The Dynamic Duo

So, you want to learn more about prison life, do you? Well then I have a couple of suggestions: drugs, both selling and taking, identity theft, auto theft, possession of illegal firearms and passing counterfeit money, to name a few. OR you can just keep on reading my “UltraMom Goes to Prison” post series; in fact this is the recommended course of action.
In case you need “catching up”, UltraMom recently landed a plum job as Retail Storekeeper II at Calvin Minimum Security Camp To find out exactly how this works, please read “UltraMom Goes to Prison”. I go to work Mon, Tues, Thurs and Fri 1:00 P.M.ish to 6:00 P.M.ish. I say “ish” because sometimes I show up a little early and leave a little early, and sometimes I show up a little late and leave a little early, so it all works out. Time has made me more comfortable with the job and surroundings. Now when I arrive I confidently approach the gate, key on the ready. I stil use the pink, beaded alligator keychain. I have been using it long enough now that I am afraid if I change it I won’t recognize the prison keys. I unlock the padlock, let myself in through the swinging gate and relock it behind me. I walk about 50 yards straight ahead to the main door. Right inside the door is the area know as the “Rotunda”. There is a high counter there where the officer in charge has dominion. There are also several rooms, including the caseworker’s office/fax room, the “office’ where mail and other important things of which I can only guess can be locked up, the copy room and, most importantly, my bathroom. I don’t want to dwell on this, but to a woman “of a certain age” who has borne 4 children, an accessible, working bathroom is a highly prized commodity. Those who know me will appreciate this most, but after only a week or so, I can now walk directly to the store, usually without any confusion or wrong turns. It is rather complicated: in the door to the rotunda, turn right and walk down a hallway unitl I find the wooden door with a sign on it reading “Camp Store.” It used to have a placard bearing the name of the previous storekeeper who held the job for more than 6 years. This has been removed, and I was hopeful to see, for the first time in my life, my own name on a door, but so far, no such luck. On my way down the hall, I pass showers, and further down the hall are living quarters for C Wing and a small open area with a table that is usually the site of a lively game of dominoes or pinochle. Directly across from the store is the office of the camp commander.
I arrive at my domain, work my magic on a couple of locks and look around. Often there are store items on the floor, having fallen from their locations from the wooden shelves. “Guys walk down the hall and bang on the walls,” Carlos explained to me. “It doesn’t matter how we stack the stuff. It still falls off.” I walk behind my desk, fire up the computer and wait for Joe and Carlos to arrive. Sometimes they show up right away and sometimes not for 1/2 hour or so. Sometimes they arrive together and sometimes singly. I think sometimes they are eating lunch, and sometimes they just don’t know I’m there right away. Til they come I check around for unfinished business. Is there a vendor I need to call about damaged or missing items? Filing to do? Last resort, I begin reading through the manuals that detail important things about my job. This is rather boring, so I’m glad when the guys come in with the order forms for the day.
I am really lucky to have these guys; they are very good at their jobs. Joe, especially, goes above and beyond. He has made up itemized order forms to simplify the ordering process for our most frequently used vendors. Actually, the clerks pretty much do the ordering, but I listen carefully and sometimes give some input.
They also fill me in on any camp happenings or gossip, and sometimes there is a lot! The hierarchy of officers, along with varying ages and levels of experience creates a whole separate set of dynamics. The Lietenant, or Camp Commander is where the buck starts and stops. He has final (and primary) say on just about everything, and is very gung-ho. Next in line is the Sargeant, a tough, laid-back seasoned veteran, followed by the Senior Officer. The rest of the custody staff have the title “Officer” in front of their name. The inmates refer to them as “guards” much of the time, but I learned, when addressing one of them, that this is no longer a politically correct term.
I am getting pretty good at the computer entry stuff. At first, I made some errors. On one large shipment, I input numbers of cases rather than items, and after only a few sales, the computer showed that we were out of some goods I knew we had in abundance. I learned my lesson on that one; I “fixed” it, but not in the recommended manner. That also led to a pricing error, as the computer thought we had paid $40 for 2 bags of chips rather than 30 bags. Fortunately, Joe bought the first bag, and noticed he had been charge about $20. I teased him on his expensive taste! Now when I input a shipment I have the guys double check my numbers.
Jackson, my supervisor is a hoot. He is almost as new as I am, and sometimes has to correct a procedure he trained me to do incorrectly. What I really like about him is that he is imminently approachable and I feel I can call him at any time about any problem. His conversations are liberally sprinkled with “cool” and “awesome”. He even used those adjectives when I called to tell him about my big shipping input fiasco. If he can take such a light view of my mistakes, so can I. After all, what better way to learn than to have to fix a messup? Jackson ends each call with “Call me if you need anything.” “Obviously I do and will,” I reply.
Sometimes when we have a lull, I ask questions, and Joe and Carlos will tell me just about anything I ask. There really is a whole culture and society in this minimum security prison “camp.” Carlos informs me that he liked it better “on the yard.” This is a bigger prison with cells and more rules, not Scotland Yard as I always think of when they say that. “A lot of the guys here have never been to a yard, and they don’t know the rules,” he says. I think I understand; prison etiquette perhaps? Joe also came from a “yard”, and agrees with his friend. There are three wings in the camp and they each have a different level of privilege and security. A Wing is for the new guys, or “fish” as Carlos calls them. Limited TV watching and mobility. If they behave themselves, they may be moved to B Wing, and ultimately to C Wing where you can watch TV pretty much whenever you want. The beds are all bunks, and bottom bunks are much more desireable. Sometimes an inmate will opt to remain in a Wing of higher security where he has a bottom bunk rather than move to a top bunk in the next level. They call them their “houses”, and are rather possessive about them. Joe tells the story of when he was in a new prison. He was assigned bed B and his bunkmate bed A. Now A is bottom bunk and B is the top, but the other guy didn’t know that. Joe told him the letters stood for “Above” and “Below”!
This is quite a change for a woman who worked in a bank for 8 1/2 years in a little town in Idaho. Now I’m on the “other side of the law!” I’m still trying to find my niche in this close-knit town , and that isn’t always an easy thing to do. Instead of meeting new people in the community in my job, I am in a small storeroom with 2 prison inmates for 5 hours a day, but for now I don’t mind. And its giving me a lot of fuel for blogging!
UltraMom, the ‘Fish”