(Originally Posted on June 30, 2015)
Shortly after one o’clock, in a baking afternoon, the fourth shot of inmates hasn’t left the room, but there’s hope. It’s time for shift-change at the Commissary, and there’s a new employee we all want assigned to our window. She’s been here almost 13 weeks, and she has even the crass-speaking prisoners using the word “wonderful”. She hasn’t developed the chronic sneer of a Commissary lady (or prison nurse) yet, and there’s no sign of the inevitable apathy and laziness that familiarity with prison brings. In fact, she’s been polite, even to inmates, and works very hard. Nobody is sure how long her gung-ho attitude will last, but at present, she’s a heroine. Not only does she run the line smoothly and efficiently, but she’s even been known to get on the cellblock sergeant and remind him to fill her line. I call her the Asian Angel, and if she works, we all have a shot at making Commissary.
Shortly after 1:30 they finally call out the fourth shot, and the dayroom becomes cooler in temperature and temperament. I decide to give up the seat and my sweat-inducing Siamese twins and stand against a wall. I’m still hurting, still sweating, but the stress has been dulled by boredom. I’ve been in the Hyena Den for close to eight hours with few things but worry to occupy my mind. I look up at the televisions: one is tuned to a soap opera, which, to my amusement, has a religious following among certain prisoners. It’s a wonder to watch these hardened, battle-scarred and tattoo-covered creatures get sentimental about a silly melodrama aimed at bored housewives. These men stare transfixed, though I’ve never figured out how they follow the plot without being able to hear it. But you won’t change the TV station while they’re watching, I bet you that much. The other TV is tuned to “Jerry Springer”, which also has a zealous following, many of whom believe the circus-like talk-show drama is genuine. The inmates shout profanity at the TV like it can hear them. My idea of hell is being forced to watch daytime TV for an eternity.
It takes less than an hour for them to call out the fifth shot. It must be the Asian Angel. I can picture the little lady politely but firmly getting the job done. That leaves less than thirty people ahead of me. There’s still plenty of disastrous scenarios that can trip me up in this quest for the proverbial holy grail, but I cannot stop myself from a surge of hope.
The 3:00 count begins, and I feel so hot and weak I actually lose consciousness for a second and stagger. I’ve been drinking ample water yet still haven’t urinated today. My body confiscates the water, I suppose, and sweats it out before my bladder can have any. My muscles are cramping from being unconsciously tensed for so long. I tell myself for the seventy-seventh time that I’ll never take on another prison debt — never be obligated to spend the whole day in Hyena Hell. People seem to lie to themselves the most when misery is involved.
The cellblock sergeant shows mercy on us disposables and continues running the Commissary line through count. I suspect the Asian Angel has spoken with him. My chances of making Commissary are very good now. My brain wants to be excited, but my body wants to be buried in a quiet dark hole.
They call last chow at about 4:50, and I want to eat so badly. But it’s crunch time. I’m ready to kill in order to maintain the place in line I have suffered a whole day for. The stack-holder tells me everyone in our stack is going to eat; do I want to hold the ID cards? (Uhh, no, I really don’t.) With a picture of John’s recent swollen face arrangement in my mind, I reluctantly accept the role of line guardian. I’m not that worried about conflict though. They’re serving chicken for last chow, and that’s a very special meal for prisoners. The dayroom empties, and there’s only a handful of unlucky men missing out on that chicken. Woe is me.
Then the unthinkable happens. The Bossman at the door is calling for another shot. There’s not even ten people to fill a shot. All of us are either stack-holders or have already been to Commissary. The stack-holder in front of me tries to hand me his IDs… No way, José. I don’t even know what to do with all of the cards I’m holding myself. All I know is that the Bossman has the door open for Commissary, so I give him my own ID card and walk out. Technically, I’m cutting the line and stepping on toes, but what else am I supposed to do? Refuse Commissary because everyone else in line is at the chow hall enjoying a good meal I relinquished? I keep the other nine ID cards in my pocket and walk down the hallway with a ridiculous shot of only three people.
I’m in line now. The real Commissary line. It’s scary being this close to the finish. It would crush me if something happened to shut down the Commissary at this point. It’s happened before. Once, I’d waited like 12 hours and had only one person ahead of me in line when the computer went down. It hurt so much I felt like crying. Another time, I had bribed the cellblock sergeant with a bag of chips and a pop to put me in line, thus bypassing the Hyena Den tyranny. Things were going smoothly; only a couple of people stood between me and the window when an inmate and another cellblock sergeant got into a fight in the middle of the hallway. To aggravate the situation, a guard in the picket accidentally shot that sergeant square in the forehead with a tear-gas canister, knocking him silly. Many people would enjoy a good laugh at that story for months to come. Who doesn’t enjoy hearing about a sadist getting some back?
When the fog of gas started blossoming in front of me, I reluctantly abandoned my spot and sprinted the other way. They locked this tomb down for a month, and it was twice that long before I saw Commissary again. It sucked, but the entertainment value kind of made up for things.
I lean against the brick wall, which, having absorbed the outside sun’s heat, burns me. I place all of my weight on one aching foot for awhile and shift to the other. I look around to make sure no authority is watching and squat for a moment to relieve the pain in my back. I cannot keep still. I try to meditate on my breath and quiet cynical visions of catastrophe. Please, I beg the Commissary gods, please let me make it.
Inmates from my block are returning down the hallway from chow. I silently hand them their ID cards back. They’ll have to sort the interrupted dayroom line from scratch. I almost feel sorry for them. Almost. My inner imp keeps tempting me to ask them if that chicken tasted good.
Bouncing and balancing on the balls of my feet. Getting closer… One person away, and I’m feeling like those hands-over-the-mouth-quivery-body game-show contestants you see on daytime TV. The adrenaline is flowing, and my brain has gone so primitive I have to remember to breathe. Finally, the guy in front of me strings his laundry bag closed and alas! I give the Asian Angel my list and she slides my ID through the scanner again and again. No answering beep. I feel my heart sinking. The ID card is old and much scratched; it has taken longer and longer to scan each time, and today it has met its death. Starting from the top, my body gives in to gravity. My head sinks, my shoulders, my knees. But, I have named her well: the Asian Angel smiles at me and uses a new addition to the computer: a red light laser scanner that reads bar codes, like the one on the front of my ID! Hallelujah!
The whole process of bagging my groceries is harried as it always is — the items come flying out the window very fast. It lasts less than two minutes. Twelve hours of anguished waiting for a two minute joyride, which honestly, is pure anti-climax. I didn’t have much money to spend, so I’m not exactly doing cartwheels returning down the hall. But my bills will be paid, and the trial is over. My muscles spasm, but not unpleasantly, and my headache has silenced.
I made it.
I made it through Commissary Day.
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