Christmas Groping

Sacred

There are few, if any, things behind prison walls that are absolutely sacrosanct. I submit that Christmas is one of those things. This has nothing to do with religious fervor or sincerity. Lacking adequate qualifier I’ll say that there seems to be an indefinable something special that makes people behave a little differently, perhaps a little better. Maybe even a little nicer.

Across The Spectrum

These aren’t only inmates of which I’m speaking. Officers too tend to take on a slightly less adversarial quality. At times they even exhibit the ability to look the other way and let little things slide. The willingness to slack in their duties in the spirit of the season.

Free Pass

Bringing food back from the chow hall is a big no-no, but on Christmas Day when trays are piled high (or at least higher than usual) with turkey and all the trimmings, most guys try to squirrel some away for later. I’ve had the most hard-ass lieutenant I’ve ever known merely nod in acknowledgement after catching me smuggling. It’s the one day a year when, as inmates, we need not fear repercussion because within reason, we can do no wrong. It is still prison, and bad things always have the potential to kickoff, but it feels less likely on Christmas.

Super Cop

CO Sollide was often a bit of a prick. In the years since this incident he has seemed to mellow and come to terms with the fact that he is not the righteous hero in the story with all the convicts around him being despicable villains. This particular Christmas, however, he had his delusions of grandeur turned up to eleven.

Loaded

Leading up to Christmas I’d been doing plenty of wheeling and dealing. I traded, bartered, and bought so that when I left the chow hall my belly full of food was the least of what I was smuggling. I had two eight ounce bags crammed with turkey, another one full of stuffing (or dressing, if you prefer), double handfuls of carrots and celery sticks, and four prepackaged slices of pumpkin pie. I wasn’t playing around. I had some serious eating planned. I was loaded when I came in sight of the door to my cell house, and what I saw made my gorged stomach lurch an agonized threat to let loose its pressurized contents. CO Sollide was standing in the cold on the snow-dusted wide front porch with his blue latex gloves on. He was shaking down everyone coming back from chow.

Sacrilege

I shuffled forward numbly, unable to process the blasphemous behavior I was beholding. There were only about a dozen guys in front of me so I didn’t have an abundance of time to prepare myself. I didn’t once entertain the possibility of ditching my goodies. It wasn’t even an option. As a wise man once told me: The catching comes before the hanging. If Sollide was going to take my food from me he was going to have to find it first, and if that’s what it came to he was going to have to hear an earful from me. I had worked for CO Sollide for several months and felt I had a good enough rapport with him to speak my mind.

Merry Groping

By the time it was my turn to be groped by another man as an unwanted Christmas present I had already watched CO Sollide relieve several guys of the stashes they had hidden on their person. I was fairly miffed and not in the mood to hide it. I assumed the position in front of CO Sollide, with my arms and legs spread, facing away from him so I had to call back over my shoulder. “This is bullshit. It’s friggin’ Christmas. Why the hell are you doing this, Sollide?”

“It’s not me, man. Lieutenant Jarvis called from the chow hall. He’s making me do this.” His tone was an odd mix of pleading to be believed while hanging onto a tough air of authority. It rang loudly of insincerity, and I didn’t believe for an instant that anyone but Sollide was to blame. He grabbed one turkey bag in my coat pocket. “What’s this?”

“Turkey.”

He gripped the other. “And this?”

“More turkey.”

He ran his hands over me. Gripping my hips, squeezing my butt, lingering across my groin and belly. The level of intensity in his shakedown was way over the top. I felt I’d been victimized when it came to him not so gently cupping my tender bits. I’ve experienced thousands of pat down searches over the years but this one came right up to the edge of a sensual massage or sexual assault. Since my consent was not precisely voluntary, I’d have to lean toward it being more the latter. Finally his fingers fondled the plastic wrappings of the pie slices tucked in my shirt. “This?”

“Dessert.”

CO Sollide sighed deeply and loudly. “Alright, step over there and drop all of it.”

Not Caught Yet

I stepped to where he told me and turned back to him. He was already grabbing the private parts of the next man in line, three feet away from me. Another officer was to my right and a little ahead of me. He looked sheepish and put upon at having been drafted into this distasteful work on Christmas Day. His shakedown lacked the enthusiasm of CO Sollide’s.

A substantial pile of castoffs had already accumulated, and I was standing amongst them. CO Sollide had the expectation that I drop my food, but neither he nor the unwilling recruit were paying me any attention. To use a common idiom around here: CO Sollide must’ve been out of his rabbit-ass mind if he thought I was going to give it all up so easily. I stooped and snatched three unopened prepackaged pumpkin pie slices from the cold red brick porch and scurried inside.

Season’s Greetings

Over the next several days I enjoyed every single bite of my contraband cuisine. If you fear for my health, fear not; the window made a wonderful refrigerator. As you enjoy your Christmas feast of roast beast please remember family, friends, faith; whatever makes it special for you.

And to all those authority figures in positions of power; remember to keep your hands to yourself. No one wants that kind of Christmas groping.

My final MERRY CHRISTMAS from behind prison walls.

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Orangutan Dance

I called him Luigi because his bushy moustache and swarthy complexion put me in mind of his namesake from Super Mario Brothers. Not precisely culturally sensitive, but political correctness tends to die at the prison gates. During this particular incident, Luigi looked exactly like an orangutan.

Animal Planet

Arms straight in the air over his head waving side to side with the movement of his body. He wandered a few feet to his left, turned and retraced his steps. I’d seen orangutans perform the same dance on Animal Planet. I couldn’t remember if the pose was a show of dominance or the beginnings of a mating ritual. Either way, I couldn’t figure why Luigi was doing it in the middle of the chow hall.

Bizarrely Hilarious

Not knowing what preceded his graceless ballet, I had no context in which to put it. To me it looked hilariously bizarre, and I wasn’t the only one. The assembled security staff were all silent, dumbfounded, but many people, including myself, were laughing in varying degrees of hysteria. That didn’t last long.

Nasty Reality

Luigi’s upper body suddenly vibrated with an immense shudder as frothy white vomit oozed onto his chin. It sat there in a moment of pause before gaining the required force of momentum to achieve projectile status. Liquid and solid expelled violently. It was no longer very funny.

No Help

The orangutan dance had been his attempt to breath. Luigi brought his arms down, holding his hands to his throat in a universally understood gesture indicating that he was choking. Sergeant Schroeder was closest to the distressed inmate. He backed away quickly. Luigi took a desperate step toward Lieutenant Jarvis who cussed voluminously before stepping back and saying he wouldn’t touch him. The two officers next to Lieutenant Jarvis also retreated as calls of “Help him!” came from a dozen directions. By all appearances those in authority intended to just let Luigi choke to death. None of them even had the presence of mind to key their radio and call out the code for a medical emergency.

Rescue

An inmate stood up near Luigi, looking supremely unsure of himself, but knowing that someone had to do something. He cocked his arm back and was about to start beating on the choking man’s back when Frank bellowed “Don’t touch him” from two tables away.

In another lifetime, over two decades previous, Frank had been a firefighter trained to access and treat those in respiratory distress. His response time was perhaps a bit delayed, but he walked up and unceremoniously pushed the would-be Good Samaritan out of his way. Frank assumed the easily recognized position to perform the Heimlich. He moved with a certainty and assurance that was comforting, calming. Lieutenant Jarvis let out a half-hearted “No, don’t.” Sergeant Schroeder mumbled “Hey, you can’t do that.” Neither of them called for professional medical assistance. Frank said something to Luigi before taking a breath and commencing his rescue maneuver.

Unrecognizable

The gentleman whose namesake is arguably the most recognizable lifesaving move ever devised may not have been able to identify what was happening to Luigi. Or rather, what Frank was doing to him. I’ve passed the appropriate course for CPR certification twice in my life, but still wasn’t entirely sure what I was seeing.

Not Funny

Luigi was bent at a forty-five angle that was creeping toward ninety degrees. This required Frank to lean forward as he tried to wrap his arms around Luigi. The ensuing application of sudden upward pressure on the abdomen administrated by Frank featured an alarming amount of pelvic thrusting. It gave the entire attempt to save Luigi the appearance of an act of sodomy. This similarity would often be recounted for extremely dark comic effect and rightly so. It looked uproariously absurd—it looked like Frank was trying rape Luigi back to life. However, in the severity of the moment, and to the eternal credit of all us hardcore convicts, no one laughed.

Unobstructed

After much bumping and grinding Frank managed to get Luigi into the more traditional upright position. With one last satisfying thrust a hunk of unchewed material expelled itself in a slimy mess at the feet of the ineffectual security staff. Luigi coughed, bent over, hands on his knees, and drooled out whatever remained of the obstruction. A general roar of surprise, approval and congratulations rose before falling just as swiftly. Large numbers of inmates organized for one cause is discouraged. It can be met with sever repercussions, and for that reason most guys have been conditioned not to engage in such displays. Where just seconds before we had all been united in rooting for Luigi and Frank’s unorthodox love affair, all onlookers had returned their attention to the table and tray right in front of them.

No Healthcare

Luigi should have gone to healthcare. This would have required Lieutenant Jarvis to call healthcare, explain in brief what happened, and tell them to expect him. A van could’ve been sent to pick Luigi up, or he could have walked. Sending him to healthcare would’ve meant writing an official Incident Report documenting what occurred. Luigi was told to sit down and drink some water.

Hero Treatment

Frank’s actions constituted such a rarified degree of selfless heroism that he was eligible for months to be subtracted from his sentence. In order for that to happen, an official Incident Report would be necessary. Frank would also need a recommendation from a staff member. Neither Lieutenant Jarvis, Sergeant Schroeder nor any other security staff member present was going to write an Incident Report documenting their inability to act, and then, recommend Frank for a special sentence reduction. Frank was circumspectly told to return to his seat.

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.

 

Dynamic Duo

Billy and Sid only worked together one day a week. I don’t think the prison could’ve coped with them longer than that. It has to be illegal to have that much fun at work. Arrivals

Sid usually arrived first while Billy dragged himself in a few minutes later, often looking half asleep or wholly hungover. I have no doubt that Sid was frequently in the same state, he just concealed it better. Occasionally they came in jovial, laughing and joking like work was merely an extension of the drunken festivities of the night before. Most days they were subdued and required multiple cups of strong coffee apiece to nurse themselves back to equilibrium. Once they had settled in, their hijinks ensued.

Fun and Games
Theirs was an easy camaraderie. They spent their time talking, laughing, and commenting on the programs on the TV in the dayroom. When that got old they played tricks on people. They would announce for someone to come to the bubble to get his pass for his prostrate exam. They would claim that a certain individual had “that package” (AIDS), and to be careful around him. They would publically announce that it was someone’s birthday, and then encourage everyone to wish them a happy birthday. This meant punching him the same number of times as his age. One inmate seemed to have a birthday every week. Signs were posted with goofy sayings or crude sexual drawings on them. A list of inmates was posted that ranked the top five weirdos/creeps I the building. Sometimes this was characterized as a Most Wanted list. As in, these are the guys the officers want to get rid of the most. Billy and Sid always seemed to crack themselves up more than anyone else. Business As Usual This juvenile frat-boy mentality and casual bullying was par for the course. In the wider world it would be denounced; in prison it’s just another Sunday. Most guys tended to ignore them and tried to keep moving as long as the abuse wasn’t directly targeting them. CO Billy and CO Sid knew who the easy targets were. In spite of their behavior and how I’ve characterized them, they’re actually fairly well-liked by all—both COs and inmates. Reality Correctional Officers are not police officers or superheroes swooping in to save the day. Nothing so glamorous or exciting as that. Depending on the security level of the penitentiary where they work, and the area within the facility where they are stationed, it’s true that they can be called upon and must be ready in an instant to deal with violent or mentally unstable inmates. However, by and large, the most difficult aspect of their job is to stay awake as the dull, monotonous hours drag by. Little more than glorified babysitters. I imagine this is why Billy and Sid enjoyed working together so much. While they were far from paragons of professionalism, with these jokers in the building there was rarely a dull moment.

Empathetic

The sensory deprivation of Segregation is such that any noise or voice in the corridor will more often than not make a guy rush to look out the door and see what’s going on. When I heard a loud metal on concrete slam outside my door, that’s exactly what I did. Stripped The cell across from me was offset from mine so I couldn’t see directly into it, but the door was laying all the way open, flat against the wall, and I could see four officers in a loose circle around the door. Obvious sounds of struggle were coming from within the cell. Something came flying out of the cell and one of the officers caught it deftly and tossed it aside to the floor. I craned my neck and pressed in closer to the four-inch wide seven-inch tall rectangle window of plexiglass to spy that it was a red shoe. There are no red shoes in prison. Curious. I also saw two more officers standing at the ready off to the side.
The other shoe, a colorful shirt, blue jeans, a leather belt. All these were sent rocketing out of the cell. It dawned on me that the man being stripped must be right from the street, a parole violator. Around this time I began hearing sounds more animal than man—like a dog grunting and growling. One CO came out of the cell flushed and winded, followed by another in the same condition. A third exited, muttering curses, and he had a torn piece of cloth that he threw down in disgust. It appeared to be a hunk of underwear. Yet another CO left the cell in a huff and I had to begin wondering just how many were in there. Tricky Maneuver My answer came almost immediately as one Sarge and one more CO backed out towing the unruly inmate along. His arms were stretched behind him handcuffed, and another pair of handcuffs were fastened to the chain as an improvised leash they were using to direct him. One of the officers who had been standing around began closing the door, and the Sarge adopted sole tugging duty; he had to pull with his right hand, reach through the chuckhole of the partially closed door, and pass the controlling cuff to his left hand while the other officer corralled the inmate to keep him from trying to back all the way out of the cell. There was surprising little noise. No hollering or screaming from either party, no barked orders. Just grunts and sounds of exertion, boots scraping against the door, heavy breathing, and chain rattling. Once the final maneuver had been accomplished, the door closed, inmate uncuffed, and chuckhole successfully secured, then the screaming began. Lunacy For five full minutes he beat and kicked the door, letting loose a torrent of threats and curses. They brought a jumpsuit, opened the chuckhole, pushed the clothing through, and slammed the trapdoor swiftly. More curses and threats. In my mind I labeled him “lunatic”. I paused to emphasize with the corrections officers who have to deal with individuals like this. It surprised me, but I genuinely felt empathy for the COs. The guy beat on the door awhile, and called for a CO a few dozen times. Then he changed tactics and started hollering that he was going to kill himself. I didn’t believe him for an instant, and his claims only served to confirm my assessment of “lunatic”. There was more banging and calling out with claims of self-harm. He yelled, “CO!” ad nauseum. I wanted him to be quiet. I was fully confident that everyone within earshot wanted him to just shut up. A couple disembodied voices bellowed for him to do just that. Another one encouraged him to “off himself” and be done with it. Eventually a couple COs brought him a blanket and sheet, told him they’d bring him a mat as soon as they could, which they did. He didn’t make a peep the entire rest of the afternoon and night. In His Shoes . . . A while later an officer came by and put a piece of paper in the slot by the man’s door, which had his name and prison ID# on it along with “PV” in bold black letters. Parole violator. I began to ponder how he began his day, what that day might have looked like, and how it could’ve ended here for him. I thought of the terrible reality and shock to his system that being dragged back to prison must have been—how utterly devastating and discombobulating. I had to question my diagnosis of him as being far too simplistic and dismissive. I also had to admit that, if I was trapped in his horrendous shoes, I don’t know that I would’ve stopped kicking and beating the door so quickly or easily.

Uncensored

The heavy steel door slammed shut behind me with a dull finality. It was a sound I hadn’t heard in the nearly six years since I’d graduated to minimum security housing status where doors only lock from the inside and closing them is more an option than a requirement. Twenty minutes earlier I’d been standing in the law library, talking strategy with coworkers. It was from there that I was unceremoniously gathered, handcuffed and escorted to segregation. Officially at that point I still didn’t know for what reason I’d been taken to Seg. Unofficially I’d been given a heads up in hushed tones by a sympathetic party.

“It’s about your book.”

I stood alone in the center of the cell, all cold straight lines of concrete and metal, trying to make sense of the fact that I’d been locked up for my words. Careful I have always taken great pains, to the best of my ability, to maintain a certain degree of objectivity and anonymity with my essays. I have never revealed the state in which I am imprisoned; neither have I ever divulged the name of the city or penitentiary where I am incarcerated. I have changed the names of all the individuals who I have described. With these depictions of prison staff and inmate alike I have always strived for accuracy. This warts and all approach can’t help but feel unflattering to some, but people’s behavior isn’t always flattering. Purposeful When I began chronicling my prison experiences I did have an objective and purpose in mind beyond merely marking up good clean paper with my scribblings. I wanted to provide a glimpse into my world and demystify the prison experience to some degree by showing that prison is in many ways, a reflection of the world at large. Sometimes it is funny and absurd. Other times it can be violent, terrible, frightening, sad and lonely. Every so often it is beautiful, full of grace. Precaution I knew that this type of honesty would mean writing accounts that detailed malfeasance, dereliction of duty, deliberate indifference, and even outright criminal acts by prison staff. My decision to use a penname was made in large part to protect myself. I feared that, should my true identity be discovered, there would be retaliation. These fears were realized, and so I found myself in Seg. False Accusations
Charges were brought against me which were without merit. They were based on lies and assumptions as those in power tried to characterize my actions as being in violation of a set of rules written before the rise of the Internet. With all humility and zero bravado, I can say that they simply haven’t invented the rule to govern what I have been able to do through the posts on this website. Unfortunately both innocence and lack of evidence means absolutely nothing when caught in a system where the accusations are mere formality and a finding of guilt is guaranteed. No need to investigate when the end has already been decided. Bottom Line I hadn’t broken any rules. However, someone didn’t like what I was writing. I had apparently offended and/or upset the powers that be. I was told in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t allowed to write a book without permission, and that they didn’t want me posting on this website anymore because the consensus was that I had “cast certain officers and staff in a negative light.” With no proper investigation, and ulterior motives galore, I was found guilty. My punishment was to be the loss of my job and six months’ worth of various restrictions put on my phone calls and commissary. The nineteen days I spent in Seg would be considered sufficient, but I was to be transferred to a different prison. These decisions were made, the paperwork signed, my fate sealed. Intervention Early on in my ordeal I was able to impress upon my parents how serious the claims against me were, and how specious. This was nothing more than an attempt at censorship and a matter of my freedom of speech being squelched by individuals who didn’t like what I had to say. Through many phone calls, emails and lots of prayer the situation was remedied. I’m not entirely sure exactly which phone calls or emails did the trick, but I know my father is tenacious. As for prayer, I’ll borrow a phrase from someone wiser than I, and say that I don’t know how it works, but I simply know it works. The day after the final judgment against me was signed and official, a higher authority intervened in deus ex machina fashion and everything was EXPUNGED. All charges and accusations. The entire negative report which characterized this website, my use of a penname, and the book Candy and Blood: Essays From Behind Prison Walls as being illegal, a violation of the rules, was EXPUNGED. Look that word up in the dictionary when you get a chance. Expunged; it’s a glorious word.
Aftermath Today, August 12, 2018, marks two months since being released from Seg. The lies continue, and they choose to follow their own rules only when it suits them, so I haven’t gotten my job back. I’ve filed so many formal complaints (grievances) concerning this entire situation that I’ve begun to awaken from a night’s sleep with my hand hurting and stiff from constantly clutching my pen. I’ve had several interesting encounters with COs on the subject of my writing, some of which may appear in the coming months of posts. I’ve been able to examine and refocus on my faith and my priorities especially as I come closer to becoming a member of free society rather than a prisoner. Perhaps there’s no better catalyst for self-examination than long stretches of forced solitude. My Bottom Line
In being reminded of how utterly helpless I am I was being forced to articulate to myself just what exactly it is that I stand for; what is important to me and why do I do what I’m doing. Many of my personal constructs and convictions were challenged, but it has come to this: In the face of all injustice and adversity stand strong and speak your truth—never let anyone shut you up. I plan on taking my own advice.

Dehumanized

Her

She fussed and fidgeted over the few items she had on the table just waiting for her visitor to arrive. I had seen her before, on numerous previous visits in fact. Her hair had once been brown but was streaked mercilessly with gray as it fell past her shoulders in straight greasy strands. A pair of overly large glasses with thick lenses dominated her face. Her clothes were shabby, plain at best. She was tall, slim, willowy, and put me in mind of Olive Oil’s older, frailer sister. On the few occasions when I had heard her speak it sounded like the frail, muted mewing of a newly arrived kitten. Listening to some COs talk let me know that she visited every week, sometimes more than once, and that she always walked all the way out to the prison for these visits. The officers ridiculed her for her obvious poverty and lack of transportation.

Him

His clothes were covered in grime and filth, his shirt untucked. He looked disheveled and disgusting. His hair was a loose mop of gray and nearly white kept mercifully short atop his head, leaving him one less thing for which to care. The scruff on his face wasn’t a beard, but a thatch of stubbled scrub that was a few days past the razor’s appointment. He had the hollow-eyed confusion and hesitant shuffle of the extremely medicated. When he spoke it was a gruff baritone that sounded empty of some essential element, as if he was speaking from a long way off.

Together

When she saw him she rose from her seat, and anxious excitement thrumming through her thin frame, and she met him halfway as he walked towards the table they had been assigned for their visit. She embraced him fiercely, laying her head against his chest and holding tightly as if doing so soothed some desperate aching need. He reciprocated with unsure slow motion movements. There was an unashamed openness about the scene that made me feel uncomfortable, as if I were spying on an intimate and private moment. Which, of course, I was. Intimate, that is, though there’s no real privacy in prison.

Unconditional

During the course of their visit she doted on her husband. He mostly struggled to remain present in the moment. Whatever mood stabilizers or tranquilizers he was being prescribed had him slogging through molasses both physically and mentally. Nothing came simple. She was patient, involved, almost animated, or at least as much as her mousey persona would allow. It had to be a chore at times, but she never flagged in her unconditional devotion to him. When it was time for them to part she clutched him once more with a desperation and unabashedness that was miraculous to behold. My chest ached at the tender beauty of her naked display of affection as she planted several quick kisses on his lips and face—he received each with drugged befuddlement. After he had turned to trudge away she continued speaking words of hope and encouragement to his receding figure. Once he was gone she looked utterly hopeless, lost, on the verge of tears.

I have no idea what crime landed this man in prison, nor am I award of the exact nature of his obvious mental health issue. After witnessing what I did, I do know that he is loved, and that rather deeply.

Stinky

My visit ended only moments after his did and I was invited to enter the other shakedown room for my strip search. I complied with the officer’s wishes but asked why we couldn’t just use the one he had been exiting as I walked into the sally port that separated the visiting room from the shakedown room. I had always known this CO to be respectful, polite, and professional. It was me who was going to take my clothes off, but I was about to see an entirely different side of him.

“I just got done shaking down that stinky sonofabitch in there, you don’t want to go in there. It’s friggin’ disgusting. I’m so sick of it. Makes me want to puke. It smells like pure shit. He won’t take a damn shower. Should just turn a hose on his stupid ass and sandblast that shit off him.” There was a venomous and viciousness unlike his usual lackadaisical tone as he groused through gritted teeth. He was just getting started.

“And that wife of his isn’t too pleasant herself. Smells almost as bad, practically homeless. She’s always here way too early and we have to chase her out of the parking lot. After the tenth time you’d think she’d figure it out, she’d learn something. Dumb bitch. She should wander into traffic on one of her trips out here and save us all the headache.” After a few long and painfully silent awkward moments on my part he finished his thought while handing my pants back to me. “Yeah, Stinky and the Idiot. They’re perfect for each other.”

True Feelings

Though I had always had a high opinion of this officer, I believe that I was getting a glimpse at the unvarnished feelings shared by the majority of Correctional Officers. While it’s not true of them all, many COs have dealt with prisoners for so long, or with such indifference, that ofttimes they barely even see their wards as human anymore. And therefore certainly not deserving of human compassion.