My Own Prison: a day with Tripper at FCI Big Springs

My made in Taiwan alarm clock is set to go off at 4:20am, as 4:20 once has a special significance to me. I sit up, stretch, put on my slippers, grab my see-through correctional friendly shaving bag and head for the bathroom. Standing in front of the fun house mirror (made of stainless steel), I begin to shave using my prison issue single edge disposable razor. After a bit of razor burn and a nick or two here and there, I begin to brush my teeth when the Jew comes in the bathroom wreaking of raw garlic and matzo balls.

I hurriedly finish brushing my teeth, combing my hair, and washing my face, then exit for some much needed fresh air. I silently creep back into my bed area in an effort not to wake the sleeping cons, make my bed and dress. After making my bed I step out into the common area heading for the ice machine and my morning caffeine fix- a Diet Coke.

The Correctional Officer on duty says something derogatory in an attempt to make me go off and demands to pat search me for contraband. In reality what he really wants is to simply touch a man. I try to ignore the badgering and harassment and mutter the standard, “fuck your mother” or “suck my dick pig” under my breath as I walk away. I wait until HE decides it’s time to turn on the TV’s so I can watch CNN Headline News with Robin Meade along side two misplaced, out of their region, Alabama gang bangers who sit with one hand inside their pants, hats on sideways, talking about how whitey put them in prison while watching a Snoop Dog video on MTV. After enjoying my Coke and a few minutes of what’s really on in George Bush’s world, it’s time to return to my bed area for the 5:00am count. Amused I sit and watch as two dumb ass CO’s count the sleeping cons at least three consecutive times before they ever decide what the real count is. Count is clear and it’s time for the morning meal.

Morning meals are the absolute worst here at FCI Big Spring. Usually a rock hard, stale bagel and a glass of sometimes curdled 2% milk. And if you’re lucky you might get some watery grits or oatmeal or the occasional imitation farina that tastes like Metamucil mixed with wheat germ or ground up cottontails. I watch as the ostracized child molesters gather in the only spot they are allowed to sit and talk over old times when they use to rape young boys and girls near the local playgrounds. The white cons sit in their respective places, the Paizano Mexican gang bangers in theirs and the outcast cho mo’s know they’d better not look sideways at anyone or they’ll get their heads busted, as it is a privilege for them to be allowed to live on this compound in the first place.

Headed to my spot in the prison law library, I stop along the way to pet my favorite black cat. Daisy recognized me immediately and comes to sit on my lap. If I have it, I feed her a can or tuna or a tin of sardines. I find her water bowl, fill it with unfit-for-human-consumption west Texas tap water from a nearby hydrant while continually swatting mosquitoes that are big enough to stand flat footed and fuck a turkey. I spend my day in the law library sitting next to a religious fanatic who thinks his imprisoned wife is a saint, he’s a prophet, that the government had no jurisdiction to bust him because he’s a citizen of the kingdom of heaven, and not a citizen of the United State, that Yeshua is going to get both he and his wife out of prison any day now. Talk about having one wheel stuck in the mud! Geez!

After a couple of hours writing to friends and family, working on myspace stuff, the buzzer goes off signaling time for lunch for all the lost and weary. As I walk in the red west Texas clay, ruining my only pair of white Reeboks, I begin to smell rancid chicken being baked in our mice and cockroach infested kitchen. Standing in the never ending chow line a large grackel, probably bigger than the piece of chicken I am about to be served, flies over and shits on my clean khaki work shirt. I brush away the bird crap and proceed indoors where the whir of convict noise and stench of poor quality grub engulfs me. After being seated I take a plastic bag from my coat pocket and put the yard bird inside in hopes the cats can force themselves to eat it for lunch. I effectively dodge the shakedown cops at the door using the old convict trick pretending to sneeze violently in cupped hands, then wiping off the front of my shirt, knowing that the cops won’t dare touch me after that. Works every time.

I feed the cats and head back to the housing unit for an hour of Mad TV on Comedy Central. I watch intently as my favorite character Stuart announces, “Look what I can do!” I try to ignore the black gang bangers sitting next to me head bobbing to Fifty Cent with their gripes of how whitey’s always got his foot on their necks, and their baby momma be’s comin’ to visitation this weekend soon as they get their SSI check. One brags to another about how he use to sell cocaine only to hear, “Nigga you ain’t never sold any cocaine-more like some coke cans!” After Mad TV and the amusing antics of the monkeys I make a beeline for my solid steel bunk, a set of earplugs, and a long, meaningful afternoon nap. I dream of the outside, of better days past and of eternal bliss in getting the best blow job of my life while hitting a huge freebase rock on my skull engraved glass crack pipe.

Around 3:00pm I wake up and sit in a chair beside my bed waiting for count and my favorite time of the day….mail call. I watch a child molester as he leers lasciviously at a stack of Toys R Us flyers he’s retrieved from several issues of the Dallas Morning News. I call this particular cho mo “Fish” because his lower lip protrudes outward like that of a huge ocean grouper and I wonder to myself if he eats the fish patty at the chow hall on Friday does that constitute as cannibalism? After count, mail, and a shower I lie in bed and listen to classic rock on my SONY. While listening to music I observe a 2-legged rat working on his Rule 35 motion for downward departure after testifying against his fall partner, getting him a LIFE sentence. He asks me for legal advice and I blatantly tell him to drop dead. I don’t take kindly to rats to cho mos, and I would just as soon cut all their fucking heads off as look at them. The CO’s count one more time, stumbling around like Keystone Cops as the smell of jack mackerel and jalapenos invade my nostrils. Another day marked off my calendar. After day closer to sanity. Thus ends a day in the life and times of Tripper at FCI Big Spring.

Better Days…. Tripper