The Old Lock in a Sock Trick

The following is an excerpt from Lookout for Shorts (Prison Memoir of a Drug War Casualty). It is a cautionary and often humorous chronicle of a slacker’s misspent life and comeuppance. This  episode took place in 2012 at a North Carolina minimum security prison.

Anyway, my attitude about joining a new community of cons had evolved by this point. My first three walks into the lion's den were pretty scary, not knowing what to expect and trying to fit in. This time I didn't give a shit−I knew most people don't care about my deal because they had their own shit to worry about. I also intended to keep a low profile to reduce interruptions and keep people from bumming stuff. Perhaps I was already a hardened criminal just over three months into my sentence. In fact, I was almost unfazed by a rather violent conflict, mere steps from my bed.

As I was on my bunk reading and minding my own business an argument broke out, apparently over a poker debt. "Meek Guy” was screwed out of some winnings by "Alpha Guy,” who seemed bored with M.G.'s beef, so he dissed and dismissed the motherfucker. I returned to my book after the two split, assuming the dispute was settled.

In fact, the quarrel wasn’t over at all − not by a swinging sock. About ten minutes later came a concentrated explosion three feet away from me, followed by fallout and dust like a bomb went off. No-so-Meek Guy after all had returned with a remedy for A.G. − a sock with a lock in the toe, and he was swinging it to crack a nigga’s dome. A slight problem emerged for M.G. in the process, however: the seam in the sock gave out as it was whipped around, (nice work, sock-making inmates). The lock shot into the air as if from a cannon, right into a bank of fluorescent lights nearest my bed.

My book (Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying) indeed went flying as I reflexively covered my face from the fallout and wondered what the fuck happened. Sadly, in the commotion I missed the look on M.G.'s face when he realized he no longer wielded a potent weapon, but held a limp sock instead. By the time I looked over there A.G. had home slice in a headlock and was repeatedly ramming it into his bed frame. Several gentlemen finally managed to pry him away as he yelled and screamed to the unconscious lump: "You wanna try me, punk-ass bitch?"

The question was rhetorical, of course, because M.G. was out cold, crumpled in the middle of the walkway. By this time some snitch-bitch had alerted the guards, of course, and soon four were on the scene looking for answers. Remarkably, no one seemed to have noticed any commotion at all, let alone an assault. A.G. had long since slid elsewhere, and all the cops knew was they had what was possibly a corpse in the middle of the floor and powdery shards of fluorescent light fallout everywhere. (I can attest that shit doesn’t come out of a blanket easily.)

The Bedpost Beatdown consequences arrived over the subsequent days, as guys spilled the beans in private so no one would know who was singin'. (I was briefly questioned, but my anonymity on the camp allowed me to claim I was out in the yard at the time.) A.G. ended up in cuffs, sent over to the hole and parts unknown after that, and M.G. landed at the prison hospital in Raleigh with a fractured skull. No word on whether the card debt was settled, but my life at my new home sure was less laid back than my old one.

Twitter: @WitStream

Prison Writing Contest Fail

The following is an excerpt from Lookout for Shorts (Prison Memoir of a Drug War Casualty). It is a cautionary and often humorous chronicle of a slacker’s misspent life and comeuppance. These episodes took place in 2012 at a North Carolina minimum security prison.

It was with great pride that I submitted my labors of love to the awkward prison programs director, the aforementioned Olive Oyl. She seemed surprised to be accepting a writing contest entry, and considering the apparent IQ of the camp population I couldn’t blame her. Then again, perhaps the other inmates knew something that I didn’t that kept submissions to a minimum. Whatever the case, since the statewide contest had a per-camp entry limit, I had cleared the first hurdle. My brilliance would be seen.

Feeling bold, I thanked Olive and invited her to offer thoughts on my masterpieces before submitting them for the contest. Besides possible free editing, friendliness was perhaps a way to set myself apart from my inmate brethren for future special treatment. As with my letter of apology to the warden at Southern when I was sent too many books at a time, I was not above sucking up. It would be good to get the benefit of the doubt if needed.

I was buoyed by a rare sense of accomplishment as I swaggered through the next couple of days. I had produced high quality material under trying circumstances, so perhaps I wasn’t such a loser after all. Hell, I was already considering frame styles for my winner’s certificates. My inflated ego, however, had less life than a clown’s balloon animal− a well-placed needle was nigh.

Two days after my contest submissions the intercom blared: “Garrett Phillips, report to the sergeant's office.” On reflex, my heart entered my throat.

If you've ever been called to a principal's office you know the dread of being summoned to a sergeant's office. Sometimes, however, it is for something benign, like to receive legal mail or a box of books someone sent. More often it's bad news, though − like disciplinary action, an unwanted bunk switch, or even a death in the family.

At this particular prison a sergeant’s office visit was usually at a walk-up window. I was surprised to see Olive there, flanked in the background by a sergeant seated at one desk, and a second uniformed desk jockey at another. The programs director was clearly agitated, and the peanut gallery behind her bemused, not sure what to make of the drama.

Proving to be a humorless twit, the lady was melting down over my writing contest entries. Sadly, she lacked Olive Oyl’s impish charm. She was also a Black Belt in Southern Baptist, and she wasn’t afraid to use it. She shoved my precious pages out the window into my face.

"You cain't be serious with these, and you should be ashaymed of yerself!" she spat, with a specific Southern accent common among semi-literate stilted wenches. "There's profanity in awl of them, and no one wonts to read about your duuumps!"

This drew guffaws from the cops behind her, so I briefly wondered if Olive was joking. It never occurred to me that someone could take a prison writing contest entry personally. I tried to point out that contest guidelines didn't prohibit profanity, but I was cut short. Bitch wasn't kidding.

"And comparin’ a bowel movement to a slot machine jackpot!" she huffed.

I wasn't sure which of these she considered offensive, the deuce dropping or the gambling machine. I would’ve asked, but Olive had closed the window on the episode − both literally and figuratively. Rattled, I buzzed back to the barracks to make the necessary revisions to my masterpieces, naively unaware that I was already doomed.

As I revised my writings − hell to heck, shit to stuff − I heard my name shouted from around the corner. There were murmurs in the air that usually indicated prison drama. Sure enough, ten minutes after our previous confrontation Olive was waiting for me at the door of the barracks, still shaking with anger. So mad, in fact, she showed up in person instead of calling me to her office on the intercom as a sane person would.  

She greeted me with only a glare, making clear this was no conciliatory visit. One would’ve thought I’d sold her dog for parts or something.

"Give me yer contest entries back," she commanded.

I retrieved them, assuming someone must have talked some sense into her. I would be in the contest after all, profanity included. As I placed the pages in Olive's trembling hands I also waved the contest guidelines memo and made a point she wasn’t hearing no-how.

"Nothing here says anything about profanity," I said, and also asked if she would like to be fucked properly for a change. (Okay, I made that last part up, but I thought it.)

Olive was in no mood to hear arguments, however, and snapped: "I doubt that's going to help yew," and stormed out the door.

I took that to mean that while she personally didn't approve of the entries, they would still be entered in the contest instead of a paper shredder. Either this or Olive’s co-workers were all: "An inmate wrote about taking a dump? You gotta get that back and let me read it!"

The assembled crowd of my brethren quickly began playfully jeering and whooping it up. "Damn, Homie! Bitch was pissed!" So much for me running under the radar at this camp.

Word of my debacle quickly got out, and I rehashed the story for seemingly every other offender who didn’t witness the scene. It was a shame I couldn’t just call a press conference. Even guards asked me for the poop, and also lent encouragement. Word was Olive was a notorious uptight bitch, and most everyone got a kick from watching her blow fuses. Guys were dying to read the stories too, of course, but I had already mailed the first drafts back to my people for safe keeping.

As I was signing autographs the following day another ominous announcement carried through the air: Garrett Phillips, report to the sergeant's office.

Olive was again at the window, slightly more composed than last time. She explained that not only were my submissions rejected, but I would be written up for obscenity and using profanity. "Obscenity?" I sputtered. "With all due respect, 'obscene' is a subjective term. While my essay may have lacked taste, it wasn’t obscene."

This threw Olive into another surge she had probably prayed to avoid. She grabbed the offending pages and shook them for emphasis. "No one wonts to read about your duuump!" she claimed in her stupid accent.

“I’m sorry, but apparently a lot of inmates do. And after all it’s our writing contest, right?”

Alas, this was not a discussion or negotiation − I was a heathen being chastised. Olive ignored my point and continued, clearly entertaining the two cops seated behind her who failed to stifle laughter. "And this 'Stab at Rehab' story has one patient killing another! How . . . how can you think this would be okay?"

Perplexed, I pointed out: "This is a prison writing contest, not a garden club writing contest."

This line cracked up the peanut gallery behind her, but as far as Olive was concerned I could have been talking to a church pew. She simply reiterated that I would soon be summoned and formally written up. She then slammed the window closed, really putting her paltry weight into it. No "good day, sir," and no mention of my commendable paragraph structure or praise for the snappy phrases I coined.

Two days later the farce continued, as I was called to the mail room/disciplinary office for my arraignment. Dragged into the paperwork duty was an affable young correctional officer named Hastings, who failed to repress laughter as he recited and typed up my charges.

The official indictment took issue with my hunting knife reference − “dangerous weapon,” blah, blah, blah − and also contained the glorious phrase: “comparing his bowel movement to inanimate objects.” This was incorrect, of course.  I compared a human being − or at least Rush Limbaugh − to the result of my bowel movement, not the actual act. If semantics could help in my defense, perhaps I’d found a loophole.

Naively, I was far more upset about the denial of a Winner's Certificate than any possible punishment. I desperately coveted framed evidence of insurmountable writer street cred.

 As for official discipline, most guys figured I'd draw a suspended sentence, which would summarily be struck from my record if I behaved myself. Further, I figured the case wouldn’t even advance that far, because someone in my appeals process would stop laughing long enough to dismiss the charges.

The next step in my persecution for art was to meet with the warden, a portly gentleman who was as pompous and humorless as he was out of shape. His doughy index fingers pecked out my incident report as I waited to present my side of the story. About thirty seconds into my argument it was clear that logic was not important in this case, and the warden was effectively deaf. The guy was not going to side with a smart-ass like me over his director of programs, details be damned. I would appeal his decision.

My next stop was a theoretically impartial disciplinary hearing officer, employed by the state. Surely he would bring this debacle to a halt. Sadly, he proved to be yet another staid bureaucrat, who didn't even crack a grin as he read aloud: "a turd frozen and fashioned into a hunting knife.” The guy might as well have been Olive’s brother. He offered me a suspended sentence, and made it clear if I appealed further they would jack up the charges and potential punishment.

I had previously planned to appeal as far as I could, then alert the media as a last resort. I envisioned my story turning into a cause célèbre among creative minds, at least on a slow news day. After all, The Man not only took my freedom in the course of the disastrous War on Drugs, but now prisoner creativity was under the pressure. This intellectual repression could not stand, tasteless topic or otherwise. Poop humor is art, too, after all. If I didn't go to the wall for shit jokes, who would? Where would the tyranny end?

Alas, my noble plan crumbled in the face of increased punishment should I continue appeals and ultimately lose. They broke me. The dimwit prudes won. I wussed out and protected my goals of a transfer to Asheville (the ideal NC prison camp) and a work-release job. Also, it was simply sound inmate policy to not piss off the authorities, because they could fuck with me in myriad ways if they chose to. Besides, I had a copy of the comical official document detailing my charges − a poor man’s Winner's Certificate − which was almost as satisfying. Perhaps next time I’ll write about finding Jesus.

The next day I accepted a suspended sentence for the most benign violation imaginable: profanity. Despite the contest guidelines saying nothing about it, both dipshits in charge cited an official prison regulation that bans “profanity of any kind.”  No profanity in prison?! Hell, even the guards cussed all the time.

Then again, if smoking was illegal on North Carolina grounds, which were effectively built by tobacco, anything is possible. Sir Walter Raleigh had to be shaking his head ruefully in his grave.

What’s to be banned next, expression of lust toward significant others in inmate letters and phone calls? Honestly, that would probably suit Olive Oyl just fine.

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