Prison Time

by Shaun Attwood

  ‘I spend most of the time happy hypomanic, though.’

  ‘And doesn’t it feel great?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘That’s why a lot of people with bipolar disorder don’t want to take meds. They want that high.’

  ‘And I’m certainly one of them. My dad asked me, if I had a choice not to be bipolar, would I take it? I told him I’d stay as I am, even though it may have contributed to my propensity for doing drugs and partying. Being bipolar gave me the energy to succeed at many things, including stockbroking.’

  ‘Do you think stockbroking contributed to you breaking the law?’

  ‘I was attracted to investments due to my risk-taking nature. That trait contributed to my demise.’

  ‘What about the office environment you worked in?’

  ‘I went from being a university graduate in England to working in an office full of feisty New York Italians, some of whom liked their coke, crystal meth and strippers.’

  ‘It may be a stereotype, but when I imagine stockbrokers, I see coke-snorting macho guys.’

  ‘You’re right, but that was nothing compared to the levels of drug consumption among my friends in the rave scene. That’s what pushed me over the edge. And I’m not going back to that. I’m determined to succeed in literature and to get back to trading my own account, neither of which I’ll accomplish if I cloud my mind. Prison was necessary for me to mature. I can’t imagine who I would be without all of this personal development. It’s been such a good thing. The main downside has been the effect on my family and that pain has motivated me to make amends. My sister asked if I’d just intellectualised to pacify my parents – which hurt my feelings – and I tried to explain to her the ongoing development of my new self and the continuous shedding of skin that’s occurred as I’ve attempted to transcend incarceration.’

  ‘How’s your sister?’

  ‘She’s doing phenomenally well. In the eyes of my parents, I see her compensating for my misbehaviour. She’s doing us proud.’

  ‘It’s great that you seem so happy today.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve a lot to look forward to.’

  ‘Are you sad about leaving America?’

  ‘There are people here who I’m sad to leave. But I broke the law and it’s part of my punishment. America was good to me. I prospered, thought I was invincible and overstepped myself. Maybe I can arrange to come back legally someday. If not – oh well – there’s plenty of the world I haven’t seen. I enjoy the challenge of fighting the odds, of building things up. If I can do well in prison, I can thrive anywhere. As funny as living in my parents’ garage sounds, being reduced to rock bottom has put me in my element. I can’t wait to work on my comeback. That seems to be the way I’m hard-wired.’

  ‘So no more worrying about not getting out, eh?’

  ‘Definitely not. In my most recent Siddha Yoga lesson, Gurumayi pointed out that if we were to view a videotape of our lives and see how much time we spend worrying over things that don’t materialise, we’d be slapping our heads and wishing we could do it all over again.’

  I leave, pleased with the session, wondering if Dr Pedder was just having a bad day the last time.

  66

  ‘You’re showing a positive reaction for TB,’ says a nurse, examining a red mark on my arm from an injection of five tuberculin units two days ago.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, scrunching my forehead.

  ‘A reaction of that size is positive.’

  Devastated, I return to my cell, where I find a slip of paper attached to the door, instructing me to report for duty as a dishwasher for 30 cents an hour, considered the worst job on the yard. Shannon arrives. I tell him that I have TB. He says it took six years of litigation after DOC diagnosed him with hepatitis C to force the prison to treat him – he wishes me good luck and fetches a medical book. Reading about the deaths caused by TB and the difficulty of treatment, I feel my blood pressure rise.

  Shannon points out that a positive TB test precludes me from kitchen duty, as it’s a food-preparation area. I notify the counsellor in charge of work assignments. The next day I receive a response: he contacted the nurse, my TB reaction is no longer positive and I must report to work or risk disciplinary sanctions, with the possibility of losing my release. Shocked, I consult Shannon, who also has a kitchen assignment. He says my result was switched to negative because the kitchen is desperate for workers. He takes his top off and shows me his back – a landscape of bleeding sores from cystic acne. The same counsellor refused to give him a work waiver even though he has open sores, hepatitis C and will be around food.

  Confused, disturbed, I consult Weird Al. He shows me the official criteria for a positive TB test set by DOC: A reaction greater than 10 mm is considered positive for inmates and corrections staff. With a ruler, I measure mine: 15 mm x 18 mm.

  ‘Fuck!’ I storm out, angry enough to strangle the counsellor.

  Prisoners – aware of my TB reaction and not wanting me near their food – threaten me, making it clear I’ll be smashed if I report for work. I request to see the nurse again.

  The next day I join the line of inmates displaying their arms to the nurse. As I’m not on her list, she tries to ignore me, but I persist.

  ‘It’s not a positive reaction,’ she says, without examining my arm. ‘It has to be 12 mm.’ She turns away.

  ‘It’s 15 by 18,’ I say to the back of her head.

  ‘That’s your opinion,’ she says, walking away.

  ‘Shall I get my ruler?’ I yell.

  ‘That’s not necessary.’

  ‘Then have someone measure it at Medical!’

  ‘I’ll schedule you for this afternoon.’

  At Medical, a plump man sits me down, puts a ruler to my arm and removes it with a magician’s sleight of hand before I can show him the size of the reaction. ‘It’s not 10 mm.’

  ‘It is. I measured it myself.’

  ‘You’re not from this country, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That explains the reaction. You’ve had a shot that causes this reaction.’ For five minutes, he tries to convince me it’s negative.

  ‘Untreated TB can kill someone within five years!’ I yell. ‘To be on the safe side, I’d like to be referred to the next test.’

  ‘I can do that, but if you’re positive I’m going to put you on drugs that’ll really mess your liver up.’ He purses his lips.

  ‘According to DOC policy, you can’t do that until an X-ray confirms it. Before that, you have seven to ten days to test my other arm.’

  Taken aback, he says, ‘Let me look at it again. To be honest, I just can’t tell. It could be TB. The nurse did it in the wrong spot. I’m gonna do it over here.’ He pens an X on my arm.

  ‘So right now is it possible that I have TB?’

  ‘It is possible, but we don’t know for sure, so let’s keep it quiet.’

  Uproar spreads on the yard. I fend off dozens of irate prisoners by promising to refer the matter back to the counsellor. In my note, I state I may have TB and quote Department Order 1102: ‘For the safety of staff and prisoners, suspected cases can be placed in isolation, can have their movement restricted, can be made to wear surgical/paper masks when out of their rooms.’

  My heart sinks when I read his reply: kitchen workers are not removed until the X-ray is taken and the disease confirmed to be infectious. I appeal to a sergeant. His reply threatens disciplinary sanctions and the loss of my release if I don’t go to work.

  In the kitchen, I show the white shirt (a worker in white clothes, neither a guard nor inmate) the reaction and state I may have TB. The white shirt – a lanky Nigerian nicknamed ‘Apple Sauce’ for defying the menu and upsetting inmates by serving apple sauce instead of fruit – shrugs and walks away. I might as well have told him I collect stamps. Disturbed by my presence, the prisoners bring in the supervisor, Mrs Hannah, a kind-faced, wizened woman wearing circular spectacles, her long grey hair in a ponytail.
/>   ‘You’re TB positive,’ she says, staring at my arm.

  ‘Yes, but I’ve been told I’ll get a ticket if I don’t work. I’m getting another test next week.’

  ‘That’ll be positive, too. You need to go home until we know for sure from the X-ray.’

  ‘But all the staff I’ve told said it doesn’t matter. I must work.’

  ‘People have different ways of viewing things.’ Mrs Hannah sticks a plaster on my arm and banishes me to my cell, where I fret about having a disease but decide not to tell my parents until I know for sure.

  A week later: ‘I’m giving you another test because you had a positive reaction to the first. Hold out your arm,’ the nurse says.

  ‘You’re doing it in the same place again. The other nurse said you shouldn’t do it there. He has a different spot.’

  ‘What the hell does he know?’ she yells. ‘He ain’t no doctor! I’ve done 52 of these recently!’

  ‘I’m just telling you what he said.’

  ‘I don’t care what he said. Hold out your arm!’ She stabs the needle in. While she wriggles the point below my skin, I wince. ‘Sorry, your skin is funny.’ She pushes the plunger. ‘I’ll see you in two days.’

  Later on that day, I receive a note from the counsellor stating I need to report to work or else receive a disciplinary ticket.

  Mrs Hannah greets me at the kitchen. ‘You’ve been called to work today because an inmate told me you made the mark on your arm yourself by scratching it with a comb.’

  ‘I don’t own a comb,’ I say, pointing at my shaved head. ‘Are inmate rumours overriding DOC policy now?’

  ‘After he told me that, I called Medical and the nurse said the same.’

  ‘That I scratched it with a comb?’ I ask, flabbergasted.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t you think it would be best to get the test result before putting people at risk?’

  ‘You’re in the kitchen, so if you’ve got it, the kitchen’s already contaminated.’

  She’s enforcing orders from above, but her heart’s not in it. ‘Prisoners are telling me not to work. They don’t want their food contaminated. I get the results in two days.’

  ‘OK. Go home, then. If I need you, you’ll be called back.’

  In the evening, Iron Man – newly assigned to kitchen duty – warns me that the inmate who started the rumour that I scratched my arm with a comb is Magpie, a stocky Samoan with a squashed nose and numerous scars on scaly skin, like elephant’s hide, as his promotion in the kitchen from dishwasher to food server hinges on me occupying his former position. Magpie, who has served over thirty years for shanking two prisoners to death in separate incidents, was mouthing off about stabbing me for avoiding work and hindering his career prospects. Recommending I take no chances with Magpie – who has institutionalised mental illness and is unpredictable – Iron Man insists on giving me a crash course in martial arts. Terrified, I follow Iron Man to the rec room. He shows me chokeholds, pressure points, such as that below the Adam’s apple, and methods to disarm someone with a knife. He recommends I kick Magpie in the thigh, where he was shot by a guard, and gouge his eyeballs. Whenever a guard does a security walk, we switch to yoga positions to avoid getting caught practising martial arts. I go to bed wondering why this is happening just before my release, praying that a disaster doesn’t unfold that upsets my parents.

  Two days later, I’m called to the male nurse. ‘Let’s see your arm.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘It’s only a 5 mm reaction. That’s negative.’

  ‘Great,’ I say, leaning back, inhaling with relief.

  ‘But I’ll put you in for an X-ray just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Welcome to hell’s kitchen, son,’ says a withered Mexican-American with sincere eyes. ‘You’re gonna be in the clipper room, washing off pots and pans and hundreds of trays. It’s more than a workout. It’s the hardest job on the yard.’

  ‘It’ll be good for my soul,’ I say, trying to accept my karma cheerfully, appraising the men in hairnets and aprons bustling around stainless-steel tables, wielding sharp instruments, cursing and throwing objects at each other, making animal noises and play-fighting. Feeling a long, hard object ram into the back of my trousers, partially into my anus, I jump forward and bite the tip of my tongue so hard it bleeds. With my buttocks clenched, I spin around, ready to punch someone.

  ‘I broomed him first!’ announces a bodybuilder with big light-blue eyes and no hair or eyebrows. From doing hundreds of pull-ups daily, his lats fan out as if he has wings tucked under his clothes. Before I started work in the kitchen, he had threatened to kill me over a discarded apple that I had picked up seconds before he got to it.

  Everyone starts laughing.

  ‘You motherfucker!’ I yell, blushing.

  A young white prisoner walks over with a cucumber. ‘My dick’s this size! Can I stick it up your ass?’

  This time I laugh along.

  ‘Don’t let the kitchen get to you, dawg,’ Iron Man says. ‘We get to eat all the leftover pizza.’

  ‘I like the sound of that.’ A normal serving of pizza is so small it just whets the appetite.

  Iron Man whispers. ‘Magpie’s not working today or tomorrow. You’ll run into him soon enough, though.’

  In the clipper room, condensation is dripping off the ceiling. I have to be fully dressed to be in compliance for work, so within minutes my damp clothes are stuck to my skin. Before attempting anything, I observe inmates working. In the middle of the room is a dishwasher the size of an automatic car wash. A prisoner inserts crates of trays in one end; they emerge from the other, conveyor-belt style.

  ‘Here come the trays!’ A young white prisoner hands me a hose. ‘Wash them off with this.’

  Caked in food, trays cascade through a slot in the wall and fall into the first of a row of giant sinks. I grab a tray, turn it upside down over a bin, bang it against the rim to knock off the food and spray it. The water ricochets all over me.

  ‘C’mon! Faster!’ he yells, watching trays pile up quicker than we can shift them to other sinks.

  Twenty minutes later, I jump as increasingly loud gas explosions emanate from inside the dishwasher. Bam-bam-bam … A two-foot flame fires from the dishwasher towards us. We’re so wet, we don’t catch alight. We leap out of the way. Bam-bam-bam …

  ‘It’s gonna fucking explode!’

  ‘Someone press the fucking panic button!’

  Iron Man slaps a red button on the dishwasher, turning it off. I wince and cough at the smell of gas.

  ‘Get back to work!’ Apple Sauce yells in a quick Nigerian dialect. ‘The trays are jamming the slot!’

  We turn to see trays piled so high prisoners can’t deposit any more. Prisoners are yelling threats through the slot.

  Technicians from Ecolab take a look at the dishwasher. One tells Apple Sauce the explosions are really dangerous. Iron Man overhears their conversation and yells out, ‘Did everyone hear that? The exploding dishwasher is really dangerous. I’ve been saying that since they put me in this motherfucker. Now we just heard it from an engineer’s mouth.’

  Scared for our lives, we insist Apple Sauce radio a lieutenant. When he arrives, he listens to Iron Man but says the dishwasher’s been exploding for a long time and nothing seems to have happened yet.

  ‘The engineer just said it’s unsafe,’ Iron Man says. ‘Look at the flames shooting out of the burner. It explodes every day and the clipper room fills with natural gas. How can that be safe?’

  ‘OK,’ the lieutenant says. ‘Turn it off. Don’t use it. I’m gonna call the captain.’

  While he radios the captain, Apple Sauce says, ‘Listen, guys. It’s been exploding like this for years. You’ve got to use it. It don’t matter.’

  ‘Why we gotta use it?’ Iron Man asks.

  ‘’Cause we’re not spending extra money on switching to Styrofoam trays. And if you guys wanna leave the dishwasher off and switch to Styrofoam trays,
it’s not happening. I’m gonna make you handwash every single one of them orange trays instead. That’s just how it is.’

  ‘That’s bullshit!’ Iron Man says.

  ‘I’m just telling you how it is.’

  ‘You ain’t telling me how it is!’ Iron Man punches the dishwasher. ‘You ain’t telling me fucking nothing! I’m not washing these trays by hand!’

  Still on the phone, the lieutenant says, ‘The captain wants to know whether these technicians are from the company maintaining the dishwasher.’

  ‘No,’ Apple Sauce says. ‘They’re just technicians from the company that supplies the chemicals for the dishwasher.’

  ‘The captain wants to know if these guys have any authority to tell us to stop using the dishwasher?’

  ‘No, they only have authority over the chemicals.’

  ‘Well then, the captain says it doesn’t matter what these technicians say, we’re running the dishwasher.’

  An hour later, the explosions begin, followed by flames that set fire to a chow-server’s hairnet. With our wet clothes protecting us, we spray water on him, putting the flames out. Choking on natural gas, I accidentally snap the top off a tap. Helplessly, I gape as a fountain soaks the room. Water and threats rain down on me. I’m rescued by Iron Man, who rigs the top back on.

  During break, I wander into a short white inmate with both of his hands in a bucket of bleach and water. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  He extracts his hands to show skin bleeding and peeling off. ‘Fuck the kitchen! If they won’t fix the dishwasher or give me protective gear to wear, I ain’t working here no more. I’m gonna show my hands to the doctor and get a waiver.’

  Towards the end of an eight-hour shift, my clothes are soaked with sweat, water and cleaning chemicals. The insanity of the prisoners, running around cackling and brooming each other, is rubbing off on me. The ceiling’s raining anyway. Why not? I aim the hose at the ceiling and pull the trigger but soon get threatened by everyone getting wet. After scrubbing giant pots and pans and cleaning and mopping the entire kitchen, we strip naked and stretch our behinds open to be inspected for stolen food – which was passed to prisoners in the chow hall much earlier through various means. With barely any energy left, I trudge across the yard, take a shower and collapse on my bunk, where I pick loose skin from my hands. Dreading returning to the kitchen and having to deal with Magpie, I search for inspiration in The Myth of Sisyphus by Camus.