"Dude, get out of the fi ght path, I gotta bust ass, and
Garris is out there eating ice-cream."
"That'll waft right into his Rocky Road."
The Flight Path
"I left some underwater stripes."
"Call Walker's rules. You don't have to scrub if the
stripes are under water."
The ultimate show of respect amongst co-workers is to
warn them and allow them to use the bathroom (urination
purposes only) fi rst because you plan to blow it up. This
respectful event occurs rarely amongst correctional
employees. For starters, most that think far ahead enough
are too intelligent to work in such a place. Secondly, most
correctional offi cers that I know would take great pleasure
and fi nd tremendous humor in going in fi rst so they could
share the anal trauma and the aroma. This type, which is
plentiful in my department, will not even turn on a fan or
prop open a door. I know a few who will not even fl ush, and
one who will not even wipe.
The external housing units were meant for housing
minimum custody inmates, and were designed similar to
squad-bays in that they were large rooms fi lled with bunk
beds with the capacity for 98 inmates per bay. A control
station sat in the middle of two bays to make up a housing
unit. The control station was raised slightly, and had a
decent view of the majority of the unit. Blind spots were
inevitable. A hatch, or slot was built into each side of the
station so correspondence and other assorted items could be
passed through between the inmates and the staff. The airhandling
units that moved heated or conditioned air through
the unit created a constant draft from the B-bay to the A-bay.
If you laid a piece of paper on the ledge of the B-bay hatch,
you had to hold it until the inmate accepted it. If you did
not, the breeze would blow it back in toward you. If you laid
the same paper on the ledge of the A-bay hatch, it would get
sucked right out, making inmates think we were throwing
things at them.
On many occasion, inmates thought I was fucking with
them, either pulling things back from them, or throwing
them in their faces. Any "gas" dropped from within the
control station, or bubble, as it was frequently referred to,
would quickly destroy the air quality just outside the hatch
on the A-bay side. Many a fart would be saved until a
particularly dreaded inmate approached that spot.
Consequently, it did not take long for the B-bay inmates
to discover that their foul odors dropped near the hatch on
their side would quickly become part of our lives, sending
into the confi ned control station a smell not unlike that of
the entrails of a rat fl oating in a sewer, if only momentarily
before they moved through the fl ight path and into the Abay.
The minimum-custody bays were an ideal place to work
if you did not mind that inmates had more access to you.
That said, there are two kinds of inmates that I particularly
despise: Those who cause harm to children; and faggot
pukes who cry that they have something coming. Inmate
Skinner was both. I was shaking down his locker while he
was on bunk restriction. I found love notes. That needs
further explanation. The notes were not the type of note you
might send in the mail to a loved one. These were written
by Skinner on large pieces of toilet-paper wrappings in large
block letters so they could easily be read from a distance.
The notes were apparently shown through his window to his
current inmate lover who anxiously awaited him on the yard
when he could come out to play.
With the notes secured in my pocket, I made a trip to the
bathroom to fl ush them. The wrappings that come with the
toilet paper must be fl ushed or carried completely out of the
institution. The thin design of the paper makes them ideal
for wrapping other things, like tobacco, potato peelings, and
whatever else they intend to smoke.
Upon bathroom entry, I realized that somebody had
recently really polluted things. It was defi nitely a "Code
Brown." The walls should be bleeding. I quickly sat
down, and added to the stench. Before it touched water, I
remembered the notes in my pocket. It was at that point I
realized my mistake. I should have fl ushed the notes before
I took a dump. Now the only way to get rid of the notes
would be to also get rid of the fresh poo. Nobody got to
enjoy it. By the time it touched water and I pinched it off, I
had fl ushed twice. Once to suck the turd down, and another
for the polluted air and love notes.
Dream Journal
Breathing under water is easy to explain, but hard to
comprehend. It was not at all like having gills. No water
entered my mouth. There was no invisible fi lter covering
my face. I just breathed normally, and I got air. I would
watch the girls swim by, always falling out of their suits.
Diver after diver would constantly have tops and/or bottoms
disappear. Of course, swimming after the pieces would
force their feet and knees as far apart as my imagination
could make possible. The closer I got, the more frequently I
would get kicked in the face or the junk. Eventually, I would
reach for the feet fi rst before burying my face or pecker in
their furry boxes.