The Second Slice
“It seems the first letter is what controls the word. A vowel must be present to keep the word honest.”
The 72 hours following my panic attack absolutely sucked. I thought the section was cold before, but the “padded” cell was an absolute icebox.
I didn’t think it was possible, but I found myself missing the hot trays and craving those damn biscuits and gravy. While on suicide watch I was given a sack lunch paper bag, filled with cold food like baloney, “cheese,” and "bread,” for every meal.
After the first day, I assured the nurses and coppers I was fine, but they kept me in there for another couple days, just to be sure. They’re a large county jail, and they’ve seen it all through a system that knows exactly how to break a man.
The jail was nice enough to put me in a different section when I got off suicide watch. By nice, I mean they couldn’t keep a cell open for three days in such an overcrowded county jail. It feels like I’m starting over, but this time I’m much more mentally and physically prepared.
Mentally, because during those seventy-two hours, I came to accept my situation. There are worse places to be than minimum security general population.
Physically, because after my little episode, they fast-tracked two prescriptions for me. An antidepressant and an antipsychotic. One makes me feel much calmer (some would use the term numb) and the other keeps me asleep. Incredible what a difference I feel instantly.
“So, you got any money on your books yet?” my new celly, JJ, asks.
JJ’s drug of choice is meth. He’s been in and out of jail his whole forty or so years of life. He has a slight twitch, with the characteristic ADHD-like movements and speech that mark almost all tweakers. He also has a permanent smile filled with fake teeth and seems like a genuinely nice guy. When he asks if I have money on my books, he’s referring to money on my jail account used for phone calls and to order the all-important commissary.
Every Monday we turn in our orders for items like shampoo, ramen noodles, plastic bowls, candy bars, instant coffee, envelopes with prepaid stamps, other super unhealthy snacks, and the most basic items.
Every Thursday is commissary day when the orders arrive, and it’s like a Black Friday frenzy. Debts are paid, trades are made, and spreads are organized. Candy and instant coffee are consumed with vigor, pumping sixty-four bodies full of processed sugar and caffeine. The whole pod comes alive like electricity is flowing through it.
It’s Monday afternoon, and no, I don’t have any money on my books yet.
“No, I don’t have any money on my books yet.”
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“Need some phone time then? You got anyone on the outs?” JJ probes.
“I don’t really know yet. I doubt my family knows how this whole thing works. No one’s been to jail before.”
“Well you’re gonna be here a long time, so you better figure it out. Closed mouths don’t get fed, you know.”
He sees the look on my face and shrugs.
“Hey man, no offense. I’m just sayin’, you killed a dude. I know it was an accident, but still. I’ve seen people get hemmed up for years on charges like yours.” He pauses. “But you stayed around to try and help him, so I bet the judge will like that. Maybe you won’t do the full twenty.”
The silence hangs heavy in the cell as the weight of what JJ just said sinks in.
“Don’t think about it dude. Here, want a bag of chips?” JJ says, his voice awkward now.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach.
“Well, put ‘em in your box. At least you’ll have something for later.” He tosses the bag to me.
I catch them in my lap. “Thanks.”
I go to put the chips away in the medium-sized plastic box that locks and slides under my top bunk. My “box,” they call it, and it’s the only storage we have. I open it and see everything I own: one state-issued bar of soap, one travel-sized state-issued toothbrush, one travel-sized state-issued toothpaste, one small pencil, two packages of medication, and now one bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos with lime. Wow.
“Yeah, man, if I could get some phone time, that would be really helpful,” I say, realizing he might be right about the whole commissary thing.
“K, after rack-in I’ll show you how it works and you can use my account for a fifteen-minute call.”
“Thanks. Can we order sweatshirts or sweatpants here? I don’t see anyone wearing anything but these uniforms.” I feel colder just talking about it.
“Bro. This is a hateful place, you can’t get anything in here. Not even an extra pair of socks. The only reason you see me with an extra pair is ‘cause when we do clothing changeout, I hide a pair under my sheet. Pretty easy to do. I’ll show you tomorrow night.” He seems excited for a chance to show off his criminal prowess.
“Dude, thank you. I don’t know this world at all and it’s overwhelming at times. But I really appreciate your help. When I get money on my account I’ll pay you back, I swear.” I mean every word.
“Nah, don’t worry about it, bro, I know what it’s like. But hey, if you want, you can give me one of those pink houses you got. They gave you the good stuff. You can crush those up and snort ‘em. It kind of feels like taking a half an oxy. By the way, they don’t give those out very often anymore, so don’t let other people know you have ‘em or everyone will be asking you for some.” Reflexively, he looks out of the cell window and into the section.
I’m noticing there’s a constant state of subtle paranoia that most everyone shares in here.
“Sure, man, no problem. Here.” I reach into my box to pull out my package of pills.
“You good on the count?”
I have no clue what he’s talking about. “Ummm, probably?”
“K, dude, this is very important. They date your packs, and if the pigs come in when they do clothing exchange and find your count is off what it’s supposed to be, they’ll take away the pack and make you go stand in line every day for the nurse to give you one. Here, let me see.”
He holds out his hand, waiting for me to give him the pack. I’m curious to know what he’s talking about, so I hand them over without a second thought. After showing me the starting date on the pack, he starts counting.
“Sixth, seventh, eighth. Oh, see here, the ninth is today and its already gone. So you’ve had one already today, huh?” I nod.
“Okay, well you can still give me one now, but just make sure not to take any more out before tomorrow night, because, like I said before, that’s clothing exchange and they search our cells, and you don’t want to be off. You mind?” He gestures toward the pack.
“Yeah, go ahead, no problem,” I say, though it doesn’t really feel like I have a choice. I’m not going to deny him something this small after he offered me phone time and all these other little nuggets of information.
I also realize at this moment there’s no such thing as free kindness in this place. Kindness, sure; helpfulness, absolutely. But there’s always a price.
My perspective is already shifting about this new world I’m in. Learning all these intricacies of a strange new system started out feeling like a burden. Now it’s turning into a game to be played. And if there’s one thing I’m a sucker for in this life, it’s games.
I can even force myself to see parallels between these games and the game of life.
Instead of a boss demanding those TPU reports on his desk by the end of the day, I’ve got a guard demanding I go to my cell for rack-ins. Instead of hearing Debby in the cubicle next to me munch on an endless supply of hard candy, I hear tweakers suck on their missing teeth and chew air. Instead of an hour lunch break to get away from my desk, I’ve got an hour of rack-in time after lunch to lay on my bunk and stare at the ceiling while my mind drifts... I’m walking in the forest. I stop and take a big breath in through my nose. I can smell the green life all around me, feel a gentle breeze on my face and neck. My eyes are closed, and I can see clearly. My body is floating on a lake, I can feel...
CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK
My eyes shoot open. Forty minutes have gone by since I gave JJ one of the pink houses, and the section is open again. I lose all the Zen I was collecting in my imagination as I realize I’m about to make the phone call I’ve been dreading.
I’m going to call my father.