Andrew’s Story

8.

Then it’s time to put you in your cell.  Once you’re inside, you understand why it was so important to make you small.  When you stretch out on the bunk, your feet hit the toilet.  When you stand up and stretch out your arms, they hit the walls on both sides.  All steel, even the shitter.  As soon as the bars bang shut, you realize that if the officers ever forget where you are, you’ll die in there–no way could you get yourself out.  Not a problem, though—this is a cage!  Like in the zoo.  Same function–keeps you totally visible.  You’re property now, and your owners won’t let you get lost.

I sat down on the bunk and started reading the Rules.  A big improvement on the usual HR fare!  Very clear about what’s forbidden (almost everything) and what’s allowed (almost nothing). Then I took another survey of what there was in the cell.  Bunk, shitter, sink, net bag, me.  After that I lay back and thought about all the things that weren’t in the cell.  There wasn’t a wall full of diplomas and awards.  There wasn’t a desk full of “financial papers.”  There wasn’t a computer full of messages.  There weren’t two walk-in wardrobe closets.  There weren’t any decorative plants.  There wasn’t any art.  There wasn’t any widescreen TV.  There wasn’t a couch or a coffee table.  There wasn’t a $100,000 kitchen.  There wasn’t a Turkish carpet. There wasn’t a cabinet for my scotch and brandy collection.  There wasn’t a room full of exercise equipment—I’d already seen what you did for exercise at the Central State Pen. There wasn’t any security system—you don’t need that, once you’re in Prison.  But my cell was what realtors call a “turn-key home”—a place that’s completely ready to occupy, containing everything the new resident really needs.

terrogator

I wanna Inmate Sleepover 🤣

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https://www.instagram.com/p/CZXXInhuQ0R/?utm_medium=tumblr

allprison

Lol in jail every night is an inmate sleepover!

Andrew’s Story

1.

It was a 3000-mile trip for a two-hour meeting—a meeting that would never have been held if the Board had admitted we couldn’t solve our problems by wishful thinking. At the end, I was the one who was tasked with writing the annual report, which would add yet another layer of wishfulness.  “Andrew,” they said, “will fix it up.”  “Andrew’s so good with words.”  Was that a sign that I was rising in the pecking order, or was it a way of making me take the blame for whatever happened?  You couldn’t tell—until the day when they asked you to step out of the room, and when you came back you were either First Vice President or out on your ass.

Even at 800K a year, plus perks, the job was looking too expensive for me.  When you added up the psychic costs—the requirement to exhibit dynamism at all times, the midnight calls to announce the latest thing that needed to be fixed, right now, the absence of any boyfriend except the occasional known-to-be gold-digger—I figured the company owed me about three lifetimes of release from stress.  Not to mention reimbursement for all those $4000 suits and $2000 shoes.  In the limo I was furiously drafting the report and hoping that when I got to the airport I’d have time for a sizable drink.  No, make that three sizable drinks.

Suddenly the car slowed, swerved, and turned down a side road.  When you’re as expensive as I was, there’s always that flash of fear:  “Is this it?  Is this the place where I get kidnapped?  Will the company bother to pay the ransom?”

“Accident on the highway,” the driver said.  “I’ll take you in the back way.”  I looked out the window.  “Back way” was right.  We were on a barely two-lane road with nothing but fields around it.  Not even a house.  Just fences and a blob of white up ahead that turned out to be—a prison!

Andrew’s Story

2.

“Sorry about that, sir.  Don’t know why they put the airport way out here.  But once we get by the hoe squad . …”

Coming toward us, and taking up most of the road, was a beat-up old tractor pulling a line of wagons. But the cargo wasn’t wheat or corn. It was a crew of convicts coming back from the fields.  

“Glad I’m not one of those guys,” the driver laughed, as the tractor angled off and let us pass. I didn’t answer—who wants to talk to a driver?

The convicts looked at the limo.  I looked at the convicts.  I looked hard at them.  Some of them were ugly and dumpy, but some of them were hot.  And none of them looked upset about the delay in their travel plans. None of them looked like they might be suffering from an “anxiety/stress disorder.”  And why should they?  They weren’t supporting a housekeeper, two tax accountants, a therapist, and several bartenders.  They weren’t wearing a fortune on their backs.  They weren’t being told—very politely, and very implicitly, but still being told—that their identity and significance depended on an unbroken series of correct career choices.  They may have been sweating, but they weren’t sweating because they might miss their flight and show up late for the budget meeting at 9:00 tomorrow morning.

inm851

Helping Hands... run out of the legirons!

Zach’s Story

5.

Long story short: I’m now serving my time in a high security Correctional Institution.  My job: captain of the laundry detail! Sounds like a lot, but it ain’t. It’s just goin around pickin up the other inmates’ clothes and takin em down to be washed.  Then I go back in my cage like the other dudes–lol!

I’m pretty good at my job, and I think I look pretty good in my blue convict suit.  Also I get to meet a lotta totally chill guys.  Every morning, I wake up and I know what I’m gonna be doin, and no hassle, it’s easy.  Food’s no good, but I don’t have to cook it!  And there ain’t no mortgage on a prison cell.  

So that’s the story.  No loans.  No tests. No competition.  No boring “subjects” in some boring college.  No boring “career.”  It’s all good.  And Your Prison Profile did it all for me.

Zach’s Story

1.

Hi I’m Zach.  And yeah, I had a lotta questions about life in Prison.  Watched a lotta movies.  Looked at some sites and vids … .  Seemed like there just weren’t enough of them.  And they give you the first two dimensions of Prison; you don’t get the other two.

What I mean is, all you see is a picture.  Guys in a cage.  A cage in a zoo.  But it’s nothing but pixels—1116 x 745.  209,000 bytes.   No chill to the steel.  No depth to the cage.  No length to the time you’d serve in it.  So—just a fantasy.

Oh well, I thought.  You can’t have everything.

Courts are overflowing all because of some ‘weed’