Comfortably Normal

(written 2017, and originally posted June 2019)

It's crazy to think of the things you can get used to. It's a strange thing when prison loses all of its edge and unfamiliarity. When this place stirs nothing but complacency and comfortability it is a strange thing indeed.

I spent a little more than four months in county jail, knowing that I was headed to prison. Four months of waiting. 

Most civilians think that jail and prison are the same thing. They're not. Jail is designed to be temporary. Prison can be permanent.

Jail serves two purposes. It's either where short sentences, usually, of no more than a year are served. Or, it's where you are held while you are fighting a case, if you can't afford your bond, or aren't granted one. If you are in jail fighting a case, you can be there for up to several years. Which can be torture. 

Jail is a fucked up purgatory that, because it isn't designed for longterm residency, can often be worse than Hell itself. Jail has more restrictions and less amenities than prison. But at least in purgatory your fate is not yet sealed. In jail you can still maintain the hope of reaching Heaven, or freedom. 

For me there was no hope. I knew without a doubt that I was headed to prison. The Big House, the Clink, the Joint, whatever you want to call it I knew that is where I was going.

I had been to Jail before. I've had the pleasure to visit the facilities of six different counties to be exact: Brevard, Orange, Seminole, Monroe, LeeLanau, And Grand Traverse county. In most cases for just a few days and in rare cases, no more than a few months. 

Every county is different but they're all shitty. Your lucky if you get yard more than an hour a week. The illusive yard, or rec time, is usually no more than a twenty by forty foot room with a really high ceiling. And if you're lucky, the ceiling is a chain linked fence. That way if you can manage to get yard at just the right time of the day, when the sun is directly over head, and if it's a clear enough day, you may be able to get some actual sun on your face. 

The living situations, also a source of suffering. I've been in the single man cells of maximum security, all the way to twenty-eight man barrack style units. I prefer the six man cells. The singles will drive you insane from isolation and the larger units will drive you crazy from the crowded chaos.

In Jail you are allowed little to no personal property. In the best case scenario you can get a tiny radio, headphones, and some warmer clothing. (Since I've been in prison I've heard that some jails have started selling tablets and even E-cigarettes. Though I've yet to meet someone who knows this first hand.) In some counties all you can get is books by mail. Nothing to call your own. Everything you have is used and dilapidated. Everything state issued and state owned.

In jail the commissary, (food and hygiene items) that you can order is very limited and outrageously expensive. In the better jails you're lucky enough to order a variety of food. Food that you'd find in a shitty gas station or a stale vending machine. Food necessary to supplement a painfully inadequate state diet. A commissary list where a single Ramen noodle can cost you upwards of a dollar and a bag of instant coffee nearing ten bucks.

The point, is that Jails are shit-holes. But most of us would take the shit holes we know over the prisons we don't.

The last time that I was in a jail, I sat in Leelanau County, waiting to be charged in Grand Traverse County for the death of my fiancé, the mother of my only child, and the love of my life, Monica Anderson. Her death was an accident that happened during my failed suicide attempt. An accident that I was completely responsible for. 

I gave the detectives my statement. Several times I repeated the events of what had happened that night, never once changing the details. I volunteered for a polygraph test which was quickly administered. After each interview I was returned to the jail where I sat, wondering what would happen. The fear of the unknown would have been debilitating if it didn't pale in comparison to the gravity of what had jut happened. The outcome could have been anything, depending on what the detectives intended to do. The charges could range anywhere from involuntary manslaughter all the way to first degree murder and anything in between. 

I knew that no matter what, I was going to end up in prison. By my own statement I was guilty of involuntary manslaughter…but it would still be months until I had to cross that bridge.

I was being held in Leelanau County on a probation violation, related to my arrest.(because I was drinking). A technicality that allowed the courts to hold me, while the detectives did their investigation. This way they didn't have to worry about a bond. No matter what, I'd serve seventy odd days of a ninety day misdemeanor.

In the aftermath of Monica's death, my fate hung precariously on a ledge, somewhere outside of the jail I currently inhabited. Late at night between nightmares, I began to wonder what prison would be like. I had known people who'd done time in prison, I'd seen the documentaries, watched the movies, and I heard the stories, but I wanted to know the details. 

I did what I could to learn, but being that this jail was pretty small, there weren't may ex-cons around for me to badger for info. So I spent most of my time compiling a mental list of questions that I wanted answered. 

Just as I was nearing the end of my misdemeanor sentence and I was to be released, my charges from Grand Traverse County came down. 

A Corrections Officer, who had spoken to me often, came into the block that I locked in (lock is institutional slang, a verb and can be interchanged with live in reference to where you live, stay, or are housed) and asked me to step out into the hall. I figured I had maybe caught a disciplinary ticket or was being moved to another block. With not much reason or expectation for any news to be anything but bad I became uneasy with anticipation. 

As I stepped into the hall and the colossal steal door slammed shut behind me, the C.O. stuck his hand out towards me. I was confused. I looked at him questioningly and out of an inability to come up with any other response I slowly and ever so slightly raised mine also. As I exposed my hand, he reached in and grabbed it. 

Here it comes I thought, no doubt this must have been some sort of setup to get me for assault on a corrections officer. I mean what else could it be? A handshake? Yeah right. The C.O.'s are not allowed to make physical contact with inmates, unless it's to restrain us or to shake us down (frisk). 

He tightly gripped my hand and quickly and repeatedly pulled it, first up towards the ceiling and then down towards the floor. What was going on? I swear, it took me a second to accept that he was actually shaking my hand. He said, we get lied to and manipulated so often by you guys that it's nice to know that you were telling the truth. (There was a lot of media coverage of my case and I had always maintained that it was a tragic accident, so though we never personally spoke about the details of my case, he was aware of them. There were also several times when detectives came to interview me at the jail and the most recent interview was done by an FBI detective with more experience and expertise in conducting interviews.) 

Still confused as to what brought about his sudden and total acceptance of my telling of events, I must've had a look of confusion on my face. Officer Hemingway pulled out a section of the local newspaper that he had tucked into his back pocket and handed it to me. "They say right here, that it was an accident." I scanned the paper and saw the words involuntary manslaughter I looked up from the paper and repeated what I saw. Hemingway furrowed his brows and said, "You didn't know?" 

That's how I found out what my charges were. After nearly three months of interrogations, interviews, a polygraph test, salacious news coverage, and people, with no understanding, insight or compassion, passing judgment, this is how I found out what my fate was to be, as far as they were concerned. No phone call, no meeting, no letter. I found out in a news paper, that what I had been telling any and everyone who would listen, was indeed deemed to be the truth.

A part of me was relieved and vindicated but a part of me was angry and frustrated with the way it all was handled. 

Within the next few days I finally received a letter stating my new charges. And just days into the new year I was transferred to the Grand Traverse County jail to face the charges of: involuntary manslaughter, felony firearm, use of a firearm while intoxicated causing death, and resisting and obstruction. Upon my arrival at the facility I was stripped out (stripped searched) and placed in the drunk tank until they figured out where they would house me. Because my case had received a lot of publicity the staff wanted to keep me in an isolated cell, with no interaction with other inmates. I went through a similar issue at Leelanau but eventually convinced them that I would be better off around people. I was actually terrified of being forced to be completely alone for months on end, with nothing but the gravity of my new reality and my thoughts to keep me company. When they were processing me in, I badgered them for info about where I would be locking. Once I found out that they intended to keep my isolated I did everything in my power to get placed in general population. We came to a compromise and the sergeant agreed to let me lock in a six man max (maximum security) cell. I readily agreed. 

It was actually the best of all possible scenarios. The max cells were for people with severe cases who were facing prison time, inmates with violent histories, prison parole violators. This provided me the opportunity to learn more about my eventual destination.

Once I was charged with involuntary manslaughter and not another more serious crime, for which I was innocent of, I made up my mind that I would plead guilty. No plea bargain or deal to get a lesser charge. I was guilty of involuntary manslaughter and my entire statement proved that beyond doubt. I was on written record, tape, and video admitting to what amounted to the charge. So at this point I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that some prison time was in my future. 

The first six man cube was along a hall on the edge of the prison. All the cells on the left were against an exterior wall. The veterans of this jail said that those cells had a window that you could see out of. I was assigned a cell on the right. No window. Nothing to even differentiate between day and night. 

The importance of, at least some, natural sunlight is something you will quickly come to realize when forced to live in its absence. The inability to gauge time by the sun can slowly and subtly drive you mad. This is one of those things that makes the purgatory of jail worse than the hell of prison. At the time the sun was a luxury I was willing to forego in order to not be alone.

I lugged my mat, pillow, and linen to the long hallway of the maximum security cells. Stopping every few feet at a locked door waiting to be buzzed through by some camera jockey watching from the bowels of this shit-hole.

I came to the first door on the right. A crudely painted number sat on the wall above the door. The number matched the one scribbled on my paper work. My arms full, I stared at the closest camera. The look on my face saying,”Open the fucking door!"

It worked and before long the door buzzed and popped open. I carried my mat into the cell, doing my best not to let it drag on the ground. I was only partially successful. 

I looked around the cell. I immediately recognized someone from the world (institutional slang for the free world), I surveyed the space. To my left was a small area for the toilet and shower. To my right were three bunk beds in a row. All three of the bunks had mats and linen already on them. I folded my mat and left it sitting against the bars at one end of the cell.

Lonnie, super excited to see me, hugged me and we began to catch up. Lonnie is a 6'4 tall light skinned black guy. I glanced at our cell mates and noticed that we were the only non whites. I double checked the bunks and was right, there was no place for my stuff. Another shitty aspect about jail: They're almost always over crowded. I guess they expected me to sleep on the floor.

"So what's up, I'm on the floor?" I looked around and saw that the small TV shelf in the corner was empty. I was initially confused until I took another look around at my new cellies. One of the guys caught my eye. He looked familiar, but not like I knew him, more like I had seen him somewhere. A tall lanky nerdy looking guy with acne scars. Nate looked completely out of place. He wasn't your typical looking criminal. 

"What's his name." I asked pointing at the standout. Lonnie said "him? His name is Nate." As soon as I heard his name it all clicked: Who he was and why the TV was missing. His name was Nathan (Nate) James Elzer. I had seen him on the news when I was in Leeleanau County. He was accused of several counts of first degree criminal sexual conduct (CSC), on a minor under the age of twelve. He was accused of doing really fucked up things to his six year old sister.

Even those who haven't been to jail or prison aren't too surprised to learn that people with CSC charges, especially involving a kid, aren't treated well. The C.O.'s had the TV removed from the cell, hoping to avoid any problems from the other inmates.

I asked Nate which bunk was his and he pointed to it. I told him that I needed it, that he had to move his shit. Before I could even finish my sentenced, in the most agreeable tone, he said. "Yeah no problem, I shouldn't be here much longer any ways." 

I knew, from the news, that he had already been sentenced. He got a thirty year (minimum) and was just waiting to ride out to quarantine (prison intake). He pulled his mat and other items onto the floor and I got a bunk. 

This was my first real experience with the hierarchy of prison (jail) politics. He was a child molester. He was less than, and I had right to the bunk that usurped his. Another prison law that stands: if you need something and can take it, then take it.

Since then I've come to have a different outlook on this unenlightened approach, And not everyone in prison succumbs to these animalistic behaviors. I have since released any delusion that I am to be the arm of punishment or retribution for anybody. And just as importantly, I have abandoned the charade used by most inmates who simply want a justification to do self serving acts on the powerless and vulnerable. 

I know it’s ironic, considering the crimes that the CSC (Cho's) are in here for. They went from victimizing to victims. And though there is a poetic justice to their karma, I no longer take part in it. Like most things in life it's bullshit. Any rules, social or otherwise, not based on a true and compassionate internal compass, are bullshit and are almost always exploited for abuse.

But at the time I was trying to get my feet underneath me and my head on straight. I was on some when in Rome shit. And as was true to my nature up to that point, I was going to establish myself in a respected, not to be messed with, level in the social hierarchy.

A few years later I was sent to a disciplinary level 4 (max) and Nate was in the PC unit at that facility. Placed there for his own protection. That is where most of them belong. There are too many rules and unwritten laws that most of them can't maintain. Plus they are constant prey. The only way that they can remain in general population without paying protection is, if they're broke, and willing to fight. They won't be safe but for the most part they'll be left alone. Forever third class citizens.

There is a real caste system in correctional institutions. The structure is more defined in prison than in county jail but it's still there. It's a system based more on animal instinct than anything else. Your vibe, aura, character, for the most part, determines your placement in the hierarchy and how you're treated. Every word and act is witnessed and integrated into others perception of you. The act of booting Nate from the bunk, was akin to me pissing on a tree. A message to the rest of my cellies.

After I secured my bunk I sat on the steel picnic table under the TV shelf and talked to Lonnie. He told me about the people that I knew that were also locked up in this jail and I relayed stories of mutual friends I had just left in Leelanau.

As we sat and conversed, the other cellies introduced themselves one by one.

There was Matt, a shabby meth head type in his mid twenties. Sebastian, an eighteen year old boy with a good heart. Jeremy a forty year old train wreck of a man. Another random guy who wasn't there for long and I don't remember much of, other than that he had a few tattoos.