A Shared Experience – Part 2

Read Part 1 here

This reward I gain for my folly. 

– Tertullian 

Living in a solitary cell environment is a unique experience. In many ways, it exposes true character. Consequences, or lack of them, are different behind these doors and Plexiglas shields. Expectations are, most often, self-defined. Unlike in population, where it was necessary to walk everywhere, laundry, food, commissary, medication and mail get delivered directly back here, DoorDash-like. Where that might seem convenient, the sacrifices can be crippling: no contact visits, access to school, or most programming. Until we got tablets at the end of 2022, a five minute phone call every three months was all we were allowed. 

Due to my high security status, I moved around every week. This made it hard to get close to anyone, but, at the same time, it allowed me to meet a lot of people. Living alone in a cell did not mean total isolation. It was (and still is) possible to communicate through vents, doors, holes in walls, while on the rec yard, or by using self-rigged mic systems. This environment trained me in new ways to be patient, how to listen, and what it meant to be intentional about relationships.

Jose was a perfect example. It was 2011. I was newly released from disciplinary status, and being transferred up the hall to B-Pod. I moved into a 6-Section, 1-Row cell, began cleaning, and was almost immediately interrupted by a voice in the vent.

“Hey, I’m Jose. You okay over there?”

I told him I was, shared my name, and explained about rehabbing my knee so I couldn’t climb on the sink to talk.

“No problem,” he said. “Do you like to play chess?”

It seemed like an odd question because that would usually require the very climbing around action I just told him I couldn’t do. Not to be rude, I replied, “Not my favorite game, but I can play, yes.”

“I can teach you a better way to communicate, if you’d like to try.”

His voice was like a PA system. As I was moving bags from the floor to my bunk, I stopped and faced the vent. “A what?”

“A way to communicate.” He sounded really enthusiastic, like a kid in a candy store. “It’s easy. Are you interested?”

“Yes,” I admitted, although I was leery about the “easy” comment. How many times had I heard that crazy assertion before? When nothing else came from the vent I went back to moving bags, intending to clean the floor. Then I heard a knocking sound, and some paper slid into view behind the angle iron in the back corner of my cell. The knocking sounded again, so I grabbed the paper, and finally heard Jose.

“There are instructions in the slider,” he said through what was obviously a hole in the wall. “Let me know when you’re ready to try it.”

It did actually turned out to be “easy”, but I’m technologically inclined. I like to tinker and learn. So, with some tool he sent over “on the line,” I followed his instructions. Soon enough, I was talking to and hearing him as if he were sitting next to me. That was a revelation! It immediately changed the whole way I felt about doing time and interacting.

For hours each day, Jose and I lounged in our cells drinking coffee, telling stories, and sharing about our interests. We played a LOT of chess, as well. Being candidly honest: I’ve never in my LIFE had my ass so thoroughly kicked at ANY game! It frustrated the hell out of me!

“Would you like to play again?” Jose was quick to ask.

Sometimes I was silent. I’m sure I growled in response on more than one occasion. The amazing thing to me was that no matter how much frustration I exhibited – I threw the chessboard across the cell once! – Jose remained patient and kind.

Then came the day when he asked, “Would you like me to teach you?”

“Hell, no!” I raged. “So you can itemize all the ways you will keep kicking my ass? No, thanks!”

Jose didn’t reply, but I heard when he turned the classic rock on. In companionable silence, we listened to music. That was a lesson I took to heart. He could have lashed out at me, or stopped interacting at all. Instead, he remained present – silent but present. I knew he was there, as he changed stations or adjusted the volume. Eventually, I apologized.

Jose and I formed a lasting friendship in that week, and I learned new ways to form or repair meaningful relationships with others. For years afterward, moving around weekly, sometimes I’d be near Jose, or within “shoot the wire” distance. If on the same pod, we would go outside. When on other pods, we sent kites, which are letters in micro print about gossip, new things learned, and our hopes to be near each other again soon. Jose even had a forearm-long tamale (his cooking specialty) delivered to me. Long distance food? Yeah, THAT was love!

One time, when I returned to a 1-Section cell in B-Pod, a guard agreed to put Jose and I outside together. It was about 8A.M. Jose came wobbling out looking haggard. He told me about staying up late, how tired he was, and that he needed to take a crap.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the way he said it all. “I feel for you, buddy, I do.” I pulled the travel chess board out from under my shirt. “But would you like to play chess?”

He paused, squinted at me, looked at the board and shrugged. “Sure.”

Jose might have been tired, but he came alive when my paper-made pieces started moving. Since the board (a piece of paper-sized cardboard with a sheet of graph paper taped to it) was on the ground, Jose had to squat and lean in close to the fence to follow the game. His facial expressions spoke volumes about his discomfort.

I was so in my element that day that I felt like a chess god, matching his moves, placing him in critical positions. When I said, “check mate,” Jose looked like he’d finished a marathon. Wide-eyed and breathing hard, he grunted and rose.

“Now I really have to take a crap!” He exclaimed.

That was the first time I ever beat him. Was it unfair that he was tired, possibly delirious, and his backside wanted to explode? I didn’t think so! Besides, he agreed to play! He didn’t agree that I always had to move, though. Our friendship was unconventionally unique, and the time always seemed to move too quickly. Of course, I met other guys over the years, and became friends (to a point) with them. The mic system facilitated a lot of quality interactions. 

I’m not saying all the topics were good, wholesome, or able to be retold among virgin ears, but hearing them was a pleasure because they made each man more real, more alive. Bones might have been Azteca, but to the family and friends who mattered most, he was just Joey. Foot was ABT (Aryan Brotherhood of Texas), but I learned his real name, about his family, his hopes and dreams. Wolf, another ABT member, shared how his mother liked it when he was locked up, “because she knows where I am and that I’m safe.” He also took it upon himself to happily share with us about shaving his ass. Gah! I’m sorry, too much information IS A THING!

Rhode Island Red (so called because of the rooster he once owned) had plenty to say about his tree cutting business, then cooking and selling dope. His was the first instructional Prison-TED talk about making “ice” I listened to. With time, there were others. Of course, there were. I’ve learned entirely too much about things I never needed to know! Mixed in were all the ways to be mostly self-sufficient – working on electronics, making line, sewing, and myriad other tinkering jobs.

I’ve also witnessed things I wish I could forget. A naked guy in the dayroom, on hands and knees, up on a table inserting a mint stick in his rectum? Check. A foot-long turd that looked like it was fired out of a rocket launcher? Check. A guy with larger breasts than most women I’ve dated? Yeah, that happened. Roaches have sex, what a horrible truth! Third party stories were just as bad, like the night a guy heard noise from the door, and when he stuck his mirror out to see what was going on, his neighbor was giving an SSI (inmate worker) head through the slot. There is kind of an informal rule back here: don’t look in someone’s cell unless you want to catch a glimpse of something you never want to see. Walking down a run past cell doors, I’ve become adept at blurring my vision. Just safer that way!

I’ve had conversations with men in every gang imaginable back here. Racial issues end up being different when segregated. I mean, I went to Federal Court in 2011 on behalf of a black guy who was a Crip All the labels mattered less than the injustice done to him; something I tried to help correct. I’ve often thought all the moving benefitted me, because I didn’t get stuck in difficult places long, or around men who were hard to get along with. By moving, the meeting up with guys I knew was kept fresh because there was always something new to discuss. And, of course, when I moved, they knew I’d send word to others for them.

Dirty (yep, that’s what he went by) was amusing. A decent artist, and generally a funny storyteller, he went home. Then he came back! When I found out and ended up near him, I just had to know what happened.

“I thought we had this discussion, Dirty.”

“I know, I know. We did.”

Before he went home, I explicitly asked him, “Are you ready?” He assured me he was. I commented that the worst case scenario was: they’ll leave a light on for you. Lo and behold. 

“So, does the light in that cell work?” I asked.

“You’re not going to let me make it.”

“Why would I do that? I thought the Dirty was gone, then the Dirty came back. So, tell me what happened.”

And he did. Turns out he started off doing good, working in the oil fields making good money. He got an apartment, had a ride, a girl, and all he needed. Then, one day, he ran into an old acquaintance, and while they were talking near the guy’s car, Dirty noticed stacks of cash on the seat.

Dollar signs floated across his eyeballs. “I couldn’t help it,” Dirty said. “I asked the guy if he could front me and that…”

“Was the beginning of the end?”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

Mostly every drug dealer I’ve talked to related how they started off intending to support family and promote business. Most ended up using their own product, though, and before long, they were hallucinating, not eating or sleeping, and their behavior became more erratic until… well, Dirty’s light worked really well. I made sure it did!

Feo was the other side of the spectrum. Born into a gang family, he told me he had no remorse for all the things he had to do. Either it was necessary for the fam, or just business. “They knew what it was.” He was cold and hard, committed to a way of life I could never really understand. “You’re not like us, guero, you weren’t where I was, livin’ the life.” Which was true. One time he told me, “Sometimes I feel like you’re talking down to me by the way you talk.” The proper annunciation and larger words bothered him, and I took that to heart, working to be more simple in my speech. Feo’s hardness cracked, though. I witnessed the beginning of that when a woman from Canada started writing him. Feo asked me, “Why do you think she wants to write me?”

“Think about how different your life is,” I said. “Like you told me how different you and I are. Her life is even more different, so just be yourself. Tell her stories like you did me.”

Maybe he followed the advice. I do know he wrote Canada often by the pictures he showed me. He also did artwork, and relished visits from his daughter. Then, he was shipped to another unit, and while using drugs, evidently he put himself in a situation that got him kicked out of his gang. That had been so much of his identity that I’ve wondered how he transitioned. One day, maybe I’ll run into him again and find out.

At the end of 2014, I was near Bones, and we were communicating the way Jose taught me, having by then become friends. Mail was delivered and I didn’t receive anything, but later that night a guard showed up and handed me a JPay (a print out of a digital message sent from someone). When I read it I knew why.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” I yelled. When I started communicating with Bones again he was unusually quiet. “This is unbelievable,” I told him, and filled him in on the story.

My Aunt Rayne, my mother’s sister, had been in Arizona with her daughter, helping with the grandkids. But after a falling out, Rayne returned to Texas, to live in Taft so she could help my mother take care of my grandmother. Momo, as we called her, had double knee replacement surgery, was enduring rehab, and it was a grind for my mom to handle. Having Rayne around to help was a godsend. Or it should have been. She stayed in a trailer behind the house – her own space. Often she came in to share meals, be present and helpful, but then one day Rayne was a no-show. Mom thought it weird, so she went to check on her. When Mom entered the trailer, Rayne was pale, slumped over a table, foaming at the mouth. She had OD’d by mixing pain and psych meds, adjusting the doses. Her brain just turned off!

“What is tearing me up inside,” I explained to Bones, “is that barely 15 days ago, Rayne sent me a JPay letting me know she was home, that she was good and I needed to make sure she was on my visit list, because her first goal of the New Year was to come see me.”

Coping with death and loss in prison is unique, generally. But in population, with ready phone access, staying connected and informed was much easier. That luxury didn’t exist for us. A chaplain never came to see me, no phone call, nothing. Understanding the need to talk, Bones stayed up late with me, sharing a story about when his uncle was found dead in another state. It was unexpected, as well, and like I was with Rayne, Bones had been close to his uncle. Having the mic system and his presence in that moment in time was a great comfort.

It was something I was able to pay forward when Jose’s father died. He was crushed and contemplated suicide, but I was there. And I was so grateful to be the friend he needed.

“Remember how you told me your father used his life savings to get you an appeal attorney?”

“Yes,” Jose said. “Of course, I do.”

“Your dad invested in you. He gave everything he had and his effort saved your life,” I told him. “You are his legacy and you can’t possibly want to throw that away.”

The pain Jose felt was extraordinary, but I understood. We were both responsible for the deaths of others. He’d once been on death row, and without his father I would have never met Jose. Instead, and I made sure to tell him this, “You are here with me now, and we are good friends. I need you buddy. To kick my ass at chess if nothing else!”

Jose laughed, and when he did I knew he was on track to being okay, just like Bones helped me to laugh and take the next step. Iron might sharpen iron, but in those shared experiences, our brokenness merged and we found a new sense of wholeness through the awareness that we were not alone.

2016 tested that reality in many ways. 

In the lead up to 2016, rumors about everyone being shipped in the near future began making the rounds, and as the year ended, fiction turned into verified fact. I had been receiving regular updates from Jose as I moved, so when the mass shipping began, I wasn’t surprised. So many of the guys I knew left. I was near Foot when he caught chain, and down on E-Pod when they came and packed Shark’s property. Bones stayed, Flaco, Feo, RT, Moore, and several others, but not Jose. His ticket got pulled, and he ended up landing in the one place he never wanted to go: Eastham.

Those who remained were consolidated. 84 men on F-Pod, another 28 on E. The rest of the building was a ghost town, and mostly stayed that way until the cameras were installed. Some guys from a prison down south did move in due to bad storms and flooding, and F-Pod was evacuated to D-Pod when a guy set his whole pipe chase on fire. Other than that, what came to be known as the Mental Health Therapeutic Diversion Program didn’t get formalized until later in 2016.

By then, Jose was sending word about how dismal his existence was. Ines, his pen friend from Switzerland, kept us connected, so I received regular updates. I was shocked when he decided to go to GRAD (Gang Renunciation and Disassociation Program) to transition back into population. He told me over and over that he never would, but we all have our breaking point. Jose found his.

In our much reduced community, the administration started moving us rotation-guys (there were four of us) around every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Then the Captain who instituted the policy died, and they still moved us three times a week. It was insane, but I knew a lot of people, so I made the best of it. When near Bones, which was often, we had a lot to discuss. Flaco finally got himself moved on the section with Bones, so we had lively interactions – often with them ganging up on me! 

In 2018, I met the guy others suggested was my doppelganger. “He sounds so much like you,” guys told me. Eventually, I met my elusive twin, and sure enough, we had similar interests. His bilingual ability and retention of knowledge reminded me of Jose’s genius, making interactions enjoyable – at least for me. That relationship brought me an introduction to Minutes Before Six, and Dina. It didn’t take long before my first essay, “No Way Out,” was published.

All things, good or otherwise, come to an end. Later in 2018, a majority of the guys I knew left to Coffield Unit; Bones, Flaco, Feo, my twin, and “1920” among them. My doppelganger returned, though, granting me the opportunity to share in the unique literature and books he received. Over time, his insight and perspectives revealed the differences between us, but we remained friends.

Some unique and not at all legal possibilities became available after Bones left. Evidently, flip phones had already been present, but needed to be left behind – although rumor suggested Feo simply took his with him. He was rascal enough, so I believe it! Maya was a guy I knew who remained, and he ended up with two flip phones that he began renting out. All was good (for him) until a neighbor jacked the phone, and while trying to self-charge the battery, blew it up instead. That soon resulted in Maya getting “popped,” one phone lost. The other one? Well, it dangled like a carrot until I bought the dang thing.

A Verizon flip phone with a thumbnail screen, I could text and talk and watch tiny movies. Eureka! Being able to really talk to family was a revelation. I’ve never been “in the game,” which is well known, so drugs and alcohol were things I avoided. When I got the phone, the security code was unknown, so I had to call Verizon and act like an idiot who’d forgotten account information. Convincing a customer service representative that “I’m out of town and working remotely, so I don’t have a landline or other phone to work with but this one” was tricky. Persistence paid off. Eventually, a representative reset the code (which they gave to me), so I could access the account online. After that, everything was in order, sort of. Cell reception (or lack thereof) was still an issue, but a week later all was good. And all stayed good until June-July of 2019.

This is how the friendship with my twin ended. In June-July of 2019, I was in 2-Cell on F-Pod. It was about midday when a guard showed up and told me I was moving. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but when the Lieutenant came back to stress the move and “the Major wants to see you,” my heart rate increased. No one just casually goes and visits with a Major. The only reason would be related to my phone, right?

I packed up as directed and elected to hide the phone parts in my property. That was my second mistake. The second, yes. What was the first? Oh, assuming getting pulled out had anything to do with the phone! Which brings me back to mistake number two: I should have just carried the damn thing!

I didn’t, though, and when I was pulled out, a guard placed me in an attorney booth in the main hall. I sat there for – *counts fingers* – seven hours? Something like that. At one point early on, I did notice a flat cart rolling by with bags on it that looked familiar. I sat and waited, waited and waited, never “seeing” anyone. The visit with the Major never happened, not even a visit from a lunch tray! Finally, though, sometime after second shift, a guard I knew came and pulled me out.

“You’ve never caused me any problems,” he told me, “so I’m just letting you know that your property is with OIG.”

My heart sank at the news. OIG was the Office of the Inspector General. “Thanks,” I replied. “Any idea when I’ll get it back?”

He didn’t know. He returned me to the same cell, uncuffed me, and wished me good luck. I wasn’t feeling very lucky, though! Why hadn’t I carried the phone? I pulled the SIM card out of my sock and stared at it. How useless it was about to become. The more I thought about it, the worse I felt, until I succumbed to the urge to call up to Guero.

“You awake up there?” I asked, through the hole in our back wall.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“You got a blade?” After he passed one down, I talked to him for a while about his family, mostly his dad. “Thanks, I should get to sleep now,” I told him. “Tomorrow should be interesting.”

I can’t say my thinking was truly rational, but at the core of my depression was the desire to not get anyone else in trouble. So, I sliced into a vein in the inner-elbow of my arm, then I wet my shirt and proceeded to strangle myself with it. It was the manic “best solution” idea my brain latched onto. I’ve suffered from bipolar disorder for a long time. In 2019, I’d been off my medication for an extended period, wanting to test if I truly needed the Prozac. I’d been a Zen Buddhist practioner for at least nine years, so surely I was cured? Meditation was all I needed, right?

I was so critically wrong, and I should have died. But I think a cowardly, bumbling-fool complex is hardwired into my brain, because I’ve never been able to kill myself. I’ve tried with a knife, then more pills than I could count. I figure that if I ever tried to shoot myself, the bullet would bounce off my skull and I’d be fine. Case in point: during the escape attempt, bullets hit and went through me, implying a death wish that failed. It came as no true surprise that all I managed to do was make myself pass out.

Waking up the next morning was brutal. Partly because something was wrong with my vision, but mostly because it was hard to breath. Oh, right, a shirt was tied around my throat! With it removed, I could breathe a bit better, and see as well, so I stumbled to the toilet intending to relieve myself, then I noticed my reflection in the mirror.

This is how I know I should’ve died: I looked like the walking dead! My eyes were mostly red, not just the eyeballs, but all the outer skin area as well. It looked like someone had pounded me in the face. I could only imagine how my eyes had bulged, and veins had burst, yet there I was. I sighed, relieved myself, and returned to sit on my bunk. No, I didn’t wash my hands because I didn’t care. There wasn’t a mattress, just the iron bunk frame, but I didn’t care. My clothes were somewhat wet and bloody. I did not care.

What I did care about was destroying the SIM card and flushing the remains. Soon thereafter guards came to my door and told me to strip out. They took my clothes. I did the dance. Once dressed again, and cuffed, they began escorting me out.

“What happened to you?” the guy asked. It was the same guard from the previous day. I didn’t reply, so he left it alone until we were in the main hallway. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head.

“He’s bleeding on his arm,” the female guard pointed out.

By then, we were outside. “Who did this? You weren’t like this when I left you yesterday,” the male guard said. “Should we look at camera footage?”

“You can do whatever you want,” I replied in a hoarse whisper.

The male guard suggested they should pull video footage and review it when they returned. I knew they wouldn’t find anything. The only person who’d done anything to me was me.

Inside 1-Building, a guy from OIG met us, and that is when I learned what it was all really about. He did a double-take, of course, because I certainly looked dreadful, and escorted us to an office. When the door was opened, a man and a woman in suits were seated inside. Come to find out, they were investigators from Florida wanting to discuss the unresolved murder case.

I also quickly learned THEY had been the reason for my property going to OIG.

Of all the blundering foolishness… well, what was done was… wait, so where was the phone? Or better yet, where was my property? They told me it should have been returned the night before. So, why wasn’t it? No one knew, and a property hunt commenced.

It was after 5P.M. when the interview on Thursday ended. Briefly, I talked to the guy from OIG who apologized about my property being lost, and the guards escorting me finally took me to medical. Yes, you are reading this correctly: I sat in a room bleeding for over eight hours, and even though I explained how I had tried to strangle myself and that I should be dead, no psychiatric care was provided. After extensive interrogation, only then was marginal medical care provided – some disinfectant, gauze and tape. 

Back on 12-Building, I ran into the Major (the elusive one who never wanted to meet with me before) and he said, “We found your property in the Lieutenant’s office. It was mistakenly not returned to you.”

“Can I have it then?”

“Since you tried to commit suicide, you have to go to CDO. You won’t get your property until you come off that.”

Ah, yeah, I knew that, just hoped I could circumvent it all with an “I’m good now.” Didn’t work out that way. Instead, I was led to B-Pod, 2-Section, told to undress, and then I entered the empty and cold cell in nothing but boxers. Hence, CDO: Constant Direct Observation. 

If you’ve kept track, Wednesday started the adventure, and I woke up Thursday without expecting to. That’s how I ended up laid out on a frigid metal bunk-frame again. Sleep was virtually impossible. When guards came to get me Friday morning… whew. No shower in three days? Check. Still bloodshot around the eyes? Oh, yes. 

All dressed again, I returned to 1-Building for another round of interrogation. At least the day was slated to end better, because an agreement was reached to allow me to extradite and resolve the case. I wasn’t happy about it. Frankly, I was terrified. But going to Florida was necessary.

Remaining on CDO was not. Back in the cold ass cell again, I demanded to see the psych doctor, or “anyone who will get me the hell out of here!” I got loud. I was a nuisance. They kept telling me I had to wait, so we argued. 

When chow was fed, I jacked the slot and refused to return the stupid white spoon. I also refused to accept all the “just calm down” comments. By Sunday into Monday, I’d run them ragged, so I was first on the list to see the doctor. 

The guard who came to get me refused to give me my shoes. “You just need to walk out there,” he said.

“Do you think I’m an animal to walk barefoot on this nasty ass floor? Give me my shoes!”

He did, reluctantly, but he did. And all the way out to the main hallway he ran his mouth, complaining. I let him have his say, but as soon as we stopped near the office where the tele-visit would be conducted, I got in his face, and unleashed on him. There were no calm and collected or kind words. It was all at full volume, letting him know how I really felt.

Another guard who’d known me for a long time was shocked. “You never act this way,” he said, and intervened by pulling the other guard away.

“If he wasn’t such a dumbass, we wouldn’t be having this problem!” I was livid, even after I entered the office and was talking to the doctor.

See, here’s the thing. After reading this, someone might infer that the loss of property, and specifically the phone, set me off. The truth, however, is that those elements were the proverbial straw breaking the camel’s back. I’d found a comfortable rhythm in the way I was required to live, but that all changed in 2016, as I began enduring constant fires in an environment lacking purge fans, where smoke would recycle into cells. Reasoning with guys to “please stop poisoning everyone,” had mixed results. The smoke caused me chest pains and migraines, and frustrated the hell out of me because most fires were started for stupid reasons. In 2017, bloodwork revealed for the first time in my life irregular enzyme levels in my liver, and blood pressure readings were consistently high. Providers and nurses asked me about drugs, alcohol, exposure to diseases, and had me thoroughly tested, but all the results were negative. When I tried to explain about the fires and excessive smoke inhalation… crickets. For over a year into 2018, I submitted a sick call, if not daily, then weekly, complaining of chest pains, headaches and left arm numbness. The nurses would remark, “There is nothing we can do about it but log it.” Anger caused me to rev into manic, emotional outbursts at guards for pointing flashlights in my eyes, and all the ignorance they displayed that triggered guys to start fires. My emotional outbursts became more common and intense. No amount of meditation, yoga, mantras or prayers could still my mind. I knew how to fake it to make it, and I did when I communicated with family and friends, but I also knew that would only last so long. I was on the fast-track to losing control. I struggled to remain focused on writing projects, and I was not sleeping well. When my grandmother died in 2018, I almost cracked completely because I was alone in a cell crying for all the lost moments and everything I’d ruined. I started submitting requests at the end of 2018 to get back on my medication, knowing I needed it, but the process was slow rolled and I was spiraling. Gaining access to the phone was a lifeline that helped me ground and distract myself away from intense negativity by calling family and friends, and watching movies. Then, even that was yanked away, and all my manic efforts crashed into despondency. Once lost in depression, I was lost to reason. I explained all of that while showing my arm to the doctor – she could easily see the damage to my eyes and throat – and she immediately restarted my Prozac.

“Great, thank you. Now, can I get off CDO?”

“Are you going to hurt yourself again?” she asked

“No,” I gritted my teeth. “I need meds, rest, a shower would be nice, and to not have to deal with an incompetent guard. Think that’s possible?”

Her lips twitched in a grin. “We’ll see what we can do.”

Try to imagine what I looked like: a pale white guy with bloodshot eyes, walking around in boxers and Reebok shoes, no socks. I returned briefly to B-Pod, collected my stepped-all-over clothes, courtesy of “the assholes,” and then ended up back where it all began. Of course, I arrived in the middle of a controversy – which has always seemed to be the root of my twin’s misguided belief or understanding about what happened. Ultimately, his business is his own, but around the time I returned to F-Pod, he was shook down, contraband was found, and he received a disciplinary case. He sent me kites asking about my situation and details, but I had no way to respond. All my property was still in the property room, and I likely slept for 20 hours straight. I was exhausted mentally and physically and in no mood to talk, but I eventually borrowed a pen and paper to send a reply. My slow responses were, I guess, interpreted a certain way. I had enough problems living in my head to try dancing in another’s. What’s absolutely certain, though, is that my twin’s misfortune had nothing to do with me. Hell, it wasn’t until Thursday of the week after my return to F-Pod that a guard I’d known for years told me a brown sack was sitting on the Major’s desk. 

“In it is a phone and charger,” he said. “Not sure if it’s yours, but your last name is written on the sack.”

“Isn’t that interesting?” I mused aloud.

He smiled, “Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks.” And I was grateful, sort of. I had hoped the property officer would overlook things, but she evidently went through my stuff with a fine tooth comb. Meaning she did her job. No reason to be upset about it. 

I was able to borrow enough supplies to send my twin a lengthy kite explaining events, but I don’t know if he received it. He almost immediately caught chain to another unit, so the issue was never fully resolved. I wish things had ended on better terms. I miss his friendship. 

I miss others, as well. One-eyed Ghost and his craziness, training roaches “for the Olympics.” Craig’s humor and candor, wit and charm – plenty of knucklehead too, because he’s back in prison. Bones for sure. 

The names cascade through my mind like a waterfall – each one draws me back, providing glimpses of the past and how I was then.

To be continued…