Fitness Fanatic

Not long ago I was riding in a vehicle on the way to the hospital. The two officers in the front seat were bickering nonstop over a perceived slight based on a huge miscommunication that had happened a decade earlier. Each stated and restated their position again and again. To paraphrase the Bard, they were a tandem of idiots full of loud, obnoxious, angry words which signified little to nothing. I quickly lost interest and my mind drifted.

Changes

Watching out my window I realized that I’d be returning the world in about one year’s time. After over fifteen years in prison I watched the scenery breeze by in a blur of greenery and gas stations, restaurants and assorted businesses. Despite my absence from society nothing looked dramatically different. Electronic advertisings songs seemed to be markedly more abundant than I remember them being prior to my incarceration, but as I looked for the changes I couldn’t find much. My drive could’ve happened a decade and a half previous and looked just about the same. I drifted into daydreams about what my impending life outside of prison might look like; how exactly would the world at large greet and treat me.

Professional Driving

Either the driver was distracted, incompetent or the rules of the road had changed dramatically since I’d last been behind the wheel. Whatever the case was, he pulled the large prison van into the parking lot at the spot clearly marked with signs and arrows stating NO ENTRY and EXIT ONLY. He had to swerve to the right and brake hard to avoid an exiting vehicle. After inching forward a few feet he had to slam on the brakes again as a man ran in front of the van.

Jogger

All I could see from my backseat vantage point was his head and shoulders. Head up, shoulders back—good runner’s form. My split-second assessment was that he was an exercise enthusiast getting in a run, though I conceded that it seemed odd for his route to cut right through the middle of the hospital parking lot. Mere moments later I realized that my kneejerk reaction to him was profoundly inaccurate.

Reality

Once he was past the front of the van I recognized that this man had never been enthusiastic about exercise. His chest resembled a supple C-cup while his flabby belly and back fat stretched the elastic of his underwear, oozing over the top of it. For the briefest instant I tried to reconcile the disparity, reasoning that perhaps the obese man had only just begun his fitness regimen. I could not, however, ignore the reality before me. The runner was shirtless, his ample body fat on full display and rippling rhythmically with each stride which only served to enhance the strangely hypnotic, surrealistic nature of the scene. Dark purple underwear with black waistband, one black sock and one white sock was the entirety of his attire. No shoes. No stretch of my imagination could conjure that this was appropriate runner’s wear.

Weird Welcoming

He cut through the parking lot, dodged between two cars, crossed the street and followed the sidewalk in front of the hospital before disappearing from view. Every indication was that he was simply out for an afternoon jog.  He didn’t appear to be frazzled or hurried as if he was chasing or being chased. Both officers had lapsed into silence and seemed as bewildered as I was so I had to inquire: “Is that normal?” Noncommittal grunts were all I got from them.

This is what I saw when I ventured forth from prison for the first time in years. It’s still unclear to me whether this was an anomaly or indicative of the world to which I’ll soon be returning.

 

Mental Health Check

Every Wednesday in segregation is mental health check day. God help you if you lose your mind on one of the other six days of the week.

Due Diligence

“MENTAL HEALTH CHECK!”

The distinctly female voice sounded just outside my door. I rushed to see because it was new stimuli and because I’m a heterosexual male and she’s a woman. Even to my starved eyes she was rather plain looking, slim, petite. Nothing much distinctive about her. This seemed to be the mold from which many of the mental health staff and nurses are poured.

She moved along tapping on doors and saying in a too loud, too sunny voice, “Mental health check. Howya doin’ in there? Everything okay today?” I could never hear the other side of the conversation, but she always ended with “Okay, thanks, have a good day!” Much too cheerful. The whole thing was, essentially, a tasteless joke.

Many men languished in segregation while being investigated under the guise of it being essential to the “safety and security of the institution.” This is merely a pretext for the powers that be to do more or less whatever they want. I never got a sense that anyone too much cared for our mental health while back there, but by doing the once weekly visit DOC covered themselves from a liability standpoint in the event of any litigation or outside investigation.

Trite

Tap, tap, tap.

“Mental Health Check. Howya doin’ in there? Everything okay today?”

It began to grate on me, the hypocrisy of it. I had heard guys scream endlessly only to be ignored or told by a CO to shut-up. I had heard officers threaten to deny the inmate his shower, his food. Never while the mental health check was going on of course. Then everyone was on their best behavior.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Mental Health Check. Howya doin’ in there?”

This time there was an immediate and impassioned response from within the cell. From a distance it all came out in urgent consonants—hard k and t and s sounds, but nothing intelligible. Polite and seemingly obsequious “Mm—hmm . . . yes . . . alright” vocalizations was all I heard from her. Then: “Well, you know, the only constant in life is change.” This she said to the guy locked in a cell and going nowhere.

Outrage

Are you kidding me! I yelled within my skull. I couldn’t believe that’s what passed as keen psychological insight. I wanted to verbally excoriate her. I’d begin by asking if this was the type of worthless, pointless work she had planned doing when she was studying to earn her degree.

(“Mental Health Check.”)

Whether or not her great contribution to the betterment of society was to come in spouting naïve banalities to men she cannot help. Or whether she even gives a damn about them.

(“Mental Health Check.”)

I wanted to know if she had ever cared at all or if this was just a paycheck to her—a cushy union gig. I wanted to scream: “No! No, I’m not okay! What kind of stupid, asinine question is that? I’m locked in Seg! I’ve had everything stripped from me! My parents visited and had to see me chained like a wild frigging animal! I have no idea what the outcome of my situation is going to be because, guess what? I didn’t do anything wrong! I’m only here because smallminded fascists wanted to shut me up. I didn’t break any rules, but they don’t like that I put my prison experiences on a website for the whole world to see. Why don’t they like it? Because some of the essays might make DOC look bad, and God forbid that the truth gets out! They’re abusing their authority holding me here, and trying to squelch my freedom of speech. So, no, you know what? No, I am not okay. Of course I’m not okay!”

(“Mental Health Check.”)

I was going to call “Bullshit!” on this little routine of checking each cell off her list just so she could rubberstamp us all “sane enough” for another week and cover the prison’s collective and considerable hindquarters.

(“Mental Health Check.”)

I wanted to make her question, if not regret ever getting into the field of prison healthcare (an oxymoron if I ever heard one). I wanted to make her flee in tears and shame.

(“Mental Health Check.”)

She was almost at my door and I wanted to tell her all this. I was going to tell her all this and more. Know what I did tell her?

Reality

Tap, tap, tap.

“Mental Health Check. Howya doin’ in there? Everything okay today?”

By the time she tapped my door I was sitting, facing away from her. I merely raised my arm in her direction and extended one single digit to convey to her how I was doing. My thumb.

“Okay, thanks, have a good day!”

An important lesson: Learn to pick your battles or you’ll get tired or hurt from beating your head against the proverbial wall. Yet I’ve never gotten used to swallowing my ire in the face of callousness and injustice.