. But as long as you trust your cellmate not to attack you while you're sleeping, you can assume a sense of security in you cage. Give me a good book and a hot cup of Java and I can almost forget about prison all together. Unfortunately, I cannot go directly to my cage when I return to the cellblock, I must wait in the dayroom. The dayroom: a large cave of hyenas fighting over bones. At least, that's how I think of it. I'm not a big fan of the dayroom. This dayroom. is used as a holding tank for inmates coming and going to various areas of the prison. It's also considered a recreation area with its 2 snow screened TVs and 3 game tables, but I think it's hell in disguise. Technically speaking, the guards are supposed to let prisoners cycle in or out of the dayroom to their cells once an hour, but no one takes rules very seriously in the penitentiary. The day remains true to form as I get stuck in the dayroom for close to 2 hours. Finally, the lovely loudspeaker announces an in or out and I can return to my gated home. I no longer try to fool myself that a good attitude will change a bad day. But there's always tomorrow.
