"We're tight. Not as tight as she was when she was 10;
oh God, did I say that out loud?"
"No, you just left your subconscious speakers on."
"I meant to say not as tight as we were when we were
10, as in friendly."
The Phone Police
September is my favorite time of the year. Baseball gets
interesting; football gets started; kids are back in the swing
of school; weather cools off a bit; people take other jobs, so
we have some turnover.
The captain in charge of investigations was looking
for replacements to monitor inmate phone conversations.
Most of the staff secretly called his organization "The
Secret Squirrels," but we never said it out loud when he
was in earshot. The state was spending a great deal of
money listening to inmate phone calls in the hopes that they
would hear something valuable. Information perhaps that
might help solve other cases, or prevent the advancement of
criminal threat group activities.
The captain chose two Marines, coincidentally, me
and Count. We were certain that the brotherhood and the
loyalties played a part in his choosing us, but nobody would
question it here. The captain chose whomever he wanted,
and the warden protected that power. What it meant for me
and Count was that we would have to get shorter haircuts
and start looking the part again.
Adding an extra-duty assignment prompted an invitation
to the next staff meeting. The captain wanted to brag about
his program, show off some statistics, and introduce his latest
additions to the squirrels. The meeting always started with
the warden's latest routine. He must have been a comedian
in his past life, or had a fantasy about becoming one.
Herb's laugh hurt your ears. His laugh made a second
wave of laughter. When he attended the ties' meetings, his
laughter made the warden think he was funny enough to do
stand-up. Actually, his jokes sucked. People were laughing
at Herb laughing. His laugh was a combination of a few
water fowl calls and a growling dog. It was like a duck and
a loon and a pit bull.
"Hi, Jenny, this is Carlton."
"Oh hey, Carlton, how's it going?"
"Well, ya know, I'm still here, so it could be better."
"Dubry told me to fi ll out this form, and then you could
call."
"I hope that's okay; it gets pretty lonely in here."
"Do you want to have phone sex?"
"Huh?"
"I could tell you what I'm going to do to you when you
get out."
"Okay, what do I need to do?"
"You have to jack-off and let me know when you are
going to come."
"I can't do that right now! I'm in the middle of a common
area with lots of traffi c!"
"No strokin' no sex. That's the deal."
"What if they start watchin' me?"
"You need to be stealth. Hide it under your sweatshirt
or coat."
"They've tested it on rats. They say it might be an
antidote to nerve gas."
"Give me the fucking pills. In a year, my ass will turn
inside-out and start talking to me, but at least I'll be alive."
People Would Buy Tickets
"Last call for meds."
We were sitting in our comfortably normal positions;
scouring the scavenged porn and men's health magazines,
when one of my co-workers started the day off with an
interesting discussion. He had a Men's Health magazine in
his hand, and he appeared to be paraphrasing from it.
"In 1948, studies showed that the average penis length
was 6.2 inches. In 1996 a similar study showed that the
average was 5.1 inches," he put down the magazine. "Those
studies tell me that a few things are possible: Either men
do not lie as much as they used to, which is not likely; or
evolution is not being kind to us."
"Thank God that pornography never ends."
T-Bone (Inmate Titus Q. Bonowitz) was so tough, after
he got his ass kicked by a team of guys, to avoid going to
medical and missing his visit, he sewed the inside of his lip
back together with dental fl oss just so he wouldn't have to
let on he was beat up.
"When you've lost a level of compassion where you get
that angry over the remote control or a smoke, you're no
longer human."
"Hey, Titus Q, what's up?"
"How you know my middle letter Q?"
"I read the fi les. What's the Q for?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"Mama din't say."
the gang-related handshakes that he used with his bangers,
and I enjoyed doing it until the boss caught us.
"You can still come in the clubhouse, but I can no longer
perform the secret handshake."
Tropical Patterson goes by many names. I have heard
him called The Schwam, The Matrix, The People's Choice,
and The Glow Worm. I am not positive that he is really that
arrogant, and I have no real idea if that potential arrogance
is merited; but I have heard him state, "You can't split the
trophy. There can only be one."
"Why did your wife stab you?"
"Because I was the women's, I mean the people's
choice."
"And were you receptive to being the people's
choice?"
"Don't ask me for honesty if you're gonna tell me my
lies are wrong."
"Some staff member crawled into bed with me and
grabbed both my thumbs in some Indian thumb hold. My
thumbs haven't been the same since."
"My medication must be too strong - I woke up this
morning and my celly was knee-deep in my ass."
"Is that mines?"
"How can you say that?"