Black Eyes And Cocktail Parties

They closed the unit at 9:58 a.m. More than a half-an-hour early. Word on the yard is that some fifty-nine wardens have gathered, from every corner of the country, for some kind of tour of our humble correctional facility. And when abusive parents have company over for cocktails they know to put the kids to bed early. No one wants to spend cocktail hour explaining tiny split lips and stretched purpled eyes to coworkers between sips of sangria and Skinny Girl martinis. And as is expected from the well behaved abuse victims we are, this place has been dead silent since lockdown. That is until a few minutes ago, when a disembodied voice started screaming for help from a gallery somewhere below me.

"HELP HELP!!! I CAN'T BREATHE!!!!

This happens sometimes. When shit gets really, really, we quite tend to get antsy.

"I CAN'T....I CAN'T..."

An outburst of some kind was inevitable. 

"...SERIOUSLY! SOMEONE..."

That's not to suggest that every second of the day is filled with the cries of psychotic inmates. There are times when it's relatively quiet—usually about an hour or so after Lights Out—but it's hardly ever SILENT. Even in the middle of the night toilets flush, sinks run, gas escapes from bodily orifices, and plastic buttons click endlessly through channels in search of something, anything, new or exciting enough to distract us from the monotony of our everyday lives. The white noise of incarceration is so consistent that most of us don't even notice—until it's gone.

"SERIOUSLY!!! I...CAN'T...BREATH...

Hence the outbursts.

"SOMEONE HELP!"

Most are nothing more than a brief sonic diversion from the endless thoughts running through a troubled head.

“Whoever that is, shut the FUCK up!"

Sometimes it's an unforgiving response to a plea for help.

"HEY C.O. I NEED HELP..."

A lot of times they're simply a tedious volley from a maniacal ego in a heavy-handed attempt to garner maximum attention with nothing at all worth saying, or listening to. Simply put, there are a lot of assholes in prison trying their damnedest to sound cool. 

"I'M SERIOUS... I CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE...'

This doesn't seem to be one of those out bursts. In prison you have to be grateful for the small things.

"Officer...Officer, this guy can't breathe."

Sometimes it's a convict with some compassion for a fellow inmate...or a neighbor trying to sleep.

"SUCK HIS DICK!"

Sometimes they're looking for laughter. To these smart asses the unit's 350 inmates are a captive audience to try out one liners and other hacky comments. I may or may not be guilty of taking part in more than one of these types of outbursts.

"I NEED HELP...I CANT BREATHE!

But every so often an inmate will experience a genuine medical emergency and, god forbid, find themselves on the verge of dying, alone, in a hundred-year-old cell, during the 2021 American Warden's Tour of Misery hosted by their home town prison. How embarrassing.

"NINE-FORTH...CAN'T...BREATHE..."

The fact that this particular disembodied voice has yelled out his gallery and cell number suggests that might be an actual emergency.

"...THE BARS AREN'T WIDE ENOUGH."

Maybe not. A few chuckles flit between cells. I'm still not positive which type of out burst this is: medical emergency or funny man. It's just as likely that this guy believes the bars of his cell are actually restricting his breathing than that he crafted and delivered such a well-timed joke. Maybe the real joke is that he's somehow managed to wedge himself between the bars—in which case he'd be entirely correct, that the bars aren't wide enough for him to breathe. Who knows?

''HELP...''

He's either in genuine distress, or he's repeating the punchline. I honestly don't know which would be worse...

And that's the last of it.

It's been twenty minutes since his final plea for help—or maybe it was his closer. Either way I haven't heard any EMTs dragging a gurney up to the second gallery. A good sign. No new comments from the neighbors—or the peanut gallery either. He's probably fine. If not he can rest easy knowing that as the last bit of life left his body, and he faded into the long goodnight of the Soul, he did so without disturbing the Grand Tour of American Wardens. Not that it was a great accomplishment. They never even came through 9-Block. Which begs the question, why did they lock us down in the first place?

I guess it's better that the abused kids stay in their rooms, even if the cocktail party never leaves the patio. God forbid any parents are forced to explain themselves.