part of an email sent this morning:
anyway: last night:
in the first couple of hours I was a part of a group of officers to do a shake-down of a unit.
a unit isn't usually shaken down unless something serious like a rash of stabbings or a tip-off of a gang war or some such.
in this case, an inmate (apparently) fell off the top bunk of a double-bunk cell a couple of times & had to be taken to the hospital for treatment.
(there's a whole lot about Prison in that "apparently" in parenthesis. similarly, last week I was in a unit where one of the inmates asked me to ask the sergeant if he could move to a different unit. long story short, when he was moved the sgt. noticed some blood on his shirt & asked him to remove it. according to the inmate, he'd "apparently" tripped & fallen against a sharp object. eleven times. since nobody's talking, that's what happened.)
anyway, when there's an injury in a cell there's a response team (usually within a few minutes) of available officers, medical & "brass" (sergeants & lieutenants).
there's this thing called "compliance". every cell is supposed to be in compliance. 90% of them aren't, but it's no big deal. unless the brass comes around.
(compliance: All The Rules Are Observed. To The Letter.--this means that the cell is Neat & Clean, that personal photos & clippings are of a "G"-rated nature & confined to a space on the wall roughly 1' x 2', that nothing...well, there are a Shitload of Rules. but most of the officers realize that while it is, in fact a cell, it is also someone's home--cells are almost always referred to as a house, & while there are a number of officers who like nothing better than to "toss" or trash someone's house, they are not Respected, & usually don't last long. thus: a certain balance is reached. a Lion Kingish Circle Of Life, if you will.)
so: dude is injured.
thus: Brass comes round, which, whilst the matter at hand is being taken care of, notices that all is not in Compliance.
the result being: Shakedown.
anyway--it turned out NOT to be a shakedown, in that we didn't actually have to go in anyone's cells, given that the sgt. conducting same next-night incursion gave us the instruction to check every cell & that anyone not in Compliance would be instructed to bring it into compliance toot sweet or else be shaken down & any back-talk is considered an invitation.
everybody got down to doing whatever it would take to avoid a shakedown.
except:
(& this is the wierd part of the evening: interpret it as you will.)
we went to every house in the unit & everybody did what they needed to do. there was a little bit of grumbling from a few inmates, but most of them accepted it as part of the package.
except one guy who wouldn't turn on his light or even get out of bed.
the sgt. went up to his door & banged on his door with his flashlight & finally he woke up & turned on his light.
--there's no way I can correctly convene this scene to you without going into a personality profile of the sgt. in question & a day-to-day exegenesis of prison operations & protocol & quoting Foucault at length but all I can do here is say the sgt. in question was getting Pissed.--
the inmate walked around the cell a bit, then unzipped & took a leak.
the sgt. was at this point rather angry & yelled thru the door that it was time to "hook up" (back up to the slot in the door to be handcuffed)
inmate continued pissing.
at this point it was revealed, by an officer who actually worked the unit, who'd arrived late, that the inmate in question was, in fact, deaf.
which changed things somewhat. (at this point there was myself & maybe a half-dozen other officers itchin' fer a scrap with a surly inmate clustered around the door.)
it was pretty much a given that, since the whole thing waa set into motion, SOMETHING was going to happen.
repeated orders to hook up.
my partner, who was pretty much designated to be the hookee told the sgt. "tell him to wash up first".
thus, a note was written to "wash up first"
this was pressed up against the window.
no response.
the note was pressed up against the window harder.
smile.
handcuffs tapped against the window.
inmate backs up to the slot & is cuffed. sgt. goes into the room & starts tearing shit up.
there's not much to tear up--some paper over the light-panel & a jacket over the outer window & I, & I'm pretty sure everybody else there realizes that the guy's not just deaf but retarded.
(as in: well, retarded. not meant as a colorful description but, well, retarded.)
& with half my mind I'm thinking: this'd be one hell of a short story--the thoughts of a deaf, retarded man in a maximum security prison; & the other half was thinking: Jesus, what's going ON here; & my third half was thinking: this is pretty fucking funny.
& I have to get out of this place.
(y'ever find yourself thinking "this is a pretty bad situation to be in, but I just gotta see what happens NEXT?")--
anyway, lot's more, but I'm mourning.
more later, eh?
love & kisses,
--D
-
> Hello my darling D-
> Just a quick hello. (Lo. ) I know I have promised
> a more lengthy email.......and it is forthcoming,
> SOON, soon soon....
> Just saw the headline on Yahoo...Damn shame about
> Hunter S. Thompson.
> Then again, he made it to 67, not too shabby in
> comparison to, well, most folks these days, I
> suppose.
> Ah suicide.
> It does seem to be all the rage..........
>
> Chao chao my handsome duck...
>
> Hope you are well and callousing your fingers
> nicely.
> Kisses,
> L.
>
>
>
> ---------------------------------
> Do you Yahoo!?
> Yahoo! Search presents - Jib Jab's 'Second Term'
anyway: last night:
in the first couple of hours I was a part of a group of officers to do a shake-down of a unit.
a unit isn't usually shaken down unless something serious like a rash of stabbings or a tip-off of a gang war or some such.
in this case, an inmate (apparently) fell off the top bunk of a double-bunk cell a couple of times & had to be taken to the hospital for treatment.
(there's a whole lot about Prison in that "apparently" in parenthesis. similarly, last week I was in a unit where one of the inmates asked me to ask the sergeant if he could move to a different unit. long story short, when he was moved the sgt. noticed some blood on his shirt & asked him to remove it. according to the inmate, he'd "apparently" tripped & fallen against a sharp object. eleven times. since nobody's talking, that's what happened.)
anyway, when there's an injury in a cell there's a response team (usually within a few minutes) of available officers, medical & "brass" (sergeants & lieutenants).
there's this thing called "compliance". every cell is supposed to be in compliance. 90% of them aren't, but it's no big deal. unless the brass comes around.
(compliance: All The Rules Are Observed. To The Letter.--this means that the cell is Neat & Clean, that personal photos & clippings are of a "G"-rated nature & confined to a space on the wall roughly 1' x 2', that nothing...well, there are a Shitload of Rules. but most of the officers realize that while it is, in fact a cell, it is also someone's home--cells are almost always referred to as a house, & while there are a number of officers who like nothing better than to "toss" or trash someone's house, they are not Respected, & usually don't last long. thus: a certain balance is reached. a Lion Kingish Circle Of Life, if you will.)
so: dude is injured.
thus: Brass comes round, which, whilst the matter at hand is being taken care of, notices that all is not in Compliance.
the result being: Shakedown.
anyway--it turned out NOT to be a shakedown, in that we didn't actually have to go in anyone's cells, given that the sgt. conducting same next-night incursion gave us the instruction to check every cell & that anyone not in Compliance would be instructed to bring it into compliance toot sweet or else be shaken down & any back-talk is considered an invitation.
everybody got down to doing whatever it would take to avoid a shakedown.
except:
(& this is the wierd part of the evening: interpret it as you will.)
we went to every house in the unit & everybody did what they needed to do. there was a little bit of grumbling from a few inmates, but most of them accepted it as part of the package.
except one guy who wouldn't turn on his light or even get out of bed.
the sgt. went up to his door & banged on his door with his flashlight & finally he woke up & turned on his light.
--there's no way I can correctly convene this scene to you without going into a personality profile of the sgt. in question & a day-to-day exegenesis of prison operations & protocol & quoting Foucault at length but all I can do here is say the sgt. in question was getting Pissed.--
the inmate walked around the cell a bit, then unzipped & took a leak.
the sgt. was at this point rather angry & yelled thru the door that it was time to "hook up" (back up to the slot in the door to be handcuffed)
inmate continued pissing.
at this point it was revealed, by an officer who actually worked the unit, who'd arrived late, that the inmate in question was, in fact, deaf.
which changed things somewhat. (at this point there was myself & maybe a half-dozen other officers itchin' fer a scrap with a surly inmate clustered around the door.)
it was pretty much a given that, since the whole thing waa set into motion, SOMETHING was going to happen.
repeated orders to hook up.
my partner, who was pretty much designated to be the hookee told the sgt. "tell him to wash up first".
thus, a note was written to "wash up first"
this was pressed up against the window.
no response.
the note was pressed up against the window harder.
smile.
handcuffs tapped against the window.
inmate backs up to the slot & is cuffed. sgt. goes into the room & starts tearing shit up.
there's not much to tear up--some paper over the light-panel & a jacket over the outer window & I, & I'm pretty sure everybody else there realizes that the guy's not just deaf but retarded.
(as in: well, retarded. not meant as a colorful description but, well, retarded.)
& with half my mind I'm thinking: this'd be one hell of a short story--the thoughts of a deaf, retarded man in a maximum security prison; & the other half was thinking: Jesus, what's going ON here; & my third half was thinking: this is pretty fucking funny.
& I have to get out of this place.
(y'ever find yourself thinking "this is a pretty bad situation to be in, but I just gotta see what happens NEXT?")--
anyway, lot's more, but I'm mourning.
more later, eh?
love & kisses,
--D
-
> Hello my darling D-
> Just a quick hello. (Lo. ) I know I have promised
> a more lengthy email.......and it is forthcoming,
> SOON, soon soon....
> Just saw the headline on Yahoo...Damn shame about
> Hunter S. Thompson.
> Then again, he made it to 67, not too shabby in
> comparison to, well, most folks these days, I
> suppose.
> Ah suicide.
> It does seem to be all the rage..........
>
> Chao chao my handsome duck...
>
> Hope you are well and callousing your fingers
> nicely.
> Kisses,
> L.
>
>
>
> ---------------------------------
> Do you Yahoo!?
> Yahoo! Search presents - Jib Jab's 'Second Term'