The First Slice

*This picture is non-fiction*

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

That's the jarring sound I hear echoing through the section as all thirty-two cells open one after another. My new life revolves around this

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

all day, every day. At any given moment, I'll be in the middle of a card game or walking laps when I hear the

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

of the cell doors popping loose from their locked-open position. Then the copper in the section starts yelling

RACK IN, RACK IN, RACK IN!

This could mean any number of things. Maybe a fight broke out somewhere in the jail. Maybe someone tried to kill themselves. Maybe we're getting raided randomly. Maybe the copper in our section is just having a bad day and wants to flex the small amount of power they have in their life. And of course, it could just be time for "food."

It's my first breakfast out of quarantine and in minimum-security general population. Last night, my new celly had hyped up today's breakfast as the coveted biscuits and gravy with a carton of milk. I do not buy into his enthusiasm because I've already had four days of meals in this freezing hell. They don't give us food for our meals…they provide feed for livestock.

We're all waiting outside the entrance to our open cells while the trustees bring the food cart in and pre-count the trays. The copper then calls out, "Bottom tier, line up!" We line up single file, and he passes us an orange plastic spoon, one by one. We continue single file until we eventually get handed a tray by one of the trustees.

My celly is right in front of me in line, and without asking, he turns around and motions me to follow. Since our tier went first, we get dibs on a seat at the tables. If there are no spots, we're supposed to take our tray to our cell to eat.

I sit down with my tray and look at the supposed "best breakfast" of the week. It looks just as miserable as any meal I've seen thus far. I pick up a biscuit with my hand, and when I take a bite, a large portion crumbles and falls onto my lap, which I lazily brush off onto the floor.

I glance around at the sleepy-eyed inmates chowing down on their favorite meal when I notice a pair of icy blue eyes staring right at me. Surrounding them is a pale face with inked lightning bolts and a shiny bald head. In a flash, lightning turns to thunder as the creature opens his mouth.

"Do I look like a fucking maid? You think I'm your Mommy here to clean up after you?"

Everyone at the table is looking now, and I can feel the cops and cameras zooming in on me. I swear I hear my ancestors turning in their graves, and even God himself stops playing dice to look down. Everyone is watching to see what I say.

But before I can even finish the "o" of my answer, the demon starts talking again.

"That's right, I'm not. So learn your fucking manners or I'll learn them into you. Got it?"

He doesn't wait for my response, just turns to his food and takes a bite. I'm still frozen, staring at him, and I notice that not a single crumb falls outside his tray. I grab my spoon and grip it hard, trying not to show how badly my hand is shaking. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my celly's head shaking back and forth slightly.

I can hear him thinking: this kid has a lot to learn.

After we finish our meal, we place our trays back in the cart and drop the spoons the copper gave us on the cup holder outside our cell doors. When both my celly and I are finished, we close the cell door. I get back in my bed and try to go back to sleep, but my heart is still racing from the breakfast encounter. My mind starts wandering, and I wonder how I could be so stupid to make such a simple mistake with manners.

I've always been respectful, but I'm seeing jailhouse rules here I need to learn... and fast.

Just two days ago in quarantine, I got up in the middle of the night to pee. The toilets suck down with such force that you can hear them anywhere in the section. So as not to disturb my sleeping celly, I left the piss in the toilet without flushing. In the morning my celly informed me that wasn't the correct etiquette.

Always flush. That goes for farts too. Sit on the toilet and flush them if they stink.

There are all sorts of other jailhouse rules, some are followed loosely here, but I'm told they'd be mandatory in prison. Stuff like don't use the words "punk," "bitch," or "lame" unless you're ready to fight, and sit down when you pee, so you don't splash into the house.

Then there are good ol' safe practices, so you don't get caught slippin'. For example, picture trying to fight someone with your pants around your ankles. Not ideal. Well if you take one leg out of your pants while taking a crap, your chances of surviving a surprise cell fight go up dramatically.

Apparently a pro mixed martial artist got caught like that. Legend says the dude literally died with his pants around his ankles. Allegedly, he also got stabbed up over three hundred times in less than a minute.

I believe the whole story.