Tag Archives: prison

The Buzz

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VINCE

Drugs are my drug of choice. My most recent favorite was meth. And since most of you have never used it, I will try my best to describe what it does.

Meth is unique in that it can be ingested several ways, each giving a different sensation, along with the standard benefit of increased brain activity and being able to stay up for days at a time.

You can put it in your veins, in your lungs, up your ass, in your nose, in your stomach, and…well that about covers it.

I’ve never used needles; personal phobia. The rest I’ve done at least once.

When you snort it, it takes a few minutes to kick in, but it lasts a while. I preferred smoking it over a glass bubble. At head shops they call them incense burners, but I’ve never seen one used for that purpose. A bubble is a short (4-11”) hollow glass tube with a globe at one end, with a small hole in it. It is lit from the bottom, not through the hole (meth is explosive) and when it melts it produces sort of a steam-smoke which is of course inhaled.

The high is almost immediate. Sadly, toward the end of my run, I pretty much had to have the bubble in my hand if I was awake.

My favorite part was when the effects of sleep deprivation kicked in. Some people couldn’t handle it and they went crazy. I enjoyed the hallucinations and irrational thoughts. They would start at around Day Five.

Of course, after some time, your brain would sort of shut down and sleep would become necessary. More than a few times this happened while I was driving.

I have woken up airborne, backwards, and upside down while crashing four different cars, none of which I owned. Fortunately, I never injured anybody other than myself.

Looking back, they should have been some of the scariest moments of my life, but I was in such a daze at the time I just played it cool and worked with what I could. Three of the four cars were just fine. I returned them to their owners, gave them some “payment,” and went about my business.

Yes, I should have been injured. One time I woke up going backward at 70 miles per hour in the oncoming lane on a corner of Highway 52 during a snowstorm. Somehow, all I hit was snow, which slowed me down much slower than…say, a car. I had to come back the next day and I noticed the car was about three feet up in the air, snow packed in and around it. It took six people shoveling and two sets of chains but I drove it out.

Fear of Freedom

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VINCE

For the third time since my imprisonment—just in Moose Lake—I am trying out a new medication as per doctor’s orders. This time it’s Artane, and so far so good. Better than Sinamet. I still miss Mirapex. I am sleeping soundly through the night which is the desired outcome.

Today I ran a mile in 9m 17s. I can’t seem to get over a mile though. Every time I’m done running, I know that I’m going to die. I don’t actually die, but I do feel completely exhausted.

But…something happened today that is a first. I actually wanted to run. I looked forward to it. I knew in advance that I could do better than I had. And I know…that I can, and will, do better tomorrow.

My strategy is actually to run at a slower pace, and go 1½ miles. And alternate daily between going for distance and going for time.

OK it’s not actually my strategy. The athletic trainer for boot camp told me it was a good way to build stamina. I’ll take his advice.

One of my few good friends here left for boot camp three days ago. He was nervous.   Not because he couldn’t handle getting yelled at, or couldn’t handle the physical training, but because he was a step closer to freedom.

A lot of guys are afraid of their release date because they’ve spent their whole lives screwing up and don’t think much will change.

In my experience, prison is a horrible place. People talk a lot about repeating mistakes they made out there because it’s all they know. I know how to make meth. I learned how, here in Moose Lake. I probably will not do it, although now it’s an option. I have phone numbers of people that will be doing what I used to do when they get out. So I have those options too. Actually I threw those numbers away today.

The longer I stay in prison, the more I’m going to want to go back to the shit life. That’s why I really want to get to boot camp, so I can be surrounded by people looking for a positive change. I haven’t made too many good decisions in my life time, I need all the help I can get.

Banned

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ANNE

After three weeks of long-haul flights, sleeping in five different beds, crossing borders and checkpoints where soldiers armed with Uzis scrutinized our passports, where I was the scribe in meeting after meeting where everyone chain smoked and kept switching from English to Arabic, I arrived home.

It was a great trip. I love to travel and I love coming home. In this case, “home’ was my apartment for five more days. My 16-year-old niece had come in while I was gone and packed for a couple hours, which was super helpful except she’d packed all my coffee mugs and drinking glasses. Oh well. I’d figure something out.

I savored going through my bags and re-discovering the few little baubles of ethno-bling I had bought along the way, like the camel made out of nails. I’d traded for it with a Bedouin woman; she now had my umbrella that says World Bank on it.

I turned to my pile of mail. I always enjoyed this part of coming home, even though there’s rarely anything interesting in the mail anymore. Vince had told me before I left that he had a lot of blog material that would be waiting for me when I got home. I always looked forward to his letters, but there was nothing from him.

There was, however, an envelope with a Minnesota Department of Corrections return address. That was odd…Vince’s letters had his own name on them…and here is what it was:

Ban Notice

I was banned from visiting Vince until August. Mr. Lott had not mentioned the possibility of me being banned when we’d spoken on the phone. I had told him I’d be leaving the country the next day for three weeks. The letter was postmarked the very day I left. He must have sprinted down the hall to get it printed and mailed to ensure I wouldn’t be able to appeal within 10 days.

My post-trip afterglow was blown. Many choice words flew out of my mouth. I won’t repeat all of them here because, based on what has transpired since this day, I am concerned that the DOC is onto the blog and not happy about it.

A battle cry, “This is war!” came first, followed by a profound sense of physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion. I felt furious, impotent, overwhelmed, helpless. For the first time since Vince’s incarceration, I felt like giving up. Just not fighting the ban. But I’ve always been wired to pursue justice. Sounds grandiose, maybe, but I simply cannot walk away from a fight when something is just wrong. I wish I could.

Now, I just wanted to get a good night’s sleep so I could write my trip report, pack everything that remained to be packed, and deal with changing my address with my bank, the post office, Comcast, my credit card company, the electric company, the DMV, my health insurer, my employer, my magazines and newspapers, and on and on. Oh—right—and I would have to re-apply for visiting privileges with the DOC too, since my address would change.

Coffee a la Russe

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VINCE

And my friend continues with his Coffee Monster story…

A huge man with a long white beard labored into the cell with his belongings jammed in a sack over his shoulder. Just climbing the stairs to the unit had made him out of breath and dripping wet.

He looked like Santa from hell. He even had little snowflakes all over his clothes, hair, and beard but for some reason the snow was brown! It turns out that his giant container of instant coffee crystals had burst in his sack and completely covered his clothing, bedding, hair, shoulders, shirt, pants, arms…everything… He left a trail of coffee that had mixed with his dripping sweat and made brown mushy foot prints and piles.

When he slung the bag off his shoulder and shook out his shirt, it polka dotted the whole room, including my bed and sheets, with coffee. He looked at me like he didn’t know what to do next. He asked how much longer I’d be on the toilet. Turns out he’s Russian and speaks very broken English. All I could yell was, “Let me wipe my ass!”

At that moment they delivered lunch to us; the lunch room was being used for another purpose that day. So, instead of starting to clean up, coffee monster sat down and started to eat his cold fish sandwich, one foot away from me as I am cleaning my ass.

I finally got clean, but I couldn’t really move because he was so fat, you can’t get around him in the cell. I didn’t want to get near him anyway because he was totally brown and wet. It’s in his eyebrows for feck sake. I just stood there watching him eat then asked, “Are you gonna try cleaning this up?!” He pretended not to understand and said, “I think I do clean it up.”

“No, no, you didn’t clean it the fuck up! There’s coffee hand prints on the walls! There’s piles of coffee mush on the floor. My bed is covered in coffee!”

He took some toilet paper and made one swipe across the floor, still holding his half-eaten fish sandwich. A CO walked by and I told him we needed a mop. He said he’s get us one. He didn’t. We sat there with the tension rising while the coffee and sweat dried all over the room and him.

Probably an hour passes. I’m stuck. I couldn’t sit on my bed or touch anything. He kept trying to make conversation like nothing was out of the ordinary. I kept saying, “just shut up.” Eventually a swamper came by and gave us a mop and new bedding. It took the rest of the day to clean.

Coffee Monster was 400 pounds and they gave him the top bunk. So every time he got into his bed, it was a big sweaty, moaning, breathing, flapping mess.

So he decided to spend most of the day sitting at our desk, which when you’re as fat as him, puts you 1.5 inches away from me at all times. I eventually had to hang a towel from the between our faces just to escape him. I sat on my bed, pissed off, a towel hanging 6 inches from my face, with his fat head 6 inches on the other side of the towel doing nothing. Literally just sitting there all day unable to see my TV, unable to read English books. He just sat there looking at a towel with an angry dude behind it.   About a week later, he got moved to a different unit. One without stairs, and he got a bottom bunk.

Coffee Monster

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VINCE

Every now and then, I hear a story worth sharing. One of my main friends here told a story the first day I met him of an incident in St. Cloud that I still laugh about every time I think of it. He is a tutor here, and has new funny stories every day which I may or may not share at some point. But this one, not involving education, stands alone.

—

I had the same celly for a few months. He was totally insane, but a great celly because he was OCD. He cleaned all day every day. It was awesome. He washed his face over 100 times a day to the point where it was read and raw. Like I said, insane, but the cell was spotless.

He got moved to a single cell and I was stuck with a stinky little non-showering guy. There are a lot of “no-shower” guys in prison, but this one stuck out. He smelled like dead fish. He hung out in nothing but his tighty whities, complete with skid marks. I lived with him for a month before he got transferred. I was excited to get rid of him, but then I went through three more cellys in the next four days.

One morning, they moved my latest idiot celly. They usually replace people the same morning, very quickly. By about 10am, I figured I am gonna have the 8×10-foot cell to myself for one day at least. That was very exciting since I’d had no privacy for over six months. As it neared noon, I figured I was safe to take my first semi-private shit in way too long. I dropped my pants and the glorious private shit was not even fully out of my ass, when the cell door clicked open.

As I was sitting on the toilet, there was no way I could have prepared for or comprehended what bumbled into my cell. It was…the Coffee Monster!

To be continued….

Sprinting Toward Freedom

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VINCE

Tuesday: They cancelled my medication again. This time they said it was an accident, but they can’t do anything about it. I cannot sleep without medication because of Restless Legs Syndrome. I was awake until 4:30 am. Got up at 5:15. It’ll be the same tonight.

Wednesday: It was.

Yesterday, I ran a mile in under 10 minutes. 9:40, to be exact. Today, I went to the first of three boot camp orientation classes. In this one, one of the athletic trainers said that by the time we enter boot camp, he would like us to be able to run miles in under 7 minutes, and at least 3 miles in distance.

I looked around the room and saw some comforting expressions on some bewildered faces. The 350 pound rhino in front of me, still out of breath from raising his hand, asked if he should start walking now to get his heart rate good, which made little sense. I was happy to see that most people are far less prepared than myself.

I will say this, it may prove difficult for many guys in other ways. For example, we are required to speak proper English and refrain from using profanity. For the seven black guys in the group of 45 men in the class today, none were able to string together a real sentence. They will be doing a lot of pushups.

Theft: Full Circle

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VINCE

Why don’t kleptomaniacs like puns?

Because they’re always taking things, literally.

I mentioned once that in my younger years I made a living as a thief, stealing expensive mountain bikes from stores and taking the occasional piece of equipment from unlocked garages subsidized my drug habit for a while, and of course made me a felon at 18.

Who would have known, years later, I would make a much better and more honest living protecting the assets of Spencer Gifts. Spencer Gifts—purveyor of fine lava lamps, Halloween costumes, and gag gifts. Although I was only ever the assistant manager, I made over 100 citizen arrests of shoplifters over a one and a half year period. I even made the news for catching somebody trying to pass a fake $20 bill. This was all shortly after I moved from St. Paul to Rochester. About six months (I think) after I came back from Florida.

When a job opening became available for a regional loss prevention director, I applied, and that’s when they found out I was a felon and was “not fired” but I decided to go work for the ice cream factory instead.

Two years later, after another brief drug delivery stint, I was in Lanesboro working at a busy corner café where I was fired for stealing. I really didn’t feel bad about it then because I was a huge piece of shit and I felt as if they owed me more than they paid me. Or however I was able to justify it to myself, friends, and family. Probably a variety of excuses and explanations.

When sober, I haven’t stolen anything since I was a kid. But I’ve resorted to theft in some form under the influence of every drug I’ve ever done. And there’s another great reason for me to stop this train-wreck of a life. (Oh, I don’t mean suicide. I mean I want to quit drugs.)

[ANNE: After Vince went off the rails I cleaned out a storage locker where a landlord had moved all his stuff. I pride myself on not having a storage locker. If you ever want to do something really depressing, clean out someone else’s storage that’s been left abandoned. I came across a couple dozen lapel pins Vince had received from Spencer Gifts in recognition of his shoplifter-catching abilities. Some were gold-tone, some were silver, and one was platinum with a diamond chip. I don’t know what ever happened to them.]

Request Denied

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VINCE

My roommate is old. He has a TV, and we were watching FOX news. I should mention that I couldn’t hear anything and the subtitles weren’t on, so I was really just reading the ticker at the bottom. Anywho…the ticker said, “Judge allows gays to get marriage licenses immediately in Miami Dade…” The roommate says, “More queers getting married.”

I said, “Does that bother you?” And he replies, “I just think it’s gross and I don’t like to think about it.” I said, “Well don’t. I never think about it. And it doesn’t seem to bother me.” He didn’t like that.

—

I ran a mile today in 10:10. That’s 3:50 better than the requirement for passing the fitness test. Still nowhere near the required 4.3 miles they run every other day at boot camp, but I hear they let you work up to it. Progress.

—

Get back to where you once belonged….

In 2002, after a year of successful aftercare in a half-way house in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida, I made the decision to return to Minnesota to take care of my court obligations, with the intent of returning to live a sober life with my network in Florida.

Healthy Vince

[Photos of VInce during his 5 sober years]

I had felony warrants in Hennepin and Ramsey counties that were about two years old. I ran from them to enter Hazelden in April 2001, because I wanted real change in my life and in my opinion, being forced into treatment doesn’t work. (I should say in my experience, not in my opinion.)

In the month before my return to Minnesota, I gathered evidence of my actions and whereabouts over the previous 15 months or so, along with some letters from my family, counselors, peers, etc. regarding my behavior and recovery program.

My hope was that the documentation would influence the judges’ opinions and sway their decision toward one that would keep me out of prison and let me get back to Florida.

Well, it went 50/50.

Because of my efforts in going to treatment, staying sober, and passing a urinalysis test when I got back to Minnesota, the Ramsey County judge basically kicked me out of jail and smiled at me right after she sent a pregnant woman to prison for four years. And I never even saw the judge in Hennepin. She let me out the day after I got there.

Now the hard part. The judges have no influence on the decision to let me move out of state. The State of Florida makes that call. And even with approval of both probation officers in Minnesota, and my Declaration of Domicile in Florida, they still didn’t want any more know felons in their state. Request Denied.

I blame nothing but poor decision making on my part for my incarceration. There is a lot I could have done differently, but I always look back on that period of my life when I wanted to get back to where I once belonged, inevitably relapsed, and snowballed.

Visit Denied

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ANNE

I took the day off work to go visit Vince before I left for the Middle East, but I never saw him. I was denied a visit because my shirt was too “low cut.” Here I am out in the parking lot after I was ejected, showing off my slutty, low-cut shirt.

Low Cut

The correctional officer, a guy named Volk, told me I would have to go home and change my shirt.

Go home? I live two hours away. Then he suggested I drive into Moose Lake and buy a T-shirt. I protested that my shirt was not low cut; what was the definition of low cut? If there was one he didn’t know what it was. I pointed out that I was not showing cleavage; in fact I was physically incapable of doing so…. I said several times, “I can’t believe I have to say these things to a strange man in a prison. I’m a 55-year-old woman here to visit my son. I am not wearing a low-cut top!” I felt so shamed. Did I look slutty? I doubted my own judgment.

That’s when he said, “Well ma’am, it’s for your own protection. See, if you bent over, then they could see …”

That’s when I blew it–I kind of called him a pervert.  OKAY I did call him a pervert. Visit Denied.

I asked to talk to his supervisor. He said she was not working that day. I asked to talk to a supervisor. He said there were none working that day. I laughed, incredulous, “So you are running the whole prison?” I asked for his supervisor’s name and phone number. He said, “You can look it up on the website, lady.”

I started bawling and stumbled out the doors. A female CO was coming in and asked me if I was alright. I managed to blubber out my story and then said, “I think it was all a big power trip!” Of course she couldn’t say anything but the look of complicit agreement on her face was clear.

I asked some visitors coming into the prison to snap a picture of me. I called my sister from my car. A group of officers came up to my door and yelled, “You have to leave! You can not sit here in the parking lot.” I rolled down my window, not understanding what could possibly be the problem. “You have to leave right now!” the closest one barked.

I drove out of the facility and called my sister again from the parking lot of the Dollar Store. “Volk’s brother-in-law probably owns the Dollar Store, conveniently located right outside the prison and handily ready to sell overpriced T-shirts!”

“Well I don’t know about that,” she said, “but he sure was on a power trip. Now drive safely; you’ve got another two-hour drive ahead of you—don’t make things worse by veering off the Interstate.”

Vince called me just as I was about to enter the freeway, and I pulled over to take his call. He had been sitting in the visiting room when he was called to the desk and told he would not have a visit due to a “clothing issue.”

“I couldn’t imagine what the hell that would be—my mom?”

“I feel so ashamed! I’m so sorry! I was so looking forward to seeing you!” I kept repeating. It really felt like it was my fault, like I had been trying to sneak in with my low-cut blouse to show all the inmates.

“Mom, this is what we have to put up with every day. If I had called a C.O. a pervert, I’d be back in solitary right now. We have to suck it up all the time. I’m proud of you, mom!”

I wondered, as I drove home, had the guard picked me out at random? Or did he have a big blue-collar chip on his shoulder toward well-dressed yuppies? Or did he sincerely think like a pervert, because after all, one out of four inmates at Moose Lake is there for sexual assault? Is it his job to see every bit of exposed skin as a potential incident?

This is Your Brain on Frozen Hash Browns

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VINCE

Sunday brunch: “Egg bake.” Made with frozen hash browns (not made by a 25 cents per hour employee, shredding whole potatoes), grey ham, and overcooked eggs. Inedible. A packaged blueberry muffin, even though the facility has all equipment necessary for a fully functioning bakery.

Hell, they could even teach people how to bake. Then they could use that knowledge on the outside to be a productive member of society.

Canned “tropical” fruit. A bowl of water (aka oatmeal), a small container of apple juice that was still frozen, and milk. On the container of milk there is a slogan. We use it a lot around here. “You can taste the difference.” It’s true.

—

Please do not buy a pillow from Pillow King (not its real name) based on the commercial you may have seen on TV. Just so you know, they are made here in our prison, by people making roughly $1 an hour. I suppose some could say that’s better than outsourcing…but is it? They pay for slave labor. We get no stock options. The prison gets the money. Money they don’t have to use to pay our cost of confinement. Nope, you are all still paying that. Ugh. I’m sure my information is wrong. I’m done on the subject.

—

Every day getting closer to boot camp scares me. Every day I feel as if I do not want to go. True, it will save me 18 months of prison time. But I don’t think I can make it through all of the physical activity. I’ve not come close to running over a mile. I’ve only run a mile two times in a month and a half. I haven’t done one push up since I arrived. And I have absolutely no desire to do the tape. None.

I also think I’m afraid of what will happen when I’m released. I don’t have a home, a car, any money, no clothes. Nothing. It’s all provided for me here. I hate my brain. I sometimes doubt its decision making.

[ANNE: I checked into Pillow King, and they have a deal going where you pay only $115 for two.  A hundred and fifteen dollars for two pillows?  Are they stuffed with down from the golden goose or what?]