The Dynamic Duo

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”