Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. A Prison Story.

Originally posted  January 09

He is standing in the chow line. A small framed , twenty something black guy. He is wearing his clothes backwards. His coat, his shirt, his pants, all backwards. The only thing pointed in the right direction are his shoes. The thing I found odd, even more than his 180 degree apparel is that not a single guard seemed to notice. He steps up to the serving line, they slap spoons and ladles full of starch laden prison food on his tray, the guy in line behind Mr. Ass Backwards gives him his three feet and then some. He manages to make it to a table, sits down, then just stares off in to space.

I'm sitting a few tables directly behind him, every prisoner in the chow hall is focused on the guy. Everyone just knows something is going to happen, the anticipation on their faces, waiting for something out of the ordinary to break the monotony of another day filled with instant mashed potatoes, mystery meat, and sameness. One of the guards finally notice the guy is clearly not dressed to code. He nudges a couple of the other hacks and they approach the table. I can't tell what they are saying to him, but the biggest of the three is leaning down in to the guys ear. I'm pretty sure he is saying something like " You are in violation of rule number something or another".

By now the chow hall has gone dead quiet, everyone is watching it unfold, something in the air tells you that something is going to happen. The big hack reaches down to take the guys tray, the other two step forward, one has his cuffs out, and then it happens. Backwards guy reaches over the table, grabs a perfectly round ball of mashed potatoes out of another guys tray, and smashes it in his own face. The guards step back for just a split second, not wanting to get taters and yellow congealed gravy on their too snug poly uniforms, it's the break he is looking for. He jumps up from the table, deceptively fast for a guy wearing his clothes backwards, and he bolts for the exit.

With the precision and oneness of swimmers doing a routine in one of those old Esther Williams movies, the chow hall empties out as Mr Backwards and the three hacks run out the exit. The little guy is fast, faster than the hacks, two of whom are pretty fat, the third guard, a young rookie is purposely hanging back, reluctant to reach the guy only to find he is on his own, which is understandable given the unpredictability of crazy convicts. One of the guards is talking in to his radio and by the time the chow hall has emptied, a crowd of several hundred convicts as an audience, several more guards come running out of the other cell houses.

The guy sprints out to the middle of the yard, alone with at least 40 or 50 feet of space between him and the nearest hack, then he stops. He is standing in the center of a closing circle of seven or eight guards, grinning his crazy ass off, smashed taters and yellow gravy clinging to his face, his chest heaving, then it starts. As the hacks close in, inmates start cheering the guy, egging him on. He stands there basking in it, taking it all in. Three guards rush him at once, with the agility and speed of an NFL kick returner, he lays down a couple of moves, and breaks past the guards, he sprints another 20 yards and has nothing between him and the razor wire encrusted fences except 50 yards of air and opportunity.

All the hacks are now running straight at the guy, the PA is blaring that the yard is closed, everyone return to your cell immediately, nobody moves, all eyes fixed on this crazy little fucker covered in shitty prison grub and backwards prison garb. Then he does it, and it all makes perfect sense, he starts to run backwards. He never loses that crazy grin, you can tell he is living in the moment, savoring every second of what can't last much longer. They close ground on him fairly quick, but he doesn't try to turn and sprint to gain some ground. He just keeps running backwards and grinning.

The hacks finally catch him, a couple of the real hard ass types tackle the little guy, manhandle him a little rougher than need be. But the little guy never stops grinning, he doesn't resist. They cuff him up, head to administrative segregation, a tight circle of corn fed guards and this one little crazy black guy. Applause, cheers, whistles and a litany of derogatory heckling of the red faced, slightly pissed guards follows him all the way to the hole, where he will probably spend a few weeks, probably get some psyche evaluation, or more meds. But the grin on his face tells you it was all worth it.

Everyone heads to their respective cell house, the mood is light for a change. It won't last, the air will grow thick and oppressive soon enough. There will be moments when the monotony will be broken, but they will end violently, a beating, a stabbing, something violent, most likely ending badly, Memories that you take away from prison are selective, all you have are these little vignettes of time, brief flashes, the majority of time just melds together, uneventful, mundane, long, and drawn out. I could recount a hundred moments like that, things turning out bad or worse for some convict or guard, but whats the point. Random acts of violence are commonplace in the joint. most of the guys doing time and most of the guards, just want to get through the day unscathed. Everybody just wants to go home. Unless you are especially fucked up, seeing someone beat or stabbed, or worse, just leaves you feeling a little sick to your stomach, there is no pleasure in it. But that little guy, harmless, grinning, and running backward, for a few minutes he was beautiful, and he knew it. For a few minutes he beat the system, he was free, and so was everyone who saw it.

Midtown Miscreant presents.......The Prison Pilgrim

I'm faced with a conundrum. I've got two previous posts that I want to use for my annual Thanksgiving post. They are both heart warming as a mother fucker, and will leave you feeling nothing but peace and good will toward your fellow man. Both stories make me all weepy ,warm and fuzzy inside. I can't chose one over the other, so I'm going to let you clowns decide for me. This first story was penned last year about this time. I'll throw the other one up on Friday since I'll be busy working on some other stuff, and won't be doing the Fast Eddie Friday thing. I've got a deadline coming up for my first paid thang. So make do with these Midtown Miscreant left overs. Oh I almost forgot, have a safe holiday. Don't drink and drive or do any other stupid shit. Be sure and let me know if you prefer todays story over the one I'll post on Friday. If you hate them both, go shit in your hat.

So we all know the story about Pilgrims landing on Pontiac rock and infesting the local natives with the flu and Oprah. Those who didn't die from the white mans bugs, succumbed to soul killing mainstream pop culture and shitty self help books. Most of the white people died too, and those that didn't survived on dry butterball turkeys and canned yams. Okay, I may have my time periods and facts a little askew, but you know the story, so play along. What many of you couldn't know, is that Pilgrims land on one rock or another in a steady stream on a daily basis. Here's the totally fictitious, unauthorized, fable, of one such pilgrim.

Freddie the fish could see the fence and razor wire off in the distance. He had travelled a great distance, several hundred miles, belly chained and shackled to a fat guy who smelled like Parmesan cheese and feet, which really aren't that different, smell wise. Freddie was cold, hungry, and afraid. A stranger in a strange land. When the van pulled through the gate and in to the Sally-port, Freddie wondered why they called it a Sally port, why not a Sheila, or Martha port. Freddie didn't have long to think about this before the van pulled through the gates and upchucked it's cargo of hapless new arrivals. There to greet these weary Pilgrims was a member of the first of two tribes that inhabited the Rock. The greeter was a member of the tribe known as Hacks, also called screws, turn keys or guards. He ushered the pilgrims in to a sterile gray room, made them strip, and sprayed them with a bug sprayer, gave them ill fitting clothes and foam hospital shoes.

Freddie was sent to a settlement known as cell block C, where he was set upon and beaten, robbed of a book of stamps, some Marlboro's, and his girlfriends picture, which he later found stuck to a shower wall, covered in what appeared to be Tapioca and hair gel, but that's another story. The first winter was a hard one for Freddie and the new arrivals. They found the other tribe of natives, the Convicts, were less than hospitable. Trips to the canteen to replenish supplies were fraught with peril and danger. More often than not the pilgrims were set upon by the convicts, beaten and robbed of their ramen noodles and snickers bars. It was after one such encounter that Freddie met a friendly Native, a large fellow named Poke-yer-haunches, or Bubba for short. Just as the Native Americans brought gifts for our forefathers , and helped feed them through that first harsh winter in the new America, Bubba came laden with gifts. Candy bars and cigarettes would routinely appear on Freddies bunk, along with notes welcoming Freddie to his new home. Only later would Freddie come to discover that those things came with a heavy price, one that would exact a horrific toll on Freddies identity, and make him walk like a duck who had been shot in the ass.

Like all pilgrims, Freddie learned to adjust in order to survive. He can be found to this day, on the prison yard , corn rowing convicts hair for smokes and cokes. He looks different, his clothes are too tight, his shirt is tied in a knot, midriff, his eyebrows are penciled in with shoe polish, and he rubs cherry kool aid on his cheeks for a rosy glow. Oh yeah, he goes by Mercedes now. So there you have it, a thanksgiving day story to warm the heart. Don't think too harshly of Freddie, a pilgrims gotta survive.

Strange Bunkfellows.....Because there are no beds in prison...

If we are to believe Phil Spector, Charlie Manson sent him a kite in hopes of meeting the woman killing, and now wigless music mogul. The news, I first saw it on Crime Scene Kansas City, is calling it a note, but there are no notes in prison. When you send a written message in the joint, it's called a kite. According to Rachelle Spector the kite was delivered via a guard at California's Corcoran State Prison. I'm guessing Phil is doing his time in a yellow jumpsuit, or whatever special color is reserved for protective custody inmates in California's prison system. Phil is starting out on the wrong foot already. Spector has not only shit in his nest with the guards, he has shown a propensity as a stool pigeon, which wont bode well should he ever be placed in general population. Someone should send him a print of my Prison for dummies series. The only thing standing between Spector and hundreds of suitors, who would love to have Phil Spector hand washing their socks and draws (underwear), in a stainless steel toilet, is the guards.

Phil probably isn't aware of his major faux pas. He is just another rich guy who finally got himself in a pinch that his money couldn't extricate him from. I'm not sure if Spector hired a prison consultant prior to being sent to the joint, but he should have. It's not enough to check into protective custody in order to stay safe in the joint. The weak, infirm, celebrities, and high profile new arrivals in the nations prisons have targets on their backs. With more Wall Street swindlers and big biz folks being sent to the can, prison consultants are becoming a way for the green recently convicted inmate to make a smoother transition from the world to their new home, Prison. But how much of the prison consulting business is hype? Quite a bit as it turns out.

More than a few Prison Consultation websites make some promises they can't keep. They claim to be able to help you get placed in a particular prison, particularly in the Federal System. Bullshit, pure, plain, and simple. You can request a particular location, the judge can recommend, but at the end of the day, the Bureau of Prisons will send you where they see fit. These consultants also sell dreams of sentence departure, special programs like drug treatment and work release. The truth is if you qualify for any of these things the judge might recommend them, or the person who does your pre sentence investigation will recommend any special programs. That's not to say that there isn't a niche for prison consultation. Depending on the crime, sentence, and the new convict, solid advice and schooling can help you avoid some major pitfalls, and in some cases keep you from playing the role of victim in the reenactment of the rape scene in American History X. Edward Norton is a cool guy and all, but nobody wants to play him in the joint. If you never saw American History X, go rent it, it's probably one of the top 5 prison movies ever made, and it's a factual account of what can happen if you fall out of favor in the joint.

The Prison Consultation field is really taking off, and I'm in the process of trying to elbow my way in as we speak, more on that in the not too distant future. Here are a few of the bigger fish in the prison consultation field.

http://www.americanprisonconsultants.com/

http://www.federalprisonconsultants.com/fees.html

http://www.bestprisonconsultant.com/?gclid=CP3muYvIh5wCFSDxDAodY1iS_g

http://executiveprisonconsultants.com/home.html

Most of these sites seem to focus on pre sentence stuff, or they sell their product playing on the fear of the person about to head off to the joint. The truth is your lawyer and the pre sentence people are going to do more to help or hurt you than these people as far as your sentence goes. As for what to expect, how to act, and most importantly, What Not to Do, thats the type of advice that can really be a matter of life and death, or help to prevent you from becoming one of the Wildebeests at the watering hole. Anyone who watches the National Geographic channel knows what happens to the Wildebeest at the watering hole, it rarely ends good for the Wildebeest.

In a perfect world over privileged douche bags like Spector would end up being passed around like the collection plate at a Southern Baptist Tent Revival. But this ain't a perfect world. The truth is Spector will probably serve his time in Protective Custody, short of running into some crazy guy who slipped through the cracks, boredom will be Spectors biggest nemesis. Still it's kind of fun to envision Spector looking like the crypt keeper spooning with Charlie Manson.

Stoopid Twosday....the late edition. There's no crying in baseball and there is no Concierge in prison

I found this story over at Crime Scene Kansas City: " Texas billionaire R. Allen Stanford has filed a motion to move to a different jail, citing “oppressive” conditions". Stanford is awaiting trial over a 7 billion dollar Ponzi scheme. He claims that he can't get a fair trial unless he is moved to another facility. This is in part because of electronic discovery that isn't available at the jail he is currently housed in. But here's the rub, he also sites cramped conditions, a dark cell, and 8 or 10 roommates. Oh, I almost forgot, no windows or a/c. Apparently the A/c is broken. This nimrod should have spent some of that 7 billion on a prison consultant, or better yet, he should have perused my Prison for Dummies series. As you all know, if you have been paying attention, I was passed around between the states and the Feds, so I've had a taste of both types of facilities. Some fed joints have a/c, few if any state run prisons have a/c. A trash can full of ice parked behind a fan will help keep you cool-ish, if you can afford a fan. Stanford can also rent a chick with a kickstand (prison drag queen) to fan him with a checkerboard, while wearing koolaid rouge and boot polish penciled in eyebrows. As for the cramped conditions, he ain't seen nothin yet. Shit gets worse.

Noise, constant, never ending, noise. If Stanford doesn't like the cramped conditions and lack of proper amenities, just wait until he makes it to the joint. The noise can drive you mad. It never gets totally quiet in prison. There will always be someone making noise, young black guys rapping back and forth from cell to cell, tier to tier. The insane inmates who hold screaming contests in the middle of the night, berating some antagonist that only they can see. Steel doors racking, slamming, the hacks keys clanging, the disembodied voice that comes on the loud speaker informing you of chow, or yard, or lights out. The noise never stops. The Stanfords and Madoffs will never see hard time as far as the facilities go. Even when they get sentences that are essentially life, they wont make it to a really hard place. But that doesn't mean prison wont be hard on them. After a life of swanky digs, and deep pockets, even the best of prisons are akin to hell on earth for these pampered rich crooks. High end white collar guys like Stanford and Madoff don't have street degrees. They never rubbed elbows or came in contact with the predatory sharks that swim through this nations prison systems. Small recompense for the countless people who were robbed of their life savings, but it beats nothin.

One guy that Madoff and Stanford wont meet in federal prison is Skip Sheppard. I wrote about Skip in this post. Skip was one of the 5 people convicted in the 1998 murders of 6 Kansas City firefighters. The Star did an in depth piece on the case. It was a good investigative piece of work, which focused on several jailhouse informants who were recanting their previous statements that helped win a conviction in the case. I personally believe that a couple of the defendants might have taken a free case, but Skip and his brother Frank, not so much. What I know to be fact about Skip is that he left a small trail of bodies along the path that led him to federal prison.
Kella Ward died in a car wreck on 150 highway and Botts road in Grandview. Skip was high and drunk, and behind the wheel. That is a fact. Gary Ward a cousin of Kella Ward, , went fishing with Skip, he turned up dead in lake Jacomo, with a nasty head wound. That is a fact. Troy McAdams, lived next door to me, a guy I knew fairly well, a small time pot and coke dealer, who lived with his mother, turned up dead in the woods off of Blue River road. Skip and a couple of degenerates were busted a few days later in Troys car. That is a fact. Skip was a sociopath, a mean spirited brutal bully. The worlds a better place without him. Death seemed to follow Skip wherever he went, in the end it caught up to him.

"Why would anyone expect him to come out smarter? He went to prison for three years, not Princeton." Mike Tyson

Prison for Dummies......Chapter 10......Sweet Release.

All things both good and bad must eventually come to an end. I think I've milked this Prison for Dummies thing dry. What better way to wrap things up than to touch on release. All but a small percentage of inmates will eventually get out. One would hope that the person leaving was an improved version of his former self. Unfortunately that's not always the case. I think most of us come out believing we wont fuck up again, but it's a sentiment that just doesn't always stick.

The weeks leading up to being released seem to slow to a crawl. As the day nears, you begin to question if you are prepared for the world. Five years isn't long enough to become institutionalized, but its a long enough absence to give you doubts. As strange as it sounds, the day to day life in prison is easy to adjust to . Like anything else, you grow accustomed to the structured world of prison. So the day of your actual release is met with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.

Most people will have a family member pick them up at the gate. I chose to take the bus. I had to report to the Dismas House which was a privately run federal halfway house next to the police station near Linwood and Troost. That's the thing, even when they release you, they aren't done with you. For most federal inmates, there will be a 6 month stay at a halfway house, and then another 5 years or more of supervised release. After 5 years in prison you will need the re-entry to be slow, which is what the halfway house is for. It gives you 6 months to stack up a little cheddar (money), so you don't have to move in with family.

In a goofy logic, halfway houses are always in the city's worst areas. You would think that the halfway house would be in a location that would be conducive to keeping the newly released offender on the straight and narrow. But they are almost always sitting smack dab in the middle of heavy drug traffic and high crime areas. That's why a quarter of the guys you are in the halfway house with, will not make it through their 6 month stay.

When you first get out, it is almost like you were in a long coma, or had a stroke. You have to relearn how to do things in the free world. The simple act of talking to someone seems surreal and awkward. In the back of your mind, you are certain that everyone you meet will instantly recognize that you are an ex con. The transition is rough, but you eventually readjust. The first few weeks are full of unrealistic expectations. You naively operate under the assumption that the debt is paid, the slate is clean, nothing could be further from the truth. While on parole you are required by law to inform potential employers that you are a federal offender. Your parole officer will show up on your job unannounced, usually with a cup and urine test strip in hand. These factors insure that you will not get a very good job. You realize at some point that you will never be entirely free of your past, but then again , none of us ever are.

Hopefully your time in prison will stick with you. That is the key to staying out, remembering what the time in prison was like. Not a day goes by where I don't think about being locked up for over 5 years. When money gets tight, and I am barely keeping my head above water, I think about prison. I know that I can make more money illegally in a matter of days than I currently earn in a year. And I know that once I cross back over that invisible line, I will eventually return to prison. So I do what everyone in the square world does, I struggle, I barely get by, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

That's it for the Prison for dummies series. I know the conclusion was anti climatic, which is fitting. Getting out of prison is always anti climatic, staying out isn't always easy, but it beats hell out of the alternatives.

Prison for Dummies....chapter 9.... Weapons of Messy Destruction.

Nothing ruins your day like getting shot with a dart made from a Frito's bag and dipped in dookie. Yes, you read me correctly, it is not entirely impossible that you might get shot with a poisoned dart in prison. At least that is how the legend goes. I cant say I've ever seen it happen with my own two eyes, but I have heard from guys who did time in the Atlanta federal lock up, and from guys who did time in California. As best I can tell, the practice of using home made dart guns originated with the marielitos who were locked up when Castro emptied his prisons and insane asylums and sent them over here by the boat load. At some point the prison gangs in some California prisons picked up on the idea, and adopted it for their own. Like I said, I've no idea if it is true, but there is something about the mental picture of some Indiana Jones inmate , running through a cell block, while tiny darts rain down upon him.

Aboriginal dart guns aside, the most popular method of punching someones ticket is to stab them. The shank, also known as a shiv or bone crusher, has been around prison since time began. I imagine there was some caveman convict , sharpening a rock and waiting to ventilate some unlucky victim. The material used to make a shank is as varied as the size, shape and reason for making them. You could be sliced with a razor blade melted to the handle of a tooth brush, but more often than not the method of delivery is to stab rather than cut. A scrap of metal is often used, but with the numerous metal detectors throughout most prisons, metal is the least desirable material , when stealthy stabbing is the order of the day.

Plastic is favored by many for it's versatility and availability. Trash bags can be melted down and molded in to a crude yet effective weapon. A piece of Plexiglass makes an excellent shiv, as an added bonus, a couple of cuts made in the handle, allow the user to snap the plexiglass off inside his victim, leaving him with a smaller piece to get rid of, and more importantly, the piece that has his prints on it is in the stabbers possession rather than the victims belly.

Bludgeoning is also a popular method of reaching out and touching someone. A couple of bars of soap in a sock is an excellent way to clean your enemies clock. Contrary to what Hollywood would have you believe, a 6 pack of soda in a pillow case is not an effective way to bash in someones skull. A couple of good swings and you will be left holding a soggy pillow case filled with empty pop cans. Mop wringers are popular head knockers as well. basically, anything harder than the intended victims head can be, and probably has been used to beat someone down.

The most insidious and disgusting weapon, is used most often on guards. Being "Gassed" is a method used most often by inmates with mental issues. Feces and Urine are blended in a cup or other container and thrown in the guards face. You can imagine with the numerous diseases carried by some inmates, getting hit with a pint or two of shit and piss, is especially undesirable. It also earns the thrower a first class, and well deserved beating.

The thing to always keep in the fore front of your mind is this, there are more ways for somone to harm or kill you than you can imagine. You never know when some wobble head is going to snap , crackle, and pop you in the head. Chances are, if you keep your nose clean and avoid the vices like drugs and gambling, you will probably get through prison unscathed. But you just cant rule out being in the wrong place at the wrong time. So always be aware of your surroundings, and keep your eye out for anyone with a newspaper rolled up into a dart gun.

Prison for Dummies...chapter 8..... Must be love.

Most people assume that the only lovin available in the slammer, is of the "Drop the soap" variety. But that's not what this post is about. I am going to cover a broad spectrum here, but it's all related in one way or another to the various relationships convicts have with real world women.

The first and most obvious type of relationship is between inmate and wife/girlfriend. Very few relationships withstand the toll and time of a prison sentence. Oh sure, things go well at first. The weekly visits, the daily phone calls, letters swearing love and devotion . Somewhere between the 6th and 12th months a change starts to take place. The visits go from every week to every other, to once a month. She tells him to stop calling everyday, not because she is tired of hearing his whining, but because the phone bill is too high. The letters taper off, they get shorter. This can mean only one thing. Jody. Jody is a generic term for the guy who is bumpin uglies with your soon to be former wife/girlfriend. Thankfully my exes always fled at the first sign of trouble, so by the time I was ready to go away, she was long gone. But time and time again I saw the pattern repeat itself with guys I knew in the joint. A few times , when it was someone I knew on the outside, or had become what passes for friends in prison, I would try to give them a little reality check, tell them not to count to heavily on things not changing with his other half. And almost every time, the response was the same, " She ain't like that, she will stick with me". A nice sentiment that rarely held true. I don't fault the women who walk away from the dead end relationship with a guy in prison. In most cases they most likely tried to get the guy to clean his act up before he wound up in the joint. So it just stands to reason that they would eventually walk away.

But for every woman who decides that a long distance relationship with a convict is pointless, there are countless screw ball women who think they have found the one good guy in the pen. Don't get me wrong, there really are some stand up people doing time, but using prison as some kind of E harmony is a pretty goofy proposition. There are the way creepy types who go for the notorious or infamous inmates. Richard Ramirez, and Manson probably have more groupies than a rock star. I suppose these types of love connections are understandable. It's a matter of celebrity, albeit a twisted obsession.

But it's the less common love connection that sometimes occurs in prison settings , that has always befuddled me. Women working within the prison who fall for an inmate. It isn't usually a female guard, although that's been known to happen. Normally it will be whats known as a Square or an L7, connect the L and a 7, you have a square. So a square person is some prison worker, other than a corrections officer. Prisons are full of square people, they run the kitchen, the laundry, work in medical, etc. More often than not, the woman is of a plain nature, at best, often quite large in circumference, not that there is anything wrong with that, I'm just sayin. The one common trait they all posses is a low self esteem and more often than not, a shitty marriage. So these women risk it all , job, marriage , reputation and often freedom , for a guy who has nothing to offer other than a good line of bullshit and hurried sex in a supply closet. Go figure.

That's it for this installment. And to those of you who have been making direct requests for me to write about certain subjects in prison, what do you think I am , a tour guide? Just kidding, I'll be getting around to your questions in the future, thanks for reading. Later this week, I will be discussing the innovative and various forms of weaponry in the joint, stay tuned.

Prison for Dummies...chapter 7....It's just my job.

Everyone in the joint has a job, or at least something that passes for one. So I'm going to give you the skinny on the various gigs to be had , the coveted and the to be avoided, but choose with care because you will be stuck with your decision for a while.

I spent a good share of my sentence working in the school. I tutored, which is laughable because I had neither the desire or talent to do it well. I realized that most of the students were operating on a third grade level at best, and that was cool with them. What made it especially tough was the fact that most of these so called students didn't want to be there in the first place. In the federal system if you have no GED or High School diploma, school is mandatory. What the feds haven't managed to figure out is that you cant force someone to learn. So I spent a lot of time reading and not tutoring. Every once in a great while , some guy would come along and genuinely want to better himself. I wont go so far as to say that those rare instances were rewarding, but it beat pissing in the wind trying to help someone who didn't want any help. As prison jobs go, it blew, big time.

Food Service.

Food service was mainly a job area run by, controlled by and monopolized by black guys. Not sure why, but it's a fact throughout state and federal prisons that the majority of food service workers were black. Aside from the fact that you eat better if you work in the kitchen, I could never see the attraction of rising at 3 in the morning and working in a hot kitchen.

There were jobs painting, plumbing, electrical etc., basically all of the labor trades, these were as a rule , jobs occupied by the white inmates. Again, the best explanation I can give is that prison is one of the most self segregated places in the world. Whites, blacks and hispanics all gravitate toward the same type of jobs in order to stay among their own race.

Now there was another group of people in prison who had to have Jobs, the staff, guards, counselors and square people. While you might at first think that people being paid to work in prison are totally unrelated to the inmates, they share more in common than you might think.

The Guards.

The stereotypical prison Hack that is portrayed in movies, is alive and well inside America's prison, but they comprise a small minority of the guards I encountered. For the most part they were all business, a little aloof, and just trying to get through the day unscathed so they could go home. That is the same attitude most convicts have. There were some hacks who were major pricks. They went out of their way to let you know they were running the show, even though they weren't. These were the same guards that would eventually get beat down or worse, by some con with a bigger chip on his shoulder than the hack had. I saw a few of this ilk get his ass handed to him by some convict who just didn't give a damn, and I cant say it wasn't somewhat enjoyable to see it happen. But for the most part guards treated me with respect, and I did the same in return.

Case Unit Managers.
These guys were combination supervisor, counselor and den mother in the joint. They assigned your job, approved your requests and fielded complaints and grievances. It seemed like a thankless job and they were overloaded. Again the occasional prick aside, they always treated me professionally and I really cant say anything negative about them.

Medical.

Short of a life threatening medical condition or having something contagious, medical staff in prison could not care less about the various ills, aches and pains of the inmates in their charge. I suppose they just felt like everyone was trying to pull a fast one and avoid work by complaining about some contrived medical ailment. And I'd say that sentiment wasn't unwarranted. The medical attention when given was substandard and often lacked any care or concern on the part of the Doc or the Nurse practitioner. I once had a big cyst pop up behind my ear. This thing looked like I was packing around a Siamese twin attached at the earlobe. The doc was a little vietnamese guy, who spoke pidgin English and had a permanent smile frozen on his puss that reminded me of some crazed lunatic. So I go see him about the cyst. He has me sit at a table and put my head down. Without warning he slices this thing open with a scalpel. I started to come up off the desk as you might expect a person to do when stabbed behind the ear. He assured me the bad part was over, while repeating Solly over and over. Solly translates to sorry, and he wasn't really solly, because he still had that fucking maniacal grin on his face. So I put my head back down, and Hop Sing grabs the weeping , offending goiter with a pair of hemostats, (medical pliers/fish hook remover/ roach clips, and squeezes the shit out of the cyst. Mind you this was done sans any type of numbing agent. I jump up like he just probed my prostate with a garden rake, the hemostats locked on and dangling from my ear like some wacky ear ring. He repeats the obligatory solly while grinning his goofy grin. It was as close as I ever came to smacking the shit out of someone in the joint other than another inmate. I still hate that little fucker to this day.

That's it for this installment of Prison for Dummies. I'll be returning to the joint once or twice a week. Hopefully you will be bored enough to stay tuned for the low down on lock down, and all of the regular hi-jinks and hilarity that ensue here in this dingy little corner of Midtown.

Prison for dummies...Chapter 6...Custody levels

Depending on the security level of the prison, your living quarters will vary. From high security single cells to wide open dormitory style. There are countless variations, and I can only speak with first hand knowledge of a few types, but I'll cover them all using information I picked up from guys who had been in super max or other high level prisons.

Dorms.
They really aren't dorms in the usual definition. A dorm in prison is basically a big assed room with a shit load of bunk beds crammed in it. The first night you spend in one will reveal the following.
Snoring should be punishable by death. Seriously, I never realized until I went to prison just how loud people can snore. When you have 60 people crammed in a small space and 10 of them snore , count yourself lucky. In most cases it's at least double that number. Add to the snorers, the nocturnal farters, and you have yourself a moonlight serenade composed in hell. It will take you at least a week to learn to sleep through the noise and the smell going on around you. Unless you are part of Satan's orchestra, in which case you will sleep like a baby from day one, albeit a flatulent baby with sleep apnea.

Two man cells. Unless it is a particularly old prison, you wont actually be in a cell, at least not the familiar bars and sliding cell door type. Today's cell is a concrete block walled cube about 10 by 12 feet. Pretty boring in it's description, so I wont waste much time on it. Suffice to say who you get for a cell mate is a crap shoot. You have no say who shares your cell.

Supermax. I have known guys both in the joint and here in the world , who did time in high security prisons. From what I have been told and what I have read, the worst of these is the old super max in Marion Illinois. The most secure and high tech of prisons is the super max in Florence Colorado. Florence is the home of the Unabomber, Carlos Lehder, and Richard Reed the shoe bomber. I wrote about Tommy Silverstein in an earlier post here. If you havent read it, give it a look, be sure to click the link on Siverstein's name to get an idea how far the prison administrations will go to secure and isolate the worst of the worst.

On the opposite end of the spectrum , there are numerous minimum level camps scattered throughout the U.S. These camps are small, usually no more than a few hundred inmates. While some are better than others , none live up to the urban myth of Club Fed. There will always be a segment of society who believe prisons are too soft on inmates. They believe inmates are living some kind of cushy life, they think prisons should be more harsh. Believe me there is nothing further from the truth. Prison strips you of your privacy, your free will, your ability to move about freely, and rightfully so. But a cakewalk , it ain't.

Prison for Dummies....chapter 5.. Penitentiary Potpourri

There are a few random and unrelated things you need to be aware of. Knowing this stuff, is golden. Seriously, I am going to reveal little known factoids that will make your stay a little better, and when you are doing a bit, a little goes a long way.

The most popular television program among convicts is.....drum roll....The Young and the Restless. I once saw a fairly large Black guy get beat down by 4 or 5 other black guys and seriously injured in one of the TV rooms. His offense, exercising poor judgement by changing the channel and cutting Victor Newman off at mid sentence. I cannot for the life of me explain the convicted felons love of an insipid daytime soap, but anyone who has ever done a day in the joint will vouch for me on this one. In fact I still tune in to Y & R on a semi irregular basis. But it isn't the same.
There was something very surreal about sitting in a room filled with 20 or more convicts, many of whom would just as soon eat your face as look at you, yet they sit quietly and intently hanging on every word of Jack Abbott or Nicky Newman. Just don't change the channel.


Don't drink the Hooch. Jailhouse hooch has probably been around since prisons began. There are countless variations and recipes, and they all smell like vomit and rubbing alcohol. One of the more potent brews is made from tomato paste sugar and yeast, all acquired from the kitchen via the thriving prison black market. The short version of the brewing process goes something like this. Combine sugar, water, tomato paste, and yeast in a trash bag. Hide trash bag where the hacks wont find it. Wait a few days, retrieve trash bag O' booze. Strain through a T shirt, chill and serve.

Here is what they don't tell you. It is not uncommon for the guards to find your stash, in fact it happens more often than not, now here's the kicker. The guards don't always confiscate the hooch. They do however take turns pissing in it before they put it back in it's hiding place. True story.

The 3 feet Rule. Learn it , live it. Don't crowd someone in line. You are going to spend a lot of time standing in line in prison. You stand in line to eat, to go to the commissary, sick call, mail call, line after line, it never ends. The unwritten but heavily enforced golden rule in prison is this, Don't invade someones no fly zone. Give em 3 feet. There is nothing more annoying than having some clown breath his buttermilk breath in your space. Remember if you are too far away to touch the guy in front of you, then he is too far away to hit you in your soup cooler. (mouth)

Never get caught rubber necking, no matter what might be going on only feet away. The best way to avoid problems in prison, is the same as in the free world. Mind your own business. If a fight breaks out right next to you, just casually walk away. While it is rare, innocent bystanders have caught a rubber bullet to the head, and that can kill you, or turn you in to a non drug induced Wobble head.

That's it for this installment. I want to thank International man of mystery and former Russian cosmonaut now residing in the Siberia of Kansas, Meesha V. , for the Prison for Dummies cover shot that will be the official heading photo for the rest of my prison for dummies posts. Thanks Comrade!

Prison for Dummies...chapter 4... Hallelujah and pass the Shiv

One of the most peculiar phenomena in prison, at least from where I stood, was the large number of devoutly religious types in the joint. It wouldn't have surprised me if I had seen a long line of monks in hair shirts , walking in a circle, smacking themselves with whips and chanting Gregorian chants. With that in mind, today's topic is Religion in prison. I am going to break down the various religious groups in the joint. Feel free to pick one out for yourself, or make up your own.

Christians make up a large percentage of the religious types in the joint. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to knock anyone's beliefs, at least not folks out in the free world who practice what they preach, and walk the walk. To each his own. That said, i don't think there is a more annoying and counterfeit group of people in the joint , than Christians. The other religious groups don't do much recruiting, they are almost secretive. But the guys who spent a lifetime doing dirt on the outside seem to be the same ones who get locked up and decide they are John the Baptist all of a sudden. It always struck me as disingenuous. On more than one occasion I was approached by some knuckle head who wanted to share the word with me while I was walking the track or waiting to play handball. They never got the response they were looking for, and they never bothered to approach me a second time.

Native American Religion

Right about know you are thinking , (A) Huh, Ive never heard of that religion, or (B) Oh shit, MM is about to say something offensive to, or about Native Americans. The answer to A. is, yes Native Americans have their own set of spiritual beliefs. The answer to B. is, of course I am not going to say anything to offend Native Americans, at least not intentionally. My first encounter with a "Native American" spiritual gathering came a couple of weeks in to my sentence. I saw a circle of guys sitting in a grassy area in the center of the prison yard. Upon closer inspection it turned out to be about a dozen of them. A few of them were wearing headbands , some festooned with a feather or two, there were a couple of them beating a drum, they were burning what I assume was sage, one guy was doing his best impression of an Indian chant. And here is the kicker,they were all just as white as Pee Wee Herman. There wasn't a single Native American in the circle, not one. In fact, there was enough blonde hair and blue eyes in the group , you could have mistaken them for a bunch of Swedish foreign exchange students. It never fails, we all know at least one white person who will look you straight in the eye and tell you they are one quarter Cherokee. If you are reading this and somewhere in your home is a dream catcher and some wolf statues, I have probably just pissed you off. Sorry, but watching the directors cut of Dances with Wolves 200 times and hanging a dream catcher from your rear view mirror, do not an Indian make.

Muslims

Lots and lots of Muslims in the joint. Very devout, very sanctimonious, and in my opinion , as full of shit as the previous two groups. Again we have someone trying to hedge their bet thinking religion will gain them an edge.

Moorish Americans

Now these guys are about as radical a group you will ever find in the joint. They hate white people, and I do mean hate. They cloak themselves under the guise of religion, but they are nothing more than a black version of the Aryan brotherhood. They wear fez's like the Shriner's, but the only parade these clowns want to have involves putting a white guys head on a stick and parading through the streets. They have a perverted extreme racist view of world history and claim to be direct descendant of the Moors. They refer to Whites as Europeans, doesn't matter if you never set foot out of Paducah Kentucky, you are an European infidel.

There are also Wiccans, Pagans, and Satanists, oh my! There are Jehovah's, Mormons, Hindi's, buddhists, you name it, there are as many religious groups in the joint as there are in the free world. The vast majority of them share one common trait. they are as full of shit as an Amway salesman. You might think that is a harsh statement, coming from a morally bankrupt nonbeliever, but consider this. In studies on recidivism rates in the U.S. state and federal prison system, the return rate is 67 percent over all, and that's a low ball number. In some states its as high as 80 percent. If you break it down in to groups by crime, some of these groups return at 85 ands 90 percent. If all of these Jail House converts were really sincere, don't you think those rates of returning to prison would be much lower? Of course they would.

Prison for Dummies......FYI

Before I delve any further along in my Prison for Dummies series, There are a few points I want to touch on. When you enter the Federal Bureau of Prisons it isn't uncommon to be transferred to one or more facilities during your sentence. I was transferred 3 times in 64 months, not counting a 6 month stay in the federal halfway house. I started out in Rochester, transferred to Sandstone, transferred again to Florence , then back to Rochester. The official reason given for my transfers was for security purposes. The problem was my name is very common.


If an inmate ever testified on a co-conspirator, or had some kind of beef with someone, that persons name goes on file as an enemy or a possible threat to the other guys safety. So you get transferred if your name pops up on some guys list. In my case I had no enemies, never had anyone testify against me. Unfortunately there were several inmates who had my common name listed on their enemy file, even though I wasn't actually the person listed, the name matched and that's good enough for the Bureau of Prisons.



What I have done is combine all of my experiences, and set them at the facility in Rochester, for the purpose of the Prison for Dummies posts. It just seems less complicated for anyone reading this blog. While Rochester is officially considered a medium security Prison/ Federal Medical Center, there is a general Inmate population of which I was one. Florence on the other hand is like a federal Prison Megaplex, with a multitude of security levels and facilities ranging from non secured to super max. The federal BOP has over 200,000 inmates in custody. Being moved from one place to another probably happens to 3/4 of the inmates at some time during their sentence.



So to keep from muddying the waters with transfers and different locations, Ive picked Rochester as the "Prison" for this series purpose. At some point down the road I will probably talk about the different facilities. I will resume the Prison for Dummies series on Monday.

Prison for Dummies...chapter 3...The three questions you really want answered.

This would be a good time to dispel or confirm rumors you have heard about prison life. You are standing at the threshold preparing to embark on a long journey to a totally foreign place. It is important that you know what you are getting into. First of all, forget everything you saw on the boob tube or in movies. While some of the stuff you have watched may hold some snippets of truth, for the most part it was all bullshit and could get you in trouble.

A good example of Hollywood fiction is the story some TV or movie criminal will tell about how he established his dominance and let everyone know he was dangerous. The story goes something like this. "So I pick out the biggest meanest son of a bitch in the joint, walk up to him and hit him right in the mouth. From that day on nobody messed with me". Now that sounds really cool and Clint Eastwood-ish, it's also a really good way to get your ass beat. So drop the Sly Stallone ala Lock Up routine, otherwise someone is going to check you for selling Wolf tickets,(call your bluff), and part your head down to the pink meat, (crack your head).

There are three universal fears that every fish (new guy) shares.

1. Will I get beat up or killed?

2. Will someone try to take what little stuff I have?

3. Is somebody going to try to deflower me in the shower?

Will someone try to kill or beat me?

The short answer is maybe. You have a couple of things working in your favor. First of all, most of the people you come in contact with are hoping to get out someday. It isn't likely that they will risk losing a chance at freedom by killing you. The bad news is, that attitude doesn't extend to someone waking up on the wrong side of the bunk and stomping the cowboy shit out of you just for general principals.

There is always the possibility that a truly disturbed individual slips through the cracks and is turned loose in general population. So it is important that you learn to spot wobble heads and shufflers, and avoid them at all costs. "But MM", you say, "I don't even know what a wobble head or a shuffler is" Well shut up new guy and I will enlighten you.

A wobble head is a guy that has smoked a lot of water on the streets. Water is a street name for PCP, although more often than not it is a cigarette or joint dipped in embalming fluid, and not PCP. It is also called Sherm or butt naked, the latter term a reference to the user having an uncontrollable urge to tear their clothes off and run buck naked down the street. I have no idea why, but it's true, and really beside the point. The point is, this is some really bad shit, and it tends to make you permanently crazy. You can never tell when a wobble head might just snap and start stabbing people with a pencil. So keep an eye out for anyone whose head movements remind you of one of those little dogs that people put in their rear window, or one of those lame George Bret bobble head things they hand out at Royals games. If you see a guy coming toward you doing a Katherine Hepburn imitation with his head, give em a wide birth.

Now a shuffler is easy to spot, in fact you can find all of the shufflers in the joint migrating as one every morning and evening. They slowly emerge from each cell house twice a day. They remind you of zombies, they walk slowly, drag their feet and are possessed of a slack jawed expression. They head enmasse to the clinic twice a day to get their psyche meds. Again , you want to steer clear of folks with mental health issues , you just never know when they might lose it.

Will someone steal my shit, or just straight up rob me?

Yes if they think they can get away with it they will steal your stuff. I'm not spending anymore time on this question. It is a stupid question, you are in prison, prisons house thieves, thieves steal. So, don't ask me anymore retarded questions, okay.

And your final question and the one that troubles you the most.

Is someone going to try to fuck me?

Probably not, unless you look like this guy, in which case you might want to either check in to protective custody, or give yourself a stripper name like Mercedes or Crystal, and just call it your hustle.

The truth is that the vast majority of guys in the joint have no desire to, or intention of playing Broke Back with you. And the myth that has been perpetuated about the showers being the location of choice for sexual assault, is just that, a myth. Generally rapes occur in someones cell or in the kitchen. Don't ask me why , but the majority of shenanigans seem to take place in food service. Armed with the knowledge that the kitchen is a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah, I shouldn't need to tell you to avoid the tapioca which is served on Thursdays. Nuff said.

Well I trust I have helped to alleviate any fear or misgivings you were having concerning this whole prison thing. As the saying goes, life is what you make it, and clearly you have made a mess of it or you wouldn't be in the joint.

More to come......

Prison for Dummies...Chapter 2...Your first day.

Your first day in the slammer is in many ways similar to your first day in school. You get off the bus, apprehensive. If you are paying attention to your surroundings, and you should be, you will notice the following.



1. 70 or 80 percent of the people who just got off the bus with you, are NOT white. It is true that blacks and Hispanics tend to get time more often, and more of it, however any advantage you enjoyed due to your whiteness is now null and void. To quote the black guy who befriends Edward Norton in American History X, "you the nigga in here." If you are a reader of color, congratulations, it's finally paying off.


2. The black guys can be divided up in two groups. The first group is made up of thugs in their late teens , early twenties. They are loud and talk incessantly. In fact they wont shut the fuck up. This is most likely their first bit, and they are scared. The fear has them all jacked up and on edge. In order to mask the fear factor, they talk loud , and trade stories about 187's and smokin some fool. It's probably mostly bullshit, but they think it makes them sound hard. If someone yelled BOOM, like Denzel in Training Day, these toy gangstas droopy pants would fall off completely.



The second group of black guys are 30 and up. They are the exact opposite of the frenetic hyper hood rats. They are quiet, talk in a mumble, and posses a sleepy eyed look, a look that says they ain't hardly bullshittin. In other words, these guys have been down this road more than once. Most of them probably have sentences longer than the young black guys have been alive. These guys, you do not want to get cross-ways with.




3. The Hispanics , and I group everyone from Mexicans to Cubans as Hispanic. Sue me. All I know is that they all talk the same and I cant understand a word of it. Some of this group, the Cubans to be exact, are twice as loud as the young black guys.




4. The white guys , can be defined as three separate groups. You have your regular criminal types. While they may or may not have done time, they are streetwise and know the score. Like the older black guys they are quiet and best left alone.

The second subsection of white guys are the tax cheaters, the kiddie pornsters and are referred to as Opies, as in Opie, Andy and barney. They have lived cushy white collar lives and they find themselves as out of place as Farrakhan at a Nascar race. They are scared shitless and spend most of their time studying the floor.

The third subsection of white guys are young, teens and twenties , like the young black guys. Another thing they share in common is trying their best, and failing miserably, to sound, act and look, like they are from the Hood. Most of them are from the burbs, got caught selling or making meth or slinging crack , or taking stolen cars across the state lines. Of all the people who annoyed me in the joint, these wanna be but never will's are at the top of my shit list. The really odd characteristic that many of these Wug's, white thugs, share is a pretty fair number of them are racist. They are sporting SS lightning bolts on their necks, or White Pride Tattooed on the back of their arms. I never could figure it out. These clowns tried to sound like a stereotyped black thug, they sport wife beater or over sized T shirts, droopy pants, and say Yo, or Know wha Im sayin , but they claim to hate blacks. It's important to note that this hate doesn't extend to actual confrontation with the black guys. In the 5 years and change I spent away, I never once saw or heard of one of these Aryan posers actually having a physical beef with anyone of color. Not once. That isn't to say that there isn't a genuine group of Aryans, it's just that they tend to stay segregated, leaving room for these posers to act the part, on a purely superficial level.


So there is your cast of characters. It is important to note that you have been up for 12 hours or better. You couldn't sleep on the bus because the black box was slowly cutting off your blood flow, the young black guys were rappin, poorly, and Mr. Dookie breath kept invading your airspace. You are tired.

You go through a long list of questions, from medical conditions to religious preference. you strip down to your bare ass, while some corn pone eating prison guard looks in your mouth, under your balls, and the bottoms of your feet. You are instructed to spread your cheeks, squat and cough, the idea being that anything you might have secreted away in your colonic strongbox will come shooting out. If you are easily embarrassed you are a deep burgundy red at this point. Get over it. On average you will be patted down, strip searched and have your personal privacy invaded a half dozen times a day, minimum.



You are instructed to step in to a tiled shower stall. It has several spray heads jutting out of the walls and ceiling. It kind of reminds you of one of those high priced multi head showers. Hey , maybe this isn't so bad after all. You are told to hold your breath and close your eyes tightly. The next thing you know you are hit with a 20 second blast of something cold that smells like kerosene. You have just been gassed. Debugged as it were.



After more questions , you are handed a gray wool blanket, a sheet, a plastic pillow, a towel and some foam hospital shoes. You are herded down another set of halls to a cell block or pod. It is basically an octagon main room surrounded by 2 man cells. No bars, just a steel door with a greasy sliver of window in it. You get a sandwich and a beat up apple. Congrats, you made it through your first day.

*** Authors note***
The reader may notice that my marginal proper English usage has taken a nose dive in these Prison for Dummies posts. That's because I'm in character, as it were. I am trying to teach you proper prison slang and vernacular. The one thing you don't want is to look like an Opie. Besides, it's my blog, you want proper grammatically correct writing, tough shit. This is prison, you rarely get what you want.