Night Time In The Pen

At some low security federal prisons inmates live and sleep in open barracks. FCI Big Spring is one of those institutions. Men sleep only a few feet apart on cold steel bunks with shitty mattresses and worn out pillows. Lights are turned out at 10:30 pm seven days a week. Some inmates fall right to sleep with no trouble at all. Others lie awake thinking about their loved ones, their future and some lie awake struggling with their time. I normally don’t have trouble falling asleep. I stay busy enough during the day that I’m usually exhausted by lights out. However, one particular night here recently I too couldn’t sleep and sat alone on my bed composing this blog.

Some men snore and some men grind their teeth. Some toss and turn annoyed by snorers and others lie awake and read. The room smells of ass and dirty feet. Then bacon when the two cops come by to count after midnight. The former boxer, now brain damaged from one too many blows to the head, paces back and forth smiling and talking to himself. A psych patient we jokingly call the security guard, sits atop his bed as if it were a crow’s nest on a pirate ship. A black guy in the middle of the room sits quietly reading from his bible. All in their own little world doing time the best way they know how. Spotlights shine through the windows, a clock ticking loudly on the wall; many of these men doing time for little and some for nothing at all.

Across the room Big Sam lies flat on his back sleeping with his headphones on. His 6′6″ frame causing his size 14 feet to hang off the edge of his bunk. I vaguely recognize his favorite rock band, Pink Floyd, and the words of “Comfortably Numb” coming from his speakers. In deep REM sleep, Sam dreams of 392 Hemis, drag racing and ‘67 Corvettes all in full living color. Ryan Thompson, his neighbor, sleeps soundly facing the wall his dreams consisting of meth labs, dope whores and running from the law. These guys are my friends. I know how they think. I know what they dream. Camaraderie among men doing time together unfathomable to the normal, every day Joe Schmo. I like both of these guys. When shit hits the fan, you want them on your side. They are loyal, mean, and tough.

A short Mexican from Matamoros gets up to pee stumbling toward the bathroom, his hair all disheveled and awry. Someone sneezes and he is alarmed causing him to sleepwalk into a wall. Another temporary resident from south of the Rio Grande talks in his sleep yelling, “La Migra! La Migra! Andale! Andale!” terrified that Immigration is going to catch up with he and his friends as they run across the painted desert toward a new life, prosperity and the American dream. A tiny rodent scurries across the floor and climbs in an inmate’s boot. I watch as he plays hoping he’ll remain inside until morning when Marty the Jew puts on his brogans causing him to scream in terror - a hard core inmate serving time in prison still scared of something as harmless as a simple mouse.

Suddenly a paraplegic in the corner of the room starts having a seizure, an epileptic fit, and falls from his top bunk to the solid concrete floor. Someone summons the guards who finally arrive and don’t know what to do. They stand over the run watching as he flops around like a fish out of water waiting for medical to arrive. Colby looks over from reading Stephen King’s “The Dark Tower”, then goes right back to reading and eating his popcorn without a care in the world. The RN arrives and the inmate is loaded on a stretcher and taken to the hospital. Someone retrieves his radio and puts it in his locker - not all men in prison can be trusted. Some prey on the weak the moment they turn their head or have a stroke of bad luck.

A homosexual named Shawn sleeps in the bunk next to me. Happier than a punk in a peter patch, someone farts enhancing his dream with the sweet smell of prison sex. A true queer, or prison punk as we call them, his dream came true getting to serve time in a 1600 plus man federal institution. Noe sleeping across the room dreams exactly the opposite - cutting up fags with an axe, Noe being a real man who still loves women despite serving a 20 year sentence. I listen to the words of the song now playing in the background on Sam’s radio. “If we ever get out of this place, if we ever get out of here, if we ever get out of here, if we ever get out of here.” (Band on the Run by Paul McCartney and Wings). We’re all diff­erent people. We’re all from different cultures. Yet we’re all stuck here in prison everyone all the same.

Almost daylight and I still can’t fall asleep. It’s early Sunday morning, I look out the window at the moon, my favorite thing to do. I watch as it slowly disappears and the sun comes peeking up over the horizon. Dream time is over. Another day but not another dollar. The convicts awaken to reality, each and every one knowing exactly how many days they have left to serve. All want love. All want freedom. All mad at themselves for doing whatever it was they did to get put in prison. The luxury of sleep, dreams of paradise, and the darkness of night come to an end. It’s back to the grindstone and staring at the clock and calendar on the wall all waiting for nightfall so they can do it all over again. This has been “Nighttime in the Pen”. Watch for a poem of the same name and photos of these men to be posted as a blog in the very near future.

I an Tripper, Better Days!