Day 1: Commitment (Part 2)

"Don't talk while we're in these halls - some of these guards can be real pricks about the rules." I and another inmate were ordered to walk with a "White Shirt" and she left us unattended. I had asked how far it was to Work Release, and Derick, my prison oracle, replied with the advice. Prison is full of all sorts of rules, very few of them reasonable, and even less of them communicated to the prisoners. As I was learning, the unwritten rules were the most important ones to follow.

This White Shirt - which I've concluded are some kind of above average guards involved in prisoner transport - passed Derick and I off to the CO minding the Work Release block. The other prisoners were taking part in some kind of free time and watching TV in a large room, with laminate floors and concrete walls. Unsurprisingly, the architecture of the place seems to be simply utilitarian, constantly in flux. The remnants of previously constructed and torn away walls are clearly visible. Conduits for cabling and pipes run up and down the walls. Electrical outlets for 240V circuits are in random corners, presumably for appliances relocated and removed. It has the stale cleanliness of highly toxic, bulk oxidizing agents and janitorial mops wielded by forced labor.

"This your first time in prison?", asks the CO whose name tag reads "Robbins". Derick answers in the negative and Robbins informs us we will be "cellmates" - AKA "cellies" to us prisoners - and that Derick should make sure I understand how things work (rather, how things do not work...). We are given our key, copies of the Rulebook, and copies of the work request form. Derick and I head upstairs, carrying our Welcome To Jail Kits in the big green tubs, and our new paperwork.

I formally introduce myself to Derick. We exchange a few pleasantries and minimal background to set the context for our time we will have to spend together. The cell is concrete walls and floor, with two metal cots, separated by about 24 inches. We have a broken locker to share (the door will not close as it is bent, presumably used for fending off gang rapists or bludgeoning a CO). We have a small metal desk and a small wooden chair.

Derick has been in and out of the system his entire life. He inherited a small fortune when he was young - some 40 years ago - and in his youthful recklessness spent it all on women, drugs and booze. Foster care, juvenile detention, and almost a decade Up State, plus several small-time sentences in this County Prison. This is Derick's 4th or 5th time in Work Release.

Derick seems like a nice guy, considering he is a crack and heroin user who has spent half his life behind bars. He already knows some of the guys in here, and wanders off to acquire some contraband. Not drugs, booze or cigarettes - but shower shoes and some clean clothes. Another unwritten rule is that sharing or giving a fellow inmate anything is prohibited. Derick has found a friend who had some spare pairs of shower shoes. "If the CO asks how you have these already, just say you found them under the cot in the room", he says as he hands me a pair. "We'd get my friend in trouble since he gave these to us, but you sure as shit don't want to shower without them." I can understand why we might not be permitted to SELL things to other prisoners, but why no gifting? "They need to make their money", Derick informs me as he shows me the list, found in our desk, of items available for purchase from the commissary. While the prison claims that the Work Release program is an effort to integrate long-sentence prisoners back into the community months before their real release, for someone who was stolen away from the community like me, it is a 100% reversal of the values my allegedly Christian community claims to cherish. Kindness and generosity are strictly prohibited.

Robbins told us that "blockouts" - times prisoners were permitted in the Day Room - occurred twice a day, usually 1PM to 3PM and 7PM to 11PM. During these times we could shower, do laundry, watch one of the two televisions, or play cards or boardgames (if we purchased them). During each blockout we are permitted to place calls using the pay phones for no longer than a 20 minute time slot. At all other times we are to remain in our rooms except to go and use the shared bathrooms.

After settling in I sign up to use the phones. I have no cash and can't remember my credit card number. Signs near the phones prohibit phone card numbers. On a hunch, I call my house collect hoping that my girlfriend would be there.

Brenda answers, crying. As hard as the last 12 hours have been on me, they have been worse for her. She is my lifesaver as she has informed work I might not be in all week, based on the non-answers she was given by the Work Release administrators as to what was happening to me. I give her as much of an account of what has happened as I can. We are both a wreck, and spent most of the time in emotional turmoil. I hasten to end the call as I hear my name called by the CO through a garbled, barely intelligible PA system.

I say "you called me?", and Robbins answers something that sounds like "yeah, Shin-nah-tawl". He rolls his eyes so I don't ask him to enunciate. I wait and another CO arrives, and one of the other prisoners follows him. Robbins screams at me "PRESARIO GO WITH YOUR RIDE, SHEESH!". Apparently I am supposed to be a mind-reader and have a clue what is happening. I ask this CO where we are going. "The infirmary." Ah, so I am off for a Day 1 Prison Physical. I ask him what the other CO was mumbling, and he laughs as he says "Sick Call. SICK CALL! Get it?!?!". Ah, must be some kind of military jargon.

The physical only involves checking my pulse and blood pressure. The rest of the exam is question and answer, intending to ascertain my mental state and identify potential suicide risks. Without a hint of irony, the nurse asks me "How do you feel about being in prison - good, fair, or poor?" I can not resist bursting out with laughter - "seriously? 'Good' is one of the choices? Does anyone ever answer 'good'?!?!?!" She emerges from her dry, emotionless cocoon and a hint of a sense of humor emerges. "Actually some do, and I guess the question is pretty silly." You think? I tell her to put me down as "fair to middling regarding my incarceration, lack of amenities, and new found crackhead roommates." Thankfully, there is minimal poking and prodding - I certainly do not want to catch Hepatitis or Staph infections due to the carelessness of the types of health care workers who find themselves assigned to work in prisons (the health care here is outsourced to a for-profit provider, just like the meal preparation). I do receive a TB test. I'm given a cotton ball to use until the bleeding stops and am sent back to the waiting area.

Before we leave with our "ride" I ask him if I can throw away the cotton ball, as the bleeding as ceased. He nods towards the large trash bin. "Isn't there a Biohazard container I should use, since this has blood"? He rolls his eyes and tells me it is only a little blood and not to worry and just throw it away.

On our way back I wonder how many of the Staph and Hepatitis warning posters are necessary simply because of this concept that "it is only a little blood".