".and it had pleased Him to have His only Son hung from a tree with a bad joke over His head."
Jesus and the Not-So-Wise Men
We had one inmate named LeSavior, and two named
Jesus in the same housing unit. That is not uncommon. For
you white folks that do not know, Jesus is a very popular
Hispanic name. Many people of Hispanic descent consider
it an honor to be named after The Son. When LeSavior's
celly got discharged, both of the inmates named Jesus
independently requested to move in with him.
One Jesus, of Hispanic descent (pronounced Hey-Zeus),
entered the cell of another inmate, whose celly happened to
have recently constructed a dummy so it would appear that
he was in his bunk. Jesus was bringing gifts of tobacco and
common sense, both of which are contraband at the state
penitentiary.
I caught Jesus with the tobacco when I intended to
question him about the coincidental simultaneous requests.
"Where did you get it?"
"A buddy who works in NIFA."
"Does this buddy have a name?"
"Yes, but I can not tell you."
"Can you tell me how he gets it in?"
"Shit, everybody knows they hollow out the lumber
before it comes in. Knot-holes are easy. NIFA is the
contraband pipeline."
"How is it that both you and the other Jesus want to
move in with LeSavior?"
"He's coming."
"Who's coming?"
"Jesus, The Son of God."
"Well, most of us Christians believe that, but you sound
like you have some insider information."
"LeSavior told me. I fi gured that with a name like that,
he ought to know."
"With a name like that? Wait a minute, your name is
Jesus!"
"Yah, but there are lots of guys named Jesus. I only
know one LeSavior."
"Are you referring to the letter that the warden got?"
"What letter?"
"The warden got a letter from some guy named Jesus.
Apparently Jesus wrote a letter threatening an armed
assault."
"Why, for God's sake, would Jesus assault the
Penitentiary? He is about love and forgiveness."
"Not the real Jesus, you dope. Lots of Hispanics are
named Jesus, remember? Hispanics consider it an honor to
name their children after the Son."
"Why don't all Christians?"
"I don't know. Perhaps it's considered blasphemous. I've
been told that in white cultures it might appear disrespectful
to give your child such a praise-worthy name."
"So what are you gonna do with the tobacco?"
"Write it up, and submit it as evidence."
"But I'll lose all my good time!"
"Then you better hope Jesus comes soon."
"Ain't no joy, like a fat-butt boy."
-- Anonymous inmate
Furniture Polish
A guy named Forbes fell asleep at his control station
during third shift. When his head hit the control panel, he
inadvertently hit a section of buttons that opened cell doors
for about eight inmates in segregation. Only three inmates
came out, danced around a little, just because they could, but
went back in their cells on their own accord. Where were
they going to go from there anyway? Since that day, the
important buttons have covers, not terribly unlike the one
you would imagine covering the nuclear missile buttons in
the Pentagon. Forbes was not the only old man employed at
the penitentiary. In fact, many of our most senior employees
are approaching or are past the retirement age. It has become
somewhat of a semi-retirement for that group, with nothing
better to do, and because they do not want to sit at home all
day. They sit in control stations, and collect a paycheck.
Do not misunderstand that statement. I do not want this to
sound like they do not take their jobs seriously. In fact, they
are probably the most effective at de-escalating situations,
and are very valuable counselors for inmates as well as staff.
I am glad they are around. That said, they also come with
a little baggage.
Truss pisses in the sink. He can not help it. He does it
because he can not see the toilet, and he does not want to
make a mess. The man has a thyroid issue, and weighs in
excess of 500 lbs. If he was not such a sweet old man, his
nasty habits would make it easy to loathe him.
On a day in the middle of the week, shortly after 1300
hours, I was checking the boxes just to make sure everything
was fi nished and we could leave for the day. Inmate Pfl ugradt
called to me from the common area day room. "Uh, hey,
Batiste, you need to check on your bubble-guy." I walked
out of the offi ce and headed for the control station that his
direction indicated.
Offi cer Robert Truss was posted there today, and most
days, as it was his current assigned location. I did not
understand what Flu was talking about at fi rst, but then
Truss turned to walk toward the control panel. It was then
that I noticed a large green-net laundry bag swinging from
the waist band at the back of his uniform trousers. He
looked like a cow with a frozen glob of shit stuck to the
end of his tail. I almost ran back into the offi ce where my
co-workers were vegging out, waiting for the end of our
shift. The look in their eyes indicated blank confusion at
my appearance. The laughter was incapacitating me, and
the cramps in my cheeks and the twitch below my left eye
made me look like I was just hit with nerve-gas. Truss must
have inadvertently tucked the laundry bag in the back of
his trousers after pooping. We debated letting the situation
continue, just to see where it would go. It even crossed our
minds to allow him to walk across the yard with it at 2 p.m.
after his relief arrived. Cooler heads prevailed, and the unit
manager, Louis Vogel, called him on his control station
telephone.
"3AC, Offi cer Truss, How may I help you?"
"Truss, this is Vogel."
"Yes, Sir?"
"You have something hanging from the back of your
waistband."
"What's that?"
"You have something hanging; look behind you."
Truss turned to his left, and the bag of laundry rags
swung to the right. He had to hear us cackling through the
phone line.
Vogel must have thought it would be helpful to try the
other direction.
"No, look the other way."
Following orders, Truss turned to his right, swinging
the bag even higher to the left. The bag almost landed on
the counter, where it would have stayed. The open end of
the bag had somehow been released from his waistband and
fell to the fl oor. Truss turned around and saw the net bag
lying on the fl oor.
"Now how did that get there?"
The worst day I ever had with Truss was the day we had
to get really personal. Since I had discovered it, I had the
awful task of informing him that he had shit himself. That
is right. Somehow, it happened, and he was not aware of it.
The only reason I knew was because he could not get his
shirt tucked in at the back, and the substance was plain as
day, hanging off the tail of his shirt. Unfortunately, he had
leaned on the counter, the fi le cabinet, the control panel,
and probably every lean-able surface in the control station.
You can not imagine the foul odor. Gas is funny, and has a
funny smell, but straight-up, open, man-ass shit, does not.
It was really bad.
I did not know what to do at fi rst, so I called Vogel, the
unit manager, on his cell phone.
"Well, what am I supposed to do, I'm not there."
"I was hoping you would have some advice, or that you
could tell me what to do."
"You're just going to have to tell him Batiste."
"What do I say?"
"Walk in there with a rag and a bottle of Tec-Cide,
hand it to him, and tell him he shit himself, and then rubbed
it on every surface in the station. Politely, ask him to go
and clean himself up, and then clean up the control station.
He'll probably be indebted to you for telling him, and more
respectful to you in the future if you keep it quiet."
"Okay."
I went into the chemical closet and acquired the
appropriate materials for the job. Then I walked into Truss's
control station.
"Truss."
"Yah."
"I need to professionally bring something to your
attention," I didn't like the way he looked at me, as if he was
trying to fi nd something wrong. He had his nose sideways
like he sees better out of one eye than the other.
"What's that?"
"I think you may have had an accident. There seems to
be some poo on the end of your shirt at the back. I think you
may have contaminated your control station a bit too. I'll
leave these cleaning supplies here. You should go into the
restroom and get yourself cleaned up a bit, and then clean
your control station before your relief gets here."
I left it at that, and walked out of the control station. A
speechless Truss was left behind. I watched him through the
window as he went into the bathroom; I imagine attempting
putting his shirt away. He surfaced shortly after, and began
cleaning his control station.
I assumed that would be the end of it, but upon seeing him
the following day, he had this to say, "Furniture polish."
"What?"
"Furniture polish.the back of my shirt. It was furniture
polish. I forgot, I was staining some furniture when I got
home from work the other day, and I must have gotten some
on it."
I am thinking to myself, "You stain furniture in your
spare time, in uniform?" But I was not going to outright
call him a liar.
"Okay, Truss, furniture polish. I wasn't gonna tell
anybody anyway."
Dream Journal
TSCI frequently runs short on staff, and begs people
from other facilities to come down on their days off to work
overtime. In my dreams, I am volunteering to work at the
women's facility in York. I can not work with women in
reality. I always get in trouble with the sexual harassment
policy. The more time I spend with them, the more redeeming
qualities I discover, and the more I want to point them out.
In Dreamland, I work in York, and I love my job! I drive
to work with a hard-on and a smile every day. I wear a
condom on the way into the facility so they can not fi nd it
in my pocket during the shake down. Who wants to work
over time? ME!