So I am writing about my time in jail…
On the van ride over to the jail I was astounded at the casualness that some of the fellow riders were showing towards their future incarceration. Phrases like “Fantasy Island” were used and conversations about the chow hall menu ran around the back of the van. I stayed silent, and no one spoke to me. These guys were used to this kind of life, and as I would learn, it was an integral part of the world in which they lived. It was becoming apparent that jail was a step up in the world and a definite improvement over a cold and wet January on the streets. They would be fed, receive free medical treatment, sleep well, have clean clothes, cable TV, etc…No hassles. It was obvious that I came from a different, more privaledged, world. In my world no one starved or was forced to live outside or ever went without. This was a step in the wrong direction, I thought. But in the grand scheme of things I was able to remain fully accountable for my actions and served my time well. But I’m jumping ahead…
The van arrived at the jail and we unloaded into a holding area, with 2 large glassed in cells and a large desk with several Sheriff’s Deputies (COs [Correctional Officers]) at the ready. I was led to the desk and my paperwork was handed over to the CO in charge. It turned out that “2 years” meant “2 years, non-mandatory” which meant that if I worked hard and kept my nose clean, I could be out in 18 months. This was a ray of hope, however dim, suddenly lightening my bleak future. I was brought into a large tile and stainless steel bathroom and ordered to strip. My street clothes were bundled up and placed in a plastic bag, which was labeled. I then signed for the bag and its contents. Still naked, I was made to squat and cough. They looked in my mouth, ears, nose, ass, and between my toes. I suppose there are myriad ways to smuggle contraband. I was then handed a collapsible plastic bin with my new clothes (size large) and all of my bedding. I dressed in the un comfortable and cold clothing, all dark blue, with the letters “BCHC” stenciled on the back of the shirt. The style was essentially hospital scrubs. No pockets or belt loops. I didn’t have sneakers yet so I was given a cheap pair of rubber flipflops which I put on over my socks. Afterwards I was fingerprinted and my eyes were scanned for the optical scan, which is much more precise than a fingerprint. I had a basic medical history taken by a guard, some blood drawn to check for hepatitis, gonnorhea, and other diseases (but not HIV, that they charged for) and then handed my final paperwork. My ID tag was given to me. It was a small rectangular yellow plastic card, like a credit card, with my name, DOB, and inmate number. I was #1229. I was no longer Johnnyboy, or John, or anything else. I had left that identity wadded up with my suit in a clear plastic bag.
I was led to one of the large holding cells and told that if I wanted something to eat, dinner would be around soon. I was suddenly ravenous., so I said OK to that. When it finally arrived, the food was in an amber colored plastic tray with a lid. Inside were 4 compartments. In one was a small pile of overcooked broccoli. In another was a small pile of soggy egg noodles. There was a plastic cup of coffee (decaf), a half-pint of milk, and the piece de la resistance, the entree, baked cod. When I opened the lid of the tray, I almost swooned. The combination of odors from the broccoli and the fish almost killed me, but my mouth watered anyway, and I ate with a need I have yet to experience again. I was truly in a basic survival mode, and needed to eat.
With dinner finished the door opened and I was escorted down a well lit, extremely clean hallway towards what would be my home for the next month, D Pod. D Pod is where the newcomers were taken for final processing until they were able to be sent to one of 3 ‘population’ pods, either E, F, or H. Fate would send me to one of those pods, not my own doing. The large metal door slid open and I was in D Pod, which was painted gray-blue. There were about 40 other guys there, watching TV, playing cards, whatever. I was led to a special cell, where all the recent inmates are taken. It was in direct line of vision with the CO’s desk. It was the suicide watch cell. This was just a precaution. I wasn’t unique in that fact. Soon I would lose all belief in being unique, or different, or special. I would become Inmate # 1229.
The map at the top is a rough sketch. All the pods were laid out the same, so one map suits them all. So until tomorrow…
Inmate #1229