Drug use, one of the biggest enslavers inside prison, has destroyed many men. It has tortured them. Unleashed their demons. And ruined the souls of some of the best.
In Ohio prisons that drug is called “Tune”. It’s nothing but a piece of paper soaked inside a cocktail of unknown chemicals. Each combination of chemicals may be different. But the results are the same. Many incarcerated men smoke it. Vape it. And the portal to their darkest demons open.
After the first inhale, they start to scream. A wretched scream that would give the impression they were on fire. Some of them, as they scream, start to meow like a cat. Then they vomit. Suffer intermittent stages of physical paralysis. And eventual lose consciousness. And some have even died.
One time a man inhaled the Tune. I was standing against a concrete wall when it happened. He let out a scream. Then he took off all his clothes and ran for the cell block exit. By the time he reached the prison yard he was fully naked. Running. Screaming. Running. Screaming. Then he collapsed. Medical came and scooped him up. Then carried him away. Who knows what happened to him later.
Don’t ask how this drug enters the prison. The prison has full-body x-ray machines, anti-drone technology around the prison perimeter, photocopied and digitized mail services, and constant cell and strip searches. One would think the prisoners couldn’t be blamed. But that’s what they do. They blame the prisoners and the visitors.
The TuneHead. That’s what they get called. Like a Crackhead, they get called TuneHead. Some have dubbed the Tune the “new crack”. And it’s true. Some men who used to be seen as strong has succumbed to this drug. I knew a man who used to work out all the time. He used to play basketball like a pro. He liked to laugh and have a great time. But something happened. Something clicked inside his head. And he stopped doing time like he used to. He doesn’t laugh anymore. He doesn’t play basketball anymore. He doesn’t work out anymore. He just smokes Tune. And now he’s just a shell of himself.
To the incarcerated observer, to the sober survivors locked around them, we watch, sometimes in sympathy, sometimes in horror, how awful it is to see a man destroy himself. As if the concrete and metal bars weren’t enough, his addiction punished him more. It’s like he takes on the role of his captors, inflicting a social death onto his self that will ultimately lead to his physical demise.
Over time many of us who witness these tragedies grow insensitive to these EPISODES (that’s what we call it when someone has a Tune attack, an episode). We say, “Damn. Tee just had an episode. He just epp’d out.”
Just the other day I heard a man epping out. I heard the screams. We know what they sound like when we hear them. Then I heard his body fall against the metal. I didn’t even stand up to see what happened. I kept reading my book. That’s how bad it is.
Everyone knows the routine. A man epps out. Medical gets called. And they carry him off to the infirmary. And when they revive him, they just send him back to the cellblock. Then the man does it all over again.
Out here violence isn’t even the problem no more. It’s the Tune. Good people on it. Bad people on it. Gang members. Church goers. Christians. Muslims. Blacks. Whites. I’ve seen it happen in every prison social group one could imagine.
The TuneHead. It doesn’t look like an end in sight. The drugs will keep coming in. And the users will keep using. Why? To mask the pain. To escape the mental torture of incarceration. Every man’s answer will be his own.
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