maumann
Well-Known Member
Now for the cast of characters and the plot of the story ...
Jail is a modern-day form of debtor's prison. At least 80 percent of the guys in my block were indigent, either couldn't afford bail, missed child support or missed a court appearance. Only a handful could afford a lawyer, so most of them are stuck waiting for their cases to come before the public defender, who is overwhelmed. I was one of three guys "doing time," and the only one with a felony, which made me the "baddest" guy in the block!
Here's what I noticed about the general jail population: They all share some commonalities. They're street-smart but poorly educated, they continually make bad decisions that lead to even worse ones, and have a tendency to choose immediate gratification rather than consider other alternatives.
Pretty much the upper tier was full of "hyperactive kindergartners," a bunch of wanna-be local gang guys, all of whom were under 25 and thinking they were cool with their matching tats and signs and yells. When we were in chow line, I tried to communicate with them, but most spoke "cracker Georgian" -- as did many of the guards -- and I finally just smiled and nodded.
The lower tier was comprised of us older guys who couldn't climb stairs or jump up into the upper bunks. I was usually the second- or third-oldest guy in the block, with most of the others between 30-50.
I'll call my bunkmate my Guardian Angel, because he truly looked after me the entire time I was in there. My bunkmate couldn't pass his GED but he had memorized the parts catalogs for nearly every major truck manufacturer. That was important in his job. Knowing the three branches of the federal government had no impact on his daily life.
Knowing absolutely nothing about what I was facing, he walked me through the process. And he kept me calm when my anxiety levels would go through the roof. He's in his mid-40s, and currently in a state minimum security prison in Gwinnett County until next year. He had been in serious trouble as a young man, but told me he had straightened his life out. He made the unfortunate mistake -- as many of these guys do -- of keeping in touch with the wrong people. He showed up at a friend's house just as the Georgia Bureau of Investigation conducted a drug raid. Prior conviction plus accessory. Not good. But I truly believe he's a good guy.
He admitted to me that his response to his anxiety was to talk. Of course, mine is to be quiet. So he talked and I listened. I also used the cotton plug from his vitamins to make a only slightly effective pair of ear plugs.
The other lower bunk was first occupied by a former Navy guy who was maybe a couple of years older than me, but only did 18 days. He rarely spoke at first, but we got him to eventually communicate. Still don't know what he did. He lived in a tent behind his brother's house.
The other upper bunk was a 20-year-old kid from an adjacent county, basically a spoiled rich kid who thought dealing drugs and stealing cars was cool and under the (false) impression that his lawyer would convince the judge to let him off. He was actually a good kid, but easily provoked and immature. The upper tier would taunt him through the glass and he'd be like a stallion stuck in his corral, pacing back and forth for hours.
I was dreading that first night -- shades of Shawshank -- particularly being a Friday night. But other than some hoots and hollers from the peanut gallery upstairs, I did OK. FISH! FISH!
The other Shawshawk moment came about halfway through the sentence, when a guy who was probably the only other person in there with a college degree -- a former Iraq soldier who did something dumb -- came up to me and said, "You know, you really look like you don't belong here." I agreed, and then he added, "Until we heard your story, we all assumed you were an embezzler or a child molester." Which is exactly what you do NOT want to be in there.
But he went on to tell me how I had this air of confidence, even in a place like that. He could tell just by the way I carried myself that I was different than the common jailbird. All the time, I was Andy Dufresne! Who knew?
I'm naturally an introvert, so I have to force myself to talk to people I don't know. So in this case, I tried to make small talk with whomever I was standing or seated next to, and also try to choose the largest and most-tattooed guys to befriend just in case something broke out. So I'd offer my leftovers to different guys every meal.
I mentioned Prison Spades, but I was banned from playing Scrabble for using words that no one in the block had ever seen, let alone pronounced. So I ended up being the official Scrabble argument-settler from that point on. Yes, inmates use "drugs" and "meth" more than most normal players do. And I've never seen common words spelled in such odd ways before, even from interns on deadline.
More to come ...
Jail is a modern-day form of debtor's prison. At least 80 percent of the guys in my block were indigent, either couldn't afford bail, missed child support or missed a court appearance. Only a handful could afford a lawyer, so most of them are stuck waiting for their cases to come before the public defender, who is overwhelmed. I was one of three guys "doing time," and the only one with a felony, which made me the "baddest" guy in the block!
Here's what I noticed about the general jail population: They all share some commonalities. They're street-smart but poorly educated, they continually make bad decisions that lead to even worse ones, and have a tendency to choose immediate gratification rather than consider other alternatives.
Pretty much the upper tier was full of "hyperactive kindergartners," a bunch of wanna-be local gang guys, all of whom were under 25 and thinking they were cool with their matching tats and signs and yells. When we were in chow line, I tried to communicate with them, but most spoke "cracker Georgian" -- as did many of the guards -- and I finally just smiled and nodded.
The lower tier was comprised of us older guys who couldn't climb stairs or jump up into the upper bunks. I was usually the second- or third-oldest guy in the block, with most of the others between 30-50.
I'll call my bunkmate my Guardian Angel, because he truly looked after me the entire time I was in there. My bunkmate couldn't pass his GED but he had memorized the parts catalogs for nearly every major truck manufacturer. That was important in his job. Knowing the three branches of the federal government had no impact on his daily life.
Knowing absolutely nothing about what I was facing, he walked me through the process. And he kept me calm when my anxiety levels would go through the roof. He's in his mid-40s, and currently in a state minimum security prison in Gwinnett County until next year. He had been in serious trouble as a young man, but told me he had straightened his life out. He made the unfortunate mistake -- as many of these guys do -- of keeping in touch with the wrong people. He showed up at a friend's house just as the Georgia Bureau of Investigation conducted a drug raid. Prior conviction plus accessory. Not good. But I truly believe he's a good guy.
He admitted to me that his response to his anxiety was to talk. Of course, mine is to be quiet. So he talked and I listened. I also used the cotton plug from his vitamins to make a only slightly effective pair of ear plugs.
The other lower bunk was first occupied by a former Navy guy who was maybe a couple of years older than me, but only did 18 days. He rarely spoke at first, but we got him to eventually communicate. Still don't know what he did. He lived in a tent behind his brother's house.
The other upper bunk was a 20-year-old kid from an adjacent county, basically a spoiled rich kid who thought dealing drugs and stealing cars was cool and under the (false) impression that his lawyer would convince the judge to let him off. He was actually a good kid, but easily provoked and immature. The upper tier would taunt him through the glass and he'd be like a stallion stuck in his corral, pacing back and forth for hours.
I was dreading that first night -- shades of Shawshank -- particularly being a Friday night. But other than some hoots and hollers from the peanut gallery upstairs, I did OK. FISH! FISH!
The other Shawshawk moment came about halfway through the sentence, when a guy who was probably the only other person in there with a college degree -- a former Iraq soldier who did something dumb -- came up to me and said, "You know, you really look like you don't belong here." I agreed, and then he added, "Until we heard your story, we all assumed you were an embezzler or a child molester." Which is exactly what you do NOT want to be in there.
But he went on to tell me how I had this air of confidence, even in a place like that. He could tell just by the way I carried myself that I was different than the common jailbird. All the time, I was Andy Dufresne! Who knew?
I'm naturally an introvert, so I have to force myself to talk to people I don't know. So in this case, I tried to make small talk with whomever I was standing or seated next to, and also try to choose the largest and most-tattooed guys to befriend just in case something broke out. So I'd offer my leftovers to different guys every meal.
I mentioned Prison Spades, but I was banned from playing Scrabble for using words that no one in the block had ever seen, let alone pronounced. So I ended up being the official Scrabble argument-settler from that point on. Yes, inmates use "drugs" and "meth" more than most normal players do. And I've never seen common words spelled in such odd ways before, even from interns on deadline.
More to come ...
