Previous: How To Get Evicted From Prison, No. 7
More moves today. A lot of them, too. Half my dorm just up and left. Everyone summonsed had something in common: some offense or misdeed that rang the bell of report.
We aren’t alone in undergoing a cleanse. A large portion of our population is being shame-paraded through the hallways in one swift transfer to a place of safer keeping.
Today’s exodus — the result of yesterday’s housecleaning: up and down the walk that was deemed Little Idaho people pushed their call buttons to escape impending doom. Warden Barry, who’s still trying to land Idaho’s long-term inmate trafficking contract, must have noticed a pattern. He has since pulled the covers off every unwanted still attempting to blend.
…And the newly lettered Scarlets now abandon their artifice in a single-file line to a confinement more befitting…
I rid them good biddance with a coffee that’s creamered — courtesy of what few comforts of mine finally made it to the show: The little box of property that I crammed full in Idaho found it’s way to me in Texas after only a week. Unfortunately, my enjoyment will have to be rationed, as creamer’s not offered on commissary in Texas. (The reason, they say, is a matter of flammability. And it’s humbly as an arsonist that I’m inclined to call bullshit…except I’ve never been accredited, so who am I to make the point?)
It’s no surprise when another list appears in the hands of a corrector and myself and one other are told to pack it up. We’re to move to the sister-dorm that shares the view of our foyer, where a few cellies from my first unit have made themselves at home.
It’s a comfort to be familiar with a few from where I’m going. Though there will still be questions by twenty or so others, they’ll be less aggressively asked than if I wandered in unknown.
I’m unsure if the inherent risk of being labeled as “straggler undesirable” is considered by Chainsaw — the fellow moving with me. While his name evokes the imagery of an hombre stuck in anger-gear, he’s not known by this moniker to anyone else. To others, he’s simply just a pretty Mormon thespian. And as a pilferer of funds from payments in construction, he’s humanly posing no physical threat.
(IDOC agrees: Before Texas he was an inmate firefighter. Literally working a chainsaw in the mountains, he was tapped on the shoulder and told GEO wanted him for their Karnes County Tex-Mex prison. But not for firefighting, just for bed-filler. All six of his kids and their mother be damned…they’ll have to make due without his emotional support and find another income to source their school lunch.)
Because I don’t have Chainsaw’s sweet curly locks and six-pack distraction…or I-think-it-might’ve-moved good looks…I load both barrels with misfiring humor when I’m greeted at the door and asked about my charge. There’s simply no amount of danger that can muzzle me from this: “Oh — it’s cool, man. It’s only Consent With A Firearm in Texas.”
Braced for impact, and alone in my laugh, the cushion of a friendly voice keeps my bones intact: “This fuckin’ nutball’s alright. He’s just a firebug. He was down the hall with us when we first got here.”
It’s the friend I made while still in my tux. His hair suggests he’s in the early stages of finding our groove. Which he now verifies: “What’s up you fuckin’ weirdo! This dorm’s alright. Reminds me of Afghanistan. We can do whatever the fuck we want here! I’m gonna go play cards. Call me if you make food.”
My greeter nods, eyes still on me. “There’s a couple top bunks left. And that single bunk under the White TV isn’t taken. We clean on alternate days with the Mexicans. Quiet time’s at ten.”
I say thanks and choose the single that’s fully in the day room, next to the tables, close to the door, feet away from the hallway window.
Which means, by default, I’m responsible for announcing any authority approaching our sanctioned unknowns…
COMMENTARY
…Though, in this kind of place, they’d really rather not. Because paperwork sucks and so do angry captives. Plus, they’re really not prison guards anyway. More like friendly but reluctant last-minute babysitters with no interest in justice or correctional betterment. I now suspect the few that aren’t here just for money are likely infatuated with the kind of humiliation that only comes from withholding basic human decency — and simply lack the subjects or faculties to operate alone. In regards to the actual ratio of sadists/drug dealers/rejects to those respectably working our private prison surroundings — all I can say is: O’ blend do they easy.
Aside: While sadists enjoy the reinforcement that comes with any bust precursing human deprivation or unnecessary punishment, drug dealers (God bless ’em) and rejects prefer the opposite of attention: Their needs are better suited flying under any radar — thus they minimize contact with management while gaming us with keep. Exceptions: Management.
And, occasionally: The Sociopath. While we were all handpicked from Idaho for exceptionally good behavior, staff tell us they’ve been informed we’re the worst of the worst — handle us accordingly. Meaning, their hidden echelon of sadists, drug dealers and rejects are likely under the command of a professional sociopathic rank. Hospitable, competent, and hard working be damned…
END COMMENTARY
This dorm has been modified to accommodate a 50/50 demographic of White and Hispanic — in the style of any tarp-city refugee camp: blankets and laundry hang between bunks, providing cover and privacy for proclivities unknown. Card games and hobbies occupy tables while others bunk up with books or microwave soups.
…Artisans, jewelers, candy vendors and food, a silent disco with headphones in a bilingual schmooze…
This shantytown has the feel of “early-stage music festival.” And as I realize that strange man’s acid was anything but bunk, I excite at the thought that the journey’s begun.