had advantages in life—born white to educated parents—but chose a restless and distracted life of blue-collar jobs with a term in the army instead of following my parents’ examples. And after ten years of unskilled labor I was desperate to work at Rockview. Once hired, my primary occupation became fitting in.
After three weeks at Rockview, I met nineteen-year-old Melvin. He came to jail as an arsonist and burglar charged with eleven felonies and stood tall at four and a half feet. He was the anti-me, with none of life’s advantages—born black to a drug-addicted single mother living in poverty—he had to fight and fight and fight. While I tried hard to fit in jail, Melvin was made for it. He never had a chance outside. And despite having an IQ of fifty-eight, the mind of a child, according to paid professionals, he told me once, “You’re jealous of me ’cause I don’t have to pretend.” He was right for that.
The last time I saw Melvin, he had on a suicide-resistant smock and was strapped down to a bunk with five-point restraints. That was my parting image of jail: a tiny man attached to a metal bunk. It showed me how small and helpless people can become inside. Or maybe how massive and abusive. The room smelled like vomit. The scene was hopeless. And I had been the one to strap him down.
At Rockview, the inmates had clear plastic TVs. They were clear for security. You could see the circuit boards, the wiring, the working parts, any contraband, and all the cockroaches breeding inside.
This book is like those TVs.
JAIL SPEAK
Be a Man, Man
SHUT the car door. Look at the jail. Look at the towers, the razor wire, the coal-fired boiler plant, the twelve coats of blue paint on the locker-room door. Take a deep breath. Hold it. Smell the coal dust and iron and dirt and sweat. That’s jail. And jail is where dicks are measured. There are thousands in this one. And with all that measuring comes all the testosterone—buckets and buckets.
Smell it as you walk into the locker room. Soak it up. Look at the chew wads on the ceiling, the dried spit on the lockers. Add yours. Get in character. You’re a guard. Hear the lockers slam. Kick them to make noise. Here you can be loud. There’s no door on the bathroom. Walk in, spit in the urinal. Say fuck. Yell it for fun. Fuck! Come out and tape the serious guard’s locker closed. Then hide. He’ll swear and kick and spit when he finds it.
Open your locker. Put on the uniform. It’s gray. It’s black. It fits like a sack. Wear a watch. No phone allowed. Bring a pen. That’s it. No gum either. It can be used to make key impressions. Bring it in anyway. It doesn’t set off the metal detector. Leave the stab vest hanging on the hook. No one’s going to shank you. They haven’t yet. Slam your locker shut. Be a man. Slam it twice.
Walk past the guard with the hairy ass crack standing in only his tighty whities. He’s at the exit. Compliment his package. Nice bulge. Say it loud.
Stand at the gate. Get jacked because you wait. Kick on the gate. When it buzzes, open it fast, walk in, and hold it for the guard running behind you. Then slam it in his face. Bam. You’re a man.
Swear at the time clock. Fucking clock. Cry about the fingerprint scan. Fucking scan. Throw your keys and belt past the metal detector. Hold up your pants and walk through. When you’ve made it, watch the next guard start through. Then kick the metal detector. That sets it off. Then run.
Wade through the roll-call room. Hit shoulders, punch kidneys, step on every shiny black boot you see. And twist. When your name is called say HERE like you got a pair. Bitch about the block you get sent to. Fucking A block. Bitch about the lieutenants making the schedule, but only after you leave the roll-call room and walk out of earshot, and then go a little farther and then look around to make sure it’s clear. Then you can say it. Fucking white hats. But not too loud. Or they’ll put you at a worse post.
Slam the A block door. It’s 6 a.m. Ignore the night shift guards leaving. Call them slugs after they shut the door. Fucking slugs. They’re soft. They only come out at night.
Smell the block. It’s piss. It’s smoke. It’s piss mist.
Look up at the cells: 250 of them are stacked five stories high. They’re back-to-back inside a cage twenty feet away from the outer walls. Know that 500 inmates are up there sleeping. They’re about to measure you. Get ready. Grab a radio. It’s almost count time. Grab keys and a clipboard. That’s it, nothing else. No night stick, no pepper spray. You don’t carry all that mess in this jail. You have a made-in-Taiwan whistle on your belt. That’s good enough. Whistle if you’re shanked.
Get moving. You have to count two ranges. Hurry up. That’s two hundred dicks. Get in position. You have one minute until count. Climb the stairs to level 5. You have fifteen seconds. That’s a long time to stand. Catch your breath. Rest on the trash can. It’s not that dirty. Even if it was, who cares? Not you.
Hear the bell ring. Hear the sergeant say, Count time over the PA system. Hear him say, Lights on, be standing, be visible. And start counting. Just count heads. Check them off on the sheet. Don’t worry about names. You don’t care about names. Check off each cell. One, two, check them off. Keep moving. Go fast. Cell 501: one, two. They’re mean-mugging you. Mean-mug them back, look tough, or laugh, or stop and stare, that works. Cell 502: one, two. They’re smiling at you. Ignore both. Cell 503: one. There’s just one. He’s pissing. He’s looking at you and holding his dick. He’s measuring you. Keep your eye contact walking by. Measure him back. Cell 504: one, two. Their backs are turned. Keep moving. Check off cells.
Stop at cell 514. Look at the inmates still sleeping. Look at them not standing, their lights still off. You’re a corrections officer. Correct. Say, Count time. And wait two seconds. Then yell it. Count Time! And wait two more seconds. Then bang your clipboard on the bars as loud as you can until they stop pretending to sleep and stand up and say, “Damn, man, what you doing that for?”
You hear that? He called you a man, man.
Put an extra mark by the sleepers on the count sheet: check and check. You’re done counting. Go down and give the block sergeant the count: all. Then find the sleepers’ block cards. Know that block cards have mug shots and basic information. Report the jail crime. Write, “Not Standing for Count.” While you’re at it, draw mustaches on their mugs. Give them black eyes, earrings, dicks in their mouths. If it’s a third offense, give them a write-up. Unless you’re a member of the hug-a-thug program. Which you’re not. Of course. Write them up. Other officers are measuring.
Head back into the cage. Run the ranges. That’s your job for two hours. It’s not really running. It’s slamming. You slam cell doors, you walk, then you slam more cell doors. The guards in the officer station do the opening: twenty-five doors with one button.
Here come the inmates now. It’s breakfast, their chance at one serving of protein, fruit, dairy, and carbohydrates. Look at them fly out of the cells. Watch them pile down the stairs. Walk right behind and slam doors. Start at the top, range 5, push the inmates down with slams. Don’t take any shit. Don’t stop. Just slam. Let them know. Chase them out of the cage. Fucking slam them, man.
Take a break. You’re done for now. The inmates are gone for half an hour. Sit on the back stairs. Those stairs are gated off. That way you don’t have to deal with the inmate “CO, CO, can I stop by 237?” or “CO, CO, I need my cell opened” when they come back. Just sit and doze until you hear another guard’s radio or keys jingling nearby. Then act like you’re tying your boots so you don’t look lazy.
Stretch when you hear the doors open for the inmates’ return. Back to running. Once the inmates step inside, slam their cell doors with a full-on, full-body shove. Rattle the range. Let them know. Clear the range, the slams say. Move. Don’t listen to a word the inmates say. Let the slams answer.
“CO, I’ve got a dentist’s appointment.”
Slam.
“CO, I’ve got a library pass.”
Slam.