Category Archives: indefinite detention

Sprung!

VINCE

I made it!  Right after breakfast they changed me out of solitary and took me downstairs to Unit 10, the best unit according to word of mouth.

Already I’ve heard good news.  People are going to Boot Camp early!  One guy said his letter told him April, and he’s locked in for February!

This place is massive.  Until I get a job, I’m only allowed out of my cell until noon, after my first day.  Once I have a job, I’m free to spend my day training or reading or really doing anything I choose.  So far I have chosen to take a really long shower, with all my own hygiene items.  And that was exactly what I needed.

Next step, figure out my schedule, then develop a routine.  I know sooner than later I have to get to the P90X workout.  Cardio is huge at Boot Camp, along with five miles per day, the P90X is used in winter.  Five miles is rain or snow or shine.  I’m a little nervous about getting started.  I know I can do it, it’s just a matter of keeping focused.  I have trouble keeping my thoughts on one activity for very long.

Or on one subject, for that matter.  Next subject.  Actually, I’ll continue on Lanesboro.

I have mentioned the town in previous posts, about working in a couple of the restaurants there.  Well that’s not all I did.

OK, sorry, I’ll have to get back to Lanesboro.  I did my first real cardio exercise in quite a while.  To qualify for Boot Camp, you have to be able to walk or run a mile in 14 minutes.  I failed, but not by too much.  I will try every day and I will improve.  I also played four games of volleyball.  So I kept my heart rate up for about an hour, and it felt pretty good.

I watched about five minutes of people doing the P90X thing.  All I have to say to the person that invented that is Fuck You.  Fuckin asshole.

Lanesboro is a town of 788.  It has been named the B&B Capital of America or some such shit.  So in the summer, the town can swell into the thousands.  10,000 or more for Buffalo Bill Days.  In the winter, however, almost everything closes down…except for the bars.

That’s where I learned that it’s okay to have six beers before breakfast, skip breakfast, and go straight to the bar to start getting a good buzz on.

Usually by noon I could be near blackout, eat a small lunch, then go home and take a nap. That way I could go out and get drunk with the evening crowd too.

Even on my work days I could show up fairly hammered as long as I could function.  I could even pull beers off the tap during the slow days of winter to keep a nice, even buzz.

Pause…Good news: It’s not the P90X that we have to do and practice.  It’s the Reebok Step video.  My apologies to the creator of the P90X workout.  I’m sure it’s a fine program.  For insane people.  My verbal assault was out of line.

Ashamed of Ashamed

ANNE

Did you know it’s possible to feel ashamed of feeling ashamed?

Well it is. A couple times, Vince and his friends came to St. Paul for the weekend and stayed with me. They brought everything one needs for an overnight:

BoozeCigs

And since I live in a nonsmoking building, they smoked out in front of the building, or took their home-rolled cigarettes and a cooler full of beer up to the roof and played poker up there. I would bring up a platter of food—hard boiled eggs, olive tapenade, crackers, some fruit—up to them but they wouldn’t touch it.   Once I bought four kinds of sausages at Whole Foods, figuring they were meat eaters, but they wouldn’t touch them–too froo froo.

Vince took his shoes off inside my door, as he had been trained to do from childhood:

Shoes

This is where the shame came in. Here I was, living in what was billed as a “luxury” apartment building, and my son wore shoes like this. And then I felt ashamed of feeling ashamed.  Of being such a snob.

Whoa! Time for a cute kitten photo!

kitten

(Did I mention I do kitten fostering for the humane society?)

Anyway, another time we all went for sushi—Vince’s and my all-time favorite food. And he couldn’t eat it. He had to leave the table to be sick, and then I noticed that his abdomen was distended and my bubble of denial that he was “just drinking” was burst.

I had attended the family program at Hazelden, I knew the medical symptoms of chronic alcoholism, including liver disease.

A number of people have said to me that it must be kind of relief that Vince is in prison. At least I know where he is, he can’t drink or smoke, yatta yatta. Yeah, these things are true and they are good, although drugs and alcohol can be had, even in prison.

All I can do is keep my focus on myself—examining my embarrassment and guilt over that embarrassment, forgiving myself for being human, for having feelings, for having mixed feelings.

Solitary, Still

VINCE

It wasn’t always the hard stuff.

Shortly after I lost my job at the ice cream plant, one of my close friends wore a wire into my apartment and attempted to buy some meth from me.  Fortunately, I had been tipped off that his house had been raided not even an hour before he showed up.  I slammed the door in his face, and started thinking.  I had a standing offer to move to Fountain with an old friend and his girlfriend, and I took them up on it.  The first night there I started back up with my heavy drinking, and I didn’t stop until seven years later when I got into the hard stuff again.  But it was a fun seven years!

After one very trying month living in a trailer in Fountain with a man that couldn’t control his anger while drunk, which was all day every day, I moved a short distance to the town I was working in, Lanesboro.  **Pause**  If you ever get a chance to get a copy of the book, Inadmissible Evidence by Phillip Friedman, do it.  But before you read it, just go ahead and burn it.  Or if you want to know what it’s like in prison isolation, read it.  Thank you for your time.  **Play**

One Battle Won

ANNE

As Vince has written, the tourist trade in Lanesboro dies off in winter, so he goes on seasonal unemployment. The State loads his weekly payment onto a debit card which is managed by Mega Bank. When he was arrested, he was no longer eligible to receive additional payments; fair enough. However, he still had a balance in his account, which he couldn’t access.

So I started calling Mega Bank. I will not bore you with the details of how much time I spent on hold, making copies, faxing and mailing and emailing the Power of Attorney form Vince had painstakingly found in the prison library, and doing it all over again because Mega Bank claimed they never received it, and so on. Months passed.

My friend Stephanie, who came with me to visit Vince, works for a big consulting firm. I said to her, “I feel so cynical! I wonder if big corporations ignore people like me until we give up, and then they keep the money, and all those tiny accounts add up …” She laughed and said I wasn’t being cynical at all, that that’s exactly what they do. They wait you out. They do nothing. They make a nice profit.

But I am a fighter. Hearing Stephanie’s take on it made me mad, which energized me. I called the Minnesota Attorney General’s Office. When a real person answered the phone and asked me to describe my complaint, I was tongue tied for a moment. “I…I wasn’t ready to talk … I’m not used to a government agency or company that actually answers the phone.”

The AG sent a letter to the CEO of Mega Bank, asking him to respond within five business days. Mega Bank ignored the letter. I don’t know what transpired after that but I received a check for $154.03 within a couple weeks. In particular, I’d like to recognize Joao Halab in the AG’s office for pursuing this on my and Vince’s behalf.

A hundred and fifty bucks may not sound like a lot of money, but it meant coffee and ramen and pens and paper to Vince. And to give Vince credit, he told me to keep $50 for m effort, which I did.

I’ve got other battles going as well. They are mostly internal ones; I am choosing not to expend my energy on them because I know I cannot win them.

I wrote that I have to move because I am being priced out of my apartment. I haven’t found a new place yet. It seems there are either spacious penthouses with doormen and champagne happy hours for $2,000 a month, or dark cramped rat holes for $800 a month, and not much in between.

My landlord has started showing my apartment, which amps up the pressure. I called a friend who lives in the building and asked, “Should I make a point of being home when they come in with the potential renters, so I can make sarcastic remarks about how they’re taking advantage of the economy to jack up rents?” She said NO without hesitation. I knew that was the right answer, but I needed to hear it.

But when I came home from seeing yet another “no-go” apartment, there were people in my living room. These potential new renters gushed about what a beautiful apartment I have. I kept my mouth shut.

The poor leasing agent is also being priced out of his apartment, which he’s been receiving as a benefit of being an employee, so he’s very sympathetic. He called me a couple hours later to say that a corporation had rented my apartment sight unseen but would be sending someone the next day just to verify the square footage. They’ll be using it to house MBA interns. I asked which company it was a company that makes industrial chemicals.

This is me a couple years ago reveling in the view from my apartment:

740View

My other internal battle is a February work trip to the Occupied Palestinian Territories. I can’t say much except that it adds inherent complicated stress and additional pressure to find a new apartment by the time I leave, because I’ll come back and need to move five days later.

 

Solitary

VINCE

Boring!  That’s the only way to describe my time here so far.  I got to choose a couple real winners from the seg book cart the other day.  When I asked the Native man about a couple authors I was interested in, he stared at me with his mouth wide open.  That’s it.  Just stared.  Eventually I pointed to a red one and a blue one, and he responded to that.  Unfortunately I only have 1,000 pages to last me until I get out of here.  On the up-side, I read terrible books really slowly!

A CO went around and knocked on a few doors asking if people wanted to use the phone.  I knocked on my side of the door and asked if I could use the phone.  He said, “No, not your day.”  No shit.

I’ve heard that Moose Lake is an old psych hospital. At the very least, it is an old hospital.  From what I saw of it four days ago, the outside is all red brick and barb wire.  The inside is very sterile.  White on white, all high-gloss, splatter-resistent walls.  I can’t wait to get out and explore.

In Moose Lake there is no controlled movement.  Once I get down to general population, I can just sign out and go to the gym.  And I can spend some extra time in the library once I get out of the hole.  Of course, this is all just hearsay.  I haven’t actually seen any of it with my own eye, yet.  Fuck.  Did I ever even mention that I’m a cyclops?  But don’t tell anyone.

I wrote a kite to the staff about not getting a phone call and within 10 minutes of receiving it they brought down a phone and apologized for their oversight!  I’m impressed.  I wrote the kite in a respectful manner and in turn I was treated with respect.  I think I like it this way.

I believe it’s Sunday.  I’m still in the hole.  I haven’t spent one second out of my cell since Thursday morning.  A CO asked me if I wanted recreation.  I said yes.  Five minutes later, my door unlocked and I stepped out into the common area with my shower stuff, my mail, and a lot of questions.  The common area is a room with one table, four seats.  That is all.  Nobody else.  I didn’t get to shower, send out my mail, or speak to another human.  After an hour of sitting alone at the table an angry voice yelled, “Recreation is over! Stand by your door!”  I did.  And I have declined recreation ever since.  Still no shower.  I need one.