VINCE

I mentioned in a previous post that the tension was rising between the black gangs and there may be some gang activity sooner or later. Well that’s over. Now, because one dumb-ass white person used the N word, there is racial tension.

The most annoying person on my side of the unit happens to be black. This will change every week or so as people cycle through. He never shuts up. No exaggeration. And a part of me definitely wanted to yell, “Shut the fuck up!” but I never would have inserted that extra word at the end. It’s not my style. But I am white. So I am grouped in with the rest of them. So if he was loud before, it’s amplified and now he throws in big words like Cracker and Honky. He implied that all of our mothers like N dick. To that I shrugged my shoulders. Go get ‘em, ma!

For a Saturday night the unit is relatively calm. The day is almost done. The mellow methodical humming of the fans will become the lullaby that guides me to sleep. I will drift off into fantasies unknown and awake to the same day, every day, with only minor differences that simply appear to be noteworthy because of the setting. Only outside these walls does real life take place.

—

Sunday morning and the COs are doing cell searches. Including strip search. I wonder what they’re looking for. My guess, they have nothing better to do. They have never found anything harmful since I’ve been here. So they will use their “power” and take away our extra towels, then go home and beat their wives. Then go to the bar and brag about being…oops. I was interrupted and searched. My room was destroyed after they read the part above.

When I came back to my cell the guy says, “I read your letter. I’m gonna go home now and beat my wife.” And I blurted out, “I was right!” before he had a chance to retract. He was so pissed I could see his face change color. But there isn’t a thing he can do. Nothing was found in any of the 120 cells that stand tall in a giant cluster in the middle of the rectangular-shaped unit. But we are all aware that they are on the prowl. If any uprisings are planned, they have been thwarted for a least a couple days.

* The contents of this, and all previous ideas for blog posts, are entirely fictional. Any resemblance of characters or situations or prisons to those in the real world are coincidental. I do not condone or admit to any criminal activity herewithin.

VINCE

My neighbor and I got six days each for the radio. Loss of privileges is just that. No phone, no outdoor activities. Since those are literally the only privileges we have it may not sound so bad, but that brings our out-of-cell time per day to meals and medication. They cannot prevent me from going to religious services and, I believe, AA/NA. This’ll really show us. I tried to take all 12 days but they said no. The neighbor shrugged it off. I’m glad about that.

I did sign up for the library last night and I hope we’re allowed to go to that. Reading is my only option for in-cell entertainment. They can’t take that away, can they? I tell ya. The service here is a home run!

—

Back to my first arrest. I sat in the cold, dark, disgusting holding pen of the SPPD only for a few hours until we were all chained together and driven to the nearby Ramsey County Adult Detention Center. They crammed us all in one room, which smelled like hot dogs and wet dogs, and left us for hours. Every now and then they would call people out. Bring more in. But not me. I stayed in there the whole night. I dared not use the bathroom in fear of contracting a mixture of rabies and syphilis. I now know the reason they did not take me out. It was my first crime ever, and I was going to be released after arraignment in the morning.

After I was seen by the judge, I was released right from the courtroom. I don’t believe they do that anymore. I walked from the jail to the place I was staying, a couple miles away, and sat on the toilet for a bit. That was a helluva walk with the internal waste containers full.

Eventually, through the legal system, I was sentenced to one year of Project Remand. Upon successful completion of said program, the charge would be dropped to a misdemeanor, and I would move on with my life, felony free.

Yeah. About that.

I wasn’t really ever one for following orders or obeying the law.

The first thing they wanted me to do was go to in-patient drug treatment. Since I wasn’t addicted to anything other than pot, I surely did not need treatment. And I was kicked out in under a week.

I immediately called my case worker and told her. I was not punished for that, simply told to follow all future directives. I think I lasted maybe a month and I started drinking for the first time in my life. Alcohol is the easiest thing to cheat with because it leaves the body quickly. What I didn’t know was that alcohol leads to poor decision making. And I eventually started getting high again and not showing up for my meetings. Turns out they get all pissed off about that sort of thing and issue something called a warrant. The first of many throughout my life.

That first violation was a slap on the wrist. The second time, a few months later, the judge re-structured my sentence. He changed my stay of adjudication into a stay of imposition, and sent me to the work house for a few days. My new sentence gave me one year and one day in prison if I didn’t complete three years of probation successfully, which I almost certainly did not. Stay tuned!

VINCE

I got my last letter to Katie back in the mail today which means she is finally out of that horrible jail. I should find out soon if she’s free or back in prison somewhere else to finish out her term on her last charges.

I’m excited for her. She’s had a tough life. Yah, yah, yah, she’s made some bad choices. They didn’t affect you so keep it to yourself. She’s a good girl. And I truly hope she’s making good choices if she is out there. I love you, baby.

I learned a lot in one hour on the radio. Tomorrow’s forecast. Sale of the Century at every car dealership. Every day. My all-time favorite band is Pink Floyd. They haven’t put out an album since the 1900s. I believe they are all in their 70s. And they have decided to put out a new album. I mean…that’s pretty bold. If there’s even one song about world hunger, poverty, or something in the world being broken, let’s all get together and fix that, I’m gonna shit.

—

I have to complain about one thing. Although it is truly amazing to be able to drown out the sound of people yelling back and forth with music on my radio, the commercials are almost as bad. Carrier Air Conditioning uses professional baseball players, naturally from the MN Twins, to advertise for them. Comparing everything about Carrier to the sport. The service is a “home run,” and they’re going to “strike out” the old prices, and come meet the “rookie of the year” on the sales team! Get it? Do you get it? A home run is good. So the service must be good. But in all reality, and in comparison to it, a home run is actually very rare. A good season will yield 30, out of 600 at-bats. So what he’s saying is, five percent of the times you buy air conditioners in your life, you’ll get good service. Maybe that’s just how I see it. But I only looked at the facts. Fact is, I’m in prison. I shouldn’t complain, but I just did.

What I could say, and I will, is that the food here is a home run!

—

Fuck my life. I should have mentioned that it is against company policy to have a radio in your room if you didn’t purchase one from the canteen, which I did not. When electronics arrive they are engraved with the OID number and the offender’s last name. So my guess is my neighbor and I will be getting Loss of Privileges. I will find out soon. I went out only for five minutes to get my pill and I came back and it was gone. $17 that wasn’t even mine. These guards are assholes. I know I’m supposed to follow the rules. But I think it’s a little ridiculous. My neighbor has plenty of money. Wasn’t using his radio. And I have none, and he went out of his way to help out a fellow inmate. Well I suppose the right thing to do is take all of the LOP if they let me. He shouldn’t be punished for being kind.

VINCE

I complained enough to the house staff about my smelly cellie that I finally got a room all by myself! It’s all the way up on the 4^th tier, so it’s really hot, but I’m okay with that. No longer will I wake up in the middle of the night and see someone pooping three feet away, and staring at me. Nor will I have to point out to him, daily, that showers do not bite. It is nice up here.

If I could draw, I would, but I can barely write (although the copy of “Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation” that I found in my new room will surely help with punctuation).

I will try to describe my room and what I can see from my cell as I sit at my metal desk.

The bed starts directly behind me, and is six feet by two and half feet and three inches thick. Directly in front of me, above the desk about one foot, is an electrical outlet with two plug-ins and a switch that leads to the light next to it. To the left of the desk and attached is a six-foot-tall steel locker. I keep all my hygiene stuff in there and hang my hand-washed clothes to dry on the hooks. To my left is the sink, that produces only extremely hot water or fairly warm water. It’s what I drink because my choices are limited. To that. And next to the sink, behind me and to the left, sits the porcelain god. No crown of course. Unfortunately too many people have been injured or killed in the past by toilet seats. So we sit on the cold white surface. The walls are all white-painted brick. High gloss. Probably 30-40 layers. And the small grey shelf above my bed houses my paperwork and my books.

Outside my cell I see seas of bars. Directly outside is the four-foot walkway with five horizontal bars and every eight feet a much thicker post that links them all. The railing is about four and a half feet tall to prevent people from easily being thrown over. Beyond that, everything is brick, glass windows with a view of the fenced-in area that serves as the recreation area for offenders in segregation. The narrow brick shell of the corridor to the mess hall, and juuuussst a little patch of grass along the wall. The ceiling is also brick but it is arched. It honestly looks like it should have fallen down years ago but the paint holds it together. And that’s pretty much my view for 22 hours a day. Except on Saturdays and Sundays, then it’s 23.

VINCE

I occasionally notice certain things that seem unbelievable. Like I can’t believe I have not heard one song in two months. No music at all. Or, when I was in Olmsted County Jail, I hadn’t seen a tree for over a month. Things people take for granted but to the extreme. I haven’t seen a bear in years but most people could say the same. Music is such a part of life. It is in everything we do. Around us all the time. And now I hear only the music in my head. It’s just not the same.

To clear up a couple things ma said in an earlier blog post: I was at no point looking at 11 years. Katie was, due to her criminal history. If I had taken my case to trial and lost, I could have received a maximum of 117 months (almost 10 years) but that would only be a worst-case scenario. Let’s say the task force had spent a year investigating me, had several controlled buys on me, and had to dress up and use grenades to blow down the door to my meth lab and hooker hut and then found me with guns and the President’s daughter doing a line off my dick. I still would have more likely seen about 86 months. That’s about 54 months with good time. Eligible for boot camp in 48 months. More time, yes. But I’m glad I pled out.

Ma was spot on about one thing. For me, Florida was a state of mind. I never wanted to leave. I knew that if Minnesota made me stay here on probation, it would lead to an inevitable relapse. Florida is where I grew up. Where I first learned how to be a friend. And how to have friends.

Growing up I had a tough time keeping friends. We seemed to move around a lot. I think I spent my time trying to make new friends in new places more than trying to hang on to old friendships. Something I still do to this day. Some of the people I have been closest to in my life I can discard without feeling. Family, friends, it doesn’t seem to matter. It’s not what I would call a conscious decision. It just happens. I’m not going to blame it, or anything, on my upbringing. That would be cheap.

I’ll say this: sometimes I wish I could take an ice cream scoop and remove the part of my brain that doesn’t care about anything. But idiot doctors say that is far more complicated than it sounds. I lack the surgical tools to remove my scalp and skull and that gross gray layer to get to my brain, and cannot legally obtain the anesthetic necessary to do it.

Back to Florida. I was surrounded by support. Everybody I knew had a sober existence. To me, true sobriety meant I wasn’t trying to be sober anymore. I was living sober. Meetings, sure. Softball in a sober league, fuck yeah!

My friends and I were part of an enormous network of like-minded individuals. By that I mean if we decided to stray, we would seek out our other comforts, our drugs of choice. But as a pack, nobody wanted to stray. I believe to this day I would still be sober if I had stayed put. But I am not ashamed of anything that has happened since my relapse either. I am constantly learning. Unfortunately, I seem to learn from the same mistake more than a few times. Or do I?

As much as I know I want to be sober when I get out, a part of me sits in here and reminisces about the very few good high times. I am going to need a strong support group again. Katie and I plan on being together when I get out. But if she’s using then, as she knows, I will not be there. I have a pretty good feeling she wants sobriety too. We have been through a lot together over the last eight months, even though we have only actually seen each other a handful of times in passing at the county detention center.

While I was out on bail we spoke almost nightly for a while. Illegally of course, because we were co-defendants.

You see. Some criminals are smart. Technically, Katie received mail from my alter-ego, Damon Martinez. And when she called me, it was after midnight from her job in the laundry room jail. Those calls, to our knowledge, were not recorded. I thought it was funny that her code name was Katy, instead of Katie. I would hear the standard prison jail operator greeting say I had a call from Katy, and I would accept and yell at her and she would say, “Oh baby, it’s a different spelling.” And that’s where we fell in love. On the phone. I was on the road dealing drugs all night, she was in jail and I was on bail. And we fell in love.