Fog

After weeks of unseasonably warm weather—evenings in which one could walk the track in only his shorts and tank top—a cold front blows in overnight bringing with it a fog so tenacious not even the West Texas wind can drive it away. The world outside has vanished. Gone is the commissary. Gone is the lieutenant’s office and the administration building with its crown of razor wire. Farther out, beyond the smokescreen fence, the red eye atop the water tower has been extinguished, and the derelict wind turbine lies scattered somewhere over the Permian Basin as a million points of light.

Meanwhile inside the dorms we sip instant coffee and read Lee Child. We solve crosswords and Sudoku, wash our sweatpants in the sinks and smash ramen against the floor. From his locker someone pulls out a Scrabble board and sock full of tiles, another a deck of cards. The blacks shuffle dominoes, the Mexicans slam spades. Two Hispanic men have turned the bathroom into a gym, banging out pull-ups off the stall frame and dips off the sinks. The smell of their sweat mingles with the damp of the showers and with the K2 smoke unfurling above the far stall.

The inmates complain that the officers are being overly precautious in keeping us confined to the dorm, and for counting and recounting us every few hours. But the cook, who sits one bunk away sorting through a stack of old magazines, says he once knew a man with nine escape charges, who’d wait for mornings like this one and slip away unnoticed into the fog. His second escape, says the cook thumbing through a Vanity Fair, ended in a shootout with police. “He was a little crazy, that one. He told me he joined the Communist Party so he could pick up chicks.”

For my own part I decide to greet the lockdown as an opportunity to catch up on projects I’d been putting off, such as organizing my locker, sewing the hole in my gym bag, and repairing my photo album. In prison, photo albums aren’t so much a place for storing photos as a place for forgetting them. Recently mine has begun to unravel, shedding people and places across the bottom of my locker, thus negating its purpose.

The album’s spine is fastened together by two screws which, according to the instructions that came with the refills, can be loosened, simply, with the turn of a coin. I try a button instead, but it’s too wide. My thumbnail is too shallow, a pen cap too awkward. I rummage for more possible tools, making my locker into an even greater mess, before settling on tweezers which gouge and scratch but which eventually force the screws to turn, albeit slowly and in the wrong direction. A tussle ensues. The album flops and fidgets in my lap like a tired child. Pages tear and a litter of photographs falls to the floor. The delicacy with which I collect them mocks my rage.

“Are those orchids?” The cook nods to the photos at my feet.

“Clematis,” I say. “My parents send me pictures of their garden.”

“We had a garden back home, too,” says the cook, who still has the habit of referring to his ex-wife and himself as one. “Orchids are my favorite. Your family sends you a lot of pictures.” His eyes linger on the morning glories, zinnias, and hyacinths. Inexplicably, I feel a need to apologize.

“They don’t send nearly as many pictures anymore,” which is somewhat a lie as my father sent a new batch just last week. I gather the remaining photos and set them in my locker along with the ravished album.

“Aren’t you going to finish organizing them?”

I shrug. “Maybe we could play cards instead.” I turn to the barred window over our bunks. “It seems the fog will be staying with us awhile. I still can’t see the water tower.”

The water tower is a new landmark on our horizon. It surfaced above the chain link one morning like a periscope, a single pillar joined just after lunch by four stanchions. That evening Jack and I watched from outside the gym as a crane lowered the reservoir’s lid into place. He told me some 3,000 water towers across the nation became riddled with gunfire on the eve of H. G. Wells’s War of the Worlds radio broadcast. Indeed, unpainted and rusted at the seams our water tower looked like a monstrous alien brain scudding over the treetops.

On a clear day I can see the monster’s red eye burning from my new bunk. Dorm renovations that began a year and a half ago recently closed part of the third floor’s living quarters displacing many inmates. Some men were moved to the first floor, which houses the fat and crippled and smells of urine and mildew from constant sewage leaks. Others like myself were assigned to live among the more able-bodied on the second floor, which smells better, though the beds here are smaller. Those in top bunks sleep sandwiched between the mattress and ceiling in precisely three and a half feet of vertical space, while those in bottom bunks enjoy an extra half foot of clearance. My neighbor, the cook, says it’s like sleeping in a sarcophagus. At six foot seven his knees, while reading in bed, legs folded, brush the underside of the bunk above him. I’ve smacked my head now several times since moving in, most often while rising in the middle of the night to piss.

Last night I rose from a strange dream. I dreamed I was looking out over the railing of a massive vessel when suddenly the ocean began to pull away from the ship. I turned and ran along the deck, and as I ran I passed the cook who looked on placidly at the rising seawall. I woke just before the wave consumed us. Later in the bathroom, groggy and blinded by florescent light, I didn’t see the puddle until I was in it. Cold water seeped through my shower shoes and stung my feet. Again I saw the ocean sucking, the ship’s exposed hull and the gray seabed. The urinals had overflowed again (the first floor would be flooded come morning).

The cook laughs when I relate my dream to him over a game of rummy.

“I waved to you, but you did nothing. You didn’t seem the least bit scared. Honestly, it was rather annoying.”

The cook laughs again and lays down three fives, breaking the run I’d been building in my hand. He tells me his wife—ex-wife, he bothers to correct himself—would often wake up angry at him for insensitive things he’d said or did to her in her dreams.

“Do you still talk to her?” I draw the six of hearts—useless—and discard the ace of spades.

“No.” He swipes the ace and lays down three of a kind. “I used to call, but I stopped. Everything I know of her life now I hear through my son. It’s just easier that way.” He discards the two of clubs. “Floating,” he says.

“Easier for you?”

“No, easier for her.”

Come lunchtime the fog is still with us, and we are made to file one floor at a time through the sea smoke to the chow hall, where after ten minutes the lieutenant flicks the lights and hollers for us to finish our sloppy joes so that the other floors can eat, and so that we can be counted yet again. Back at the dorm I try reading, but my stomach is leaden with starch and grease. I give in instead to exhaustion and fall asleep with a book spread open-wing across my chest.

Along with chrysanthemums and foxgloves, my father sends me pictures of my mother’s household crafts and projects: a winter vignette above the mantle with individually framed block letters that spell N-O-E-L; an autumn wreath on the front door made of wire and burlap; a new wall color in the dining room, a shade of beige so minutely warmer than the last that I can’t tell the difference. Most recently my father sent a photo of an old tool chest Mom found in my grandfather’s garage after his death (and where was I at his funeral?), repainted fire-engine red and repurposed as a seed drawer. This last photograph, along with others of reupholstered chairs and drapery, had been too large to fit the sleeves of my album. I try after napping to fold them. Every fresh white crease breaks my heart. In my peripheral I see the cook waving a sheet of paper.

“Have I ever showed you a picture of my son?” He passes me a printout so saturated with ink that it curls in my hands like a scroll.

“He looks like you,” I say. They share the same linebacker build, same wide jaw and soft gray eyes. His son stands in a boat holding up a fish the length of his torso. We are roughly the same age.

“I see you’re still at it,” says the cook.

I look to the open photo album and mass of loose photographs on my bunk. “I may never finish. It’s depressing, you know.”

“I know,” says the cook, and he puts the paper back in his locker.

Dinner runs in the same manner as lunch. We tramp by floor through the fog past a line of officers stationed between the dorm and the chow hall. They look translucent and hollow in the haze like cicada husks. Someone in front of me comments that in the nine years he’s been down in Big Spring he’s never witnessed a fog that’s lasted all day. More miraculous to me than the weather is that a person could spend nine years in one prison.

After dinner I shower and shave. Black whiskers fall like lead filings into the basin where they jitter and dance with bits of ramen and mackerel. It is Saturday evening and my parents will be expecting my call. For the past six years, since I’ve been incarcerated, I’ve called home twice a week. This amounts to some 600 phone calls. More staggering, confounding even, is that my parents have missed not one call. They answer every time, as they answer now, on the second ring, my father’s voice blaring on the kitchen phone like a commercial interruption, my mother’s on the bedroom line sounding restrained, as if weighed heavy by the fog.

I can always gauge within the first minute of the phone call the general health of the household. I know by my father’s weary voice when he’s put in another seventy hours at work. I know when my mother has struck success with dinner before even asking what they’ve eaten. I know too when there is discord; my mother withdraws while my father, eager to soothe and to compensate for her reticence, becomes loud and whimsical.

“Hello, Son!” he bellows now. “How’s my boy doing? Say, did you guys get any rain down there?”

The receiver is still warm in my hand from the last inmate and smells of coconut oil.

“No rain that I’m aware of,” I say. “We’ve been locked down all day because of fog.”

“Fog! Well, isn’t that something.”

“Why do they lock you down for fog?” My mother’s voice, when she speaks, is as soft as wet crepe paper. The ignorance of her question, like my father printing photos too large for my album, enrages me.

Dad intercedes: “Of course they lock him down, Louise. The boy’s a flight risk! He might jump the fence under the cover of fog!”

Mom stiffens at the mention of fences; her line goes quiet again.

Weather, the garden, the cats’ latest hijinks are among the topics that fill our weekly fifteen-minute phone calls. Though tonight the grappling for small talk is especially urgent with my older brother in jail. Earlier this week he pleaded guilty to sex with a minor.

Mom didn’t go to the courthouse. She said she couldn’t do it, not again. So Dad went alone. He sat in a courtroom that might have looked familiar to him. Perhaps he wore the same suit as at his younger son’s sentencing. And he saw again the judge, and he heard again the decree—though five years this time instead of twelve. And he heard too the mother of the sixteen year old recount to the court how his oldest boy had manipulated, defamed, and raped her little girl.

But we don’t talk about that. We talk instead about the new refrigerator my parents have bought, a French-door model sans ice dispenser. Dad conspires to pull Mom from her melancholy with a tragicomic retelling of the epic purchase, the countless hours spent sifting through online reviews, pouring over ads, sniffing out the best warranty, the best discount. He paints himself the hapless husband forced into spending his weekends wandering home-improvement warehouses with a Sunday circular and tape measure in hand. “You’re mother just about drove me crazy!” he says cheerfully.

Around the corner unseen the stairwell door opens to a barrage of Spanish bitingly loud and as crude as a dirty joke. Beside me a man weeps into the receiver: “Princess!” he says. “Are you listening? Sometimes your daddy gets frustrated and says things he don’t mean.”

I punch the volume button and press one finger to my ear. My mother is describing a new dish she has made for dinner—a ground lamb and potato hash with poached eggs—while my father makes sounds of approval. Food is yet another safe topic.

“Princess! Your Grandpa Herbert lived in his bathrobe and never left the house from the time he was sixty to the day he died, because your Grandma Rebecca broke his heart. That’s why I need you to tell your mommy that your daddy loves her and that you don’t want her to leave me.”

More Spanish burbles up the stairwell. Malicious laughter. Shouting. Doors slamming. Beat-boxing on the walls. I press the receiver so hard to my ear that it burns. My eyes burn, too.

“Mom,” I snap. “Mom, I can’t hear anything you’re saying over these fucking Mexicans.”

An inhale of breath like fog moving through chain link. “The swiss chard,” she says again. “It cooked down to nothing. I didn’t have enough swiss chard.”

Once while rolling meatballs in the Officers’ Mess, the cook, in the midst of regaling stories about his son and daughter, admitted to me that it’s hard to be a father when you’re in prison. At first I’d said I can’t imagine, as I have no children. But a moment later I reconsidered. Rolling a ball between my greased hands I said I might imagine after all, because it’s hard too to be a son when you’re in prison.

Now, mercifully, the phone beeps for the second and final time. My father remarks as he does every week how fast these fifteen minutes fly. I set the receiver gently in its cradle while my parents are still saying their goodbyes.

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Officers’ Mess

The floors in the dorms have been waxed, the walls patched and painted. Freshly laid treading in the stairwells still reek of rubber and adhesive. Outside, hedges stand trimmed, windows gleam spotless, and on the rec yard the once threadbare weight benches sit reupholstered in black faux leather. A newly posted sign nearby reminds inmates to wear their hard-toed boots while lifting weights. Indeed the compound is rife with new signage: signs designating restricted areas, signs indicating the nearest fire extinguishers. In response to recently passed legislation aimed at eliminating rape in prisons, each bathroom now has posted its maximum occupancy.

Such vigilance and attention to detail must mean that the suits have arrived for their annual inspection. They sit now at a conference table in the Captain’s office, priming themselves on Diet Coke and banana muffins. Soon they will depart on a tour of the compound, through the manicured rec yard, the orderly vocational training classrooms, and through a few select dormitories that have recently undergone renovations. Understandably, the staff are in a tizzy; every department head wishes the institution, or at least his own department, high marks. Under considerable pressure is Foodservice Administrator Salinas, who, in the hours before the inspectors are set to end their tour at the chow hall, blows through the kitchen double-checking temperature logs and running his hands along the tops of the ice machines and the undersides of the grills’ hoods. He holds up a soiled finger to the nearest inmate worker.

“You call this clean?” he cries.

In no place is Mr. Salinas’s scrutiny more pointed than in the Officers’ Mess Hall, where finally the inspectors will settle to a lunch of roast beef and mashed potatoes. Tucked away at the back of Foodservice, just off the inmate dining room, the Officers’ Mess Hall isn’t so much a hall as it is a single room just large enough to accommodate a galley kitchen and seating for twenty hungry officers. I’ve been working here in the OM now for six months, cleaning and tending to the salad bar, and still Mr. Salinas cannot, or perhaps refuses to, remember my name. When berating me for some perceived inadequacy, he’ll turn to either of my coworkers, the cook or the baker, and ask again for the quiet one’s name. Even then he gets it wrong:

“Mulligan—the lettuce is wilted.”

“Melvin—the table legs need dusting.”

“Milton—when was the last time you cleaned the glass bricks?”

Separating the entryway from the dining area is a wall of glass bricks which Salinas believes, contrary to all my scrubbing and degreasing and bleaching, is dirty.

“Actually, sir,” I say to him now, “I cleaned the bricks just this morning.”

Salinas squints doubtfully at the glass but says nothing. He presses on instead into the kitchen; today he is more concerned with the meal we’ll be serving the inspectors come noon. He prowls past the steam table eyeing the pans of roast and garlic-studded potatoes and the sauteéd squash grown by inmates at the minimum-security prison across the street.

“What’s this?” Salinas says pointing to a tray beneath the heat lamp.

The baker steps forward, dusts his hands on his apron, smiles. “Cheddar-herb biscuits, sir.”

Salinas pops a biscuit in his mouth.

“Needs more herbs,” he says, still chewing.

Not long after Salinas disappears to harass the butchers do the day’s first patrons begin to trickle in. The commissary staff file through quickly, taking their salads to go, while the vocation instructors eat hardy and linger long, praising between mouthfuls of meat and gravy the results of last month’s presidential election. The Laundry Department arrives next. Officer Arms dismisses the roast beef and orders instead a grilled cheese sandwich, which sparks a rash of grilled cheese requests among his cohorts. While waiting for their sandwiches, the officers discuss this past summer’s Olympics, of which highlights play on the television above the cup rack. One CO, snacking on croutons at the salad bar, comments on how compact and lithe those women gymnasts are. I’ll bet you, he says to the others, I can pick any one of them up with three fingers, like a six-pack. Or, says the CO beside him, like a bowling ball. Still laughing, the officers depart with their to-go trays, ignoring the payment machine posted beside the door. Out of the some seventy officers we serve in a day, only about half pay the $2.25 fare for their meals.

The medical staff pay regularly, and they arrive now swiping their cards and depositing their cash at the door. Health Services Administrator Crnkovitch is looking smart today in navy slacks and a modest white blouse. Her back tattoo is well concealed, and she’s removed her nose stud. Understandably she is anxious to make a good impression with the inspectors considering her department’s ongoing run of flubs and embarrassments. Most recently there was the rash that raged undiagnosed for three months in the dormitory. Before that, nine inmates called to the clinic for routine tuberculosis testing were mistakenly injected with insulin. Of course nobody has forgotten the affair between the dental hygienist and inmate dental assistant.

“I’ll take the roast beef,” Crnkovitch says now, sniffing over the steam table. “And put the gravy on the side, in case I don’t like it.”

She takes her plate and settles in between two nurses, both of whom nibble away at their customary salads.

It’s a strange job feeding one’s captors. Stranger still is seeing one’s captors eat, watching them in this most intimate act of chewing and swallowing. The cook and I have a theory that people’s characters are revealed through their eating habits. Officer Arms’s affinity for grilled cheese, for example, reveals a man obsessed with recreating the comforts of his childhood. IT Administrator Harwood’s insistence on sitting at the head of the table indicates an authority complex with, perhaps, misogynistic leanings. Those officers who salt their food before tasting it are impulsive, while those who never season their food, or who complain to the cook that his gravy is too salty, are dull lovers.

By far the officer with the most bizarre eating habit is Crnkovitch.

“Here she goes again,” says the cook. Crnkovitch pushes away her plate and makes a calm yet resolute beeline to the bathroom. “Maybe she’s allergic to gluten.”

“Or maybe she’s bulimic,” says the baker.

“No,” says the cook. “She’s much too fat to be bulimic.”

Moments later Crnkovitch returns puffy-eyed to her seat and resumes eating. Her coworkers are careful to pretend as though she’s never left the table. What’s most disturbing isn’t that Crnkovitch purges once or sometimes even twice at every meal but that she chooses to do so in the bathroom’s waste basket.

“The toilet is dirty,” the cook once reasoned. “She’s afraid of getting splashed.”

“And yet she,” I countered pulling on rubber gloves, “a healthcare professional sees nothing dirty with someone cleaning her vomit out of a trash pale.”

By noon the dining room is filled with officers. Captain Rule saws through an open-face roast beef sandwich beside Education Administrator Brammer who stirs into his iced tea a sixth packet of sweetener. Seated across from them is Mr. Jones, the head of Recreation, and his wife, Mrs. Jones, the Case Manager. Strangely, the couple rarely sits together, and seated between them now like a child caught in the middle is Trust Fund Supervisor Ms. Enriquez, whose empty plate I whisk away silently, covertly. I sometimes imagine that the officers live in an ecosystem of their own, one with which I must interact but influence as little as possible. But Enriquez is sharper than most others of her species; she detects my small wake and thanks me.

Back in the kitchen I rinse stacks of plates and load them into the dish washer. Food scraps get tossed into a blue barrel beside the sink. Every day we throw away heaps of uneaten food: burritos, burgers, chicken fried steaks, French fries smothered in ketchup, cakes, cookies, muffin stumps, pizza crusts, fried chickens stripped of their skins, boiled eggs stripped of their whites, soups, stews, beans, greens, green beans, plates of salad, saucers of pickles, bowls of peppered but otherwise untouched cantaloupe. All waste gets tossed into the blue barrel, which is then emptied into the digester, a great burbling, belching machine that stands sentry at the back of the building beside the vegetable cooler. On some mornings its tank overflows spreading a sweet-stinking bile across the tile floors.

The cook says waste is rampant throughout the foodservice industry. But for correctional officers to throw away food seems especially tragic when so many inmates in prisons leave the chow hall hungry. Many would surely jump at the chance to devour the scraps that get so mindlessly thrown away by the officers.

“I don’t get it,” I say to the cook, holding out a plate on which rests a lone cherry tomato. Mr. Rice’s habit is to eat everything save for one morsel—a single crouton, a sole French fry, a solitary macaroni.

The cook gets to theorizing: “Maybe he has an aversion to gluttony. Maybe he’s a recovering anorexic. Maybe he has Asian ancestry who believe it an insult to the host to clean one’s plate.”

“Or maybe he’s a dick,” I say flicking the tomato into the barrel.

It is quarter past noon when the inspectors arrive. Four men, faces stony like moai statues, sling their jackets over the chair backs at the only open table before ordering plates of meat and potatoes and gravy. The eldest helps himself to a side of cantaloupe from the salad bar.

The room, once the men have seated themselves and begun eating, resumes its former buzz, and I, invisible, weave in and out of the various conversations, whisking away dirty plates and crumpled napkins. Officer Brammer is telling Officer Enriquez about the maintenance costs of his truck while the Captain talks sports with Mr. Jones. Chief Psychologist Tubb regales Mrs. Jones with stories of her dog, and Crnkovitch is complaining to the nurses about the new dentist when she succumbs suddenly to the hiccups and has to excuse herself a second time to go vomit. Officer Teters is telling Rice he is wary of working any more overtime for fear his ex-wife will take him to court to demand more money. I swoop in and take his plate.

“Did I say I was done with that?”

“I’m sorry, sir. Excuse me.” I set the empty plate back down. I imagine, while collecting abandoned cups and utensils, my captors clocking out at the ends of their shifts and taking their trucks for oil changes before heading home to their collie-mixes and Tivoed sports. I expected my captors’ lives to be somehow bigger than my own, but in truth we all live so small.

At the inspectors’ table a spoon has fallen to rest beside one of the men’s feet, and I stoop to pick it up.

“The sex offenders present us with a particular problem,” the eldest inspector is saying to his colleagues. “They create mountains of paperwork for us, what with all the complaints they like to file. Sex offenders are, as you know . . . “

I stand, delinquent spoon in hand, in time to see the inspector tap his graying temple with one finger.

Back in the kitchen I throw the spoon into the sink. Into the blue barrel I dump an entire mound of uneaten mashed potatoes, followed by a congealing clump of sauteéd squash, wilting romaine, and sopping croutons. Three boiled egg yolks bounce off the sides of the barrel like yellow Ping-Pong balls.

When I get to the inspectors’ dishes I see that the eldest has eaten all but one piece of his cantaloupe.

“Oh, he’s one of those,” I say to the cook.

But the cook doesn’t hear me. He is rummaging the shelves for coffee filters, and the baker is pulling tomorrow’s bread dough from the cooler. Nobody sees me when I grab the cantaloupe off the inspector’s plate and put it in my mouth.

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The Hygienist

The last time I saw Jay was at the commissary Monday morning. His number had been called moments earlier, and he’d returned from the window carrying a laundry bag of toiletries and instant coffee. Save for some sugar-free peppermints, he’d bought none of his usual indulgences—no sodas, no Zebra Cakes. He said he was trying to slim down. As he turned to leave I watched him pop a mint in his mouth, slip another in his shirt pocket for later.

Later Jay vanished.

Of course nobody vanishes in prison, not in a place where confinement and accountability are key, are indeed the entire point. Barring death or a pardon, there is no place for an inmate to vanish to. There is only here, behind these fences and locked doors. In the greater world it’s unavoidable that a few citizens should slip between the cracks now and then. But in prison, when a man fails to report to his bunk for the census count, a ritual that validates our very existence some six times a day, it can mean only one thing.

“They locked up Jay.”

Jack pulled out his ear buds and wiped the bangs from his forehead. He’d been jogging the track when I flagged him down. The hairs on his chest glistened silver against a fresh sunburn.

“Jay’s in the hole,” I said again. “He never showed at lunch, and when I went to the dorm I found the CO clearing out his locker.”

It had taken the officer a half hour to pack up Jay’s belongings. His book collection alone filled an entire duffle bag and caused the assisting orderly to sway on his heels.

“Why the hell did they lock him up?” Jack asked.

I motioned toward the dental clinic just beside the track. For two years Jay had been enrolled in the dental assistant program, working and training alongside the prison’s dentist, and also the clinic’s pretty blonde hygienist.

“You think it had to do with her?” Jack asked.

“What else?”

Within minutes, indeed before his mattress had been stripped and his pillow nabbed by fellow inmates, the compound was rife with speculation as to the nature of Jay’s infraction. The prison rumor mill Inmate-dot-com, so called for its ubiquity and utter lack of authority, choked on the influx of gossip as if hit by a DDoS attack. Some supposed Jay had been caught with pornography. Others said he’d had a beef with the West Texans. Yet a few inmates recalled noticing, while having teeth pulled, a particular warmth between Jay and the friendly hygienist. Naturally the netizens latched onto the latter speculation, and from there rumor descended down the darkest, most scandalous path: they were caught in a chair-side embrace, they were seen smooching behind the x-ray machine, they were found fucking in the dentures lab.

An officer once said he didn’t understand why inmates bothered pressing him for the skinny. “You guys know more of what goes on around here than we do.” Which for all its unreliability says something about Inmate-dot-com’s uncanny ability to more than occasionally hit upon the truth. When a day later the hygienist was seen being escorted off the yard, head down, dark shades shielding her face, an affair was all but confirmed.

Certainly Jack and I knew of the relationship. As Jay’s closest allies, we were made privy to certain flirtations and innuendos. But even Jack wasn’t aware, rumors aside, of how far the affair had progressed in recent months. In retrospect, what’s remarkable wasn’t Jay’s brazen relationship with an officer but that he should have shared with me the details of the tryst, that we should have shared any of all the things we shared with each other, that we should have been so close in a place where trust and intimacy are so rare.

Jay and I were more than allies. We were workout partners and bunkmates. We were fellow expatriates in a foreign land, and we bonded initially over our shared wonderment. We mocked prison, the officers, the other inmates. We poked fun at prison politics and joked that we ought to found our own affiliation based not on race or hometown but on the candidate’s holding a college diploma.

Jay himself had been taking correspondence courses for a doctorate in counseling. His dissertation, ironically, was on sex addiction. His locker was filled with dog-eared tomes on psychology, theology, philosophy, and on human sexuality. Jay claimed he was bisexual; an experience with a childhood friend when he was eleven left an impression that lasted into adulthood. I scoffed: “Letting your wife fuck you with her dildo doesn’t make you bisexual.” I told him that as a gay man I resented popular culture for deciding that sexual deviation was suddenly cool. Proclivities aside, I maintained that sexuality is more practically defined by who you eventually wind up with, who you love.”

“Love has nothing to do with it,” Jay said. “We’re capable of falling in love with whomever. If you and I were on a deserted island, I’d just as easily fall in love with you.”

We discussed everything; nothing was off limits. Not even the reason for our incarceration. Our collecting habits, we learned, weren’t all that different. Jay had kept his hoard of some 10,000 images and videos organized by age, whereas I’d kept mine, half that size, arranged by names. When haunting file-sharing networks, Jay’s ritual was to search in ascending order from “2yo” to “14yo,” while I searched in descending order from “14yo” to “9yo.” Jay’s favorite series was “Vicki”; mine was “Florian.”

We discussed child pornography with the same enthusiasm and nostalgia with which the convicted drug dealers discuss the hustle. We worked ourselves to arousal, unloading our most prurient interests, recollecting our most prized and perverse acquisitions, and waxing romantically on the beauty in juxtaposition: dominance and subservience, experience and innocence, caretaker and child.

“I love incest,” Jay said.

“Incest is great,” I agreed. “You should put that in your dissertation.”

In our more sober moods we dared to probe the nature of our addiction. We wondered if pornography itself weren’t a kind of drug, if watching is the same as participating, if there exists such a thing as a victimless crime. One evening Jay pulled from the many books in his locker Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and opened to a passage he’d marked earlier.

“‘The question is,'” he read, “‘am I a monster, or am I myself a victim?'”

After a stretch of silence I asked Jay if we were pedophiles.

“Yes,” he replied. And I recall feeling no shame. On the contrary, I felt relieved.

With all that we entrusted each other with, it wasn’t surprising that Jay should have divulged to me the details of his affair with Miss Hill. From a cleaning I’d had months earlier I remember her as a masked hovering figure, blue-eyed and freckled, gentle with the floss. Jay further elaborated: she had a pierced naval and a sweep of stars trailing across her hip and down below her panties, of whose cut and color he’d comment on daily.

“G-string today,” he’d say. “Red.”

It became our custom at the end of every evening to hold a rap session in which Jay would spill all that had transpired in the clinic that day. Lying together on his bunk eating pork rinds, he’d tally the kisses and close calls and estimate the number of times Miss Hill had come. His efforts at pleasuring her were often hampered by her keys. The belt was always in the way, getting caught in the elastic waistband of her scrubs, all the while jangling and ringing something awful. Jay called it her chastity belt. Strangely, she refused to ever take it off. It was the one rule that as an officer she would not break, as if unclipping it might have made her transgressions all the more real and intractable.

I suspect it was the belt that finally exposed the couple. Two days prior to his detainment, Jay and Miss Hill had been in the stockroom fooling around when Nurse Wilburn breezed in on some errand.

“Yoo-hoo!” she cried. “Where’s everybody at?”

Had her tone registered suspicion or cheerful ignorance? Jay could not recall.

“Oh, we’re here in the back”—Jay smoothed his smock and wiped the wetness from his beard—”just doing a bit of inventory.”

And what had been Wilburn’s reply? Had she said anything at all? Again, Jay could not remember. He’d been lost in Miss Hill and in the subsequent scramble to dress. Miss Hill’s belt had cried out like a chicken being strangled by a mongoose. In that evening’s rap session, Jay expressed concern over the noise. It’s likely the ringing keys gave the lovers away.

Were they indeed lovers?

In a note she slipped him, Miss Hill questioned the meaning of their affair, where they were headed, why she should find herself so ridiculously and infuriatingly drawn to a man she could not have, not fully anyway. She signed the letter, anonymously, with a grade-school yet touching heart. More than once I asked Jay if he loved her. His answers were always flippant: “I’m just having a good time,” he’d say. “I’m just in it for the fun.”

Certainly Jay was boisterous about his relationship with Miss Hill. But I didn’t know him to be callous. I suspect his feelings for the hygienist, having steeped and mulled in the two years they’d worked together, were much warmer than he was willing to admit. He’d slip candies in her desk, leave idle notes in her purse wishing her a good night and safe drive home. Once he plucked for her a blossom from the rose bush outside the chow hall. And yet I’m not convinced Jay was in love. Rather I believe that what drew Jay to Miss Hill was that she, that anyone, should be drawn to him, a convict, a sex offender, a self-professed pedophile. He was astonished when one afternoon she pulled out her wallet and showed him pictures of her two young daughters. Before leaving the clinic that day, Jay stood in her office doorway and thanked her.

“For what?” she asked.

“For not seeing me as an inmate. For not being afraid to show me those pictures.”

She looked up from her desk, suddenly stern. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “You messed up, is all. Everybody messes up.”

That afternoon of Jay’s disappearance I returned to the bunk we once shared and sat on his bare mattress. His locker was empty. All the books he’d collected and annotated were gone, with the exception of one. He’d given it to me days earlier, insisting I read it. I pulled it out then and turned to the passage he’d highlighted.

‘And what if I am a victim? In proposing to the object of my passion to elope with me to America or Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest respect for her and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why, probably, I was doing more harm to myself than anyone!’

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Mascots

Before the roadrunner came into our lives there was the skunk, whose feather duster tail could often be seen surfacing from the tall grass behind the library like a periscope. We presumed him male and assigned him familiar vices. Our skunk was a carouser, a gambler, a lover of women. He drank Jim Bean. Sadly, the staff did not share our affection. A trap was set, and in the morning we woke to find our skunk penned inside a cage on the library lawn, his tail extruding through the wire mesh like cheese through a grater. I thought of Russian nesting dolls: a cage within a cage within a cage.

Our newest mascot caused a stir when it arrived shortly after the New Year. Officer Parsons, peering out from the recreation shack, saw a mob of inmates gathered in front of the chapel and mistook the commotion for a fight. With one hand poised atop his radio he jogged toward the scuffle but found at its center not two dueling prisoners but a single bird crouched in the grass, its head tilted toward the sparrows tittering in the chapel’s silvery birch. Officer Parsons’ hand relaxed.

“A roadrunner,” someone said.

“But how did it get in?” said another inmate.

“Why, he flew of course.”

“Roadrunners can fly?”

“Sure they can. Just not very high. Like chickens.”

The inmates turned their gazes toward the twelve-foot fence trimmed in razor wire and then, enviously, back to the bird.

Like with our beloved skunk, we presumed the roadrunner a he. Jack however argued the bird was clearly female, on account of its diminutive size and lack of a pluck. Jack after all has some experience in these matters. He used to deal exotic pets, when he wasn’t dealing dope, and he claims to have once witnessed a roadrunner eating a house cat.

“It was yay tall,” he said, “and in its beak I saw a strip of orange fur. I couldn’t for the life of me think of any Texas-native animal with an orange pelt. And then I realized, my god, it’s eating a tabby.”

Jay leaned into my ear. “He’s full of shit. He was high and watching Loony Tunes.”

It’s true Jack has a penchant for telling incredible tales, everything from viscous animal attacks to machinery mishaps, bar room brawls to parking lot shootouts. But as fantastical as his stories are, I tend to believe that a man who’s spent most of his adult life in the company of drug dealers, burnouts, motorcycle gangsters, and crack whores can’t help but accumulate a vast collection of colorful stories.

“I suppose it’s possible,” I said, offering him the benefit of a doubt. “The encyclopedia says roadrunners are ‘opportunistic omnivores.'”

Jack laughed. “So are inmates.”

The inmate population here at Big Spring FCI has seen a sharp drop in the past year, falling from over 1,700 inmates to just under 1,100. The dorms are littered with vacant bunks and stripped mattresses. Lockers sit empty, robbed by other inmates of their shelves and hooks. Many men were shipped elsewhere due to overcrowding. Some elected to participate in distant drug abuse programs that would allow them up to a year off their sentences. Others have gone home. Henderson is scheduled to release to a halfway house this week and talks incessantly about such things as bus fare, itineraries, identification papers, and job interviews. Here in prison Henderson has earned his living and reputation as milk man. Every morning he wakes at quarter till six to smuggle milk from the chow hall to the dorm, where he keeps the pint-sized pouches on ice beneath his bed and sells them for a stamp a piece. What will he do in the free world? We know of Henderson in only one context, that of inmate, and cannot fathom him a civilian, working nine to five, clocking in and out, spending his Sunday mornings not stuffing his trousers with milk but sitting at his kitchen table paying bills and balancing a checkbook.

Do people still use checkbooks?

Someone asked Henderson, somewhat cheekily, what sort of job a meth addict with no prior work experience expected to find. Henderson got defensive.

“I worked when I was out there!” he cried. “I worked, I did! I worked twenty-three, twenty-five hours a day!”

Those of us left behind console ourselves by waging bets on who will return. The odds are always in our favor.

Earlier in the week we said goodbye to another character, Joe Dirt, so named for his scruffy resemblance to the star redneck in the film by the same name. Two days before his release he astonished us by shaving his iconic beard. More astonishing was that he was handsome, his eyes blue and kind. Given teeth he’d be a real looker. I asked Jack why the prison never fitted him for dentures.

“They did. He sold them.”

“He sold his teeth? But why?”

“Because he’s Joe Dirt. A better question is who in hell buys another man’s teeth?”

Joe Dirt could sell just about anything, and did, but his primary hustle was pornography. If Henderson was the milk man, Joe Dirt was the porn man. He kept his wares in a beat up photo album and sold each picture for a stamp, two if it was explicit. A seasoned salesman, he conducted all transactions with the utmost discretion, never judging, never batting an eye, not even at the more unusual requests for transvestites and women with braces. But despite his hustling prowess, Joe Dirt never had dirt, was always bumming a soup or coffee off his neighbors. His locker, when we ransacked it, was an echo chamber. He had no money and, to our limited knowledge, no family. I wondered aloud what Joe Dirt would have worn on the journey back to Pennsylvania, seeing as he had no one to send him street clothes.

“Blue jean,” Jack said. “They’d have given him some cheap jeans and a T-shirt. They don’t let you leave here in your khakis.”

I imagined Joe Dirt in his American Glories, staring out the Greyhound window, his blue eyes reflecting back at him like pale moons in the noon sky, marveled, frightened.

“He’ll be back,” Jack said. “Guys like Joe who have nothing to go home to always come back.”

The inmate population has thinned and no affiliation has been more affected than the good old white boys. Their numbers and consequently their clout have dwindled, not so much because of transfers or releases but because of treachery. It seems every month a charlatan—an undercover snitch or child molester—is discovered among their ranks, much to the delight of the confirmed sex offenders who often joke that the good old white boys aren’t as good as they claim themselves to be. The white dominion took another blow, literally, when a disagreement over televisions spurred a fight between the whites and West Texas Hispanics. The Mexicans easily overpowered the whites, cornering them in the TV room, locks swinging. For those able to escape, a second wave of Mexicans awaited them in the hall. The white shot caller ran through the dorm calling to arms every and all good white boys. An SO was said to have shouted back over the ruckus, “Let me know when you find one!”

That night seven whites were taken to the hole, and three were sent to the hospital. One man is rumored to possibly lose an eye.

Jay said the TV room was a mess after the incident, with crimson spattered on the floor and on walls and in chairs. As a blood spill orderly, Jay is trained in the cleanup of bodily fluids. It was the second time in a month he’s had to glove up, the first being when a Hispanic man sliced open his own arm with a razor in the bathroom. Jay, who isn’t one for sentimentality, took to calling the blade-happy Hispanic man Zorro.

“How’s Zorro doing? Is he still on suicide watch?”

“My shift isn’t until tomorrow,” I said. I’d been looking forward to seeing the hot-blooded Latin in a smock. “And technically he’s Puerto Rican. Zorro was Spanish.”

“Whatever. He’s lame is what he is, cutting himself over a gambling debt. Didn’t even hit an artery. Couldn’t even kill himself right.”

I never did get the opportunity to see Zorro in the buff; he was released from watch just short of my shift. Later at the debriefing we reviewed his internment with the psychologist and that prior of an elderly Native American who suffered a long list of depressing aliments including a gimpy leg, poor eye sight, and total deafness in one ear. A threat to public safety, for sure. After having refused his breakfast that morning, I asked the man if he wouldn’t like to eat lunch.

“What!”

“Your lunch, sir. It’s arrived,” I said loudly. “Would you like a sandwich?”

“I’d rather have a rope!”

I opened the brown bag. Inside were two slices of bread, a slice of cheese, and two apple halves, all wrapped in paper towels, as plastic is a potential choking hazard.

“I’m sorry. No rope,” I said. “But look—a cookie.”

The old man relented and allowed the nurse to pass him his food through the cage door’s bean slot. Like the milk Henderson steals from the chow hall, the juice too comes in pouches. The nurse attempted to tear through the plastic, but it was thick and her nude-lacquered nails kept slipping from the condensation. She considered going in search of scissors.

“Your teeth,” I said. “You have to bite it.”

She placed one end of the pouch between her teeth and bit down gingerly as a mother bites a stray thread from a child’s coat.

“Is this how you guys do it?” she asked, not unkindly.

“Yes, I think you’ve got it.”

But the puncture was too small and the juice dribbled watery pink into the Styrofoam cup for what seemed a life sentence.

“It takes practice,” I said.

At the debriefing we reviewed the usual laundry list of concerns. The psychologist reminded us that the lights in the watch room must remain at full brightness, that our log entries should be concise and objective, that our charge’s face and hands should remain visible at all times. The doctor also raised an important change in procedure. Should the inmate try to harm himself, the provided phone will now automatically ring Control, no need to dial zero.

“By the way,” she said, her tone brightening. “Has anyone seen this roadrunner?”

We roused at the mention of our new mascot.

“Positively terrifying!” she cried. “It decapitated a ground squirrel outside my office.”

Indeed the roadrunner has amassed a reputation for ferocity. Its bloodlust draws scores of inmates and staff alike. It was the crowd that first caught my attention and not the bird itself, which was rather drab, hardly larger than a pigeon, and nothing at all as I’d imagined. But what our mascot lacks in ornamentation it makes up for in speed and cunning. On spindly legs it slinked toward a host of sparrows and hunkered down behind a lip of pavement. Its tail teetered in the wind, testing currents, calculating geometries. Like giddy school children we held our breath and pressed our noses to the bell jar.

When the attack came the roadrunner did not as one might expect reach for the closest morsel but instead hedged all bets and plunged headlong into the flock, beak snapping at every opportunity. It emerged from the feathery froth victorious with a flinching sparrow in its jaws. We cheered.

“That roadrunner one bad motherfucker!”

“A stone-cold killer, that roadrunner!”

The roadrunner retired to the shade of an aloe vera to pluck clean its meal. Gray down flitted past my legs, tickling my ankles, to collect along the fence line. Within minutes the dead sparrow was as naked as a newborn mouse. Unlike the savagery of the hunt, the consummation was a solemn, almost religious occasion. With delicacy and reverence the roadrunner took up the soft body in its beak, tilted its head, shivered, swallowed. Though unlikely, someone claimed to have seen the tiny bird still moving in its final moments.

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Pageant

A faux fir stands trimmed in silver garland and twinkling lights in the Vocations Department. Crimson poinsettias deck the Food Service Management classroom. Meanwhile in the dormitories the bulletin boards have been lined with shimmering gift wrap, on top of which are posted various announcements. A notice from Commissary informs us that Christmas cards are sold out. A menu from Food Service promises Cornish hen for the holiday dinner. A message from the Bureau of Prisons, scribed in both English and in Spanish, implores us to report incidents of sexual assault to executive staff, while another multilingual bulletin directs us to report suspected suicidal ideation among our peers to Psychology.

Stapled atop the tessellated ornaments and candy canes, and beside the handmade sign offering a reward for a lost set of headphones, another flier announces the return of the annual Christmas pageant. Jay induced me to go, promising there’d be cookies.

The chapel was packed come Christmas Eve. All chairs as far back as the baptism pool were filled, and extra seating had to be arranged off the pulpit near the band. The keyboardist donned a white bed sheet and cardboard wings. Behind the microphones a black and a Mexican man crooned a jazzed up version of “O Holy Night.”

“Quite a turn out,” Jay said. “Looks like every SO on the compound showed up tonight.”

I turned in my seat. Sure enough the audience was almost entirely sex offenders. I recognized several men from my fitness class, including the instructor, who was sipping punch beside the Christmas tree. According to the program most of the performers and stagehands themselves were SO’s, as was the playwright, Deejay Castellon, a former disc jockey serving time for molestation. It isn’t that these misfits seek God so much as they seek His hospitality; the church is one of the few places where the sex offenders are welcome, if only because the more dominant affiliations have no practical use for religion.

The outcasts applauded as the opening act came to a close and an accordion partition was drawn across the pulpit, creating an informal backstage. Bailey, who had enlisted in the pageant only after another stagehand dropped out at the last minute, tried his best to maneuver the unwieldy contraption. Meanwhile a second crew member dragged a podium to the center of the floor, on top of which sat an old rotary. The phone rang from somewhere overhead. The keyboardist cum angel rose from behind his instrument to take the call.

“Hello. Angel Assignment Headquarters. Merry Christmas . . . Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir . . . It will be done according to Your will.”

Just then a second angel emerged from behind the partition, played by a bearded, ruddy-faced sex offender known among the merrily self-degrading SO crowd as Pedo Clause. “Good morning, chief,” he said. “Angel Mitchell checking in. No occurrences to report; all quiet on my watch. Was that the phone I heard?”

The archangel set the receiver in its cradle and explained that the Most High had chosen him, Angel Mitchell, for a very important assignment. “At precisely 8:21 A.M. you and your charge John will come into brief contact with one Joe Smith, whose life is scheduled to end at 2:53 P.M.”

Pedo Clause clasped his rosy cheeks. “That’s so sad! And on Christmas too!”

The archangel nodded. “Your assignment is to get your man John to witness to Joe at the bus stop. It will be the last opportunity for Joe to hear the gospel before he dies.” The chief waggled his finger. “But remember the enemy will be on the defense against any attempt to rob him of his prize, so stay on guard.”

The PA clicked on: “And now a message from our sponsors.”

Bailey took his cue and proceeded in manhandling the partition while Pedo Clause absconded with the podium. The archangel resumed his place behind the keyboard. A haunting organ riff emanated from the instrument as the partition was jerked aside to reveal the backstage on fire. Standing amidst the smoke and flame projections was Satan, who appeared in the form of a curly-haired sex offender named Carlson.

“Hi,” Carlson said. “I’m Satan, and I’m inviting you to my annual fire sale.”

Carlson fiddled nervously with his horns.

“That’s right, folks. I’m selling slightly-used goods at low, low prices, all obtained from knuckleheads who thought they could take it with them.” He motioned to a table laid out with various props. “You like money? I’ve got thousands here, barely singed, and available to you for pennies on the dollar. Electronics your thing? I’ve got deeds to houses and titles to cars. And here’s a real collector’s item—an authentic German Luger.”

It was the one prop the prison staff absolutely would not let the inmates replicate, no matter how inconceivable its fabrication. For this, Carlson fashioned his hand into the shape of a pistol and pressed it lovingly to his chest.

“No job? No credit? No problem! Perhaps you have a soul you wouldn’t mind trading.” The Luger went off, startling the audience. “That’s Satan’s fire sale, across the Lake of Fire. Hurry now for the hottest deals in town!”

I tapped Jay on the elbow. “This is better than a Charlie Brown Christmas special.”

Bailey sealed off the pits of hell and the stage was again transformed, this time from fire and brimstone to a sunny bus stop where two strangers sat reading newspapers. Neither pedestrian noticed the angel standing over the older man’s shoulder.

“Listen to me, John,” said Pedo Clause leaning into his charge’s ear. “That man needs to hear the good news that Jesus saves. You’ve met him here many times before. Don’t you think it’s time you told him about Jesus?”

John, a child pornographer, stared down the middle aisle as if considering his subconscious. He turned to his fellow commuter. “Any good news?”

“I’m sorry?”

“In the paper—anything good?”

“Oh, same as always,” the young man said. “Nothing but bad.”

“Yes,” said John sighing theatrically, “the world seems to be getting worst all the time. Makes you wonder what it’s all coming down to, doesn’t it?”

The two men had just begun introducing themselves when Satan came careening around the partition, inadvertently smacking his pitchfork against the leg of a front row seat. Carlson took his place behind the younger man, opposite Pedo Clause. “So!” he cried. “My source was right! Trying to steal what’s mine, huh?”

“It’s still open season!” Pedo Clause shot back.

“He’s mine, and he’s going to stay that way. So just make like a cigarette and butt out.”

“Fat chance, wormwood. We’ve already got him hooked.”

Unaware of the angel and demon bickering at their backs, John proceeded to preach the Word of God to Joe. He told Joe about the bondages of sin, about the peace that comes from knowing God, and about the eternal life He’s promised for those who believe.

“Don’t listen to him, Joe!” Satan hissed. “He’s one of those fanatics like you see on TV.”

Joe wavered. “I don’t know. Who says He even cares? Every day I read in the newspaper about earthquakes and plane crashes, murder and terrorism.”

The angel countered by prompting John to recall what he’d read in his morning devotional.

“Death,” John recited, “is the penalty man pays for having sinned against God.”

“But why doesn’t God do something about it, especially at Christmas?”

“He did. He sent His only Son to suffer the penalty on the cross so that we may be forgiven.”

Pedo Clause looked at his watch. Frantically he pulled from his bed sheet a cell phone and stabbed at its cardboard buttons. “Hello, Headquarters? Angel Mitchell here. We have an emergency situation. Joe is under strong conviction, but the bus is due any second. We need more time!”

A homosexual inmate wearing a stripped tie interrupted just then and asked us if our sins were the color of scarlet. He asked if our souls were sodden by transgression. “If you answered yes, you need new and improved Holy Spirit Soap! It brightens! It whitens! It removes even the toughest sin stains with its active ingredient—salvation!” When we returned from the commercial, the angel was praying, Satan was biting his nails, and Joe’s resistance was beginning to wane.

“I wish I could have peace,” he said. “Lately I’ve been so lonely and depressed. My life seems so empty.”

John touched the younger man’s shoulder. “Until you have Jesus in your heart, you’ll never know the fulfillment of peace. He’s the only One who can give your life real meaning.”

The angel’s phone went off and a faraway voice over the loudspeaker announced that an angel in the vicinity had successfully delayed the bus with an engine problem. Pedo Clause slapped the mock phone shut and pumped his fist.

“Today is the day of salvation,” John continued. “Don’t turn Him away. Jesus said, ‘Behold, I stand at the door and knock.'”

Carlson brandished his pitchfork. “Don’t do it!” he cried.

“I want to do it,” Joe said, “but I don’t know how.”

“Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved. Confess your sinfulness to God and ask Jesus to live inside you. Would you like to pray that with me now?”

Carlson gnashed his teeth and beat his fists on the floor, his horns slipping down his forehead.

“Man, I’d love that,” Joe said. And the two men, oblivious to Satan’s distress, joined hands and bowed their heads.

The audience applauded. The cast and crew assembled in front of the partition. Joining them was the playwright and former deejay Castellon, who assumed center stage under the guise of a hapless naif called “Eugene,” an alter ego of Castellon’s invention and one I imagine he summoned often on his radio program. With his inmate khakis hiked up and his Buddy Holly glasses pinching the top of his nose, Eugene waved enthusiastically to the audience causing his Santa hat to fall into his face. The sex offenders laughed, for in addition to his absurdity we recognized in Eugene’s bespectacled bewilderedness our own sense of displacement.

Behind Eugene the company made a show of clearing their throats before launching into the pageant’s final act, an inmate rendition of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

“On the first day of Christmas a CO gave to me—first place at com-mis-sa-ry!”

The choir paused and Eugene, looking crestfallen, reached into his pocket and held up a red commissary ticket. “But I was first in line!” he cried. The ticket read “102.”

The song continued with each day of Christmas revealing some fresh iniquity of prison life: the pettiness of inmates, the incompetence of staff, the tedium of bureaucracy. The audience roared.

“On the fifth day of Christmas the Laundry gave to me—five-XL boxers!”

Eugene pulled out an enormous pair of white underwear and shook it out like a tarpaulin. “Are those skid marks?”

The next day Eugene was assigned a new bunkmate called “Killer.” On the ninth day he was reprimanded with nine hours’ extra duty for feeding the ground squirrels. My sides were splitting by the last day when all twelve of Eugene’s Christmas cards were returned by the mailroom for his use of the abbreviation “FCI” in the return address; policy requires that “Federal Correctional Institution” be spelled out.

Eugene bowed. The angels curtsied. Satan speared the oversized boxer shorts and waved them over his head in surrender. Every sex offender—every pedophile, voyeur, collector, pervert, queer, and freak—took to his feet to cheer, myself included. Jay remained where he was however, doubled over on the floor, his hands gripping his stomach. “It’s true!” he said, tears streaming down his face. “It’s funny because it’s so true!”

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Remediation

No one seems able to agree on how the custom of knocking on the mess hall tables got started. Some say the practice began in state prisons where inmates, pressed to eat quickly, exchanged knocks in place of formal pleasantries. Some argue that apart from expediency, knocking discouraged men from talking with their mouths full. Yet others claim that originally one knocked to be granted permission before joining a table. Today knocking is an optional courtesy by which men excuse themselves from the meal. For those of us who observe it, the custom has become so deeply ingrained that we’ve mused whether it might follow us when we leave prison. Imagine rising from a meal and mindlessly knocking on the family dinner table. From what other bizarre behaviors will we have to break ourselves? Someone once told me that his stepfather continued for years after prison to live a Spartan life, owning only a single spoon, cup, and bowl.

Bailey nodded as he passed, oatmeal in hand, and took a seat at an adjacent empty table. I knocked and gathered my coat and tray to join him.

“The remediation was yesterday,” he said when I sat down. “She took everything—the house, the cars, the savings. She’s allowing me ten grand and my old tools, except the power washer. She says she’ll need that to get the house ready to sell by March.” Bailey’s hands fluttered over his tray, rearranging his breakfast. He moved the apple halves from the left- to right-hand slot and swapped his cup between the opposing corner hollows. His fingers trembled as he unraveled his spoon from his paper napkin.

“Twelve years we were married. We had a daughter together. I raised her two kids from her first marriage like they were my own. And from that I walk away with a few grand and some tools. ‘What am I supposed to do with tools?’ I asked her. She said I’ll have my family to care for me when I get out. I’ll be fifty then. I don’t need my elderly parents supporting me into my fifties.” He picked up his milk, set it back down. “I want to quit.”

He looked up then, perhaps remembering my participation in the suicide watch program, and my obligation to report troubling behavior.

“But I won’t,” he added. “I won’t quit.”

Such fatalistic language is a strong indicator of suicidal ideation. At this past week’s quarterly training we reviewed this and some of the more subtle symptoms of suicidal intent, which can include giving away possessions and losing interest in once pleasurable activities. A sudden shift from overwhelming despair one day to extreme joy the next is another sign that a person might be thinking of offing himself. Dr. Blatt reminds us that when speaking of suicide, “offing” is not one of the preferred terms prescribed in the Bureau of Prison’s Suicide Prevention for Inmate Companions handbook. Neither is it acceptable to say “committed” suicide, as it sounds criminal, or “completed” suicide, as death is not a goal to be encourage. Rather, when saying that someone has bit the bullet (also not a preferred term), we are directed to use the neutral and rather fussy formulation “death by suicide.”

One of the companions, Ledbetter, raised his hand. It’s true, he said, that joy can sometimes preempt suicide; he himself recalled feeling relieved after he’d settled on the decision to kill himself.

For those of us whose attentions had wandered, we were unsure whether we’d heard him correctly. A few of us had likely been transfixed by the drug posters hung about the classroom. One provocative image showed a young woman’s heroine-addled body overlaid with cutaways of her diseased gums, shriveled liver, and elephant-gray vulva. I’d been straining toward the handsome youth on the methamphetamine poster, hoping I might see penis, but Ledbetter’s head was in the way. He went on, recounting to the class how prior to his suicide attempt he gave away all his most prized possessions, finalized his will, even tidied up the house so as not to be a burden to the survivors. The classroom’s old grade-school desks creaked uneasily. Dr. Blatt seemed at a loss.

“How did you do it?” I wondered aloud.

“Hanging,” he said.

Later during the break, Ledbetter told me that it was by divine intervention he survived. He doesn’t know exactly what happened after he blacked out, but when he came to, it was to find he’d somehow regained a foothold atop the overturned paint bucket, which had miraculously righted itself.

Suicide, Dr. Blatt tells us, accounts for about 40,000 deaths per year in the U.S., a figure roughly double that of homicide. More women attempt suicide than men, but men more often die from their attempts because they tend to choose more lethal means. The resolute male reaches for rope and hot lead, whereas the fainthearted female dallies with razors and pills. At least this was my interpretation of the statistic, as it left me feeling emasculated for once having fancied downing a bottle of aspirin my first week in Mississippi. I had made the mistake of mentioning this remote fantasy in a monitored phone call and promptly found myself sitting across from the prison’s chief psychologist.

“Do you know what swallowing a bottle of aspirin would do to you?” he asked. His office had been entirely bare except for a photograph of a cat taped to the wall behind his desk. I asked him about the picture, but he sidestepped and instead delved into what fascinating significance might be gleaned from my feline fixation. Somehow I doubted he owned any cat.

“Swallowing a bottle of aspirin wouldn’t kill you,” he continued. “It would only make you sick. It would make you so devastatingly and irreversibly sick that you’d wish you had never swallowed a bottle of aspirin. Do you understand?”

I stared over his shoulder, still miffed about the cat. “So you’re saying I should choose a better method.”

There was one other photograph in the doctor’s office, this one properly framed and hung near the door. It was of an aerial view of a maximum-security USP, a multi-tiered neoclassical fortress of whitewashed columns and arches, where the doctor had once worked.

“Now that was a prison,” he said, implying my then current residence was a country club by comparison.

“Do you want to know what your problem is?” he asked.

I was certain I did not.

“Your problem is that you are very self-centered. You say you hate this place, say you don’t know what the point is or what to do with yourself, indulge in these destructive fantasies. You do realize it’s not all about you? He leaned forward in his chair. “I understand that prison can be especially difficult for people who are intelligent; this place can be as intellectually incarcerating as it is physically. But rather than thinking about yourself all the time, you might try thinking about others. There are plenty of men here who haven’t had the benefit of an education as you have. Maybe you could lend them a hand.”

I wasn’t pleased to be pinned the self-absorbed brat that I most certainly was. I left the doctor and his dumb cat feeling triumphant that I was indeed misunderstood, downtrodden—the victim. When subsequently I signed on as a tutor, it wasn’t because I genuinely desired to help people but because it beat washing dishes in the mess hall. When I volunteered for suicide watch, it wasn’t because I wanted to save anyone’s life but because I thought the experience would be, in some vague way, interesting. The extra cash didn’t hurt either.

Surely it was by this lack of earnestness that I proved no brilliant tutor. None of the men I taught earned his GED, and I quit after a year, citing the job was “thankless.” Nor have I exactly been a leader in the cause of suicide prevention. I space out during watches, I avoid talking to the participants whenever possible, and once during a particularly boring shift I wandered off to the bathroom to masturbate.

At least a few companions have expressed similar ambivalence toward suicide watch. The complaint was again raised during training that the inmates placed on watch aren’t really suicidal. “Most of them are just faking it,” one companion said. It’s true some inmates only pretend to want to hurt themselves because they think they might gain something: sympathy, attention, resolution to some perceived injustice, a transfer to a posh medical facility. Dr. Blatt reminded us that it isn’t the companion’s duty to assess the intentions of the inmate on watch. To do so could compromise the inmate’s safety.

“You must remain vigilant,” she said, “regardless of whether you think the inmate is faking it. You don’t want to risk someone hurting himself because you made a faulty assumption.”

I wondered if I wasn’t making a faulty assumption about Bailey. Would he really quit? Throw in the towel? Sell the farm? (More nonpreferable terms.) I downed the last sip of my coffee and wadded my napkin. I decided to let the remark fly. Impassioned haste, I reasoned. It was getting late, besides, and I had clothes to drop off before the Laundry Department closed. How can I save other people’s lives when I’m busy trying to save my own?

I pulled my hat over my head and gathered my tray. As I reached for my coat, Bailey’s hand shot across the table and squeezed my fingers. It was a clumsy, self-conscious gesture.

“Thank you for sitting with me,” he said.

I knocked on the table. “It’s no problem.”

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Comrades

It wasn’t the softly shuddering rain that woke me but the scraping of steel legs on concrete. A leak, cold and black in the dark, had sprung over someone’s bed. Throughout the dorm men pushed their bunks clear of the drips, stripped their mattresses, and set mop buckets in aisles and atop lockers. As we settled back into our dry beds, bars of mute lighting flickered over the room.

As predicted, renovations on the dorms have stalled. For the past month the neighboring unit has sat vacant with ductwork stacked on the floor. It seems the only progress made has been to pull the bunks away from the walls to allow for painting. Not everyone is thrilled with the new color scheme. One man said that the pale blue stripes remind him of a day-care center or nursery. Another man countered that both are apt metaphors for a men’s prison. Elsewhere on the compound, signs of abandonment and neglect catch the eye. Torrential rains have washed out the road to the library. A cracked window pane in the chow hall, struck by an errant pigeon, remains boarded. A trench dug for the purpose of erecting a fence between the upper and lower yards lies enshrined in yellow caution tape, and the road cones have toppled in the wind.

Perhaps it was this raggedness, in collusion with the cooling seasons and shorter days, that made me decide I needed a change of routine. Routine is the bedrock of every inmate’s bid, the pendulum that drives the clock, and lately mine had seemed to have grown stale. A flier in the rec center advertised a fitness class that promised to whip me into the best shape of my life. Jay’s been going since March and suggested I join.

Class meets three nights a week in the gym, a faceless brick box only slightly larger than the basketball court it accommodates. Evening regimens were well underway when I arrived. The sidelines were thick with synthetically-clad men squatting and lunging, pushing and sitting up. All ellipticals were occupied and cranked to maximum tension, and judging by the Rorschach sweatblots on the fronts of their shirts, some of the men were already into their second wind.

Meanwhile on one end of the court a crew of mostly Hispanics warmed up by shooting baskets. Those not playing did push-ups or handstands, and some did push-ups and handstands at the same time. I asked Jay who these titans of Olympia were.

“That’s the other fitness class,” he said. “They’re mostly West Texans and Tango Blasters. We share the same timeslot.”

Across the gym the Hispanics had taken up medicine balls and were hurling them at the floor. The thundering impact made my scrotum tighten. I turned my attention to our side of the court where Jay and I sat stretching alongside eighteen or so other men. Of our own crew, three were over the age of fifty, five were overweight, at least one morbidly so, and four, not including myself, were clearly homosexuals.

“Jay, if those other men are West Texans, who are we?”

Jay lowered his water bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He smiled. “Why, we’re the sex offenders, of course.”

Of course I knew Jay was a sex offender. After a career in the army, where he served as a sniper, Jay entered law enforcement and eventually computer forensics. He was working as an investigator for an online child pornography taskforce when he got busted for hoarding the very contraband he was responsible for policing. When I told Jay that his circumstances were ironic, he laughed. He said that having access to the “goods” aroused an interest, and that even cops can be perverts. I was referring however to the other irony: as an assassin, killing once made Jay a hero; porn turned him into a criminal.

Incidentally our fitness instructor Gabe was a sniper in the marines. He arrived to class donning a shapely King Tut beard and yellowing tank that suggested an unassumingly yet undoubtedly fit body. Gabe too is a sex offender.

“Time to warm up, dickheads!”

“He means comrades,” Jay said.

Across the gym the West Texans were already in the throes of their workout, performing mountain climbers in tidy military formation, legs synchronized and kicking like angry pistons. Their instructor was a compact Mexican with tortoiseshell abs and a hard, menacing ass like a Brahman bull’s. Gabe had us gather around him and start with jumping jacks.

Earlier I had jokingly asked Jay who the weakest link in the class was, so that I might stand beside the poor slob to make myself look better. But after a modest five-minute warm up of jumping jacks, leg kicks, and hammer throws, I realized that poor slob was me. Light-headed and nauseous, I wondered if anyone would notice if I were to grapple along the wall toward the door and slip from the building. My indolence was shameful.

“Line up, assholes!” Gabe cried. “Get ready for bear crawls!”

I say I was the weakest link in the class, but this isn’t entirely true. As the workout progressed, I saw that in a group of geriatrics, overweights, and queers, I was only the fourth least fit. The oldest man trembled on emaciated arms with each push-up. The morbidly obese man they called Gene looked one squat away from death. And young, scrawny gay Allen was clearly doing only half the reps. Gabe left the senior alone and concentrated on terrorizing the others. “Allen, get your dick out of the dirt!” “Move it, Gene, you fat fuck!” Being the new student, Gabe spared me his heckling. Instead he encouraged me, which was far worst. I would rather have had expletives hurled at me and been called a lazy sonofabitch and worthless sack of shit than be cheered for my pathetic efforts. Dragging my limp body across the gym floor, slipping in puddles of sweat and blood blood! my god! who’s bleeding? I could see in my burning peripheral Gabe’s tennis shoes tracking my progress, could hear him shouting at the others: “This is what I want to see! This is the kind of effort I expect from you pussies!” At the halfcourt I collapsed onto my side. Across the gym the West Texans were swooping into dive bombers, bay doors gaping, engines gunning. I mopped the sweat from my eyes and looked up to see Gene standing above me, one hand outstretched, the other pulling his shorts out of his ass. I shooed him away.

“I’ll fine,” I said.

Bear crawls were preceded by gators, followed by dirty dogs, frog hops, scorpions, and inchworms. Then, having exhausted the animal kingdom, Gabe wheeled out a cart of medicine balls and instructed us dickheads to shoot them up against the gym wall. I had a bad experience with a medicine ball once. In Mississippi I got socked in the face with one during an abdominals class. It was my first ever bloodied lip. It was also the first and only time physical harm has ever come to me in prison, and, strangely, it came not at the hands of a yard brute as I had long expected and feared but from six pounds of airborne sand.

Sand, it turns out, is quite heavy. Moreover it is a dead and unsympathetic weight, one as old and unyielding as the earth itself. Through numerous reps we shouldered this ancient burden, heaving it against the wall and catching it in a squat, running in place with it pressed to our chests and raised above our heads, with Gabe all the while hollering insults, demanding we gallop faster, lift our arms higher “Higher, assholes!” I fixed my gaze on the flaming orb suspended above me. The gym’s fluorescents had turned my medicine ball into a solar eclipse, a most perfect black void ringed in fire. Its twilight cooled my face and stilled my breathing. The pain in my arms and in my thighs ebbed momentarily under the influence of its gravity. For a few hushed seconds all raggedness the moldering roads, broken panes, toppled cones, leaky roof everything broken and unloved diminished to a speck no brighter than a terrestrial satellite. It’s no wonder so many men spend their bids in the gym.

The last few minutes of class were reserved for abdominals. What pleasure, after all that flailing, to lie across the grit and filth of the hardwood floor. But leisurely situps and crunches wouldn’t suffice for Gabe. He preferred instead bicycles and sprints and jacks, moves that are challenging enough in a vertical position and made nearly impossible when lying flat. He saved planks for last.

“I swear to God,” Gabe said, “if I see any one of you fuckers touch his knees to the ground, you’ll all be doing push-ups.”

The West Texans meanwhile had wrapped up their workout and were beginning to file out of the gym, stepping over our rigid bodies with looks on their faces that, had I looked up, might surely have registered disgust.

“Allen, get your ass out of the air!”

Allen stiffened beside me. His arms quivered and the cords in his neck bulged.

“Ten seconds! Don’t you quit!”

Across from me Jay stared straight down, jaw clenched, nose inches from the ground. Gene’s belly barely cleared the floor.

“Five seconds!”

Allen crumpled. Gabe, spitting and snarling, leapt to his feet. We would pay, he cried, the whole sorry lot of us would pay, with push-ups, one for each position of every letter in Allen’s name. Allen was too exhausted to show remorse or shame, and we his comrades, his fellow dickheads, sympathized too much to begrudge him. Without complaint we assumed position and paid our penance. And when Allen was the last man left struggling on the floor, we returned to the court, dropped beside him, and finished the last of his forty-four push-ups together.

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