Taylor Kole's Blog

Another 50 diary entries

I’m posting a link here for those of you interested in more content. Amazon has an option where an author will agree to only publish on their website. They bully authors into using that service, or having greatly reduced exposure. That is why these entries are not fully on this site for free as I intended. I think when the contract expires in 90 days, I will remove them from Amazon’s exclusivity deal and continue posting on this blog for free.
It’s the method I want. It requires fifteen times the time and energy for a probability of less return on money. (It’s already a horrible return. For every $10 I spend advertising, I get $2 back!). Anyway, that’s the explanation for why they are no longer posted here.
That said, this section of fifty entries is the best to-date. Take everything unique and special about the first fifty entries, and multiply that. I think the improved content has to do with me settling in during this time. I start diving into how I found myself in prison, and a lot of that is ugly. We start to know some of the characters around me and learn how easily an inmate’s safety can erode. There’s also some funny parts and stories about my past criminal exploits.
There still a free sample if times or tough or you don’t support Amazon. My hope is you’ll try the sample, remember what you enjoyed about this content, and toss me a sale.
Regardless, thanks for the support and here’s the link.

Entry 20: Pursuing a Dream, after prison

I’m
writing this today, as a semi-free man.

A
bed, not food or friends or a woman, was the main thing I looked
forward to the day I was released. Here is my continued journey to
reaching that goal.

This
blog is having greater success than I imagined. It’s not trending
or raging up day after day, but the views and email subscriptions
climb steadily. Apparently, there are programs out there that alert
people about this, because an advertiser contacted me at post nine.
They said my retention rate of three minutes was high for a website.

Having
someone wanting to place banners and such on our site is a big deal.
It’s made more important when we understand that this site is
becoming as a place of comfort, even healing, for many. I hadn’t
expected that. To think this diary could be used to provide comfort
is a great honor. I’m motivated to keep it around. Ads will help
with that.

Since I was approached by someone, I figured I had
the ability to approach companies and ask for referral links. I had
two specific items I’d like to promote and contacted them and
twelve other websites. Amazon approved me and I earn 3-6% on any
purchase made after someone clicks the link. That’s cool. It’s
netted us thirty-six cents so far.

Ten
of the twelve sites denied me, which was a bummer, but perhaps a
blessing in disguise, because the only product I rave about in my
personal life approved me (most-likely because I shared my story with
them.)

In
prison I slept on a horrible “mattress.” (I found no pictures of
the mattresses we were given. I found lots of pictures for prison
mats which look great and comfortable. Those are not used in Michigan
prisons.)

Coming
out was tough. Fines, parole conditions, additional classes, no
license, and an unsympathetic parole officer. Many things had
changed, and I needed everything from a toothbrush to a car. I also
had three-thousand dollars in fines that had to be paid before I
could be released.

When
I came out, all of the nice-paying jobs my friends promised were not
there. One friend offered me amazing money to clear brush from a
field. I worked for him for four additional days. He promised me
twelve-hundred dollars for clearing the field and three-hundred a day
for the other four days I worked with him. He paid me with a sealed
envelope. There was eight-hundred dollars inside.

One
friend helped me will a fully furnished, fridge-stocked, and
three-months-paid apartment. I appreciated that, but didn’t have
the heart to tell him the idea of having to pay all of that myself in
ninety days added tremendous stress.

I
remember waking up one morning, twenty or so days after my release,
after having been ignored, lied to repeatedly, and let down
consistently, and accepting no one was going to help me.

The
people in my life wished me well, but they were not going to give me
a hand up, as I had always thought.

I
left the house that morning at seven, walked five miles to a business
district, and pitched my services to companies. I told them I just
got out of prison. I told them I was sharp, sober, trustworthy, and
would work harder and for less than other people.

I
emphasized a need to start today and be able to leave twice a week
for my AA classes. The third guy hired me. Nine dollars an hour under
the table to organize his disheveled warehouse.

A
year later, I bought underwear and remembered I’d promised myself a
nice bed.

A
few months after that, I bought the Purple mattress. I thought it
looked unique. The videos that discussed why it was revolutionary
sold me, and that was all the homework I did. I bought the purple
Hybrid for thirteen hundred dollars, and two purple pillows for
two-hundred dollars. I didn’t have the cash so I used Affirm.com
(I
don’t get credit when you click them, but it’s a great site for
credit because it doesn’t affect your credit score, which I was/am
building. It’s 730 atm!)

The mattress my friends gave me was
twenty years old and taken from a cabin. It smelled. It wobbled, and
worst of all, it squeaked so loud it often woke me up.

I
was so excited when the Purple mattress arrived that I sleep on it
for three days before I realized I hated it. I hated the Purple
pillows even more. I probably would have kept the mattress and been
disappointed if the pillows had been serviceable. Purple pillows are
the worst pillows I’ve ever used, and I am counting jail and
prison. Zero substance. I’d put my head on it, and my head would
drop to the bed, bending my neck all crazy. I’d slide my arm under
it and feel like I was sleeping on a thin rubber mat, like the one
you put under drying dishes.

I
asked for a refund and the company promised to issue a refund as long
as I sent them pictures of the pillows cut into pieces and showed
them proof the bed had been donated.

I
took the bed to GoodWill, where the kid gave me a blank sheet
pre-signed. I briefly considered putting three old phone cases in the
donation bin, filling out the slip, and keeping the bed.

For
some reason, that’s not the right thing to do, so I donated it. The
kid is probably sleeping on it right now.

Super
depressed, sleeping on the couch and floor as often as the squeaky
mattress. I was even more determined to find a great bed, and
committed myself to research. I soon realized the bed game was
serious. There are dozens of beds, and with the internet, it’s
really hard to tell what’s a legitimate review of a product and
what is an advertisement.

After
a week of videos and articles and reviews, I decided to buy the Nest
bed. (Looking back, I probably confused a paid ad as an honest
review). I bought the Natural Hybrid Latex, queen, the bed base, and
two pillows for twenty-three hundred dollars. My credit payment was
one-hundred and sixty-eight dollars a month.

Yes,
it was out of my price range, but if I budgeted food, I could make up
for the payment, and after the second visit, Mcdonalds isn’t much
better than prison food. The bed arrived and the mattress was really
nice. It felt almost twice as heavy as the Purple. The stitching, the
Logo, and the color scheme were all great.

I
was disappointed in the base. It cost four-hundred dollars but was
cheaply made. Also, it didn’t have a headboard. The bed looked
terrible without a headboard. Even more strange, the design of the
base didn’t allow for a headboard to be screwed in to.

Nest
Bedding does not sell a headboard. You cannot attach a headboard to
their base. Isn’t that wild?

The
Nest bed wasn’t lacking support, like the Purple, but I had
purchased the firm mattress (best for a stomach sleeper). A week
later, when my lower back pain kicked in, I looked through the
paperwork and noticed they had shipped me the wrong mattress.

Purple
had been pleasant and really fun to deal with on the return (I
brought the pillows to work and we cut them into bite-sized pieces).

My
Nest Bedding rep started off nice, but within a few minutes, I sensed
his attitude. He kept telling me I had ordered the soft, so what was
he supposed to do.

I
might have ordered the soft by mistake, but I didn’t think so, and
I said that. My receipt showed the bed, not the type of mattress. The
shipping label, which he sent me, said “soft” but that could mean
the warehouse guys made a mistake. He disagreed.

Four
to nine email and phone exchanges later, over the course of a month,
and he agreed to send me a new insert that would make my mattress
firm. He only agreed to send me the correct firmness if I would agree
that the case was closed and I wouldn’t return the mattress. I told
him I’d like to sleep on the new mattress for a while and decide.
More attitude and then it arrived.

Nest
makes a nice bed, but I didn’t want it. I couldn’t stop myself
from hating it every time I entered my room and saw no headboard. It
was also lower to the floor than I wanted. They guy was a jerk, too.
He kept telling me I couldn’t get a refund until I tried the bed
for one-hundred days, then when it hit one-hundred days, he told me
the case was closed.

A
friend offered to buy the bed for twelve hundred dollars, and I sold
it. I’ve been paying the remainder off ever since. (Last payment is
Nov. 2019).

On
the plus side, I kept my Nest Pillows. Best I’ve ever tried. Shoot
me an email and I’ll show you the specific one I use.

So
I’m one thousand dollars in the hole, bedless, but determined to
find something I can sleep on for the next decade (any longer is just
being greedy, maybe cheap). 

I
kept remembering how good I slept my first few days out of prison.

I
have a self-made millionaire friend. My first two days out of prison
were spent with him at his lakefront cottage. We kayaked and
paddle-boated and swam and walked the three-hundred acres his family
owns, talking about life.

It
was a great couple of days. The best part was the sleep (close
second, breakfast, where we went all out each morning.) Laying on the
mattress the first night, I almost cried. I woke two hours before I
normally did and felt more energy than I had in a long time. I
attributed that to the bed.

I
wanted that bed, but my friend earns forty-thousand dollars a month
and recently inherited a seven-figure real-estate trust. The bed
probably cost too much for me, so I continued researching online
until the next time I was at his house. I asked him about the
mattress and he said it had saved his life.

He’s
6’3”, 300lbs and said he was always sore but his boss (a man who
earns seventy-five thousand dollars A DAY) recommended a specific bed
to him. That bed improved my friend’s life so much, his wife bought
six of them. Three for cottage, three for their home. They bought one
model for the kids, and another one for them.

After
the discussion, we went and laid in them. This was the bed I wanted.

I
asked how much the bed was and of course, he didn’t know (or care.)

If
the bed was under three-thousand dollars, I would try and finance it.
Three-thousand for something I would use nightly for ten years seemed
cheap.

A
week later, I asked his wife, and she told me the beds cost nine
hundred dollars.

Nine
hundred dollars for the most comfortable mattress I’ve ever laid on
($1400 for the queen). It’s also the mattress a man so wealthy (my
friend’s boss) that he has has a seventeen-thousand square foot
garage, uses. I’m sold, and I want it.

I
haven’t yet bought the bed because I bought a recliner and a work
chair with the affirm credit. Both of those are paid off 11/19. The
day those are paid off, I will finally have my dream bed.

With
companies contacting me to advertise on our site, I thought I might
have the power to plug the Plushbed.
I told them my story, and asked if I could get a referral credits for
their beds. (I was hoping they would send me a free one, but they did
not offer.) They sent me a special link. If I refer them eight sales,
I get a free mattress. Hence, this entry.

If
you’re willing to try a great bed for a cheap price that is revered
by the ultra-rich and endorsed by yours truly, visit Plushbeds
and
give it a try. We spend one-third of our lives asleep. Mattress
quality affects mood, our bodies, and the amount of time we spend
asleep.

Plushbeds
offers
a one-hundred day trial. You can use affirm and not affect your
credit, so there is no reason why you shouldn’t sleep like royalty,
and help me in the process. It
also ships in a small box, which makes it a great birthday or
Christmas present.

Don’t
expect to immediately feel the god-like bliss I’ve set up for this
mattress. The one thing all bed reviewers agree on, it takes one
month minimum to appreciate a mattress. But you can expect a bed
better than many (if not all) others.

Also,
you’ll be helping me get one step closer to a dream. If that’s
not a win/win worthy of an entry, I don’t know what is.

Best
Bed Ever.

Affirm

.

Thank you for reading up until here. Post 20 is a milestone of sorts. I have these posts on Amazon for $3. If you want to support the site, buying a copy is a great way.

If that’s not your thing or the timing isn’t right, I get it. I would still ask you to click the link, and leave me an Amazon review. I need 10 to advertise with reputable places. POST 1-20

.

If you’re interested in reading more, here is a link to posts 21-60. CLICK ME

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Entry 19: Hidden Patterns

Once you purchase a new vehicle, particularly if it was pre-owned, and you hop behind the wheel, all excited to make that first trip home, you notice that identical model everywhere? It seems as if a third of the vehicles on the road are variations of your car, but just hours previous, when you made the decision to purchase said vehicle, you somehow thought you were buying a rarity. In fact, you could hardly recall ever seeing one before. Of course, you soon realize they were there all along, hiding in plain sight.

Many wonders of life are like that, unearthed through knowledge and understanding.

In the hills of Jamaica, there is a rickety store that doesn’t look like it would survive a healthy storm, yet I somehow know it’s been there for ages. Here, cold soda or beer is fifty cents more than room temperature ones, and along the back wall on a dusty top shelf sits two small Mason jars filled to the same level with a clear liquid. There is a price adhered to the front in manila tape and written with a Sharpie – one is fifty cents, the other is three dollars.

The woman who owned this unnamed store was the only obese person I saw in Jamaica. She was a mammoth of a lady. She always wore a sundress, loved to chat, and never moved from her bench by the cash register.

One day I asked her what was in those jars. Some form of exotic rum, I presumed.

She replied in a sonorous Jamaican accent, “Dem be da cheeta’s mawk.” Once she elaborated, I learned that they were jars of acid of varying strengths. You buy them when your significant other has strayed, and you feel that it’s your duty to warn future suitors of their infidelity. It’s a simple process: purchase the jar, locate your lover, unscrew the lid, and toss it into their face. That be the cheater’s mark.

From the moment I stepped out of that hut, I saw the cheater’s mark everywhere – a discoloration of the neck on a woman, a splash pattern on the arm of a man, or a melted droop to a face.

In prison, I’m uncovering many things, and I have learned that we have our own version of the cheater’s mark. The most notorious is called a buck-fifty. It’s a scar across the cheek from a razor slash. I see them everywhere. I also see scars down forearms. A rather hideous one started at the elbow, was two inches in width, and ran all the way to the wrist. Its stitch marks were the size of raisins.

I spotted three of these today, and as I pictured the fresh wounds required to leave such a mark, my anxiety rose. I envisioned the defensive pose utilized upon impact; the crude weapon that inflicted it; the rage inside its wielder; and was briefly envious of inmates in PC (protective custody.)

I read a book about Juarez, Mexico called Murder City. They have a torture technique (they have many) called bone-tickling. They take an ice pick, stab it into your forearm, and drag it along your ulna. Now, this still sounds unpleasant, but compared to the disfigurements before me which are native to my current habitat, I’m downgrading bone-tickling.

I wonder what the annual numbers are for inmates stabbed and sliced. I’m sure they don’t give them out, and I’m equally sure they are higher than anyone would imagine.

I spent a year in jail and never worried about my safety, nor am I cowering now. But in quarantine, all the talk is about the stabbings, and how to avoid getting buck-fiftied. You learn that there is no place free of knife wounds. It’s only a question of how many go down at your joint.

If stabbings are one-third as prevalent as I hear, inmates should be allowed to purchase gauntlets and chainmail. And, it’s not just the inmates who perpetuate this. I overheard one CO talking to another. The one asked if this was his first day at quarantine. Guy replied, ‘Yeah, but I just did seven years at ‘some joint’” (funny how they use the same terminology as the inmates as far as ‘doing time’ here, but they’re here too, living this). The first guard asked if it was as bad as he heard. Guy said, ‘If you consider a stabbing a day bad, then it was worse’.

I wish I would have heard where that was. I’m too civilized to be a full-time warrior, plus I was sort of hoping to have a normal life upon release.

I know what some of you are thinking: toughen up, you’re going to a Level I, not a Level IV, and that logic is sound. It’s just not what you hear in here. In here, you learn that there are a lot of stabbings in Level I’s. The young kids go there with expectations of a certain prison life, and are eager to prove how down they are. There are weak men everywhere, and fear is a pheromone to the predator.

The Level I kids stab, and IF they are caught, they go up to a Level II or IV, where they learn to chill out, or end up in the infirmary.

You might think that the opportunity to stab would be sparse, but quarantine is a Level V, the most secure facility they offer, and if we went off of the time that we are out of our cells, and had two categories: stabbable, and too risky to stab, you would find 100% of our events listed under stabbable. The guards are never close. There is almost no camera presence, and the cameras only watch areas where we are packed in like gazelles at a river crossing.

Besides being jumped, it also seems that fights are rare at all joints. In order for one to proceed, you need two willing participants, a designated area to throw-down, and no observers. It’s simpler, quicker, and less risky to poke a guy a few times and move on.

It’s crazy to imagine going to that world. I understand that in the law’s eyes, I’m not innocent, and I’ve previously done much that could have brought me here. Yet, it’s demoralizing to be here now, at a time when crime was not in my daily life, but transition was; when hope and love were what I was striving for on a daily basis, and for the first time in years.

I have two opposing thoughts pertaining to this.

One: a person like me (or any of us), is not meant to have too much joy. I feel I possess an understanding of life that allows me to live at my heart’s content, but perhaps I enjoyed a forbidden amount of material, physical, and spiritual pleasures. Me being in prison is life saying, “Come on now, X, you had your fun. Now let’s get you back where you belong, and where you’ll stay.”

Two: I got shot a few years back (long story), and as I healed, I developed an itch to write, and it spread. A muse invaded my being and imparted a gift (I hope), and though I knew it was there, I neglected him, only feeding him scraps of time in the form of writing exercises and edits. Now, he is scolding me, reminding me that it’s rude to reject a gift, reminding me that I owe it to certain people to try and create entertainment in the form of story. Prison is where this will happen. So relax. Stay focused. Develop tunnel vision.

The latter feels right to me, but we know I’m an optimist, and optimists have a reputation for being naïve, ignorant, gullible, and downright annoying.

Of course, there is a third option, that Einstein was correct, life is chaos, and nothing matters. But people don’t believe that. If even half of the people who say they believe life has no purpose, really believed it, I’d have a lot more peers behind these bars.

I love the famous people of history. I idolize Einstein’s passion, and I’ve tried hard to believe he was correct about life being chaotic and pointless. After all, he was brilliant and possessed savant-like insight, but regardless of my effort and determination, I’ve never been able to shake this spiritual yoke from around me.

Do any of us?

In prison, you’re afforded plenty of time to think. I think about how all of the experiences, choices, and obsessions that I’ve had could make for a good story, even a good writer. If things go close to what I envision and I write stuff people enjoy, I’ll be a full-blown believer.

But then I’ll have the daunting task of dissecting what I actually believe.

As always, wish me luck!

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Entry 18: I got tossed (cell, not salad)

I returned from yard today to find all of my writing gone! (This writing). Since my cell was locked, it had to be the guards. My heart thumped in my chest. They only seize stuff for disciplinary reasons, and one major ticket can add a year to my sentence. CO’s have all of the power, and in prison, just like society, there is no burden of proof. It’s simply, ‘Can we convict?’

I was definitely worried, but my dominant emotion was sorrow.

The writing is an extension of myself, and I have a lot of it. Much pertains to this blog, but I’m also writing a fiction novel I hope to share with you in the next few months and I keep exhaustive notes.

Guards do rounds every hour. Until then, I’m left to ponder the how’s, why’s, and what’s. I understand why they have the right to Gestapo my papers. Perhaps I’m coordinating an escape, or conducting criminal business, but not I. After prior close call, I heed the old adage ‘Never putting anything in writing’.

But there are limited ways they could have known I was writing. 1) They saw me during a round. 2) The camera caught me passing papers to my neighbors through the bars. 3) My neighbor told the guards. 4) My neighbor was recently moved to a cell with a Bunkie. Maybe he told this Bunkie about the posts and that Bunkie thought he might earn some brownie points by informing the guards.

Let me briefly explain the handler informant relationship. In real life, my closest associate had a brother who informed for the police for over twenty years. He was responsible for building the head of a narcotics division’s career and both were extremely influential in my prosecution.

As a teenage man and a rookie police officer, they made a pact. The snitch could sell drugs, guns, and violence, so long as he provided large busts. Now this agreement is not exactly legal. A narcotics officer can’t say, “Go sell drugs and set people up for us.” However, they can say, “Don’t do anything illegal.” Wink, wink. “But if you do and are apprehended, I’ll get all the charges dropped…”

Just from what I know, this person has been busted with cocaine on numerous occasions and arrested with hundreds of pounds of marijuana. There was a vehicle seized in Las Vegas that garnered a snazzy-titled article in a newspaper. This vehicle was proven to be his, and had forty thousand dollars in modifications to allow it to transport the eighty thousand in drugs they seized. He was once raided by the wrong drug unit who found modified firearms to go with a cache of drugs, and there was a woman who filed a rape report (he raped her, physically and brutally. She was a waitress at his bar. She had a possible learning disability.)

Magically, through all of these documented incidents, the man has never spent a week in jail or been charged (nor anyone who committed any of these crimes with him).

His value to the officer whose career he built is much more important than these “trivial” crimes. You might find it hard to believe. I can only say this is a mild list. This man is allowed to do anything.

You might ask how he survived this long? How he finds criminals to bust when everyone knows his game? It’s simple really. He creates his drug dealers. He prides himself on incarcerating minorities (even though he is one). He will supply a young man (preferably black) with excellent drugs at a cheap price. As soon as the guy is buying substantial quantities and has purchased things worth seizing, he will find himself in prison for the next 4-20 years.

The snitch will then immediately begin a smear campaign against his victim, how HE’S the snitch, but only the dumb and desperate believe him (which is a nice percentage of people).

So, he’s financially successful (the police monetarily compensate him), the most complete example of a sociopath that life can provide, and quite powerful. Ironically, he’s never been happy, not one minute of his adult life.

I was with him the day he took out a brand new boat loaded with happy and handsome people, yet all he did was gripe. He owned a happening night club where weak people idolized him, yet all he could do was complain. He has no friends, no loyalties to or from anyone. He religiously beats his girlfriends, and betrays his own family often. And all of this is his arc. His valley occurred when he did his grandest snitching ever to get his most valued dealer out of a serious jam. He destroyed dozens of lives and provided police with countless assets, but his masters gave his associate nine years, the other got twenty-five…pretty good since they were facing life, but the snitch went ballistic! He told his well-placed cop friend to, ‘Go to Hell! He was done!’

The now head of a division smiled and said, “Okay, tough guy,” and laughed as they waved goodbye. A few weeks later, he was audited by the IRS. He lost everything – his business, cars, and idolizers. Still owing over one hundred grand to back taxes, the narcotics team, in their benevolence, offered to help squash his criminal tax problems if he would just get back with the team.

After I did my year in jail and came out to laugh at his campaign against me, I got rewarded with the sound of his voice. It was on a voicemail belonging to a girl he treats like trash. She was kind enough to save it for me. On it, the ex-rich, current snitch, was crying, choking out sobs as he attempted to formulate words.

This girl and I laughed so hard it took thirty minutes and ten plays for me to hear what he was saying. It was pure magic.

He was asking her to borrow twenty dollars.

See, I’m in prison, but I’m laughing. The last time I saw him, the energies of the universe were kind enough to allow me to leave him with a permanent impression.

On paper, he has lived a great life, free of incarceration, but never of consequence.

One more anecdote about this informant, who is given authority by police, who are supposed to protect people from guys like this.

He is, and always has been, the worst person I know. He once had a copious load of ecstasy pills (25,000). A month later, he showed me an article in the newspaper – sixteen people had died that month from the ecstasy we sold. I felt so sick. I had heard first hand accounts of these deaths but hadn’t thought they could be related to a bad batch. I just thought luck of the draw. 

Instead of tossing out the remaining pills, he took this information to his supplier, threw a faux fit, and when the supplier’s guilt was ripe enough for him to vow to destroy the rest, the police protected informant negotiated to buy them at a rock bottom price. He already had them sold in Chicago for a nice profit.

I feigned laughter and asked him how he lived with himself. He retrieved an ecstasy pill from his pocket, placed it on his palm, and displayed it to me. It differed from the presumed tainted batch. He popped it into his mouth, downed it with a drink, and said, “We all take chances.”

Now somewhere back there we were discussing my frightful situation here in prison – that my writing had been confiscated.

I was worried, and rightfully so, as they can interpret anything any way they please. They can fabricate charges, definitely treat me like a dog, or strip me naked and throw me in the hole.

I was mostly sick about losing my work. I laid in my bunk and recalled what I’d wrote. Was any of it offensive to some of the officers? Maybe. Would I now have an unwanted ‘X’ on my back? Maybe. But the real question was, did I write anything criminal? I felt confident I had not, but understood that by their standards, maybe I had.

The officer finally returned, unlocked my cell, and then said for me to close it and follow him. He led me to an office and had me sit. My thick stack of papers were the only thing on the desk – their very existence in jeopardy.

He stared at me as if unsure how to begin, and then said, “I’ve read every page in here, and we have some serious problems to discuss.”

A knot rolled in my stomach. It was clear he was pissed, but would you believe I blurted out. “Did you find the subject matter interesting? Did the writing itself hold your attention? Do you think I was too emotional in post 17, about my dad?”

He stared at me as if unsure of my mental health, and then said, “Though I understand why you’d ask that, I’m not going to answer.”

All of my reservation melted away. Yes, I might go to the hole, and I would almost certainly lose my writing, but I could tell he enjoyed what he had read, that even though he was taught that inmates were nothing but manipulative beasts, he and I connected.

The rest of our talk was one-sided, eye-opening, surreal, and frightening. He showed me a sentence in my writing where he could place me in segregation, another where I might find myself the target of a violent inmate.

He acknowledged that he had an idea of which guards I’d referenced. He assured me that had an unpleasant one found this, he would have twisted my words and stuck me in the hole, and that I would have been henceforth buried in tickets. With resignation, he said that some people are good, some indifferent, and others…not so much. He claimed to be indifferent and said he would have forgotten about throwing me in the hole within the hour.

It’s the final truth he shared that has me weary to put pen to paper, in fear of the words conjuring their manifestation. He said, “Can I say to you with one hundred percent certainty that some officers wouldn’t set you up with drugs or weapons over this writing? That some wouldn’t make it their mission to see that you never get out of prison? No…I couldn’t say that.”

He taught me a lot in those five minutes. He was spot-on in all areas excluding one. He is not a man of indifference. He is of the good sort. He knew nothing in my writing was malicious, vulgar, or formulative, and he overlooked the negative portrayals of his workplace in order to side with truth.

Indifferent officers understand that you’re in a cage twenty-three hours a day, but you put yourself there. Evil CO’s love that you’re locked up, and they want so much to see you crack. They pray for the crunch-splattering thud of a suicidal inmate’s body connecting with the concrete near them. The good ones empathize with some, and do the small things that they can for all. It’s never much because they are limited by multiple outside sources, and I’m sure sated with memories of being good to an inmate who in turn did the officer wrong.

But when you’re good, you understand that’s going to happen, and you don’t care. I won’t say I’m good, that’s for others to decide, but I do work to improve.

The officer returned my writing, and I floated back to my cell.

I am grateful for the good officer’s intervention, though I’ll never let him know it, fearing I would force him to be authoritative in order to conceal his kind heart.

In prison, kindness will undoubtedly cause you problems, but I also think it can spread. I intend to find out.

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Entry 17: Events change your life

In jail and in quarantine, people always say, “Just wait until you get to prison. Your time will fly by.” But I’ve never wanted time to fly by. Time flying by is the entire reason I got into selling drugs. In high school, I may have sold some bags in order to make mine free, but I was far from a drug dealer… well, in my eyes.

I had a good job out of high school. I was a lumper. A lumper rides around a warehouse on a hand-cart and stacks items onto a pallet, then onto a semi-truck. You can work hard as a lumper, or drag ass. I worked hard and prided myself on always being in the top three for productivity and first in accuracy. I worked long hours, six days a week, and made a good living for a young man. My bosses loved me, and I loved the steady growth of my bank account.

One day my boss approached me and handed me a sheet of paper. On it was a set of glassware, a watch, and a radio. He told me to pick one.

I was in my groove and didn’t appreciate the interruption. “What’s this?” I asked as I tried to hand it back to him.

“It’s your one year anniversary gift,” he said.

I looked at the paper more closely, back to him, then chuckled. “I haven’t been here a year.”

“Yeah, X, Friday will be one year. You’re doing great.”

I stepped off of my hand-jack, furrowed my brow, and thought over the time I’d been there. There was no way it had been a year. I couldn’t picture having done anything that year. Work, sleep, errands.

I pictured the past year repeating itself for seventeen and felt an actual fright so strong my body got cold. “Nope,” I yanked off my gloves and set them on my hand jack. “Fuck that, I quit.” 

I did. I quit right there. I left that place so confused that a year had passed, aware that this was how people got sucked into a mundane life.

By the following week, I made double the money, had fun every night, and always saved for something extravagant.

I still went to my old work, on payday, to hand out great deals on weed, sometimes ecstasy, even coke to one guy (the GM).

From the day I started selling drugs, I knew it would land me in prison, but that was fine. I just figured I wouldn’t commit crimes that carried stiff penalties, and then I would change my life once released.

As the years progressed, I saw everyone I know go to prison, then everyone I met after them, and so it went. I always focused on minimizing my risk. I employed barriers. I used love, fear, or respect to ensure that I wasn’t a cooperator’s first choice, but too much time passed. Then, my hero died and I lost my purpose.

I was living in another state when my dad got cancer. He was forty-nine. It crushed me, but there was no question he would beat it. I talked to him daily. He even progressed to going back to work and I thought everything was fine.

I loved him so much.

The family took a surprise vacation to Alaska. It floored me that I was left out, but nice to know he was doing well enough for an Alaskan adventure.

He passed away on the flight. They conducted an emergency landing because of it.

I learned the reason I thought he was doing so well was that he wanted to save me from seeing him in his deteriorated state. It was noble, and from him, not surprising, but it was unfair, and the wrong thing to do.

I got the call around three in the morning. I was asleep and just said okay and hung up. It hit me the following morning.

At this point in life, I didn’t know what grieving was, but it’s what I did. Apparently, I had a lot of pent-up emotion. I wailed nonstop for two weeks and remained inconsolable for a year.

I’ve had a great life. Great friends, fine foods, women above my station, vacations, famous associates, spent days with truly wealthy people, but all the while I harbored a secret goal, one that didn’t show itself until my dad called and said he had terminal cancer.

I was in my backyard in Florida. I thought I was financially independent enough to be a snow-bird and this was year one of the good life. I’d been digging out a pond with a backhoe and was taking a break, reveling in my progress.

I answered my cell and don’t recall what was said, but I remember my knees giving out. I crumpled to the ground. As I laid there crying, I kept saying, “Don’t do this to me, man. Don’t. We’re supposed to grow old together.”

I’d always pictured us spending our golden years fishing next to one another beside a placid river. We’d own cabins, of which I’d let him have the nicer one, but mine would be right next door.

Sometimes I’d wake up after a night of partying, peel a beautiful woman’s arm off my chest, and count how much money I had spent the night before. I would snag a fifty or a hundred or a couple of twenties that I’d later change up, and I’d sneak into my library to stash the money in between book pages. Before I returned the book, I’d think about my father.

A man who loved his wife above all, who obsessively supported his kids’ extracurricular activities, whom everyone loved.

I’d think of being an old man fishing on that sparkling river. We’d both take geezer pot shots about who the best angler was, but what we would really be saying was, ‘I love you’, ‘You’re a great dad’, ‘I’m happy you’re here’.

I’m sure it’s a natural wish, but I would trade the remainder of my life for one more firm hug, for one more laugh.

Following his death, I no longer cared what I made each month. My goal of retiring at forty became pointless. I’d have bar tabs in the thousands of dollars, but more disturbing was the fact that I had grown ashamed of my life. I’d be at a round table in the nicest restaurant in town with a girl I barely knew and eight other “friends”. We would all be dressed in the latest fashions and continue to chat as if nothing was happening while waiters washed our hands for us. We’d laugh boisterously as we had drinks before walking down to the stadium to attend a concert where we would have the best seats. I’d get smashed and make everyone laugh, but at every pause, I’d feel like a fucking idiot.

I drank every day. I conducted business carelessly. I got arrested, did some time, and was released. Then, I got tossed aside because a sect of my old cronies smelled weakness, and now I’m here, in prison, my life in ruins.

Writing about my dad has made me sad. I’ll feel better soon. I won’t say I’m content in prison, but if I don’t get killed, maimed, or scarred, I think I’ll heal.

I believe I’ll realign my life. I have good people to help me, people who are better than me, people who motivate me to make something of myself. If they stick with me, I’ll transform.

Only time will tell, and I have plenty of that. Thanks for listening.

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Entry 16: Prison Harassment

Entry 16: Prison Harassment

Do you ever feel like you are the only real person in the world and everyone and everything else is just there to test you, or more often, screw you up and over?

This morning I missed my door break for breakfast. In here, I usually wake up naturally–almost all of us do–but I dream every night. Always vivid, and recently about being pals with movie stars (often a dad-bod ). I’m not even sure they are famous in my dreams. We joke around while drinking, charter fishing, things of that sort.

I once dreamed that Arianna, , and I were trying to save telepathic dolphins from an alien aquatic planet experiencing an apocalypse. In the end, we had to evacuate by launching ships into space as the planet exploded, but don’t despair, our mammalian brethren had their own ships that encased sea water, so most escaped the supernova.

That was a really fun dream.

Last night I dreamed I walked in the woods with a friend I love more than myself. We were approaching something magnificent when reality yelled at me to wake up. I didn’t want to leave–we were so close–but food is limited here, so I transported back to my eight by six cell, and jumped up to catch my door.

I missed it by less than a second. Normally, a guard will be cool, come by, and unlock a cell when someone misses. I happened to miss my door when a sadist was working (since the ring leader left, it’s down to one in three need a positive attitude injection).

So by nine thirty in the morning, I am very hungry. I have a fifteen minute phone call scheduled for that time, and the way the doors break, I only get one a week, so I’m anxious. I have serious issues to discuss that must be resolved in a limited window that is closing fast.

At nine twenty eight, the guard yells for nine-thirty callouts to come to their doors. Guards will soon be on their way to open them. I hear one climbing the stairs. My hands grip the bars in anticipation, and then a siren goes off. Not the timid one from the fire escape door, but the deafening wail that means immediate lock down of the whole facility. The guards scream for everyone to lock-down. Inmates who had been out of the building were ushered back and locked in their cells.

Phone calls were cancelled. Lunch was served two hours late. I still have no books…

There is one last hope of making my lifesaving phone call. All previous indications are that it’s not going to happen, but I’m an idealist; a diehard optimist.

We get yard at six thirty in the evening, and if they break the top tier first, which I assume they must, since they have released us last five times in a row, and if I scoot as fast as my legs will churn (because running gets you a ticket), then I can get to one of the twelve phones, or at least get in line.

At six thirty, our doors were opened last for the sixth time and I missed my chance to make a phone call.

But as I strolled the yard, in the rain, I marveled at the realization that I maintain a positive attitude. Even here in prison, under the most bizarre circumstances imaginable, I feel good.

For the first time in half a decade, I got angry. Anger only affects the body for a maximum of ten seconds. So, if you’re anger outlasts the count of ten (more often three), it’s by choice. But behind these walls, anger can be useful.

I was in the shower a few days ago. They are designed for two men, perhaps eight feet by ten feet, and encased in tile. Two of us were in there. I stepped from under the stream and began to towel off. Another man, who was older and built, which to me indicates many years in prison, rushed in with a smile, and started to chat while he undressed.

There was no threat of rape. Guards were just outside as were dozens of inmates, but in my opinion, this was a subtle press. A test of me and my fellow shower mate’s perimeter defenses, if you will.

I puffed up and asked him if he minded waiting until I was out. He scowled, assessed that I was going to make this an issue, and relented.

I soothed my Jekyll down below, but appreciated that he was ready to make an appearance.

The second incident was today at dinner. I happened to be seated with three kids who were all in jail for a crime they committed together. They were having fun insulting people who passed. The one across from me kept glancing at me. I kept my head down and focused on eating, but I knew what he was thinking. ‘Can I be rude to this guy, or is he serving life?’ Five minutes in, he sent a scout by asking if I wanted my orange.

My tray is half-full, and people always bring their oranges back to their cell, more to have something to do rather than out of reserve hunger. I said yes and know if he touches it, I’m going to push his tray into his lap, and as he glances down, I will drop my best haymaker across his jaw, jump over the table, and rely on instinct from there.

He sensed this, nodded, and looked around for weaker prey. His friend two seats down was not as bright and said, “Man, just give him the damn orange.”

“Why don’t you come down here and take it,” I said. Jekyll was clawing to come out. Everyone in earshot went quiet. Convicts are like packs of wolves. We can chum around and live together, but any two can draw each other’s blood, and the rest always teem with encouragement. We all want to see a scuffle. All want to move up in the hierarchy, but you can go down just as quickly. So, you sniff the air, read the nonverbals, and pick your battles.

This kid waved his hand as if it wasn’t worth it, and dug into his spaghetti.

One thing inmates do exceedingly well is observe. Personally, I lack this quality. Unless focused, I’m often aloof, but I know this was a minor victory. People saw. They stored it away. And though it wasn’t enough to instill caution, it can only help me in the future, and was a crap-ton better than allowing them to have my orange.

I saw the guy from the shower on the yard. He came right at me. He was smiling, but he’s strong and carries himself like a predator, so I’m on my toes. He said, “Got me a muthafucka. Eight years.”

I exhaled a short burst, and said, “You’re pretty fucked.”

He cocked his head a moment and then laughed. “You a crazy muthafucka.”

“How so?” I was genuinely curious.

“Most muthafuckas would tell me, ‘get back on appeal’, or ‘it’ll go by fast’, some shit like that.”

We both laughed. Most muthafuckas are liars.

He told me to be cool and walked off. That man will give people problems, this I’m sure of, but I won’t be one of them, which is good for us.

Three down, forty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-six to go.

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Entry 15: STDS in prison & Prison Budgets

Today, a few wonderful women, a few not so pleasant, and myself, can heave a sigh of relief. There is no HIV, Hepatitis C, or Syphilis in this clandestine crook.

I wasn’t too concerned, being of the mindset that I would have felt something if I had an issue. Entering the doctor’s office, he asked me to shut the door and have a seat. My temperature soared. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say. My stomach tightened. Without sitting, I asked, “Is it AIDS?”

He looked up from the file, met my eyes, and shook his head.

Alas, I am clean. I was a little disappointed by the negative Syphilis results. That would have put me in league with Al Capone! I could have applied the mental deterioration associated with Syphilis to all of the mistakes I’ve made. And, it’s curable.

Today I ate a grilled cheese sandwich and after nearly bruising my fingers, admitted I couldn’t squeeze any more toothpaste from my mini-tube (it’s smaller than a tube of chap stick). I asked the guard for more. He told me to purchase some off of the store. I told him I had no money. He said that meant I had no one to look good for.

Just an average day in the clink.

The only books available in quarantine are religious, and I’ve learned that you must pick a side. I sent a kite to the chaplain (who is in charge of all religious material) asking for some Christian, Islamic, and Buddhist literature. I received a Bible and some Christian pamphlets on why other religious are false.

Entry 14: Doomsday Scenarios

I woke up this morning and had an itinerary in my bars. I snagged it and read the header: ‘Prisoner Orientation to HIV’. I bolted upright, wiped the sleep from my eye, positioned it under the light, and then relaxed–on the following line was the much appreciated word, ‘Awareness’.

I brought my laundry down fifty-two stairs, learned it was the wrong day, and brought it back up, went to breakfast, returned, stared at the wall, daydreamed, and then phone call time arrived.

It was 9:30 in the morning, but I still talked to two pals, which was nice.

I say “nice” too much. I smile too much.

I need to put on a dangerous scowl if I am going to get out of prison as scheduled.

I also smile at the wrong things. It’s like I flow on an opposite current as the men around me.

Our HIV awareness class lasted two hours and was taught by inmates. They told numerous raunchy jokes, which may have been funny, judging by the others’ reactions, but I was deadpan.

As we left, the guard who signs our pass asked if I needed a haircut; (my head is shaved). I smiled and said, “It is getting long.”

It’s interactions like that which cause major problems. It makes it seem like I’m friendly with the police. I do relate to the maturity level of CO’s more than convicts, but I understand which side of the line I’m on, and I’m far from a rat.

On my first arrest, cops offered to make all of my charges vanish if I turned in any two people. Their only stipulation was that the people have money. Forget the crime, just have assets they can seize.

I lost a good girlfriend by refusing to snitch on people. She begged me to turn in her ex-husband and a guy who stole from me years ago, but you I know more about the subject that she does. The real problem with snitching is what is does TO YOU. 

The first person I knew who snitched was when we were in high school. This guy had perfect looks, great smile, good family, and he was smart. He told on people to avoid a weed charge. I saw him five years later in a bar. It was the middle of the day in the middle of the week. He was alone and annihilated. He came up to me and was like, “Bro, I’d never tell on you.” To be honest, I had forgotten the entire incident occurred. He hadn’t. 

To snitch, you have to believe or convince yourself that you are more important than other people. Despite what some people who know me might say, I’ve never considered myself more important than others.

Put plainly, staring blankly at multiple jokes told by inmates, and then exiting and palling around with a guard is stupid. So is telling what goes on in here, or speaking on gangs, or coming to the regrettable conclusion that I still carry the Napoleon complex. These all equate to impending trouble.

I had another standout moment during the class: I asked a relevant question, but neglected to insert humor meant to stymie the fact that the main topics of the afternoon were HIV, Hepatitis C, and rape.

I like to laugh, but my humor differs from the majority of the men here. There was a section we all found funny. A video clip showed an older white guy wearing Coke-bottle glasses. He entered his cell and found a Payday candy bar resting on his pillow. He tsked, shook his head dramatically, and then brought it out to the day room. He held the candy bar above his head, and said in the whitest voice possible, “No thanks, guys. I’m not down with that.”

You see, the video was helping us to avoid the pitfalls of being raped. Apparently giving you an item and then demanding sexual payment is a tried and true method. This will be another problem for me. I’m the type of person where if you need something, I’ll give, and if I need, I’ll accept.

No. Not like that…

That line of thinking, my friends, is, from what I hear, a predominant pastime in prison: homosexual innuendos. They call them slips, and the art of inserting a slip is called slip game. I can’t wait…(definite sarcasm).

I’m not used to joking with people I don’t know. I’ve kept a tight circle (yes, that qualifies as slip game, and I think I did quite well for my first attempt). I heard a bunch of these in jail, and to my surprise, I laughed often.

So, HIV is spread easily in prison–blood flows freely due to violence, and semen is also passed through a much less comical version of slip game. They claim that fifty percent of all HIV in America stems from prison (It’s mostly from guys being gay in here and acting normal when they leave. I’ve heard it called, “gay for the stay.” Hard to believe). Fifty percent ladies, so don’t trust a fit man from prison without the blood work. Also, people with HIV are not segregated. Neither we, nor the CO’s are allowed to know who has the virus.

Accompanying the obvious negative attributes associated with having HIV in prison, comes the frightful fact that if you have AIDS and fight (regardless if you’re the aggressor or not, because prison has a no-fault policy), you go to medical segregation for the remainder of your time in prison, whether that be two or forty years.

(Medical segregation is solitude. What differentiates “medical” segregation from “the hole” is a magnet the size of a bumper sticker adhered to the outer door reading ‘Medical’.)

Hepatitis C is much easier to contract, and prison has the highest concentration of the infected in the world (double wow). It attacks the liver and shortens life an average of twelve years).

Finally, there is rape. They played a forty-five minute video dealing with the topic, and though many chuckled, it was the only time no one crosstalked. The inmate consensus is that rape has decreased, yet still occurs.

A guy who I chat with for a few seconds a day received thirteen to forty years. He is perhaps twenty-three, white, skinny, and talks ghetto. He is headed to a Level IV. About a week ago, I told him that if he was pressed by a man too big to fight, that he should pay the twenty dollars, get a banger, and not to be scared to use it.

He looked at me as if I was stupid and said, “Prison ain’t like that no more, yo. No one’s gonna press me.”

I told him he’s probably right.

He is definitely wrong. I’m talking one million percent wrong.

Once you learn that a sort of man exists, like I have, you never forget they are out there, living amongst us.

I’m confident, difficult to intimidate, and have a mild reputation. This has allowed me to deal with: a Jamaican drug lord (whom I only ever spoke with in person, in Jamaica) an organized crime group, and perhaps a dozen caustic freelancers. Many of them thought I was the dangerous one.

Through my criminal associations I’ve learned that some men are very angry, though they may be polite. That some don’t comprehend the concept of ownership, but it’s best not to take what is theirs. That some consider making a mortal enemy for ten dollars today, a sounder investment than having a powerful friend who can make you five dollars a week. Put simply, they don’t give a fuck, or maybe they are animals looking to be humbled. But I can say, without shame, that I never have the compulsion to tame them.

This young man WILL get pressed. It will happen right away, and with fierce conviction. How he deals with it initially will set the tone for the next decade of his life.

I know this because humanity never changes, from a social standpoint. Years ago, when discussing Y2K and the Mayan doomsday calendar, my dad scoffed and told me that people have been saying the world is going to end since the beginning of time. And that someone always gets rich and powerful off of it. True as ever today.

That scoff taught me a valuable lesson about the ages. It is that people HAVE been saying the same things for years. Not just doomsday theorists–it’s the Jews, the price of bread, the crooked politicians, out of control violence, Christian values, and in this instance, it was someone telling this young man that prisons aren’t like that any more.

Inmates say that prison isn’t hard like it was in the eighties, when real killers walked the yard. But what I know, what this young man doesn’t, is that inmates in the eighties were talking about how in the sixties, REAL killers walked the yard, and before that, the forties, and so on. And that’s because people have been saying the same things for years. It’s a truth I hope I can help you grasp, humans do not emotionally evolve. The same stuff happens with different backdrops. To me that says something grand about the universe and existence.

I’ll leave you with two thoughts.

I don’t care for poetry, but I’ve read Ovid’s, The Art of Love, twice. I enjoy delving into the aristocratic world of Rome and getting great advice on how to get a date.

What stands out is that however long it has been, sixteen hundred years or so, we have not changed one iota. Not homo sapiens. Not how we interact. We are carbon copies of our past selves.

We may whiten our teeth with bleach instead of urine, but we are still vain. Sex is still our primary motivation, and those in power still abuse it. Just ask poor Ovid (or yours truly–to a lesser degree).

Lastly, I would like to say that I hope for many positive things in prison, and I pray that many negatives don’t come to pass. But the one thing I fear losing the most is my smile.

I hated it as a child; had no use for it in my teens or early twenties; and finally found it thanks to some old friends, who for now, are current enemies.

I love witnessing major events, reading about our potential, and knowing that regardless of our discoveries or advancements, we will be the exact same sixteen hundred years from now.

Read the next sixty entries on Amazon. Or, at the very least, leave me a review. DiaryofaUSprisoner

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Entry 13: The Value of Time

 Entry 13: Value of Time

After Jeffrey Dahmer’s mother learned her son confessed to having raped and mutilated several men, she said, “Deep down, my son is a good person.” I won’t call her a liar, but I will ask, how deep do we have to dig? And at what depth can we say we’ve dug too far to find the “good?”

I like discussing that “quote.” It represents how distorted we can become. I’ve referenced her quote often. If someone says, “Ronald is fun” (when he’s a real asshole), or “Jenni’s not a slut” (when she just got trained by three dudes the previous weekend), I’ll agree by saying, “According to Miss Dahmer’s logic, you’re right, Ronald is fun to be around and Jenni is locked at the knees.”

Now I’m only ninety nine point two percent positive that Jeff’s mom said that, but I’ve used the line so often I’ll give myself the benefit of the doubt and say she did. Either way, it’s an entertaining way to highlight the length at which we will go to affirm our beliefs.

Last night, some kids were acting wild on the block next to mine. They hooted like monkeys and kicked their lockers well past lights out. I’m sure they got ticketed by the CO’s. I’m equally sure they don’t care. They kept everyone awake, and after fifteen minutes of crazy-loud noise, I was back rooting for the guards to euthanize.

But I know myself. I’m a softy at heart. Miss Dahmer might say I’m a literal angel. I like to surprise girls I date with packets to chic salons, scented bubble baths with candles (for them alone). I leave notes in their shoes and taped to their car keys to tell them what I find unique about them.

I can only dislike people at arm’s length. Once we meet, my harsh judgements starts to dissolve. I begin to see the good in them, and genuinely appreciate their company.

In prison, this ability to bond may be rare, for at the thirty minute mark of the jungle noises, a man screamed for them to shut the begeezers up. They laughed louder and yelled back. Guy reiterated in a more intense tone that another word and he’d be mean to them at the next opportunity. Well, words to that effect. The young kids told him to F-off and kept it up for another hour.

This morning, as I exited the chow hall, a crowd was gathered around a ruckus.

A guard sprinted past me and into the crowd. Other officers joined him from all directions. Knowing it’s best not to get involved, even safer not to glance, I continued to my unit.

As I ascended the stairs to my cell, I spotted the guards escorting a man. He was handcuffed and in his early forties. Blood covered his bare chest, but he seemed content, uninjured. I heard from others that two younger guys got pretty thrashed, possibly stabbed. I can only assume that this is the guy from last night–the one who told the kids his plans, and then went to sleep.

Prison is a series of countdowns. A lesson on how to value time.

We countdown minutes until the hour, hours until a meal or phone call, days until a visit or store, months until a special meal or holiday, and years until we get the chance to sell ourselves to the parole board.

For the above gentleman, it was hours until he attacked two young men whom he felt needed to be taught a lesson in respect.

Everything in here equates to time, to how much needs to pass until the next step, which will bring us closer to holding those we love.

I’ll leave you with this: I think I’m a good person. Perhaps that is the point of this blog – to prove an oxymoron; to define a paradox. I’ll be honest in the writing and you’ll decide because I can’t judge myself. I lack perspective. I live solely in my mind. Thank you for dipping into it with me each day.

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Entry 12: Inmates Die

According to a guard, three people have died at quarantine this week.

I recall watching an ambulance race across the yard while I ate breakfast. At the time, it hardly registered that there was an ambulance doing forty miles an hour over rough, grassy terrain with its flashers on.

Now I have to wonder: can a person become desensitized this quickly?

Later, a guy asked the guard if the man in the ambulance was okay.

“Nope, he’s dead,” the guard said with a pinch of jest. “Third person this week.”

I understand the need to joke. In an environment like this, you can’t let things weigh on you.

“Well, at least tomorrow is a new week,” the inmate said.

“Nope, two more days to go.”

Three deaths in five days? I hear there are between thirty five prisons in Michigan. Are that many lives quietly finding their end behind these walls?

I can’t help but think of the man from the other morning who was so concerned the guards were going to kill him.

Throughout the day, people ask each other and the porters (who travel to places regular inmates can’t access) if they have seen the man on another block, but no one has.

No one asks a CO.

It is a prison fact that guards kill inmates, and not just by shooting the ones who attempt to escape, but by conspiring and then committing first degree homicide.

At some joints, inmates kill guards, so it’s only fair.

You might not believe that, but if you tried to tell that to someone who has been state-raised or any old-school, you’d find yourself scorned for disrespecting reality, and being naïve.

I possess terrible gay-dar, which concerns me, but I can smell truth. I fully believe that guards have killed inmates. What you won’t like to hear is that I think they should kill more.

There are predators in here that would rape anyone, just for the terror of it. There are drug addicts who despise sobriety and only care about getting high. Upon release, they will destroy family, friends, and society until their last breath and we all know it, yet they get the shortest sentences?

The people from the hood (think Detroit) have moral compasses that run in direct opposition to decency, and they hate you (think people who work and are proud of their kids) for that.

There is also a percentage who suffer from a strange, possibly undiagnosed, mental illness.

I will try my best to present an example, but understand this will be a thirty second glimpse into a trait that blankets the mentality here.

Let’s say that there are four of the infected around a television, watching anything: N.C.I.S., All My Children, The Simpsons–it doesn’t matter. They will comment on every action.

Let’s say two women in a Soap Opera are talking, one says to the other, “Don’t worry Susan, we’ll get him back.”

At once, four adults scream at the TV.

Guy A, “Man, that bitch wouldn’t get my fucking ass back.”

Guy B, “I’d slap dat hoe so muthfuckin’ hard.”

Guy C, “Yeah, but she’s slick tho’, she’s slick, watch how she gonna get him.”

Guy D, “Sandy best be glad this bitch ridin’ with her, or she’d get no muthfacka back!”

All of this occurred simultaneously. Each person shared his own, for lack of a better word, train of thought. There is always an undisclosed, but unanimous winner. Let’s say Guy B, the guy who would ‘slap dat hoe’, wins. He will then remain quiet and nod while the others praise him.

Guy A, “Yeah, you look like a muthafucka from tribe slap-a-hoe.”

BOOM!! They all burst into crazy high-pitches cackles. Once it dies down:

Guy C, “You’re right, man, I’d slap dat hoe with bof’ hands.”

BOOM!! Another fit of rabid laughter. It ebbs.

Guy D, “Bitch say some shit to me, I knock her the fuck out.”

BOOM!!

No one has watched the show since, but once this round subsides, they tune into the TV. Let’s say it’s dark as it segues to a commercial. They wait like cats ready to pounce.

It’s a spot for Tide detergent. BOOM!!

A, “Tide is my shit.”

B, “Tide be good, man, but I be likin’ All.”

C, “Fuck Tide. Give my ass Cheer with stain guard any day.”

D, “Man, Tide ain’t shit.”

Guy C wins, “Give me Cheer.”

Guy A, “I do like Tide, but that Cheer with stain guard be treatin’ clothes nice.” Mini-BOOM! Everyone agrees.

Guy B, “But compare dat shits with All with stain guard.” Mini-BOOM!

Guy D, “Man, I put Tide with stain guard on my bitches’ panties to make sure dem shits so dey don’t be stained up.”

BOOM!! The cackles. The rabid noises.

This often involves more than four people, often less. I watched a man go through all those steps by himself. This is an accurate accounting of how a small but significant percentage of the men in here spend their days. And they don’t need television. There is no TV here, but that doesn’t matter. I overheard a group breaking down the size, shape, and shade disbursement of a tree with the same insane pattern.

1) A comment. 2) A mix of personal thoughts. 3) A winning clause. 4) A congratulatory round of verbal support. 5) Repeat.

This time it’s the face the guard in the gun tower makes when jerking off. BOOM!! How well Goodyear tires handle in gravel, BOOM!! Harden or Curry, BOOM!! A female guard’s physique. BOOM!!

Sorry to prattle on. I only want to express how nothing is ever said; nothing is discussed. They do nothing. They lack thought, opinion, character, and purpose. They laugh these exaggerated explosions that pierce the ear and sustain too long. They never tire.

What kind of illness is this? Don’t tell me it’s not one. I watch it. I even experimented.

I caught one of these men alone, and asked him what I thought was a straightforward question. “Did you hear that they plan on voting whether or not to reinstate “good time”?

He tilted his head and looked at me funny, as if he was unsure I was talking to him (or maybe even what I said). After a few seconds of eye contact, he dropped his head and said, “Man, I don’t even know.” Then walked in the opposite direction.

This is a topic that concerns him. “Good time” is time that inmates earn off of their sentence with good behavior. Every state that I know of has it except Michigan. It is the most effective (perhaps only) tool to keep convicts in line, but he acted as if I said a series of jumbled words.

I’ll need luck to stay sane. You guys help, so thanks and please continue checking on me!

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