In the mornings, we would get up and report to breakfast. We would eat our disgusting paltry meal and then we would wash our own dishes. We would put them away and then we would wash our hands, herded unceremoniously like a herd of unruly children. The men and the women did not eat together and they did not clean up together. Then we would be taken outside to the fenced in yard for a short recess period. We were not permitted to stand idle, and we were not permitted to stand and chat in groups, as the guards feared that congregations like these were potential uprisings or escapes. They would harass us and prod us and threaten us until we at least circuited the yard. Still, it was not advisable to stay in any large groups while walking, as the guards were still suspicious of these.
After our recess, we would return to the cafeteria and repeat the process we had undergone with breakfast, only this time with lunch. More often than not, the food would be repeated from meal to meal. After eating, we would spend our afternoons working whatever menial jobs we had been allotted—for those of them who were getting out at some point would need money to live on, some of them had families, some of them just wanted some extra cash. I worked because I was chronically bored and at least having something to do with my hands was a help to fight off a bit of the overwhelming ennui.
We then took our third and last meal, which was sometimes I little more imaginative, but usually not so much imaginative as a creative slop of what we had eaten in the days past. By the time I was incarcerated, the government was already pushing towards economizing. I overheard the discussions of those who had been in jail longer, the elderly matrons who looked like cruel versions of sweet grandmothers, who said that the food had been much better in years past, and that the wages had been higher and that they had had a basketball for recess time, too. We ate for the last time and then were locked in our cells for the rest of the evening, until lights out at ten. At least when I was in jail I was well rested. Guards lacked the imagination or the gumption or the bravado to let us do anything but sleep for most of the day.
And then the next morning we would get up again and do the exact same thing again and again and again for every day, week, month, and year of our sentences, which for me, meant forever. There was scant variety to break up the days, like times when a new inmate was admitted and she was chased with catcalls down the corridor or when the irritating therapist tried to advise us on ways to better ourselves. But mostly it was the same monotony day after day after day.
On the surface, life in the new jails was much, much more boring—but somehow only on the surface. We were locked in the room twenty four hours a day; for one hour a door at the back wall, which was not immediately noticeable, would open at the blaring ring of a cruel bell, allowing us access to the showers. Three toilets were available at any point during the day: there were murmured speculations and I agreed that there were only three in hopes that we’d fight each other to the death over their use. As things were, we just established our times when we used the bathroom, and tried to stagger them.
Food was delivered three times a day, pushed through a slot in the door. If nothing else was true about this new system, they certainly kept truly excellent records: they knew how many people were in our cell at all times, and gave us that number of plates, forks, knives, and spoons. If we stole a set, or even just one utensil, they would assume we still had it at the next meal and account for that in the quantity they gave us. There was always plenty of food: not enough that any went to waste, but enough that we were never hungry.
Whatever new convicts had on their person came in with them into the jail cell. Within a short time, we accumulated a fair repertoire of things. Drunken frat boys brought with them cell phones and iPods and money. Hookers brought makeup and jewelry, among other things. In the winters we acquired sweaters and jackets, in summers we got sandals and shorts. The more hardened criminals were able to intimate these things out of the less frightening ones; killers took from thieves who took from trespassers. Rapists took from prostitutes who took from counterfeiters and people who had always been afraid to get their hands dirty. I took from nobody.
Thus was established a bartering system, pitting the things we had against the things we wanted. Upper crust criminals could trade a dead cell phone for a mint to a former engineer who thought he could create some sort of scientific tool that would blast us out through the thick concrete walls. For the most part, though, in an ironic sort of way, the new jails were considerably more peaceful than the old ones had been, provided that you knew the rules. Our new world was only truly dangerous for the stupid, the reckless, or for those that didn’t know the rules.
I watched this bizarre form of self government rise from nothing to become a superpower. Again, it was ironic: the longer you were in, the longer you were condemned by society, the better standing you had. This was a society based on fear. I sat perched in a seemingly precarious but ultimately secure position at the top because I was immune to it all. The last time I could remember feeling fear was at thirteen years old watching a horror movie with my brother and his older friends. They weren’t supposed to have taken me with them, just as they weren’t supposed to have gone. But my parents were out for the night and my brother had been determined to keep his plans. And so he tried to make me go watch the children’s movie that was playing at the time, but instead I followed him, saying that mom had said he had to watch me. I just wanted to see the movie, and regretted the decision.
It had been a slasher flick, the mindless kind that depended entirely on the mood created by the kind of music they played in the background instead of an actual driving plot that contained any element of rational fear. And yet I was terrified by all the things that jumped out at me through the screen, with knives and masks and empty holes for eyes. That night I cried and confessed the whole thing to my mother, and my brother stormed furiously into my room; he had heard the confession from the next room. I had thought he was going to hit me, but he punched the bed next to my hip. He had always had that kind of temper, the kind that burned out long before it ever came to fruition. He scowled at me over getting him in trouble on his way out of the room, but apologized the next morning. It seemed as though after that I had used up all the terror I had had inside me. I was not afraid after that, of anything.
And so the regime of others in this new world had no control over me because I was no afraid. My life had taught me that other people react to a lack of fear with fear—and so I was an unshakeable leader, in that they were terrified of me, deferred to me, were never certain what my reaction to any single situation would be. And simply because of this, I never needed to exercise my dominance. My first ally was that Jeremy, who assumed the position of my second in command, who did all the work I didn’t have to do. Together, we watched carefully all the newcomers, and all the actions of the old members.
Next to join our ranks was big Marcus, who operated on a system that was directly the opposite of mine: he gave everyone all the impressive information about himself that he had, and used that to his advantage. He did a very impressive imitation of having no fear, but I could see through his bravado. Big Marcus was just two years older than I was, and had been thrown under the bus by his partners in crime. That was perhaps Marcus’ only mistake, that he hadn’t operated entirely alone. Marcus was my opposite in more than method of operation, we were the opposite ends of the world in so many ways that it should have seemed comical that we were working together, so to speak.
Big Marcus was the child of a family that fit the normal description of “on the wrong side of the tracks”. His parents were the hard working types, the kinds that bickered over money and tried and worked and tried to hide it from the kids because they actually loved them, but didn’t know how to show it in the right ways. They tried to take care of their children but never at the same times because they had lunatic working schedules that had to puzzle together so that they were home at different times so that there was always someone home to watch the kids, because they couldn’t afford a babysitter. That was what made their marriage triumph, eventually: they were two single parents that got to play at living together every once and a while and who had more than enough time apart to cool off after arguments.
After growing up watching his parents struggle and fight, big Marcus would tell anyone who would listen with a fairly bearlike grin, he knew that making an honest living just wasn’t in his genes. Not that his long suffering mother or his eternally patient father ever found themselves on the wrong side of the law, but they worked long and hard and damn him if he wasn’t a lazy child. And damn him too if he wasn’t a charming boy with large muscles and a love for the smell of money.
Big Marcus was the best kind of old fashioned criminal, the kind that dabbled in this and that, the kind that would do just about anything for the right price. He didn’t bother or meddle with passion or desire or loyalties: he was a hired thug, no more and no less. He broke the law to make a living, and for no other reason.
As well as a thug, big Marcus was a showman through and through. He was also the bodyguard of my regime, my chief general and the brunt of the army himself. He would sit and let this part of the story sink in, the part where he wasn’t malicious and cruel, and then he’d grin and start giving the particulars of his crimes. He had busted down the doors of shops and stolen all he could manage, he had broken arms and legs and collarbones, he had hit men with bats in their shins so hard they snapped, cracked heads on the corners of desks, shot off fingers and—his personal favorite—ears. Nothing, he laughed, was funnier than getting paid to watch a man cry on the floor missing an ear. Men, he confided in his now horrified audience, didn’t tend to cry when they lost fingers or toes or even hands or feet, though sometimes they shed a tear or two when they lost arms or legs. But they were infants when you took away their ears, absolute infants.
He could chuckle after that, a low, dry chuckle, like you’d make at a child that was misbehaving just a little, and in a way that was amusing. This was the point that caused his audience to edge away anxiously, eager to put as much distance between themselves and this obvious maniac. Then he would come down and sit next to me and kiss my hair affectionately. I was not particularly fond of this kiss, but it was big Marcus’ personality to be friendly in that way, and if that was the only cost I had to pay in order to gain his allegiance, all six feet four inches and two hundred pounds of muscle of him, then I would allow him to kiss me wherever he so chose.
That Jeremy used to glower, hating beyond hating clearly that big Marcus had the suavity and confidence to be able to kiss my head and throw his arm jauntily around my shoulder and joke around and tease me and elicit smiles in return. That was simply the best way to deal with big Marcus. That Jeremy required a different treatment, and his jealousy was a key element in maintaining my control. Big Marcus never would be controlled by jealousy: he played for my team half because he thought it was fun and half because he thought it was the most profitable endeavor he could find while confined inside these walls. That Jeremy played for my team because he didn’t know how to do anything else, because I was the first person who had paid some attention to him in return and he was terrified that nobody would pay attention to him if it wasn’t me. So I threw him bones, tiny shreds of affection that kept him seething whenever I spent my time with big Marcus. I always kept him hungry for more.
We three kept up our own little section, with big Marcus on my left and that Jeremy on my right, living up against the back wall where we had the ideal view of the door. Every time the guards escorted in a living body or escorted out a dead one, I would assess them, meeting their eyes and smiling slyly up through my eyelashes.
Big Marcus watched, too; his eyes were on escape, on getting back to the splintered and patched family that had raised him to be such an excellent criminal with only a bad choice in a business partner.
And the months ticked on.
We then took our third and last meal, which was sometimes I little more imaginative, but usually not so much imaginative as a creative slop of what we had eaten in the days past. By the time I was incarcerated, the government was already pushing towards economizing. I overheard the discussions of those who had been in jail longer, the elderly matrons who looked like cruel versions of sweet grandmothers, who said that the food had been much better in years past, and that the wages had been higher and that they had had a basketball for recess time, too. We ate for the last time and then were locked in our cells for the rest of the evening, until lights out at ten. At least when I was in jail I was well rested. Guards lacked the imagination or the gumption or the bravado to let us do anything but sleep for most of the day.
And then the next morning we would get up again and do the exact same thing again and again and again for every day, week, month, and year of our sentences, which for me, meant forever. There was scant variety to break up the days, like times when a new inmate was admitted and she was chased with catcalls down the corridor or when the irritating therapist tried to advise us on ways to better ourselves. But mostly it was the same monotony day after day after day.
On the surface, life in the new jails was much, much more boring—but somehow only on the surface. We were locked in the room twenty four hours a day; for one hour a door at the back wall, which was not immediately noticeable, would open at the blaring ring of a cruel bell, allowing us access to the showers. Three toilets were available at any point during the day: there were murmured speculations and I agreed that there were only three in hopes that we’d fight each other to the death over their use. As things were, we just established our times when we used the bathroom, and tried to stagger them.
Food was delivered three times a day, pushed through a slot in the door. If nothing else was true about this new system, they certainly kept truly excellent records: they knew how many people were in our cell at all times, and gave us that number of plates, forks, knives, and spoons. If we stole a set, or even just one utensil, they would assume we still had it at the next meal and account for that in the quantity they gave us. There was always plenty of food: not enough that any went to waste, but enough that we were never hungry.
Whatever new convicts had on their person came in with them into the jail cell. Within a short time, we accumulated a fair repertoire of things. Drunken frat boys brought with them cell phones and iPods and money. Hookers brought makeup and jewelry, among other things. In the winters we acquired sweaters and jackets, in summers we got sandals and shorts. The more hardened criminals were able to intimate these things out of the less frightening ones; killers took from thieves who took from trespassers. Rapists took from prostitutes who took from counterfeiters and people who had always been afraid to get their hands dirty. I took from nobody.
Thus was established a bartering system, pitting the things we had against the things we wanted. Upper crust criminals could trade a dead cell phone for a mint to a former engineer who thought he could create some sort of scientific tool that would blast us out through the thick concrete walls. For the most part, though, in an ironic sort of way, the new jails were considerably more peaceful than the old ones had been, provided that you knew the rules. Our new world was only truly dangerous for the stupid, the reckless, or for those that didn’t know the rules.
I watched this bizarre form of self government rise from nothing to become a superpower. Again, it was ironic: the longer you were in, the longer you were condemned by society, the better standing you had. This was a society based on fear. I sat perched in a seemingly precarious but ultimately secure position at the top because I was immune to it all. The last time I could remember feeling fear was at thirteen years old watching a horror movie with my brother and his older friends. They weren’t supposed to have taken me with them, just as they weren’t supposed to have gone. But my parents were out for the night and my brother had been determined to keep his plans. And so he tried to make me go watch the children’s movie that was playing at the time, but instead I followed him, saying that mom had said he had to watch me. I just wanted to see the movie, and regretted the decision.
It had been a slasher flick, the mindless kind that depended entirely on the mood created by the kind of music they played in the background instead of an actual driving plot that contained any element of rational fear. And yet I was terrified by all the things that jumped out at me through the screen, with knives and masks and empty holes for eyes. That night I cried and confessed the whole thing to my mother, and my brother stormed furiously into my room; he had heard the confession from the next room. I had thought he was going to hit me, but he punched the bed next to my hip. He had always had that kind of temper, the kind that burned out long before it ever came to fruition. He scowled at me over getting him in trouble on his way out of the room, but apologized the next morning. It seemed as though after that I had used up all the terror I had had inside me. I was not afraid after that, of anything.
And so the regime of others in this new world had no control over me because I was no afraid. My life had taught me that other people react to a lack of fear with fear—and so I was an unshakeable leader, in that they were terrified of me, deferred to me, were never certain what my reaction to any single situation would be. And simply because of this, I never needed to exercise my dominance. My first ally was that Jeremy, who assumed the position of my second in command, who did all the work I didn’t have to do. Together, we watched carefully all the newcomers, and all the actions of the old members.
Next to join our ranks was big Marcus, who operated on a system that was directly the opposite of mine: he gave everyone all the impressive information about himself that he had, and used that to his advantage. He did a very impressive imitation of having no fear, but I could see through his bravado. Big Marcus was just two years older than I was, and had been thrown under the bus by his partners in crime. That was perhaps Marcus’ only mistake, that he hadn’t operated entirely alone. Marcus was my opposite in more than method of operation, we were the opposite ends of the world in so many ways that it should have seemed comical that we were working together, so to speak.
Big Marcus was the child of a family that fit the normal description of “on the wrong side of the tracks”. His parents were the hard working types, the kinds that bickered over money and tried and worked and tried to hide it from the kids because they actually loved them, but didn’t know how to show it in the right ways. They tried to take care of their children but never at the same times because they had lunatic working schedules that had to puzzle together so that they were home at different times so that there was always someone home to watch the kids, because they couldn’t afford a babysitter. That was what made their marriage triumph, eventually: they were two single parents that got to play at living together every once and a while and who had more than enough time apart to cool off after arguments.
After growing up watching his parents struggle and fight, big Marcus would tell anyone who would listen with a fairly bearlike grin, he knew that making an honest living just wasn’t in his genes. Not that his long suffering mother or his eternally patient father ever found themselves on the wrong side of the law, but they worked long and hard and damn him if he wasn’t a lazy child. And damn him too if he wasn’t a charming boy with large muscles and a love for the smell of money.
Big Marcus was the best kind of old fashioned criminal, the kind that dabbled in this and that, the kind that would do just about anything for the right price. He didn’t bother or meddle with passion or desire or loyalties: he was a hired thug, no more and no less. He broke the law to make a living, and for no other reason.
As well as a thug, big Marcus was a showman through and through. He was also the bodyguard of my regime, my chief general and the brunt of the army himself. He would sit and let this part of the story sink in, the part where he wasn’t malicious and cruel, and then he’d grin and start giving the particulars of his crimes. He had busted down the doors of shops and stolen all he could manage, he had broken arms and legs and collarbones, he had hit men with bats in their shins so hard they snapped, cracked heads on the corners of desks, shot off fingers and—his personal favorite—ears. Nothing, he laughed, was funnier than getting paid to watch a man cry on the floor missing an ear. Men, he confided in his now horrified audience, didn’t tend to cry when they lost fingers or toes or even hands or feet, though sometimes they shed a tear or two when they lost arms or legs. But they were infants when you took away their ears, absolute infants.
He could chuckle after that, a low, dry chuckle, like you’d make at a child that was misbehaving just a little, and in a way that was amusing. This was the point that caused his audience to edge away anxiously, eager to put as much distance between themselves and this obvious maniac. Then he would come down and sit next to me and kiss my hair affectionately. I was not particularly fond of this kiss, but it was big Marcus’ personality to be friendly in that way, and if that was the only cost I had to pay in order to gain his allegiance, all six feet four inches and two hundred pounds of muscle of him, then I would allow him to kiss me wherever he so chose.
That Jeremy used to glower, hating beyond hating clearly that big Marcus had the suavity and confidence to be able to kiss my head and throw his arm jauntily around my shoulder and joke around and tease me and elicit smiles in return. That was simply the best way to deal with big Marcus. That Jeremy required a different treatment, and his jealousy was a key element in maintaining my control. Big Marcus never would be controlled by jealousy: he played for my team half because he thought it was fun and half because he thought it was the most profitable endeavor he could find while confined inside these walls. That Jeremy played for my team because he didn’t know how to do anything else, because I was the first person who had paid some attention to him in return and he was terrified that nobody would pay attention to him if it wasn’t me. So I threw him bones, tiny shreds of affection that kept him seething whenever I spent my time with big Marcus. I always kept him hungry for more.
We three kept up our own little section, with big Marcus on my left and that Jeremy on my right, living up against the back wall where we had the ideal view of the door. Every time the guards escorted in a living body or escorted out a dead one, I would assess them, meeting their eyes and smiling slyly up through my eyelashes.
Big Marcus watched, too; his eyes were on escape, on getting back to the splintered and patched family that had raised him to be such an excellent criminal with only a bad choice in a business partner.
And the months ticked on.
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