“LIFE. IN A GATED COMMUNITY.

LIFE. IN A GATED COMMUNITY.

Day 62: Menu Du Jour

5AM: Warning. Some portions of today’s breakfast were processed where actual food is prepared. Which is all one gets in “Solitary.” When you’re doing time inside this cage inside a bigger walled cage, chow comes cold. (Not that it’s better warmed up.) But the most bitter part is YOU are your only cellmate. So it’s checkmate if you want someone to talk to. Thank you for playing along…

6AM: Meditate. Contemplate. Ponder life’s mysteries. Wash dirty socks and underwear in sink.

7AM: More deep thoughts: Is there an afterlife? If so, should I pack clothes that aren’t so orange? Also, why no toilet seats in jail? Has anyone ever successfully escaped using the lid as a weapon?

8AM: 440 laps around cell = 5,280 feet = 1 mile = damn sure way to convince guard on duty you’re batshit crazy.

9AM: Talk to self a lot. Argue. Make-up sex afterward.

11AM: Lunch. Bologna on Wonder What-It-Is Bread. Again. No longer wonder why no toilet seat. Saves time when nature calls again, frequently and with force. Did I say “again” again?

Noon: Nap. Abruptly woken by new inmate in adjoining cell. Allegedly had sex with minor. Or a dog. Not sure which.

1pm: Dog-lover next door admonished for wimpering while dragging butt on floor. Guard rolling up newspaper to discourage him. Wonder if I can borrow sports section.

2pm: Bored. Finally reading Gideon Bible for first time. Hero gets killed in the end!

3pm: Dinner. Industrial strength starch. Alleged meat-by-product, maybe. Fruit & vegetables must be incarcerated elsewhere.

6pm: Still bored. Read some more. Read backwards. Invent new language. Count how many words one can make from the phrase “Silently Screaming.” (49). Now worried about my memory, so reading bible for very first time! (Did you know there was a big flood?)

8pm: Rare sad moment. Miss my family and other vital joys in life. Like my iPhone. Studying graffiti on walls. “Killer loves Pooh Bear.” Unsure if Pooh shares same sentiment. Watching imaginary TV. Reruns, dammit.

9pm: Wonder Bread more wondrous than I thought. You can leave it on your bunk all day and it never goes stale so you can lick it later as a snack. Or stuff all in the drafty vent.

10pm: Aah…lights out. Time to finally dream of fun-filled day ahead. Ask guard to sing lullabies. Cover eyes when he maces you.

Day 90: Repentance

OK lemme back up a bit. To how I got here…

“I plead insanity, your Honor.” Who but a mad man would risk so much? A loving, beautiful wife. Two daughters he adores. Family. Friends. Trust. I had it all. Then drank it away.

My drug of choice? More. Johnny Walker with chasers of weed. Pale Ales washing down pails of pills. Cravings drove me out of my mind. (Not a very long drive.) Which led to dumber decisions like “playing doctor,” counterfeiting pharmacy prescriptions. Earning me a chronic case of handcuffs plus years behind bars.

Last call.

But the truth is my real crime was theft. Because I STOLE TIME from those I love and care for most. Drunk. High. Hungover. Out of it. I wasn’t there even when I was. Yet somehow fed my family, managed to fake feeling normal, showed up for work on time, helped the kids with their homework. A walking contradiction who fell and failed all.

To each of you, I cannot begin to show my remorse … my deep and utter shame … and most of all, my truly honest hope I’ll someday be able to say I’m sorry in person. Until then I plead not for sanity, but forgiveness.

Day 118, 8am: Mental Floss

They sent me to the hole for fighting but now I’m back where that all started. Gen Pop. A looney bin of repeat offenders, pissed-off gang bangers, scared-shitless first timers and cast-off oddballs. My new Bunkie, “Dollar Bill,” hoards butter packets and hosts loud F-bomb-laden shouting matches (with himself). The OG with OCD named “Sponge” scrubs his prison boots using the same toothbrush he only occasionally relies on for dental hygiene. “Daily brushing is over-rated,” he lisps.

Also on the same tier: A surgeon, a dentist, a rabbi, and a white supremacist who looks like he’s been homeless since 1992. (Two docs, a man of fallen faith and some extra from “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” walk into a bar.) Then there’s me. The one who’s reluctantly learning to like these guys. We bond over bad court experiences and the worse decisions that brought us there, tear-stained photos of our families (if they’re still talking to us) and card games. Ironically, Crazy 8s is more popular than poker.

Call me insane, but I think the real madness is how we’re all sardined into this outdated MRSA breeding ground. Especially when every 4th one of us may be suffering from a psychosis, as my lawyer warned. These poor souls probably first landed in jail after committing a petty crime like peeing in public. Then got trapped here, picked on by other inmates, racking up more time for fighting or defending themselves. Kinda makes you think…

ONE IN FOUR. Is it the guy in his bunk above? The ones to my right or left? Or me?

Day 209: Jailhouse Confessions

Uncommon Criminals: Not everyone in custody came from bad homes and shady pasts.Our most common denominator is substance abuse, luring us from loving homes to the “Big House,” corner offices to street corners. Here you'll find PhDs and school of hard knock grads, tough city kids and suburban dads — all guilty of the same truth: Addiction is an equal opportunty destroyer.

We Understand It’s Harder For You: The guilt. Worry. That crushing sense of helplessness about not being there. It eats us up. Living with hundreds of menacing men mostly angry with themselves, we forget how life goes on outside. Real life. With jobs, bills, putting meals on the tables, getting kids to school. Please know every one of us would gladly trade YEARS off our lives — not to trade places — but to protect, provide, take out the garbage. Until then, we acknowledge and appreciate you. In fact, we admire you.

Letters Are Gifts: Long, short, a simple card, scribbles from a toddler, clippings from newspapers. We treasure every word. Then think about them until the next ones arrive. Sometimes they don't. You can see the heartbreak in brawny men when mail comes but not for them. So feel free to print your Facebook posts. Tell us what you ate for dinner. Do our pets miss us too? Even if all you can spare is a sentence, it makes ours lighter.

Decisions, Decisions: The truth is, we've forgotten how to make them. Bad choices got us here, so we're gun shy. After all this time being told what to do, how to dress, when to eat and sleep, even when to use the bathroom, our confidence is conflicted. The shock of fitting in, earning a living again, or just living among people who may expect the worst from us is like having PTSD. Fear of failure becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy. Freedom is frightening.

Men Cry: Late at night. In the shower when our faces are wet anyway. When we miss a birthday or big event or sharing coffee in bed. Going months, even years, without so much as a hug or caring human contact ... well, it hurts. Aches, actually. (That's a taboo just telling you this, something we're taught since boyhood, and we'll flat out call anyone a liar if caught.) You're in our thoughts, though. A lot. And I feel funny writing this now. Must be soap in my eyes.

Day 282: Driving Instructions

“STAY IN YOUR LANE.” That was the best advice a guard gave me on my way in. Eyes ahead. Don’t cross the line. Yield not to temptation. 

Smart road rules to live by. Anywhere. Yet if breaking them on the outside got us arrested, in here you’ll be detested. Or worse. Ask too many questions, you’ll get noticed. Look too long in the wrong direction, you’re involved. Take sexual assault. It happens. Allegedly. I don’t know any victims personally but have heard the muffled cries. Seen the bruises. Or not. (“ Stay. In. Your. Lane.”) And what about drugs? Dope. Pills. Pot. Someone has them if you can pay. (If not, see above...) 

But prison doesn’t have to be a collision course if you can sidestep the hazards. So I’m earning my G.E.D. and going to AA/NA. Praying “Lord, grant me the serenity to accept what a dumbass I was and the wisdom to not be a recidivist.”

Unfortunately, we’ve got a corrections system that doesn’t correct. Nationwide, nearly 750,000 of us will be released this year, many no better equipped to lead law-abiding lives than we were before. Nearly two-thirds will commit another crime.

*(Brake: Wouldn’t it be smarter to offer a better route? With more education and recovery programs? For people willing to put in the work, we have the drive to change.)

Day 301: Sharp Points

• They call them “sharps.” Itty bitty, almost-worthlessly dull razors handed out one at a time once a week for shaving. Then returned to the C.O. on duty who itemizes every last one. Hopefully. If ANY turn up missing, it’s shakedown time. The whole joint gets locked down, our foot lockers plundered, contraband uncovered, secret stashes unveiled. No bad guy wants this risk. So we police ourselves for the greater “good.”

• Confession: I HATE shaving (bc then I’d have to face myself in a mirror and I loathe even looking at me now.) Plus, a scruffy mad-AF face makes you look dangerously unpredictable. Always a good strategy. So try mixing it up some, like wearing your jumpsuit inside-out every other day. Or practice your right to “Open Carry” by sporting plastic knives from the mess hall strapped to your hip. Personally, I’m in favor of classically tough nicknames like “Diablo” or “Slaughter,” but also encourage originality. Names to avoid: “Spanky,” “Bieber,” or “Pudding.” “McLovin” is a terrible choice too, I’ve learned. The hard way. 

• Chow? Most every meal is boiled to mush or mashed so you never need knives anyway. You barely need teeth. So, we have nightly “Hook-Ups.” (NOT what you think.) In lock-up, getting “hooked up” isn’t about sharing STDs. It’s prison potluck, a sort of convict collective with all our commissary food all pooled for beast feasts. Pouches of tuna. Pepperoni sticks. Vienna sausages. Jalapeño pretzels. Leftover mystery meat from lunch. Let the buffet begin! Then practice the letter “Mmmm” together.

• TIP: Stale bologna sandwiches doused in hot sauce become the height of jailhouse haute cuisine. Just nuke ‘em in the one dirty microwave, 30 seconds only, don’t bother cleaning after, you’ve got 40 impatient thugs in line behind you.

• If you know a guy who bunks with a guy who works in the kitchen and can steal you peanut butter, stick with him. A felon who can feed is a friend indeed. So barter your honey buns. Smash them with crushed Oreos to make Jailbird Birthday Cake. Share your recipe for prison hooch — “when it tastes like nail polish remover, it’s ready!”

• But just like your high school cafeteria days, you want to eat with your own kind. Don’t be a race traitor buddying up with black guys if you’re Latino. Muslim? Pray no one preys on your personal stuff when you break fast for Ramadan. If you’re white from the ‘burbs and your sentence is in a city penitentiary, get used to being a minority. Period. You’re gonna stand out like a surrender flag no matter what, so sit down with your honkies, keep your head down and maybe talk about lawn care.          

Day 401: Good Behavior

I heard a story about this ex-con who paid his debt to society, was all set to go straight, but instead went straight to a pub. Ordered himself a double shot of Jack, licked his lips longingly, then set it aside, not touching a drop. THEN he orders another, knocks it back, orders 5 more in a row, downs them and stumbles to the door before coming right back for a nightcap.

Finally, the bartender asks “what about that still-full shot glass?”

“Oh,” he grinned, bleary eyed. “They told me in jail I’d be fine when I got out. If I just remembered not to take that first drink.”

                                                                                 • • •

With that in mind, I’m FREE at last! They let me out early! Even before my favorite bar opens…

Which is directly across the street from an AA meeting I’m about to attend in a church basement. Who knew? All I had to do was look for clouds of cigarette smoke outside a house of worship where ex-addicts gather, each one living gratefully just for today. Because tomorrow may be a completely different dumpster fire. 

Yet I go now, one day at a time. Taking what I can and leaving the rest — usually bad coffee and the awkward comfort knowing other people’s lives are just as messy. In my life before, I was always felt like the black sheep. Then I started coming to meetings and found the rest of my herd.

So. After all that lost time doing time on the inside — enduring forced isolation, forcing down grey food and the last of my pride — what’s my bottom line about hitting bottom and climbing back?

Sobriety doesn't open the gates of heaven to let you in. It opens the gates of hell to let you out.