A Chemical Imbalance

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This week’s post is an excerpt from Candy and Blood. Available on Amazon.com now.

Blood and feces mixed in a sticky mess across the floor and against the thinly padded walls. The pungent aroma was beyond awful, and I couldn’t imagine bleach or disinfectant ever dispatching it entirely. I also couldn’t imagine why anyone would do this to himself.

===

Mental illness is an insidious and despicable thing. Often these issues are compounded by incarceration, as there is little premium placed on an inmate’s emotional or mental well-being. For the most part, we are housed and fed, but the state’s care for prisoners doesn’t extend much beyond that. What’s more is that many men with mental health issues are incarcerated because they committed crimes while not in a normal state of mind. In the past, these individuals may have found their way into a legitimate mental health facility, but now, more often than not, they’re put in prison. Then they’re largely expected to behave and are punished when they don’t, without much consideration for the fact of their mental illness. I believe that Renny’s actions would never be repeated, except perhaps by an individual who is suffering from a chemical imbalance in his brain.

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Renny was in an isolation cell in Healthcare. He had already proven to be erratic and a major danger to himself. The stitches holding the ragged incisions together began at his wrists and ran the length of his forearms. They were obvious evidence of his unstable nature. It was also the reason for his being in the isolation cell. These particular accommodations weren’t the typical isolation cell, however, but instead were outfitted to deal with the most extreme of circumstances. The walls were padded. It wasn’t plush enough to be luxurious but rather designed to make it at least very difficult, if not impossible, for an inmate to hurt himself by running into the walls or banging his head against them. The floor was concrete and slanted toward the center of the cell where a large drain gaped like an ominous, watchful eye.

Only one piece of furniture was in the cell, positioned right over the drain, and it looked more like a medieval torture device than it did a chair. There was a small square, thinly padded seat with a vinyl cover over it, and a similarly upholstered board ran vertically from the seat to serve as a backrest. Four slim boards all shot out from this central structure, and each had thick leather restraints attached to them. Renny was stripped naked and placed on the seat. His arm and legs were then strapped to each limb of the chair so that he was stretched into an X-shape. This was done for his own safety.

Renny looked like a psychotic. Perhaps he was. He bellowed, a sound filled with rage and frustration, his features twisted in a scowling sneer of defiance and hate. It is said that where there’s a will, there’s a way, and more often than not there’s truth in that aphorism.

Renny found a way to pull one arm free from its restraint, peeling his skin back in the process. This got his blood flowing, but he seemed to be unfazed by his wound, which must have been excruciating. That would only be the beginning of his self-inflicted bloodletting.

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Once he’d unfastened the rest of his limbs, Renny had full reign of his tiny six-foot square cell. He ranted and roared like a caricature of a madman, a stereotype brought to life, except that to see such insanity firsthand is unnerving on several levels. It makes the heart race with an initial tremor of fear that is in no way irrational. More than anything else, Renny looked like a dangerous caged animal bent on destroying anyone he could get his hands on. An unending litany of threats, curses, and various nonsensical ravings expelled themselves from his mouth.

Despite his uninviting appearance, one’s fear couldn’t help but give way to a sad empathy for Renny’s lowly state. Unasked queries inevitably shape themselves: How did he get like this? Why is he like this? These remain unanswered.

Then Renny commenced with actions that would seem impossible to most, or at least unbelievable. He squatted in one corner of his cell and began to strain as he pushed excrement out into his own eagerly waiting hand. He had much to donate. It had the general consistency of a swirl of chocolate soft-serve ice cream. Once the generous deposit was made, Renny began to throw it around his dwelling, taking the initiative to smear it on the walls, floor, and ceiling. He rubbed the feces against his own body as well before finally trying to cover the small glass window in the door through which the medical staff were monitoring him rather dispassionately. Being accustomed to his behavior by this point, they had no intention of intervening. It wasn’t until Renny got his blood flowing again that he really got their attention.

After he had spread his own shit around the cell and covered his body in it to his own satisfaction, Renny stood in front of his chair/restraining equipment, facing the observation window as if he was about to put on a show. Then he gave the medical staff something to look at. With an uncanny, unnatural, single-minded determination, Renny began to bite at the stitches in his right arm. He held his arm in front of his face, teeth gnawing and gnashing to get a good hold before tearing at the stitches and ripping the flesh anew. His eyes were wide and wild, and his blood-smeared teeth exposed in a gleefully grinning grimace as blood dripped freely from his chin and arm. Renny looked like he was having the time of his life. Then he went to work on the stitches in his left arm.

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One nurse stood at the door and yelled at Renny to stop. Others began to don rubber gowns, gloves, masks, and goggles as protection against possible communicable infections in the crazed inmate’s blood and feces. None of the staff seemed to be in much of a hurry. Renny managed without much difficulty to rip his other stitches out, and he was splashing his blood around his cell in a frenetic frenzy, rubbing the wounds over his body to add to the coating of crap he already wore. He was running and sliding around his small cell, whipping his arms out around him to send fresh gobs of blood splatting against the walls.

The team of doctors and nurses, six in all, was dressed and assembled with various supplies clutched in their hands. They were ready to go, but instead they just waited, crowded around the small square window to watch as Renny gradually began to slow down due to blood loss. After a few minutes, he lost his footing in a particularly slick pool of poop and blood and landed flat on his ass. He made no move to get back up. This was their cue to go to the rescue, and they strolled in casually. Two medical professionals tried to hold his shoulders down, but Renny conjured the strength to thrash back at them, and they all stepped away for a few moments longer until he finally lay still, too weak to fight. His wounds were covered, the bleeding stanched as best as the doctors and nurses could manage, then Renny was carted through the door by all six of them—four carrying the bulk of his weight, while the other two held his arms, which were encased in gauze that was already soggy with blood. He was put on a flat board and strapped into place, his limbs and head immobilized, before being placed on a bed where he waited, bleeding, until the ambulance from an outside hospital arrived to take him for more extensive medical attention.

Whether he died or was shipped to another joint, I don’t know. Renny never returned to the prison after leaving in the ambulance. What Renny left behind was an abysmally disgusting and nauseating mess and some severely frayed nerves and frazzled minds. Amongst his victims was my cellie at the time: the duty of hosing down and sanitizing Renny’s cell fell to him. The entire experience, from witnessing Renny’s actions to cleaning up his mess, haunted my cellie for years.

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Choke

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It was about nine months after my arrest date, and I was still sitting in county, fighting my case. I’d already spent a Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthday separated from the world – the first of many such separations – but to be honest, it wasn’t that bad. My mental anguish – in the form of regrets about the past, and fears and doubts about my future – wasn’t wonderful. But beyond that, living life locked up was manageable. I quickly got the hang of it. Man is nothing if not adaptable.

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I’d made at least one good friend during that period. This is the story of when he strangled me into unconsciousness.
Timmy was a good guy under enormous stress. He’d been arrested for murdering his wife, but his assertions of innocence fell largely on deaf ears. Timmy theorized that several police officers, working in tandem to cover up their accidental shooting of his wife, systematically murdered her. After examining every crime-scene photograph, police report, witness statement, ballistics report, medical examiner’s report and other related documents, I was inclined to believe him. Timmy was trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t imagine facing. I quickly became his confidant and support system. It was a difficult role, because I had my own worries, but I believed in his innocence. I still do. Unfortunately, to the world at large he was just another violent black man who’d taken a domestic dispute too far. Nobody cared.

Timmy and I were sitting in his cell. Timmy was delivering a diatribe while I sat quietly and seethed. He was ranting about why young black men brag and exaggerate their sexual prowess. His premise was that because many of them were born into poverty and the inner-city ghetto life, the only thing they could assert with any pride was that they were great Lotharios. Timmy’s sweeping statements offended me because he passed them off as fact, but I knew it couldn’t be true of all young black guys. Maybe some of them who lead lives like that wind up in prison, but not all. Unfortunately, having grown up in a white middle-class household, I didn’t have a racial, cultural, or socioeconomical leg to stand on. So I sat in silence and became more incensed. There was actually a different and deeper cause of my inexhaustible ire.

One of my fellow prisoners, Jaymo, a young black man, had only moments before assured me that if he was out there he would have no problem convincing my wife to sleep with him. The term “sleep with” is mine, whereas Jaymo was much more explicit in his description of how and what he would do to her. Using terms and imagery as graphic you might imagine, he described precisely how he would violate her. According to Jaymo, it would be completely consensual and entirely possible because his “game” with the ladies was so potent and his sexual prowess undeniable.

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Jaymo actually believed this. He also wasn’t saying it to offend me or get under my skin. In his mind, these were simply the facts. I was still married at the time, still hopeful that our marriage could survive all my lies and crimes. I was also naïve enough to think that the years of my inevitable prison sentence wouldn’t exceed single digits. The subject of my beloved wife was a sensitive one, and I was very protective of her. I wanted to beat Jaymo for what he said about her. I wanted to beat him bloody. I felt it was what he deserved.

Timmy had been listening and easily identified my escalating anger. He stepped in to literally pull me out of the situation. That’s how I ended up sitting on the steel toilet in Timmy’s cell while he reclined on his slab and opined about the inner-workings of the young African American mind. The problem was that, to me, it felt like Timmy was defending Jaymo’s offensive and lewd remarks. That’s not technically what he was doing, but I was angry and not thinking soundly, so that’s how it felt. This only made me more irate, and I lashed out.

“You want to let him talk about your wife like that, fine, she probably liked that kind of stuff. Your wife is gone, so it doesn’t matter anymore, but my wife is still alive. Don’t tell me how to defend her. You did a shit job of protecting yours.” My remarks were callous, illogical, unfair and untrue. Even as I stormed from his cell in a huff, I felt small and petty. I felt like the world’s most gargantuan asshole.

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I scurried next door to my cell with all the dignity of a fleeing rat or cockroach. Standing in the center of my cell, I chuffed out a loud sigh filled with frustration, regret, and shame. The sound of a shower shoe scuffing on the concrete made me turn around. Timmy stood at the threshold of my cell. I opened my mouth to speak, but he attacked before I could say anything.

Timmy’s face was blank. If anger was driving him, it was a deep and abiding emotion, not a momentary flourish. He covered the four feet between us in a flash. He was wearing a thermal underwear long-sleeve top, and as he moved toward me he pulled his right arm out of its sleeve and held the cuff in his left hand, with the rest of the material stretched free from his body. He wrapped this material around my neck twice and pulled it taut. The entire maneuver was one fluid motion and took a fraction of a second; Timmy was as swift, smooth, and silent as a ninja. I didn’t even feel fear, panic, or wonder. My world went black, and I was gone.

I awoke on the floor of my cell, alone. My skull felt two sizes too big and throbbed painfully. Blood pounded in my ears. There was no way for me to know how long I’d been unconscious, but I was sure it hadn’t been long – seconds, rather than minutes. A couple of guys from the deck stood outside the bars of my cell, watching me. Once they saw I wasn’t dead, they turned their attention back to the communal TV. Apparently, whatever was showing there was far more interesting.

My disorientation was dissolving in increments. I touched my neck, which felt raw and chafed. My esophagus was as dry as the Sahara. Moving my hand upward, I felt a lump on the side of my head, just above my right ear, which was extremely tender and painful to touch. Considering my position on the floor, I figured that I’d probably knocked my head on the toilet as I crumpled. My legs were as wobbly and unsure as Bambi’s on ice, but I managed to stand on them long enough to plop down onto my bunk. I sat there for a long time as equilibrium ebbed back into my life.

It was several hours before I approached some semblance of normalcy. During that time, everything seemed more intense – sounds were too loud, lights too bright, sense of touch overly sensitive. My thoughts were like a box of puzzle pieces, and I couldn’t find any edges to make them begin to resemble anything reasonable. My brain was trying to reject the notion that the incident had happened at all.

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photo by stockimages
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The idea that my buddy had choked me into darkness seemed impossibly absurd, but the physical evidence was impossible to refute. Perhaps it was the lapse in oxygenated blood to my brain, but a loopy logic kept circling back to the conclusion that I had gotten what I’d deserved. Only moments before Timmy’s attack, I’d wanted to similarly assault Jaymo for disparaging my wife. How then could I blame Timmy for reacting as he did when I questioned his wife’s virtue and his love for her? The easiest answer that I found was: I couldn’t.

Eventually I walked back into Timmy’s cell and sat on his toilet once more. The four other guys who shared the pod with us were collectively holding their breath in anticipation of more violence. Instead, Timmy and I sat in silence for a long time. When our eyes finally met, the shame and regret I saw in his eyes mirrored my own sentiments.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yeah,” was his pained response. An uncomfortable quiet stretched between us awhile. Finally, Timmy began to speak stilted words of prayer. I joined in, and we traded back and forth to seek forgiveness, comfort, mercy, and strength to persevere. And, as only the supernatural working of the Holy Spirit can achieve, our differences were reconciled.

Timmy and I never again spoke of the incident, but I never forgot how quickly violence could erupt within the crucible of confinement, even between friends. It was a lesson I would see reenacted countless times over the years. Despite his propensity for violence, I still believe Timmy is innocent of the murder of his wife. The jury disagreed with me, as he was sentenced to 85 years in prison. Without a positive response to his appeals, Timmy is scheduled to be released sometime around his 120th birthday. The son he had with his late wife has become another statistic in the foster care system.
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Brutally Efficient

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My cellie and I had been together a week already and had long ago exhausted all the superficial topics of discussion available to us. With our only common ground being prison, all that was left for us was to share complaints over the food that was passed through our chuckhole and to exchange good-natured grunts of thanks when passing over a fresh styrofoam tray of something that promised to be sloptastic. There was no TV, no radio, or even reading material of any kind. This left us alone with only our thoughts as entertainment. It was into my muddled thoughts that the screams intruded. They were unintelligible but clearly not born of laughter or joy. They were the sounds of violence and anger.

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Something Promising
I leapt from my top bunk, and for a split second was as light on my feet as a sneaky feline, but then momentum carried me further and I slammed my shoulder into the wall rather painfully in my over-eagerness for some kind of excitement and distraction from the interminable boredom and involuntary napping. (I say “involuntary napping” because when I laid there long enough without stimulus of any kind, I would slip into unconsciousness against my will.) With my face pressed to the perforated metal portion of the door, I tried to decipher where the screams and distant but familiar noises of someone getting beaten were coming from. At the time, I was on three gallery, so I was three stories in the air, which made it difficult to pinpoint the source of the scuffle. My cellie’s face was next to mine, just as starved for something to focus on, but he couldn’t figure where the fight was happening either. Within a minute, though, and much quicker than I ever would’ve thought, tac team members showed up in their riot gear to put a stop to it.

Tactical Arrival
At that time, I was still being housed in a maximum-security facility, and hadn’t yet seen the tac team assemble, but I was about to witness firsthand how they operated. There were five of them, each resplendent in a bright orange jumpsuit, over which they wore various kinds of body armor—all of which was an intimidating shade of black—that protected their chest, arms, legs and hands. On their heads there were bulbous helmets with plexiglass visors. In their hands, they each held a two-foot wooden baton and a plexiglass shield that was about three feet wide by four feet tall—large enough to afford plenty of protection. Marching in formation—two by two with one in the lead—their boots slammed the concrete floor in practiced unison while they beat their shields with their batons and chanted a rhythmic grunt that reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West’s guards in The Wizard of Oz. It was a rehearsed and disciplined effort designed to unnerve and terrorize all onlookers. It was effective.

The Show Begins
The lead tac team member stopped at the door to the cell and I had a direct line of sight to it. In a booming voice that echoed through the cell house, he ordered the inmates inside to stand up, place their hands behind their backs, and face the back wall of their cell. A single voice hollered an obscenity that made it clear he wouldn’t comply with the order. The tac team member never took his eyes off the cell door. He raised his baton over his head and made a circular motion in the air, indicating he wanted the door to be rolled open, before bringing the baton back down to a readied position behind his shield. The door to the cell began to slide sideways, electronically controlled by the tower, and once it was open they flooded in.

While shouting aggressively for the inmates to submit, one, two, three, four of them rushed in while one remained at the door. For a quick moment, I turned my head around to survey the dimensions of my own cell and wondered how they could all even fit in there. Screams of pain brought my attention riveted back to the cell under siege. I couldn’t see into the cell, but there were muffled sounds of impact and grunts of exertion. The pained yelling continued for a few moments before being squelched. On the heels of that marked silence was the distinct clicking of handcuffs being tightened into place. Even from three stories below me, it came through loud and clear, and it sent a shiver of goosebumps across my neck and over my scalp.

blacktigertactical dot tvAftermath
A tac team officer backed out of the cell first, and he was holding his shield over the back and head of one of the assailants. The inmate was cuffed with his hands behind his back, wearing only his boxers, and there was blood visible on his head. A second tac team officer followed close behind with his shield covering and holding the inmate down so that the two shields formed a plexiglass pyramid under which the offender was made to walk while folded nearly in half at the waist. In this secure and helpless position he couldn’t raise his head to look where he was going, and was so off balance that if he tried to resist or fight back in any way, it wouldn’t take much of a nudge to put him on his face. The remaining two tac team members in the cell came out in identical configuration, but the second inmate had a t-shirt on. The front of it sagged heavily from his body and was more red than white. There was no way for me to know how much of the blood that I saw was spilt by inmates and how much by the tac team.

I was impressed by the smoothness of their movements, and it was clear that they had practiced a great deal in order to work together as a unit in such coordinated fashion. I was equal parts impressed and frightened by it. I was also glad that they weren’t coming for me.

The entire process didn’t take more than three minutes, and they were all shuffling carefully off the deck together. Efficient in their brutality. The inmates never came back, their property was packed and moved by a couple C/Os a couple hours later. My cellie and I passed the afternoon in lively discussion because the incident had finally given us something to talk about.
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Uncommon Compassion

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“C’mon, quick; Tee needs you.”
I was mid-conversation with someone, but left him immediately without a word of explanation or apology. Tee was my cellie, my buddy. There was an urgency and seriousness in the messenger’s tone that begged no rebuttal or delay. Once I arrived at the cell that Tee and I shared with four other guys, I could immediately see that Tee was in agony.

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Proof
I’d known Tee for over a year to this point, and he had often made it known that he had a history of back pain that often precluded him from any type of strenuous exercise. There were times when I was less than sympathetic to Tee’s plight, and I even postulated that he was merely practicing his own brand of crying wolf as an excuse to be lazy. When I saw him poised in pain over his bunk, I knew I’d been wrong.

Stuck
Tee’s butt was hovering half a foot off of his bunk, as both of his arms were ramrod straight like stilts holding him aloft. His arms were shaking from exertion and exhaustion. His features were pinched together as he gritted his teeth against the pain.
“What can I do? Can you sit down?” I asked him.
“No,” he grunted.
“Do you want me to help you sit down?”
“No!” he managed to holler with some conviction and more than a little panic.
“Well, what can I do?”
“Get the C/O.” I turned to leave the cell and do just that, but Officer Osmond was already making his way down the hall in no kind of hurry at all. A crowd had begun to gather.
“He needs help!” I called to C/O Osmond.
“I know,” he replied. Apparently, someone had run and told him about the burgeoning medical emergency. He didn’t pick up his pace. Once he did arrive at the cell, he shooed the gawkers out of his way. “What’s wrong?” he asked as Tee continued his best impression of a statue.
“I threw my back out,” Tee replied, his voice straining to maintain normalcy.
“Oh,” Osmond said, sounding befuddled. “What’s that mean?”
“I threw my back out,” Tee repeated the phrase as if it were self-explanatory. “I can’t move,” he added as further explanation, but was only met with more of the officer’s vacuous gaze. “I’m stuck!” Tee finally belted out followed by a scream of frustration and pain as the exertion from the initial yelling sent hurt hurtling along his already agonized nerve endings.

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photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

Callous
C/O Osmond called in a medical emergency over the radio, and medical staff were dispatched to the cell house immediately. Then he stood to the side, disinterested, and waited for assistance to arrive as if the entire situation were one big nuisance. Tee managed to slowly but surely lower himself until he was perched stiffly on the edge of his bunk, looking completely unnatural and uncomfortable. I stood there to support Tee, but was merely silent, useless, and helpless.

Guys outside the door laughed and made fun of Tee for basically hurting himself by standing up out of the bed. Our cellies all joined in the ridicule. C/O Osmond even added callous comments to the conversation and had a good chuckle about it all. I could tell that every breath Tee took caused him added discomfort. I wanted to yell at all of them to shut the hell up. When I heard the rattle of wheels in the hallway and saw C/O Arthur pulling a stretcher with two nurses and two other C/Os in tow, I figured things were only going to get worse for Tee.

Compassion
C/O Arthur had a reputation for being a colossal prick. It was a hard-earned and well-deserved reputation. I stepped out of the way, expecting Arthur to further debase and belittle Tee as that seemed to be the popular pastime for the moment.

Instead, he was extraordinarily gently and compassionate. He asked Tee to describe the pain and how exactly it had manifested. Arthur crouched down onto his knees so Tee wouldn’t have to move his head in order to look at C/O Arthur as he spoke. Arthur seemed to hang on every word. The two nurses stood in the hallway and looked indifferent. The two C/Os appeared to be bored.

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photo by Ambro
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Once Arthur had assessed the situation, he instructed the two C/Os to bring in the flatboard and put it on the floor. Then he provided them with a step-by-step tutorial on how they would assist him in moving Tee to the flatboard. It was clear from Arthur’s delivery and demeanor that he wouldn’t accept anything less than perfection from his helpers. With extreme care, the three C/Os gingerly lifted Tee bodily from the bunk and rotated his body to achieve the necessary repositioning. After Tee was seated awkwardly on the flatboard, C/O Arthur spoke in a comforting voice, as he assured Tee that it was necessary to move him again. With an uncanny tenderness, Arthur slowly straightened Tee’s legs and strapped them in place. Tee was lying on his back and Arthur manipulated Tee’s arms to cross them over his chest before securing them there. Once Tee was ready to be moved, Arthur and the other C/Os, including Osmond, cautiously carried him to the stretcher then fastened him to it before rolling it out of the building.

Afterward
All the talk on the deck was about Tee. Some were poking fun at him, others claimed he had just been faking it—for what purpose, I have no idea. There were some individuals who were aggressively cruel in their maligning of Tee, concluding that he was a stupid and worthless portion of excrement. It shocked and baffled me that a known crank C/O showed more human kindness to Tee than his own fellow inmates did.
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Master Craftsman

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As a consummate entrepreneur, DJ managed to turn a profit making trinkets and baubles whose only real appeal was in their uniqueness. All of his toilet paper flowers and decorative pillows were quite beautiful, but beyond that they had no practical value whatsoever. While DJ recognized that he had a lucrative business in place, and he certainly enjoyed spending/eating the profits, he was also perfectly aware of how ephemeral and ultimately useless his products were. This knowledge eventually led to a degree of dissatisfaction on his part, which was only countered when he had the opportunity to call upon his master craftsman capabilities.

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johnbaileyowen.com

The Artistry
Both skill and talent were certainly required for creating DJ’s pretty presents, but he was capable of so much more. When he could get his hands on the proper materials, he excelled. His passion projects were tediously time-consuming, but he reveled in the real artistry and true craftsmanship of them.

Repurposed
A pair of old leather boots, which had been discarded as trash, were gold to DJ. He would take a razorblade that he had removed from its plastic disposable casing and use that to slice the leather into pieces and strips appropriate for the works he intended to create. To prepare the tough leather, he would rub Vaseline into it everyday for as many days as it took until it was soft and supple.

Meticulous
Once the leather was ready for his nimble fingers, DJ would commence to crimping and folding the edges, manipulating them and preparing them to receive his stitches. I have no earthly idea where he procured the nylon string that he used to sew his material, nor what he used to dye the white nylon black so that it matched the boot leather. He fashioned his pieces into bifold wallets that could be sent home as gifts by inmates or a more simple holder designed to carry an Inmate ID Card.

The latter was also seen as some kind of silly status symbol. Wristwatch bands were his other specialty and when he was finished, his products looked as professionally produced as anything on display for sale at a retail store. As a sewer myself, I marveled at the tiny stitches and how intricate yet uniform he managed to keep them.

ab3a017ea97ea90959d180b2a9e699d7Ingenuity
Since wristwatches are prominently displayed on one’s wrist (go figure), they are also something of a status symbol in prison. The watches generally cost about ten to twelve dollars, so it doesn’t really make sense, but that’s how it is, and most guys like to trade up the factory watchband for a prison-made replacement. DJ’s leather bands sold well and lasted for many years, but leather can be hard to some by. Shoelaces, on the other hand, are routinely thrown away, or else are available for purchase in commissary. DJ would deftly slip the outer cloth covering from the rounded shoelace, leaving behind a braided rope. The liberated material he would flatten and, using those astonishingly subtle stitches, he’d sew the two strips into a band approximately three quarters of an inch wide. Using durable plastic pieces that he scrounged from somewhere and Velcro he’d sliced from shower curtains, DJ formed a clasp for these original works of prison art. For an additional fee, using brilliantly colored thread, he could stitch a person’s initials into the band to distinguish it from others of its ilk.

Witnessing DJ’s finished masterpieces, I couldn’t help but be supremely impressed by his enormous skill. There was, however, also a touch of wistful sadness to my impression, as I couldn’t help but wonder why his talent and clockwork intellect were being squandered, locked behind prison walls.//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js //