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.

VINCE

I just got the most important letter of my life from Katie today. Because of my testimony and the fact that I took prison over probation she pled guilty to a 5^th Degree Possession and received a sentence of time served! Because she had that Department of Corrections hold I wrote about in a previous post, she will still be locked up for six more months, but I am free. My soul is free. I’m crying I am so happy. I hope you people never know the burden I’ve had on me. But it’s over! When I read her letter the first time, I felt as if my heart had beat for the first time since December. OK, now I’m focused on boot camp! Fuck I feel great. I mean, you know as great as I can feel in prison. But I finally feel that I’m here for the right reason, I mean the just reason.

Today is Day 2 of my rigorous training program. Yesterday I did like 40 pushups. Not bad for an out-of-shape 35 year old man who weighs 210 pounds. Progress, not perfection. I made what I estimate to be a 15-pound weight by filling a 3-gallon garbage bag half full of water, tying it up, and putting that in several more bags to protect from leaks. And then put that in a laundry bag so I can do curls. It doesn’t weigh all that much but if I do enough of them…it hurts.

On Sunday I went to the chapel for a Christian Ministry service thing because the chapel has air conditioning and comfy seats. I figured I could get in a good nap. Negative. Apparently the pastor is half deaf and the AC must have been fucking with his hearing aid so he was yelling over nothing and kept telling what I could only assume were jokes about a resurrection, zombie Jesus, ghosts, and god—oh my!

I was the only one laughing. I don’t think I’ll go back. But I don’t need to. Here’s the best part. I said some prayers during his routine that he asked us to repeat along with him. Now my soul is saved and absolved and—don’t go around telling people this because I feel a little bashful—but I have a reservation in heaven!

If I write the judge that sentenced me do you think that she will let me go since J.C. already did my time? Or do you think maybe it’s all just a sham and won’t actually apply in the real world? A lot of good questions….

I’m not one for organized religion, never have been. My official religion here is N/A.

Speaking of that other N.A., I have been attending weekly AA/NA meetings and for the first time last week, I was there for something other than the air con. I went for me. The meeting lasted two hours and when it was over I felt that feeling I used to get when I left meetings years ago. And although I couldn’t go anywhere afterwards for late night coffee, I still felt better than I had in a while.

[ANNE: A reader asked, after reading this post, if Vince was being released.  No,  When he says he is “free” he is only referring to his guilt being relieved because his plea agreement meant less time for Katie.  His sentence remains the same.]

VINCE

Food. How I miss being a cook. I have held many jobs over the years. Not all of them in some form of food service, but most of them. I have been in charge of kitchens that smoothly put out a thousand plates in a day, and some that couldn’t find 100 people to sit down on a Saturday night. From The Boulevard in Palm Beach, FL to The Riverside on the Root in Lanesboro, MN, I have put out hundreds of thousands of plates, some pretty, some not so much. But as I recall, it all started because my Mother had chosen to become a vegetarian.

If you have never visited Lanesboro, do so before you die. I have had the privilege not only of living there, but working in the two busiest restaurants in town. Although the population is only 788, the summer tourists easily triple that number and on Buffalo Bill weekend, an estimated 10,000 people invade the town. And they all must be fed.

Commonly called terrorists by the locals, the tourists are a breed of horrible spandex-wearing monsters that kick puppies and drink lattes. Blood does not course through their veins, rather some thick, vomitous ooze that would otherwise be found greasing the wheels on some kind of horrible machine at a concentration camp. But much to my amazement, they still eat human food.

If you ever find yourself on a beautiful trail in the middle of the woods, slowly passing streams, bridges, cliffs, and all forms of beauty on your bicycle, do us all a favor. Before you stop in any town, take a quick peek at what you’re wearing. If in fact it is Spandex like I suspect, know this: we can all see your penis. Especially those of us sitting down to eat when you come in for free water and to take a dump in our restroom. It’s not just an outline. It’s your penis, covered only by a super thin flexible fabric, leaving nothing to the imagination. With that, I’m DONE with the subject. Shit, one last thing. Take your fucking helmets off when you go into a business!! Nobody is going to hurt you, as much as they may want to!

Without customers, of course, I wouldn’t have had jobs. Losing many jobs over the years has always been my fault. A lot of them from stealing whatever I could. Some from pure laziness. Much like the restaurant industry, street-level pharmaceutical sales always has customers. And it has always been my back up. I’ve always been good with people, even though I don’t really like too many of them. Every time I was fired from a job I would go back to my street job. Not always successfully, and in the long run, of course, ultimately failure. Was my last time my last time? I truly believe that I want to be done forever. Just like I did in 2001.

And we hop, skip, and jump to the next subject! I don’t transition well.

Today is my first day on house crew with full privileges. Essentially, starting at 2:30, I don’t have to be in my cell. I get to use the phone during all flag periods. I can shower any time, when there isn’t a line of 80 people trying to get into five showers. Yesterday I showered alone for the first time in two months. The shower area is open and I can be seen by all guards and about half of the unit. But I wasn’t surrounded by naked guys.

A quick note: Almost everybody drops the soap more than once per week. Fact is, soap is slippery. We all laugh and make jokes. That’s as far as it goes.

VINCE

August 11, 2014
Thus far I have done the majority of my writing at night.  I have Restless Legs Syndrome and cannot sleep.  And it’s nice and quiet.  This week I will be starting my new medication, Mirapex.

Unbeknownst to me, the guards were doing an informal sleep study on me to prove that I was not faking symptoms to get drugs.  The doctor said that the guards only found me asleep twice over the three nights of the study. They walk by every 30-40 minutes at night.  So my medication was finally approved.  When my pills actually arrive, well who knows…..

August 11, 2014, just after midnight

The biggest downfall of being sleepless is having no food.  I have big hopes for the day ahead.  I need a job.  Working gets me out of my cell and puts a couple dollars a week in my account.  If I get a good job like kitchen or cleaning crew, I would get paid up to $1 per hour after a while.  We don’t get all of that, but it’s enough to buy necessaries.

August 16, 2014

So nice to have paper again, and college rule!  College rule makes me write better than grade-school rule.

I’ve been on Mirapex now for 5 amazing, sleep-filled nights.  When my Ma used the word “miracle” when describing it, she was spot on.  RLS kiss my ass.  I’ve been sleeping all the way through the night.  Dreaming.  And the doc says that my second nose should go away within a month.  Ha!  No side effects to speak of, actually.  So that’s my good news of the week.

[ANNE: RLS is a silly-sounding condition that runs in my family. I, my mother, my brothers, my sister, my cousin, we all have it to one degree or another. It causes an indescribable creeping sensation in the legs, and sometimes arms, as one is falling asleep, which makes you kick about in an effort to make it stop. It sounds silly, but try losing sleep night after night for your whole life, and it’s not so much. RLS is another thing to worry about for Vince—a bunk mate would not appreciate him thrashing about and waking him up 10 times a night—what if he had a violent cellmate? What if Vince ended up having to sleep on the cement floor?   What if, what if? I am impressed and a little surprised that they’ve addressed it so quickly.]