It has been quite the week. I have been very concerned about Carlos, my prison store clerk, who is now in “the hole” in Cedar Prison. This has led to many conversations with Ida, the former storekeeper, a meeting for lunch, and the start of a friendship. It is so nice to talk to someone who understands (even better than I do), and can give constructive advice and feedback. Ida has been extremely ill, but is finally getting back on her feet. We hit it off instantly, and I find I am sorry she will soon be moving to Utah. Partway through the week, Ida gets a letter from Carlos. He simply tells her that “she is missed” and that Joe can explain what has happened. It makes her day to hear from him.
Meanwhile, life goes on. As Carlos often said, “We are in the business of selling soups,” and we don’t want to let our customers down, captive as they are. When I arrive at work on Monday, with some trepidation, I find Joe cheerful and with temporary help lined up. Joe is certain Carlos will not have charges posted against him for the inmate beating since there is no proof. “He will eventually be sent to another camp,” he predicts. I pray he is right.
Jay, our temporary helper, is the “property clerk.” Joe often assists him with his duties, and Jay seems eager and willing to help us out. As property clerk, he is in charge of camp property. This mainly involves clothing that belongs to the camp. When I watched the officers going through exiting inmate lockers last week, they set aside anything that had camp initials markered on it. Jay will collect, launder, inventory and redistribute T-shirts, long johns, and other clothing needed by incoming prisoners. Jay arrived here not that long ago from another camp. He requested a transfer, hoping to make “good” money helping with skilled (carpenter, I think) camp renovations, but according to him, the reality did not live up to the hype.
The day goes okay, but the flow really isn’t there without Carlos. It is busy, as we have to pass out the “store” we ran but couldn’t distribute last Friday, as well as today’s. I look through the pile of “kites” I have received from inmates applying for the job of new store clerk. A “kite” is an extremely multi-purpose form for inmate use. They can be used to apply for open camp positions, but are mainly used for disputes or inquiries. I usually see them when a man has a question about his money, usually why he doesn’t have as much as he thinks he should. I have been told the forms are called “kites” because they can be flown, perhaps when made into a paper airplane? I have never seen this done, and it has taken me a while to get comfortable with the term. In banking, a kite is an entirely different kettle of fish, with “kiting” referring to the practice of transferring money between different financial institutions trying to stay ahead of “the float.” To my surprise, I learn there will be a race stipulation. Because Joe is a Caucasian, my new clerk will need to be black, hispanic, asian or “other”. That eliminates about half of my applicants. Joe eliminates several others. I call one of my supervisors: “I have to hire a new clerk,” I tell him, “Are there any guidelines or procedures?” “Nope,” he tells me bluntly. “They are all prisoners after all.” No help there. I tentatively decide on one, but when I approach several officers today with my choice, they grimace and shake their heads. “You do NOT want him,” says Officer Black. “But we have had a call from Hemlock Prison. We are getting some new guys in next week, and Sergio comes highly recommended.” I call the store he worked in before, and it all sounds good. I think I will give him a try.
Today, Crash also gives us a hand. His work crew has Fridays off. “The officers told me to put in for the store job,” he tells me, “but I like the work crew. I like getting outdoors and doing the firefighting in the summer.” I don’t tell him, but he is also of the wrong race. We talk about Carlin for a bit; Crash, the car thief, remembers places by the vehicles habitually parked there. He reminds me of a large, eager to please, puppy. For a month, he has been counting down the days to his birthday. “It’s just like any other day here,” Joe tells him.
Remember the autocratic lieutenant who was responsible for my weekly trips to Cedar? Well, he has been gone for nearly a month, having accepted a promotion as Assistant Warden in a prison some distance away. Meanwhile the Sarge has been in charge, and the atmosphere has been, for the most part, much more laid-back. A new LT has been hired, and will arrive towards the end of the month. Meanwhile, camp renovations have been going forward, including lots of painting and bathroom remodeling.
I go to my next-to-last training in Cedar. Again, Rachel, the nurse who works at Cedar, and I ride in together. As part of her job, she delivers meds to the lock-down cells and when I describe Carlos and his tattoos, she says she has seen him. She describes the cell block and I feel a little ill. “It is extremely hot in there, and men are yelling and moaning all the time. I feel like I need to cover my ears,” she tell me. Poor Carlos.
In class, we talk about Prison Security, Inmate/Staff Relations, Anger Management, Contraband. Throughout the classes, we watch a series of videos entitled “Lockdown USA.” A burley, uniformed officer is featured in many of them, and I try to think where I have seen him before. It finally hits me: he is Chief Wiggins from “The Simpsons” come to life.
In the video, we see an astounding array of weapons that have been taken from inmates. Mostly they are short knives, or shanks as they are called, made from anything you could imagine. Homemade “tattoo guns” are also a very popular item. Ink is made from anything from fountain pen ink to ashes mixed with water. Rope can be made from dental floss, plastic bags, or even toilet paper. Our instructor shows us some actual weapons confiscated from our prison system. Incredible.
As usual, we get out of class early. It has been interesting, but I am looking forward to missing the weekly drive. What with holidays. classes in Lovelock and extra hours for training, I have yet to work my normal 20 hour week. And I’m not complaining about the paycheck.
UltraMom, older and wiser, but still a “fish”
For awhile I have been wanting to have a guest blogger. Thinking about my Anniverary got me thinking about the man I have been married to for 32 years, and why I’m still around. ( A better question may be why HE is still around, come to think of it). I could tell you of his many fine character attributes, but I think instead I’ll let our youngest son Jim tell you in a little speech he wrote for a high school class in the year 2002…..............
Why My Dad is My Hero
Someone can be a hero to someone else for a lot of different reasons. One reason may be sports. Depending on the sport a person likes, their hero may be the best player in that sport or maybe just the best player on that person’s favorite team. That person may spend hours each day practicing their favorite sport and pretending that they are their hero. Michael Jordan is a hero to many people because he is one of the greatest basketball players of all time. Kids everywhere dream about being Michael Jordan and making shots to win the NBA championship. Another way a person may become a hero is by being courageous. A soldier may be someone’s hero because they risk their lives to save someone else. A person may even be someone else’s hero just by making a lot of money. Someone may think of Bill Gates as their hero and want to be just like him because he can buy anything he wants.
To me a hero does not have to be an athlete. He should be courageous but he doesn’t need to constantly risk his life to save others. He also does not need to be rich or famous.
A hero is someone you can always look up to. He should work hard and get the money he has honestly. He should not worry about himself all of the time. He should be more concerned about those around him. A hero should stand up for what he thinks is right all of the time. He should always have the courage to be who he is even if it means that somebody won’t like him.
My dad is my hero because of all of those reasons and more. He does not have a lot of money, but he works harder than anyone I know for the money that he does have. Even though he has never played sports himself and doesn’t really like them he always goes to all of my games to support me. If he sees something going on that he feels is wrong he will fight against it. He never pretends to be something he is not just to please other people.
There are a lot of things that I would like to be that my dad is not. I would obviously like to be a great athlete and make a lot of money. But to me a hero does not have to be a person that you want to be an exact copy of. To me a hero is someone that has certain great qualities that you would like to take, and use to build yourself into the person you would like to be. So even though my dad may not be the exact person that I want to be, he is my hero.
How, you may wonder, was I able to locate this speech after all this time? It was easy. UltraDad carries a copy of it around in his wallet.
UltraMom
I actually meant to write this blog a week ago, at the annual occurence of a momentous event. It was February 2nd. What’s your guess?This was how my conversation with UltraDad went when I played the guessing game with him:
Me: “February 2 is coming up in a week. Is there anything special about that date?”
UD: “I think it’s a Thursday.”
Me: “Anything else?”
UD: (slyly) “Well, its Groundhog’s Day, so I guess we will get a weather forecast.”
Me:”OK, but that’s not what I was thinking of.”
UD: “Okay, its our Wedding Anniversary. How many years now…......32?”
Me: “Yes, but still not what I was thinking of…....The new season of Survivor starts on that day!”
UD: (Grumpily) “Great.” (he is NOT a fan)
As luck would have it, when the big day arrived, we were both scheduled, me for training in Cedar, and he for MSHA safety training for his job. We decided to make plans to rendezvous a bit later in the day. On my way home from Cedar, I called him on the cellphone.
Me: “Oh, you are home. What do you want to do about dinner?”
He: “I thought I would take you out.”
Me: “How about it you order a pizza and we eat it at home?”
He: “Good idea!”
When I arrived home, he asked me where the pizza was. I guess for some reason, (probably because I had mentioned it), he thought I was picking it up on my way home. Silly boy.
While he went to get it, I tuned into Survivor. Great Anniversary.
UltraMom
When I come to work at the prison, I never know what I’m going to find. Joe and Carlos will usually fill me in on camp happenings, and sometimes there have been some minor incidence or maybe even a funny anecdote. But when I arrived at work on Friday, and John filled me in on what had been going down, I was pretty badly shaken. Things had been going so smoothly for me, in my little store that I could tend to forget that this was, after all, a prison and that some of these guys were here for a reason. Anyway, a bad situation developed with the result that investigators came out from the big prison in Cedar,( where I had been going for training), to investigate. Carlos was an innocent bystander, but he was one of the prisoners who got accused of beating up a newly arrived inmate. When the new group came in Thursday afternoon,Carlos was excited. One of them he knew from “the yard”, where he had spent time before. He went down to “A” wing (for new guys and those needing more security) to catch up. But another one of the new guys was in trouble. Apparently someone remembered him from somewhere else too, but not in a good way, and a large group was recruited to rough him up. They wore scarves over their faces, and they beat him badly enough that he had to be taken to the hospital. Carlos turned away when the fight started, and was not involved in any way, but the man who was beaten saw him and identified him as one of the attackers. They “rolled up” about 10 inmates, including Carlos, for transport to Cedar for further questioning. There, they will spend time in “the hole”, a solitary cell, described to me by one of the officers as “hot, noisy, and…....like hell.” I am devastated for many reason. Carlos has been trying very hard to “keep his nose clean”, as he was up for parole very soon. He was an excellent store clerk and very nice to work with.
He never had Joe’s passion for store paperwork and order forms, but he was a very good clerk. I loved watching him and Joe work. After I ran the tickets, they would pull items for orders. When an inmate showed up at the window, he first had to show his ID. It didn’t matter if he had been there for years; no ID, no store. A list is posted on the window showing the number of the order. The erstwhile customer looked at the list, found his name and was ready to go when Carlos, usually the one at the window said “Number, number number.” Then, reading off the printed “pull sheet”, he would call off items to Joe. “One Nescafe.” “Uh, huh,” said Joe as he tossed the bag of coffee over, “Two Maui, one Barbecue.” “Yeah,” Joe would say as he pulled and tossed bags of potato chips. They were like a well-oiled machine. Carlos would usually send the customer away with “All right now.” But they did like to have their fun. One of Joe’s favorite pranks was to tell an inmate that instead of ordering , say, 3 coffee creamers, that he had written down 30. “You have to take it,” he would say. “You wrote it down wrong, and to give a refund will take about a month.” In reality, refunds were very easy to do. The victim of the joke would be relieved, though sometimes a little angry, when told he “had been had.” One day I asked them if the guys weren’t wise to that joke by now. “Thank goodness for the new guys,”Carlos said.
After Joe comes in and tells me Carlos will be leaving, I come out and hang back in the corner just watching the proceedings. I’m glad I had a chance to talk to Carlos before the van of officers showed up to begin the interrogations and hear his side of the story. I watch as officers haul inmate lockers into the rotunda. They go through each man’s earthly possessions, separating out the things he will be able to keep, and shoving them into a plastic garbage bag with name markered on. I have come to appreciate Carlos’ many fine qualities, and the whole thing ties my stomach up in knots. Noone seems to mind if I just hang around the rotunda and watch. A few of the officers come over and talk to me, trying to make me feel better. “You are really pale,” says one. “You need to go home and have a glass of wine.” I tell him that since I don’t drink, a diet cherry coke will have to be my drug of choice.
When I get home, I call Ida, the former camp storekeeper, to inform and seek consolation. She has know Carlos longer than I have, and is also certain that he wasn’t involved. I’m not saying that Carlos wouldn’t fight, but ganging up is definitely not his style. Nor is lying about it.
Anyway, tomorrow will bring many changes. With Joe’s considerable help, I will need to select another clerk. My supervisor Jackson, as luck would have it, is scheduled to stop by.
Hopefully, we will hear soon that Carlos has been cleared, but even then, he will not be back in our prison camp.
I’ll keep you posted.
Soberly,
UltraMom
Funny thing about Prison CO’s, like our Lieutenant. They are rather like little demi-gods with the prison as their realm. This one is very hard-nosed and an autocrat, but is also doing some good things, as far as I can tell. The prison was pretty run-down, and he has obtained the money and the authorization to renovate. A lot of painting and tiling is being done. The word is that our store will get a re-tiling job, as well as obtaining an extra storeroom, once the area is no longer needed for a renovating-supply cache. Of course, all of this takes some time, and the gym is totally shut down this winter. If an inmate wants some exercise, the weight benches are outside. Forget basketball or handball. The phone booths have also been moved. Instead of being in front of the building, they are in the back. The word is they are directly under the eaves, in prime position for catching rain or melting snow runoff. So, if the benefits outweigh the inconviences may depend on your point of view.
I have had only a little contact with the LT, although his office is directly across from the store. But one day he had some news that let me know I was not forgotten. “Some training classes are being held in the big prison in Cedar,” he informed me. “They are every Thursday for the next 6 weeks, from 8 AM to 5 PM. You will attend.”
I had always know I would have to attend some mandatory training at some point. Aspects of working in a prison such as “How to Spot Con Games” and “How to Spot a Set-Up” would be covered. The previous storekeeper had told me of her experience: “I went for a week, and they put us up in some kind of dormitories. It was kind of fun.” Well, apparently, the days of “get-it-over-with-all-in-one-week” are over, at least for non-custody prison personnel.
“It is a 348 mile roundtrip, 2 1/2 hours drive each way,” I was informed in response to a volley of panicky questioning, “You can drive the camp vehicle. It is stick shift. Yes, the tires are good. Sure, you can drive your own car if you wish, but you will not be paid for mileage if you do.”
Well, this was a pretty kettle of worms! I stewed about it all weekend, and finally put in a call to the big boss in my department. He agreed with all of my concerns; ie Winter Road Conditions, Don’t Like to Drive After Dark, Wait Til Later in the Year, etc, and promised to see what he could do. Apparently what he could do wasn’t very much, although the dept would reimburse me for mileage, even if I drove my own car, and give me a generous meal allowance. The LT’s concession was that I could miss a day if the weather was bad. Thank goodness for small favors.
The next Thursday, I obediently set out about 5 AM. The drive is all interstate, but goes over a couple of passes that can be kind of scary if there is much weather going on. Fortunately this trip was clear sailing. The training actually ended up being rather interesting. Our class consists of 4; besides me, there are two people who work in culinary and one nurse. All but me work in Cedar Medium Security Prison, but one has an hour commute from a town I pass through. We agree to try to meet up the next time and travel that hour together. Our instructor is a 60ish woman who reminds me of a combination of Angela Lansbury,one of my training supervisors from the bank, and my kids’ high school counselor. She has a lot of experience in this field, having retired from the California Police Dept, and now working on her second retirement with the Nevada Dept of Corrections. She clearly has rather a high opinion of herself, but is still knowlegable and approachable. With only 4 in the class, we are able to cover material quickly. We discuss Sexual Harrassment, Customer Service and Games Inmates Play, ie. Con Games. We will go into this deeper in classes to come. We are there on a good day; a potluck lunch is being held to say farewell to a departing warden and welcome to a new one. The other students attend legitimately, having brought a covered dish to contribute. I sneak in with them. I am thrilled to get out earlier than planned. The instructor tells us that if we wish to bring our own lunch and have class straight through the day, we can get out early each week. Of course, we all agree. It is so nice to make the drive home in mostly daylight.
This institution is a lot different from my little home-town prison. You surrender your car keys to the officer on duty at the desk, and sign in. You and belongings pass through a metal detector. When you are clear, a gate is unlocked, and is locked behind you as you enter. Now you are inbetween two locked gates, and the second is never opened until the first is securely shut. The prison is an austere gray complex out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by scary looking wire. The most prominent building is the high guard tower. Near the front gate is a large sign reading “NO BLUE”.
Now, in most jobs there is a dress code of sorts, and this job is no exception. Many of the same restrictions apply that I have experienced with other jobs: no shorts, no revealing clothing. Sandals are frowned upon, as are sleeveless shirts. But this rule, I daresay, is unique to the corrections industry:No Blue. Why not? Well, the prisoners dress in blue. In our camp, they can also wear white, as in t-shirts and socks, but mostly its blue. The powers that be want to be able to tell at a glance who lives there and who is only there for the paycheck. Of course, the officers wear uniforms, but the non-custody personnel are, in fact, encouraged to dress in bright colors. I find this is becoming a consideration when I go shopping: blue is my favorite color, but blue purchases can not be worn to work. I consider how I would like to wear ONLY blue, and decide I prefer the variety.
The next week, a big storm is predicted. The instructor calls me to cancel class. With only four in the class, she will cancel if inclement weather is predicted. How nice for me not to have to decide for myself how bad is bad enough not to make the drive.
That was several weeks ago. I now have three classes under my belt. It has worked out very well to carpool a bit of the drive, and to get out early by working through lunch. We have talked about a lot of things, some boring, some that seem rather unrelated to my situation, and some that really make me take notice. I pay close attention to the “Blood-born Pathogens” the “Inmate Con Games”, and “Hostages”. The team building exercise is fun, but probably not very useful. Our instructor has “been around” and has a lot of true-life incidences to relate. She will condense the last three classes into two, so I am more than half-way done. And when I mention the rainy, foggy, drive early this morning, she decides we can start class 1/2 hour later. Very considerate.
And so, life goes on. Prison is defintely a whole new world for me. Hopefully, for you as well.
UltraMom
