“May the palette to paint a picture of antiquated modern fixtures arresting the development of those who need it most find me and assign me the building up and redefining of all the things that one is capable against the will of their host.”
— #0000082431
My early morning shower is the highlight of my day. Because the rhythm of the water offers me solace, and the steam an escape from sobriety’s reign. If salvation can be found, it will be found in the rain nook, alone and underwater, where my brain is free to range.
Right now, I’m sacredly swimming through the depths of thought and ritual, attempting to distill from the vapors some tangible meaning to replenish through my veins all the life that I’m bleeding.
For the moment I’ve forgotten that our people that have abandoned us, loaded us on a plane headed deep in the South and delivered us to GEO for privatized punishment. For the moment I’ve forgotten that I’m crammed into filth, packed into a room with twenty-two others for a sluggish procession of time-thieving days.
For the moment I’ve forgotten.
Forgotten.
Forgotten for the moment that–
I have been forgotten.
Beating against the curtain, the water drowns out all the noise.
“Hey! What the fuck are you doing?!”
Usually, anyway–
“Call your backup then, motherfucker! We’re not dealing with this today!”
Usually the water drowns out all the noise.
Begins another battle that I’m sure to lose with buoyancy:
The oxygen
opposes me,
forcibly inflating my lungs–
too quickly comes the surface…
It’s time to start the day.
I turn the nozzle till it squeaks and stick my head out of the shower.
A wayward regiment of corporate malefactors is raiding our village in pedestrian force: trifling obnoxious, accosting our bunks, not a pack or a herd but a parody of mongrels–nefariously armed with box-cutting switchblades, adamantly attacking inanimate lines as if deemed by an admiral our enemy stronghold.
As makeshift tents fall to the floor and get swept in the current of underfoot rage, I find that rudely constructed partitions of linens fare no better in battle than Alamo Texans.
Someone asleep has woke from their bunk and signaled the others with expletive yelling.
A sergeant is telling him he’s going to the Hole, and ordering an underling to “go on and grab him.”
Cuffs in his hand, his legs don’t want to move. His apprehension is triggering everyone’s senses.
Both sides of the room begin wading through foment: the trepidation, swelling, is sure to prove costly.
“He’s not going to the Hole,” says the younger of the brothers, our herald from Max. He’s standing in the way with an irritant smile, bearing the fruit that only blossoms with violence.
His elder, by his side, won’t let him feed alone. “No one here is going to the Hole!” It’s an order to us and a warning to them. And the heat from its service springs an atmosphere change.
Those of ours wearing shirts begin taking them off, revealing as they do deadly scars and tattoos–histories told without anyone speaking: among us are killers whose demons were sleeping.
Opportunities, family, and affection from loved ones–those are the reasons back home we behaved.
Here there are none.
No Fucks To Give.
Just adrenaline–spiking–send it around.
With half of ours now protecting the target, and the other half, in their underwear, lacing up their shoes, I wrap with a towel and walk to my bunk. Where a uniformed stray is making a mess.
He’s a little too young to be scared and out of place, and I’m all but excited to catch him raiding red-handed. Quickly I surmise the only thing that he’s taken is an unhealthy interest in the seat of my underwear. “What do you think, man? Smell clean enough?”
“Huh?” As confused as he is, he’s easy to startle. And the radio on his shoulder is broadcasting Hell. Blaring by his ear in a bout of schizophrenia, cracked, cackled calls are screeching wrong directions. Much feedback is coming from his counterparts’ grouping–defensively huddled, they’re all calling for help.
In a concious decision he offers them none.
I point at the briefs in his hand but he’s focused on the door, silently praying that backup is coming. Because he’s awfully out of place and obviously uncomfortable, I ask if his mother knows how he pays her bills: “¿Cuántas parajes sexuales tiene?”
“What?”
Realizing the barrier between us goes far beyond language, I lift my foot to the bunk for an industrious stretch, and direct his attention to my issue with the towel. “The thread count seems to be all right, but there’s bound to be a problem without having any leg holes.”
“Oh. Sorry,” he says, instructing his grip to relinquish my drawers.
“No worries,” I say, and lose the towel with a wink.
When both legs are finally invested, I nod towards the commotion, nonsexually prodding: “So, what’s with the bullshit?”
“Seguda,” he spits: The Comeuppance of Curse Words.
Of course–
Because of the laundry.
Yesterday, someone’s laundry was hanging from the ceiling, using the cool push of a vent to recover from a soak. Seguda sprung her leash and started barking all irate, promising to confiscate anything left when she curly-tailed back after making her rounds. The owner of the apparel was quick to take it down. He was also quick to sit at a table with a spoon and the beans they brought for noon and grievously streak both sides of his undies before strategically returning them right back where they hung.
Then, he pushed his face between the bars that make the hallway window and obnoxiously lobbied as loud as he could: “Seguda! They don’t respect you. SEGUDA! They said you won’t confiscate shit! You’re gonna have to show ’em you mean business.”
When Seguda returned to the scenic display, she found herself greeted by an animated foreground. “Behold!” said the squishy face wedged between bars, flinging an arm to route her attention. Behind it, flapping from the ceiling in the flow of the vent: one loud, lonely pair of prison-issue underies, evincing one’s reeling from the wrong kind of rampage while flying as the flag set to consecrate our parish.
“I tried to tell ’em,” he said. “I said, ‘If you guys wanna keep ’em, you better take ’em down.’ Do you think they listened to me? Hell no. They ain’t got no respect for you, woman. But I guess there ain’t shit on a shingle you can do about that…”
Our straight faces struggled. We prayed her coming in.
She stood there and processed for a good solid minute, but equine in her menses, she sensed enough to spook. “You think I don’t get it? You WANT me to confiscate them, don’t you? Ha. Ha. Very funny, guys. I’m not falling for that one.”
And then she steered away like an old wobbly bovine.
Right to the notebook, we’re learning. Where, to the morning shift’s tasks, she added fucking up our day.
“Makes sense,” I say, pardoning the youngster.
“Yeah,” he says. “She’s a real cowhole.”
The sound of boots makes its way down the hall.
Opening the door, it’s canisters first. There must not have been time to grab the good equipment. Or maybe they’re hoping a dozen is enough.
Closest to the door, it’s my job to greet them. “Mornin’.”
They’re itchy on the trigger but don’t really want to spray us. Not without masks or proper ventilation. Chances are it’d do more harm than good. Even with the tears and the snot and the choking on puke, the shock value is lost when you’ve eaten enough–and it’s hard to imagine more than a few of theirs have.
Because no one appreciates being threatened with an ordnance, “What the fuck you wanna do?!” is the chorus from our crowd.
With the weight of the chaos distributed equally, “Okay,” says the sergeant, cautioning all moves. “It wasn’t our choice to come in here like this. We were just following orders. Let’s all relax and take a moment–”
“Our moment-taker’s broken, motherfucker! Get the fuck out of our house.” Some types of guys are only tough in a crowd. And those are usually the guys that have the best lines. Because for years they’ve been rehearsing while awaiting their moment. Watching them shine is often times cute.
“Okay.” The sergeant’s open hands are held where we can see them. “We’re going to leave, but we’ll talk about this later. In the meantime, you guys can’t hang your laundry between your bunks like that. Okay?”
The brothers agree with it sounded out fair. “You hear that guys? No more hanging your laundry like that.” — “Yeah guys. Did everybody learn their lesson?”
“Yes,” moans our crowd.
“And we have to take this,” says someone’s mother, hoisting the bag full of liquid we were brewing in the trashcan. Third day in, it was coming along swell.
A look from the sergeant makes sure we understand.
Of course we understand. We’ll have to brew another.
As their parody of mongrels evacuates our unit, the juice that was cooking gets handed to the youngster. He’s told to find a trashcan and throw it away. “And make sure it’s not the one that they were just using.”
He’s the last one to leave, and our unruly crowd is accosting him gently–all underwear and sneakers and the power of telepathy. “Sorry, guys,” he says, lingering at the door. “You heard it. They gave me an order.”
And then, removing the lid from the can in foyer, he deposits the brew in its bag in the trash by the door, and allows our man closest to keep it from closing.
It’s nothing less than a fine display of sportsmanship.
The kind that makes us proud to adopt him as our son.