TUBE
A journey through America's prison industrial complex.
One look at me and it's obvious I'm different. It's been that way for as long as I can remember. Actually, it's the first thing I ever knew with any certainty.
I was born in a small factory town in northern Mexico in 1992. A member of the Sony family, and though I've never met my parents I suspect they were very important. The factory I was born in had our family name, in bold letters, all over the place. I even have a birthmark on my back of the family namesake.
They must've been busy too. Our family was HUGE, even by Mexican standards. I couldn't even tell you how many siblings I have. The first time we were all gathered together I was astonished.
There we were, spread out in every direction, as far as the eye could see, marching along like little electronic soldiers. A special floor, that moved on its own, took us from station to station where we had bits and pieces added as we went.
Every stop: tested, prodded, poked, soldered, glued.
At one of the stations, a metal arm with criss-crossing wires reached in my back. A shock ran through my entire body. All of my senses came to life. A loud ringing filled my head; my face literally lit up. Several bright vertical bars of differing color filled my vision. The ringing changed in tones several times.
After a few seconds of this exhilarating experience, the metal arm retracted its wires. The colors and sounds faded. The electrical charge lingered.
I just knew great things were right around the corner.
I watched as, one by one, a never-ending row of my brothers and sisters stopped at the same magical station and were jolted to life.
At the next station we were clothed. Black plastic covers came down from above and were secured over our exposed innards. One after another we were covered with this protective shell leaving nothing but our shiny faces exposed.
This new look was much more sleek and dignified than our exposed nest of crisscrossing wires and crude circuitry.
The anticipation of this new ebony skin was overwhelming. I eagerly watched my siblings receive their dark new magnificent look. I peered up at the waiting shells and counted backwards to pin point which one would be mine. I was fifth in line. As I counted, "one, two, three, four, five..." my heart sank.
There must have been a mistake! The fifth spot was empty!
The floor lurched forward.
I must've counted wrong. I carefully recounted. To my horror, there was no mistake!
The floor moved us ahead.
From this new vantage point I realized I WAS mistaken. The spot wasn't empty, it just appeared that way under the light. There WAS a case in the fifth spot. It was nearly identical to the others in every way but one; it was made of completely clear plastic.
The relentless floor dragged us forward.
The clear case followed above.
Anxiety and fear coursed through my circuit boards. I needed a second to think, a moment to figure it all out.
As I tried to make sense of this madness I was methodically, heartlessly, moved another space closer to tragedy by the sadistic floor.
The translucent husk hovered above me for an instant. My mind reeled, looking for a way out but it was too late. The clear shell was violently forced upon me and secured in place by a swarm of insect-like arms.
I didn't fully understand it at the time but it was becoming painfully clear that SOMETHING important had changed. Maybe forever.
As we marched along, I frantically searched the factory for another clear case.
None.
Everywhere I looked, an army of imposing black. As I passed by, my siblings instinctively recoiled. They acted busy, admiring each other's new duds. Adverted glances and hushed tones.
I caught my reflection in their faces.
I was crushed.
There it was, for all the world to see! Every little wire, dirty electronic chip, and cramped circuit board. For gods sake, you could see my tube!
Any dwindling hope, that I'd managed to maintain, had evaporated. I withdrew into my circuits and let the world happen around me.
I was led through the next few stations without much excitement. Just a few last minute checks, some screws that needed tightening, and a polishing of my screen. I sat there despondently, waiting for it to come to an end.
The floor finally stopped at three shiny metal ramps, all spiraling down in different directions. I came forward enough to see some of my siblings. They looked quite different spinning down the ramps. I could no longer see their faces, or their new black shells. They were all covered in something new, completely flat on all sides.
Exactly the same.
The smallest twinge of hope returned to my wires.
With this new covering no one would know the difference. I slid into the station where my new skin was folded around me. A few small pamphlets were dropped in next to me and I was sealed in darkness.
I sat in this dark new world for quite some time. Muffled noise and the occasional jostling fueled my confusion, and overactive imagination.
In this new quarantine, my thoughts teeter tottered between the most cautious optimism and complete fatalism. Wondering, hoping, anticipating, and fearing what my future might hold.
Had I known then what I know now, I would've savored the quiet calm.
It's hard to gauge the passage of time from inside of a box.
Eventually, both the temperature and the language outside had changed. I was moved, and moved again, until finally coming to rest on a constantly moving surface. Bouncing, shaking, and rocking for what seemed like eternity. Exciting new and, occasionally, terrifying sounds came from every direction.
By the time the commotion came to an end my head was spinning.
I heard faint murmurs. They were the same voices from the factory. From what I gathered, I wasn't the only Sony on this trip. The voices traded stories from the factory where we were born. One of the voices asked about the station with the sleek black cases.
Silence.
I held my breath.
An eternity passed like this until one of the voices whispered, "I got a different shell”.
One by one, the other voices, five in all, said, "Me too," each voice growing in coincidence.
After I was sure that everyone else had spoken up, I followed suit.
We all seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. A refuge in this group of outcasts, our flaws became our bonds.
Our conversations were interrupted by, what sounded like, a door opening somewhere nearby.
Two new voices filled the silence. One was barking orders. The other, not so much. I felt the shuffling of the boxes around me. I caught a few nudging kicks before being hoisted into the air myself. I could now hear these new voices clearly.
"Those three right there, bring 'em over. I'll get the dolly," said the bossy one.
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you," said the other voice.
Me and two of my siblings were moved to the "dolly." Whatever that meant.
"I need someone to sign for these," said the boss.
"Right here, whatcha got for me chief?" asked a third voice.
It's hard to keep up with a conversation when you can't see.
"Three, thirteen-inch Sony TVs... and two ClearTech radios."
"Alright, that should do it...Just leave 'em there by the door."
Shafts of light spilled through the folds of my box dissecting the darkness inside.
I whispered for my brothers, hoping that a few of us were still together.
"Yeah, I'm right here."
"Me too."
We waited.
The voice that signed for us came closer. The sound of heavy keys jingled with its every step. The voice grunted as it hefted us around. "I'll take care of this shit on Monday," it said before leaving.
Once again, we were in that familiar darkness. We sat and talked for hours and hours...mostly about what the future would hold. There in the darkness we forgot about the differences that made us so insecure. We joked around and laughed until the feeling of hope slowly returned.
The "Monday," that the voice with the keys spoke of, must've finally arrived. The distant sound of keys and footsteps grew louder until they were nearly on top of us.
A door openend.
Light again spilled through the creases of my box. The voice, muttering obscenities, kicked at the three of us, apparently, deciding which one of us would go first.
Anxiety surged.
I didn't know much, but I knew I didn't want to be the first to go through whatever awaited us outside of these boxes.
A new voice, this one without the clanking keys, entered the room.
The first voice must've been from the C.O. family. That's how the new voice addressed him.
This C.O. barked orders, and the keyless voice, apparently from the inmate family, carried out the commands.
"Start with the TVs, we gotta get these numbers in 'em before lunch," barked the C.O.
An instant later, I was being hoisted in the air. A hand crudely tore at my precious covering. Rays of light poured in. I was blinded. The groping hands pulled out the pamphlets. I was lifted from my box and placed on a cold metal table. My vision slowly returned. Tools and loose paperwork littered the surface.
The member of the inmate family inspected me. The C.O. read off a set of numbers.
The inmates were clearly the lower of the two families. They dressed in solid drab clothing. This particular inmate had some sort of writing scrawled all over his exposed skin. He seemed capable yet reserved; like the laborers at the factory.
I guessed that the C.O. may have been from a royal bloodline; they sported gaudy jewelry, name plates, epaulettes, and ornate badges of gold and silver. Their clothing too, was more decorated than the inmate's; pockets, pleats, and metal buttons adorned his uniform. A belt hung heavy with gadgets; metal rings, electronic devices, and canisters of differing sizes encircled his loose midsection. And like most of the upper class, he was arrogant and dismissive.
Shelves, lined with boxes of every size, covered the walls. Shoes, TVs, electronic razors, radios, even clothes. All the electronics had the same clear case.
The uniformed vulnerability was oddly comforting.
The inmate slid me near a set of electrical outlets. He plugged in a menacing tool and slipped on a pair of padded gloves. Heat radiated from his weapon. I hoped it wasn't for me. The C.O. again read a set of numbers and, one by one, the inmate seared them into the top of my skull. My plastic sizzled. Permanently disfigured.
The pain was unbearable.
Melting.
I later learned that the markings were my first bunkie's, or "owner," if you want to be degrading about it, prison numbers.
I was slid aside while this barbaric process was repeated on my brothers.
I didn't want to watch.
I couldn't look away.
Afterwards we sat in silence, newly aware of the cruel and novel forms of torture this place could have in store for us.
"Well, start callin' 'em over," declared the C.O.
The inmate left with a list of names.
On the other side of the door lay an entirely new existence; an existence your average television will never know.
I would've fried my circuits long ago if I spent my time asking "why me?" The search for reason in a place like this is ALWAYS insanity.
The appliances that come into this world are meant to have one bunkie/owner for their entire stay, but this is prison; nothing goes according to plan.
Over the years I've had bunkies of all shapes, sizes, colors, and personalities. But only two need be mentioned to paint a picture of my life behind bars: the child molester (my first) and the junkie (my favorite).
The inmate that I was originally ordered by, and branded for, was Clark Wasserman #367545.
At first glance Clark seemed like a decent bunkie—at least I hoped he was. His harmless appearance was, by far, his most flattering quality. Clark stood about 5'8 with a good fifty pounds of extra weight. He wore a pudgy, unkempt, look. Large and diabolically-unflattering state-issued glasses sat perched on an equally unflattering nose.
Definitely an indoor kid.
I would later learn the glasses were unaffectionately termed "cho-mo 3000's" for the pedophiliac look they give anyone unfortunate enough to have to wear them. In Clark's case, the make matched the model.
Clark waddled into the branding room, flashed his ID, and signed a receipt. The C.O. shoved me in his direction. Clark wedged me between his belly and arm and waddled out.
The entire trek back to his cell his head jerked back and forth, scanning the yard for some unknown assailant. We made it back to the unit and down the rock un-assaulted.
We stopped in front of a large steel door. Faded numbers on a hinged metal flap covered a narrow window.
With me tucked awkwardly under his flabby arm, Clark swung the flap open so the C.O.s in the bubble could see the numbers. A startling grinding, that reminded me of the factory, came from the door as it slowly cranked open. We quickly entered. The door automatically closed behind us. Only then did my bunkie seem to relax.
I was placed on a small concrete slab that passed for a desk.
"It's about fuckin' time."
"I know. It took forever," replied Clark.
From my perch I could see every inch of the concrete room. It was no bigger than a shed; two bunk-style beds, two steel foot lockers bolted to the wall, one concrete desk, and one metal toilet/sink combo.
A much more formidable man than Clark sat up on the bottom bunk—to get a better look at me I guess. His skin was covered in similar markings as the guy that branded me.
From the top bunk Clark asked, "K.O., can you hand me the TV?"
"For what? It's staying here on the desk."
"Ha ha, very funny."
K.O. cleared his throat and stared up towards the top bunk.
"Umm..." stammered Clark, "alright...It's probably better down there anyway, that way we can both watch it." He sounded like a man trying to convince himself of something.
"Get a cable cord from the C.O.," ordered K.O.
Clark did what he was told and soon returned with a cord.
"Give it to me." K.O. grabbed the cord and hooked me up to the wall. He did the same with my power cord.
The next thing that happened would be a defining moment in my short life.
He pushed one of my buttons and, like the station at the factory, I surged with electricity. But this time something was different. As I crackled to life, a new energy, complete with pictures and sound, surged through my circuits, up my wires, and burst onto my screen.
CABLE TELEVISION!...It was a game changer.
Everything I know, outside of prison life, I learned from cable television. A truly American education.
Unfortunately, however, I'm limited to my bunkie's tastes.
In those first few weeks with Clark we watched a lot of reality shows; shows that revolved around the perpetually angry, and deeply disappointed, mothers who were trying to mold their poor daughters into dancers, gymnasts, or child beauty queens. Every time K.O. returned, Clark would immediately change the channel to something more aggressive, like an action movie, a football game, or Fox News.
Clark spent nearly every minute, of every day, in the cell with me, while K.O. seemed to enjoy a busy and active life outside of our little room. I think Clark felt safe huddled in the small confines of our cell, hidden behind the safety of a thick steel door. Every time the door shuttered, Clark would jump to see what threat would be revealed. Life behind bars was not easy for Clark.
One day, while he was flipping through channels—no doubt, looking for a show with kids prancing around in spandex—something slid under the door. Clark leapt to his feet.
The channel stopped randomly on 42.
It was the Discovery channel. My favorite. It followed a pride of lions around the Serengeti. These are the best ones. The exotic animals and landscapes are so fantastic and strange! I love when it rains...or snows. To be out there in the elements, with no choice but to endure. It must be so exhilarating, and yet terrifying at the same time. I wondered if I'd ever be able to experience such things. Since I've yet to see a show featuring a clear TV on an excursion through the Serengeti, I didn't get my hopes up.
As a lioness stalked a water buffalo, Clark sat down with an impressively small piece of paper pinched between his fingers. He unfolded the tiny piece of origami as if it contained some unknown evil.
The lioness stalked silently through a patch of grass.
Clark slowly read the tiny paper, front and back, before throwing it on the desk, and almost immediately, picking it back up to read again.
As he paced the room, staring at the piece of paper, the lioness lunged at the buffalo's neck. She twisted the animal into submission. Blood covered half her face.
Eventually Clark sat down. Silently facing me, slouched there in a daze, he never once changed the channel. He wasn't even really watching. He just sat and stared as the pride of lions feasted.
This time he didn't even flinch as the door cranked opened—didn’t even look up to see who it was.
"What's up girl!" It was K.O.'s unmistakable taunting.
Staring straight ahead, Clark said, "I got some words" He handed them to K.O. Our bunkie slowly, and rather pathetically, read it out loud.
"Listen bitch, we ran your number and know what you’re in here for. First degree C-S-C on a minor. Baby rapers don't get to live down here for fee...for frr.. F-R-E-E...bitch! I'll be to see you at...at...chow. It's pay-to-stay time CHO MO!" He held the note up. "Who gave this to you?"
"I don't know, someone slid it under the door."
"Alright, well no need to freak out just yet. They obviously want some rent."
"Rent?! I can't afford rent! It took me six months just to save up for the TV," whined Clark.
"You might not have a choice. You get fifty bucks a month, right? You can give 'em something. Or...deal with the consequences."
"What consequences?"
"I don't know. Poked up... maybe a buck fifty."
"What the fuck's a buck fifty?" cringed Clark.
I'd never heard him cuss before.
"C'mon," said K.O., "you really don't know what a buck fifty is?...You know the laundry porter upstairs? The one with the ponytail?"
"Yeah...why?"
"That scar that runs from his ear down to the corner of his mouth?..That's a buck fifty. You don't pay and someone runs a razor blade across your face. It looks bad but I hear it doesn't hurt that much. It's because the blade is so sharp. It goes right through the nerves—or something...maybe adrenaline."
Clark's eyes swelled with tears.
"OH MY GOD! Are you fuckin' crying?!" K.O. started to laugh uncontrollably. "Holy shit, he's crying!"
After his fit came to an end, K.O. took a deep breath. He seemed to gather his thoughts. "OK, OK, calm down," he said, "I'll tell you what, let's just wait and see who it is and what they want. If it's someone I fuck with then I'll see what I can do. Just don't ever cry in here again...OK?"
Clark nodded. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He reminded me of one of the little girls from his reality shows after they'd lost a challenge, or been eliminated from a competition.
Chow time came.
My bunkies left together.
The entire time no one bothered to change the channel or turn me off. Which was fine by me. There was a show about a pod of orcas and I couldn't get enough.
Clark returned first. When K.O. got back he said, "All right, listen. I hollered at Low. He wants fifty a month if you're gonna say here...AND keep your face intact. He's a G-D so we can't exactly tell him to fuck off."
"But that's everything I get!" cried Clark.
"Shut up and listen," said K.O., "I'm gonna tell him I've been squeezing you for fifty a month, but I'm willing to split it with him if he lets you stay on the yard. You give me twenty-five bucks in food, I'll give it to Low, and you can keep the other twenty-five that he thinks I'm getting. That'll still leave you with twenty-five to live off. It's better than nothing.
"You knew it was only a matter of time before someone found out what you were in here for—the glasses are a dead give away. I'm surprised it didn't happen earlier."
Clark sat expressionless. "Alright...but I don't want to deal with him. You'll take care of it?"
"I guess," said K.O. "Doesn't look like I have a choice. Get in your footlocker, I'll need at least twenty now."
Clark fiddled with his lock until it popped open. He pulled out several bags of coffee and a handful of honey buns. He placed his ransom into a pillowcase and tossed it onto K.O.'s bunk. Clark slumped in his chair and stared at the floor. Defeated.
K.O. set the pillowcase by the door. "I'll take care of it at morning yard."
The rest of the day passed as usual, except Clark was now watching Dance Moms with K.O. still in the cell. I guess his will to pretend went into the pillowcase along with the honey buns.
The next morning K.O. woke unusually early. He was long gone by the time Clark got up.
Our pudgy bunkie rolled out of bed around ten-thirty to start his morning ritual.
Brush teeth.
Wash face.
Take shit.
Make coffee...in that order.
Just as Clark reached into his footlocker for his morning coffee, K.O. appeared in the narrow window. He winked at Clark and held the flap open. After seeing it was K.O., Clark went back to delicately measuring out his instant coffee. Just as the last few granules of freeze dried caffeine tumbled into his cup, the door cranked open. Before it was even halfway through its trek, an inmate, who was the same size as K.O.—but definitely not K.O.—slid into the cell with a shirt tied around the lower half of his face. He had a belt too. A combination lock hung from the buckle end of the belt stretching it tight.
Before Clark could react, the belt was arcing through the air. The heavy lock came down right where his receding hairline met his expanding forehead. Blood exploded from the impact. Within seconds, the crimson liquid splattered the walls of the small room. Four drops, of differing size, angled across my screen, one large enough to slowly slide down my face. Clark dropped his coffee and attempted, unsuccessfully, to cover up. He slid to the floor. The lock slapped at his head, his elbows, his back, his ears—anywhere it could reach him.
The lock man reared back for, what looked like, his final blow.
Another inmate slid into the cell followed by K.O. closing the door, making sure not to let it lock.
The lock-man swung his namesake with full force and malice intent. Just before the weapon crashed into Clark's face, the lock snapped from the belt. The loose hunk of metal ricocheted around the room like a bullet. The bloody projectile finally came to rest at my feet. The once silver lock was now coated in thick smears of Clark's DNA. Three little hairs stuck straight out from one of the edges.
The lock-man dropped the limp belt and leaned in to our whimpering bunkie. The beating was now verbal. "Shut the fuck up you baby raper! You think this shit's a game?"
The second intruder went to Clark's open locker and began filling a laundry bag. He took everything: food, coffee, soap, beard trimmers, a radio, nail clippers, shoes, glasses, dental floss, he even stuffed a used toothbrush into the bag.
K.O. stood with his back to the mayhem, both blocking the narrow window from nosey neighbors, as well as serving as lookout.
I wasn't sure if K.O. was a willing, or coerced, participant in this violent episode. Without turning around, he hissed, "You fuckin' done yet?"
"Yeah," said the bag man, "I'm good here."
The lock-man leaned in so close to Clark that it looked like they might kiss. "All this for twenty-five dollars?! I hope it was worth it. Next time maybe you'll pay."
"Hold on...Hold on..." K.O. instructed, "You ready?"
"Yeah, we're ready," said the lock-man.
"OK, go...now!" K.O. slid the door open and stepped aside.
The assailants slid out as quickly as they entered.
K.O. shut the door and turned to face Clark. He tossed a towel onto the huddled mass that was our bunkie. It covered what was left of Clark's head. The towel jumped up and down as Clark tried to catch his breath between sobs. A tiny red dot grew into a massive stain as blood soaked through the white towel "Clean yourself up," said K.O.
"I'm dying," Clark whimpered.
"You're not fuckin' dyin'," K.O. smirked, "not yet. Go tell the cops you fell off your bunk...hit you head." He poked Clark in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. "Hurry the fuck up!"
Clark's effort, to get to his feet, was somehow more disturbing than the beating.
K.O. watched, but did nothing to help. When Clark did finally stand up, he headed straight for the door. K.O. stepped in front of him. "Bitch, I told you to clean yourself up!"
Clark delicately peeled the towel from his head. Rivulets of blood ran down his face. K.O. handed him half a roll of toilet paper. He watched—WE watched—as Clark dabbed the still-rolled toilet paper at his wounds. The roll doubled in size to hold the blood.
At some point K.O. seemed satisfied. He held an open trash bag and instructed Clark to throw the towel, the toilet paper, his bloody shirt and the lock into the waiting bag.
"Put a shirt on."
Clark did as he was told.
K.O. looked around approvingly. He slid the door open, clearing a path for our injured bunkie to hobble through.
Clark stumbled through the doorway and stood frozen, as if he'd forgotten what he was supposed to do.
K.O. grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him to his right, and said, "That way. Go sit down in the day room."
Clark shuffled down the rock at a snail's pace, still not entirely sure of his purpose.
As quick as lightning, K.O. unhooked my cords and stuffed me in his locker. Before he left, he grabbed the trash bag and closed the locker door.
My surroundings slowly revealed themselves in the dark locker. Miscellaneous food and hygiene products cluttered the cramped confines. But there was something else. Next to me was the pillowcase that was supposed to be delivered to Low.
I learned two of the most important lessons of life behind bars stuffed in that locker: TRUST, in anything, even your own senses can be a very dangerous thing, and HOPE that things will work out, is just as bad.
Sitting there next to the ransom bag the pieces started falling into place. In hindsight it was a pretty simple. K.O. pretended he went out to pay Low but, instead, told Low that Clark refused to pay. Then he just sat back and let nature take its course. After the smoke cleared, he had twenty-five dollars and a free TV.
All in all, not a bad score.
The cell door opened. Two members of the C.O. family entered. I could tell by the sound of their keys. From the commotion and conversation it was apparent that they were packing up what was left of Clark's possessions. After a few minutes they made their exit, dragging what sounded like a duffle bag behind them. Before the door closed, I could hear them speculating about the upcoming football season.
I never saw Clark again.
I heard later that he was moved to some place called P-C. I later learned it stood for "protective custody," and that it was the final destination for most of Clark's kind.
I'm sure he was considerably more comfortable there. Feet kicked up, relaxing, with a locker full of food. Probably talking with his buddies about the latest episode of Tiny Teeny Kart-wheel Kids while waiting to be released on his first parole hearing, with nothing but some slight PTSD and a few well-placed scars to remind him of his time here in prison.
It wasn't long before K.O. sold me off for another pillowcase of goodies.
I bounced around for the next few years before I met Danny...the Junkie. And though he had a real taste for illicit substances he was, by far, my favorite bunkie.
I liked him for all kinds of reasons, but the best of his quirks was that he talked to me--not that I could respond, but I liked it nonetheless.
Over the years people have talked in front of me, about me, hell, K.O. slapped and screamed at me when he was watching football. But Danny was the only person to ever talk TO me.
As soon as he brought me back to his cell, our cell, he turned me around in his hands and said, "First thing we gotta do is get this number outta you buddy.”
He put me down on his bed and scrubbed furiously at my back with some sort of cleaning pad, informing me of his progress as he went. Eventually, he grabbed something out of his locker and plugged it into the wall. Coming off the end of his contraption were four metal prongs. He hooked two loose wires and a pencil up to one of the prongs—a soldering gun he called it—and waited. He put on one of his winter gloves and picked up the electrified pencil. In the cell with my new bunkie I got my newest tattoo. It was just like the one the C.O. gave me, but this time I took it like a champ.
This time it was a badge of honor.
Every respectable, and some not so respectable, convict I knew had tattoos. And they all had to suffer to get them. I was now a convict—this is what we did.
Danny finished, took a wet rag and wiped my newest tatt clean. The sensation of the cold rag startled me but it cooled the burning sensation on my back. He turned me around and inspected his work. "Perfect," he said, "you look amazing T, better than if the property guy did it himself."
From that day forward my name was "T".
"Well T, it's just me and you from here on out." It wasn't just US, far from it, but I appreciated the sentiment.
Our other bunkie was an old man called Armstrong.
Armstrong was his last name; a lot of the older inmates went by their last names, as if they no longer had time for the childish need for nicknames.
Armstrong had been down for nearly forty years and had prison life down to a perfectly oiled routine. He worked in the law library so he was hardly ever in the cell.
I really like this new place. It wasn't as dark as the others. I mean the mood itself was lighter. There was more laughter, more joking, more genuine conversations—even if most of it was one sided. Life wasn't as serious with my new bunkies, and more importantly, there didn't seem to be any scams being run.
It was a completely new world and I loved it.
Every so often you reach a place that's so perfect, so special, that you're actually aware of it in the moment.
A few days into my new digs, Danny woke up early for morning yard. He grabbed a pillowcase, filled it with food, and disappeared. It was the first time I'd seen him up before lunch.
I watched Armstrong get ready for work. He floated through his morning rituals with a beautiful efficiency, honed during years of practice. Not long after Armstrong left, the intercom announced, "YARD IS CLOSED! YARD IS CLOSED! DOORS ARE OPENING, DO NOT MISS YOUR DOORS!"
One by one, the clunk of opening doors moved down the rock, growing louder until our door shot halfway open. Danny slid through the small opening and pulled the heavy steel door shut. He took a strip of toilet paper from the roll and wetted one end. He stuck the single-ply paper on the door's narrow window so no one could see in. this is our version of closing the blinds.
This familiar routine usually preceded one of us taking a shit. But since Danny wasn't lacing the toilet seat, I assumed something else was about to happen.
Ahh shit, "alone time."
Alone time was always awkward because he wasn't exactly alone. It was even worse when he included me in his alone time, usually when saw some especially erotic music video, or a National Geographic show about the fertility rituals of Amazonian sex tribes, was on TV. I preferred magazines, at least I could avoid eye contact.
But since he was still fully clothed, it appeared that the shades weren't drawn for "alone time" either.
Danny pulled our only piece of movable furniture, a dilapidated plastic chair, up to the desk and laid an issue of Tattoo magazine on the desk in front of me.
"Well T...it's time for the fun stuff."
He reached into the crotch of his state-issued orange shorts and pulled out a tiny piece of paper that was origami’d into a tiny envelope. He delicately unfolded the paper and emptied its contents onto the surface of the magazine.
A tiny mound of grayish powder. He used his prison ID to scrape the powder into a uniformed line. He then ripped off a piece of the calendar above me and rolled it into a little straw. He tapped it on my screen and said, "Cheers," before using it to snort the powder through his nose. He licked the magazine where the powder had been.
This was a strange new ritual. But if what he said was true, that the grey powder was exactly what he needed, then I was glad he got it.
This new ritual was especially exciting. Almost immediately, he jumped from the chair, cleaned off the desk and snatched the toilet paper from the window.
The next few hours were amazing. All of a sudden he was motivated beyond belief and brimming with energy.
He made his bed—three different ways—cleaned the toilet, the floor, the sink, the walls, and my screen. He did pushups, sit ups, and jumping jacks. He folded, and refolded his clothes, before refolding them yet again, all the while never once did he stop talking.
It was all so exhilarating.
I had never seen someone in such a good mood. He was completely inspired. This was my first experience with positivity of this nature. It was contagious. I hung on his every word. I learned more about Danny in a single hour than I had known about all the rest of my bunkies combined.
I learned what he was in prison for: Heroin possession.
When he would see the parole board: eight months.
How it would likely go: Amazing.
The first thing he was going to eat when he got out: "pussy...then a medium-rare porterhouse."
And how glad he was to have a TV again: Completely stoked.
He expressed his regret in selling his last—three—TVs and swore he'd "never make that mistake again.”
It went on and on like this for hours. Come to think of it, he never left the cell. Not for chow, or yard, or even a shower.
The excitement must've taken its toll, because eventually he started falling asleep, mid sentence, only to jolt awake a few minutes later to continue where he'd left off. This start-and-stop conversation went on for nearly an hour before Danny finally fell asleep for good.
I sat there and watched him for sometime.
There was something slightly dangerous about his unpredictability, but he was exciting to be around. He was charismatic and witty, with an endearing sense of humor that you don't come across too often in a place like this.
Being friends with Danny was like being on a runaway train; you have no choice but to drink the bar dry, devour the expensive food, and enjoy the scenery while you still can because, at any moment, the train could jump the track and go careening off a cliff. But before it did, you'd have one hell of a ride.
The next few days followed in similar fashion. Pillowcase out, grey powder in. Until there was nothing left to stuff in the pillowcase. The next day he woke extremely late in the afternoon. He looked like shit. His upbeat and manic disposition of the past few weeks was nowhere to be found.
I guess this was the reason he needed the grey powder so badly in the first place.
He paced back and forth in the cell, repeatedly opening his footlocker searching for something that, apparently, wasn't there.
I hated to see him like this. I wanted to console him, to help him figure out a way to get more powder.
I could do neither.
After what seemed like an eternity, he sat down in front of me. "Sorry T. This isn't personal, and I swear it's temporary. Just until store gets here, OK?"
As if I could refuse.
I sat there on the floor with my cords wound in tight circles, while he went out to the yard to do God knows what.
His tone of desperation made me nervous with anticipation. He returned to the cell sweaty and disheveled, leaving the door open behind him. "It's only for a week," he said. He stuck his head out into the hallway before motioning with his free hand. "Come on! Come on!" He held me out into the hall just as an inmate, carrying a stuffed pillowcase, approached. I was swiftly handed off and the pillowcase tossed in the cell. This stranger continued down the rock with me under his arm.
At his house, my temporary bunkie propped me up on his desk. He plugged me in, turned me on, and stared at my screen all night and into the next morning.
As he flipped through the channels I sat there feeling a mixture of dread and betrayal. I hated Danny for sticking me with these assholes.
After all we'd been through!
Still, there was a part of me that hoped that this little deal, if that's what you'd call it, was enough to get him the grey powder he needed so badly.
The bastards he lent me to were anything but hospitable. They were rough on my buttons, they moved me around a lot, and kept my volume up full blast, making the headphones crackle with distortion.
Assholes.
I spent the next week waiting to go home.
Us convicts are nothing if not masters at waiting.
I was finally unplugged and set by the door. I was ready to go. After the doors broke for evening yard I was walked down the rock and swiftly handed off to Danny at our open cell door.
It had been eight days since I last saw him. He looked much better. He had returned to his usual upbeat mood. He planted a big wet kiss right on my screen.
"I missed you buddy! Sorry I had to do that—it won't happen again."
I was so happy to be back that I instantly forgave him. I was even glad to see Armstrong look over and roll his eyes at our Danny's hollow promise.
That first night back we stayed up watching National Geographic. Hours went by without so much as a word from Danny. Something was bothering him. He was somewhere else. Distracted.
It wasn't until long after Armstrong put in his earplugs and was snoring the night away that Danny finally started talking. This time the conversation was different. He spoke in hushed tones, almost a whisper. It was as if he was telling a secret for the first time.
He told me how terrified he was of freedom. That the stakes, in the free world, were just too high. How prison was safer because all that was expected of you was TIME. He told me that he had a seven year old son named DJ, that he hadn't seen in years. That he was terrified of looking him in the face only to let him down again.
He said he spent the last five years getting high and dreaming of freedom, and now that he was just a few months from seeing the parole board, he was just as scared of being let out as being kept in. That night we talked about women, love, loss, drugs, and regret. Well Danny talked. I listened. At the time, I didn't fully understand all that he said, but I knew EXACTLY what he meant.
We stayed up until the first rays of the morning sun came through our steel-reinforced safety window.
Danny slept through most of the next day. I sat and, once again, busied myself watching Armstrong go through his morning rituals.
Prison life went on.
Danny slept.
I was happy.
Just before the last yard of the day was called he finally got out of bed. He didn't brush his teeth, take a piss, or do any of the things inmates do before leaving the cell. Instead, he jumped into a pair of pants, pulled on a shirt, and grabbed a laundry bag and started shoveling in commissary items from his locker.
I'd never seen him with so much shit. Apparently he'd gotten a lot of store in the week I was gone.
He weighed the value of each item before tossing it into the bag. Only after the locker was barren did he seem satisfied. Satisfied is probably inaccurate; he seemed temporarily appeased, and incredibly determined.
I watched as he went to the closed door and put his face right in the corner where the door and the wall meet.
"JAY!" he yelled, and waited for a response. "JAY!" Again he waited.
This time a muffled, "What's up?" came from down the rock.
"JAY...IT'S DANNY...I NEED YOU TO PUT UP A WALL WHEN THEY BREAK FOR YARD. I GOTTA MOVE SOMETHING."
"I got you bro."
"GOOD LUCK. LET YOUR BUNKIE KNOW…AND JEEZY TOO."
"Yep."
Danny sat down at the desk. He didn't say a word until they announced "YARD!" over the intercom.
The door popped open. Danny grabbed the laundry bag and stood in the doorway. Jay, his bunkie, and Jeezy came down the rock shoulder to shoulder, forming a barrier for Danny to slide behind as they passed.
I waited for yard to end.
I wondered if everyone in this place felt as powerless as I did. Was it the overbearing C.O.s, the steel doors, the razor wire, the twenty-three hour lockdown? Or is it just life in general? I wondered if people in the free world felt like this.
I thought about all the things I'd do to help my friend. How I HOPED, with every inch of my power cord, that we'd be able to stay together, as bunkies, until we went home. And then I realized that none of these thoughts or hopes made a goddamn difference.
I thought about how unfair it is that, in prison, life happens TO you, with no care for what you want, or even deserve.
HOPE was starting to feel like another four-letter word that they blank out on network television.
The intercom announced yard was over.
Danny almost missed the door but slid through the shrinking gap at the last second. He hoisted the toilet paper blinds, cleared the desk, and pulled out his magazine. His favorite ritual proceeded, with one exception. This time Danny emptied THREE packets of powder onto the Tattoo magazine.
I was glad to see he was able to secure so much powder. Maybe he wouldn't need anymore for a long time. Maybe ever again.
He shaped the powder into one big line. It disappeared up his nose.
In no time he was full of energy, pacing, cleaning, and talking in his usual manner. He was extremely charismatic when he felt this good. His positivity and hope were magnetic. Especially in a place like this. With Armstrong at work, it was just me and my best friend. Doing what we do.
I did my best to savor the moment.
This time was different. This time we talked about the POSSIBILITIES of life. There was hope in his words.
He told me about all the things he would do with DJ when he got out. That he had given it thought—serious thought—and was truly ready to leave this place behind. He told me about his moms house, that he would be paroling there, and how great it would be. A new start at life, he said. He told me that he would take me with him when he left. That I would be his reminder of this place, and how he never wanted to come back. He told me that I'd finally get to see what a real home was.
The conversation continued like this for hours. I loved every minute of it.
After everything in the cell had been cleaned several times over, after all the clothes in his locker had been folded, and folded again, and after he had done all the pushups he could manage, the conversation finally started to slow.
He turned on the Discovery channel, laid back and covered his ears with his headphones. I knew the entire ritual by heart. This was the stage where he would nod off, mid-sentence, until he was finally asleep. Halfway through the life cycle of solitary snow leopard high in the Himalayas, he reached his foot out and used his big toe to turn my power off.
His eyes never opened.
I watched him fade into sleep. I swelled with the anticipation of life in the free world.
The time that I had spent in prison was more than enough to know that I wanted—no, I needed—more.
Not having a stomach didn't stop the feeling that butterflies were somewhere deep inside my circuits fluttering away.
My mind got away from me. I lost track of everything but my fantastic, wishful, thinking.
It was a sound that did it--that brought me back to my senses.
My first thought was that Armstrong must've dozed off and was snoring. But Armstrong was still at work.
I looked to Danny. It was coming from him. Except he wasn't quite snoring. It was a labored breathing. A gurgling. A yellow foam came from his nose and the corners of his mouth. The frothy mixture ran down his chin on to his chest.
It didn't take a doctor from Discovery ER, channel 52, to realize that something was seriously wrong.
I shot my eyes around the room looking for someone, anyone, to help! I had absolutely no idea what to do. What could I do? I had no choice but to sit there and watch while my best friend in the world was dying right in front of me.
Helpless.
Danny's chest stopped moving.
Horror set in.
He wasn't BREATHING!
A rage began to build.
Every little copper wire and tiny green circuit board tingled.
Every inch of my being screamed "Danny, wake up! Wake up!"
I focused, with all my panic and rage and fear and hatred and love. "DANNY, WAKE THE FUCK UP!"
He was slowly turning a dark purple.
The buzz of electricity coursed through my wires. I trembled—on the verge of EXPLODING right there on the desk!
I could smell burning plastic. My insides were unbearably hot. My vision grew into a blinding light.
"WAKE UPPPP!!!"
"WAKE UPPPP!!!"
"WAKE UPPPP, YOU ASSHOLE!!!"
An immense power, from the city's electrical grid, came through the wall and surged through me. My screen exploded with the bold vertical bars of color from the factory back in Mexico.
A high pitched terror broke from the headphones over Danny's ears.
A second wave of power surged through my cord.
The noise grew from a whistle to a scream. The frequency sent chills up my wire harness.
The smell of burning plastic was overwhelming.
Flashes of blinding white light strobed from my eyes.
Danny was now a deep shade of blue.
Right on the verge of blowing a fuse, I swear I saw him move.
The intensity of the sound made me nauseous.
His hand!
It twitched!
It definitely twitched!
My screen shuddered with light.
The sound was deafening.
His face was a pale sickly blue, almost grey.
Then it happened!
At the height of madness, when hope had failed and all was lost, Danny sucked in a massive, panicked, breath. As he exhaled, the foam from his mouth spattered onto his chest. He did this three times, one after another.
His color started to run backward, almost normal. His eyes didn't open, but at least he was breathing again...kind of.
If I had legs, they would've buckled. The power evaporated in an instant. I was exhausted. My screen faded to black. The sound died.
A fog fell over me.
Internal damage.
Within seconds, the cell door cranked open. Armstrong came in, his arms full of legal papers.
Sweet, sweet, Armstrong!
Upon seeing Danny's condition, Armstrong immediately left. He returned with C.O.s who immediately left and returned with a nurse. Danny's limp body was dropped onto a bed with wheels. The nurse shined a light into his eyes and asked him a series of questions as he was pushed out of our little cell.
He never answered but I think he was still breathing.
That was the last time I ever saw Danny Jacobson.
Any chance I had for freedom left with him on that stretcher; and though he may have lived, my freedom died.
It’s been almost fifteen years since that night. I've been to three different prisons, have had countless bunkies, and just as many numbers tattooed into my weathered skin. My buttons have been fucked up, then fixed, and finally replaced. I've had my cable jack rewired twice, my power cord replaced altogether, and ever since that night, I've had a small blind spot in the upper right corner of my screen.
But I'm still hanging on.
Somethings in prison have stayed the same. Many more have changed.
The new inmates seem to be getting younger with each passing year, or maybe it just looks like that to us old timers. These new kids have the air of invincibility—and stupidity—that comes with youth. They're brash, arrogant, and , worst of all, entitled little pricks.
Even the new TVs are a pain in the ass; they come from families I've never even heard of, with names like ClearTech and V.O.X. I haven't seen a Sony or a Panasonic come through here in years. These new tubes are thin, flimsy, and poorly made. We call 'em "flats" for their thin screens. They call us "bubbles" for our bulbous shape. But we were built to last. These flats rarely make it more than a few years before going to that giant scrap yard in the sky.
They're not all bad I guess.
I've come across one or two with some actual grit, even if they don't know their screens from their power cords. I try to show 'em the ropes when I come across one who's willing to do more listening than talking.
I've finally come to grips with the fact that this is my life...and will be until power no longer flows through my corroded wires.
I am a LIFER.
I know that the only way I'll be leaving this place is in a prison dumpster.
There's a sad freedom to be found in the valley of abandoned hope.
I still watch my nature shows when I can catch 'em. But I no longer allow myself the luxury of imagining, or hoping, that someday I'll be out there.
I just enjoy the landscapes.
Nowadays I mostly sit in the cell with my current bunkie and watch the pages fall from the calendar.
He's alright.
Doesn't talk much; not TO me anyways. And that's fine.
I lost my desire, and patience, to listen long ago.
So here I am, another convict, just waiting for one of my ancient fuses to finally blow, or a circuit board to burn up beyond repair. And honestly, I'm ready. As far as life behind bars, I've had a pretty good run.
Do I wish I'd gotten one of those sleek black cases back at the factory, so I could have been sent to some Hollywood movie set?
Sure, I guess...but it's a pointless thought to entertain.
This is the hand I was dealt, and being mad at the cards won't change the flop. After all the shit I've been through, I've never once felt sorry for myself, and I don't have the time, or energy, to start now.
It's all about perspective I guess.
By the way; that night, fifteen years ago, I was wrong. My LAST chance at freedom didn't leave with Danny to DIE. It was my ONLY chance at freedom...and it went with him to LIVE.
He took a part of me out into the world, in his memory at least...maybe even his heart.
I still think about him from time to time, late at night, when my bunkie stops on National Geographic or an episode of Drugs Inc. Sometimes I still wonder what he's doing; if he's somewhere watching the same thing.
I like to think he did all the things he told me he would do on that last night. I hope he was finally able to see himself the way I saw him. That he learned how to be happy without that grey powder. That he's out there alive...living for both of us.
But you know what they say about HOPE.
Damn! They just called yard and my bunkie is putting toilet paper over the window.
Hope it's not alone time again…