A Faustian Shower

“The infliction of cruelty with a good conscience is a delight to moralists.  That’s why they invented hell.” – Bertrand Russel

 

State prisons differ vastly from region to region in the U.S.; these human storage facilities go from semi-humane to bloody hell.  A general rule of thumb is the farther south you go, the more cruel the cage is.  I’ve often wondered why that is and the only reason I can figure is that the resentment about losing the civil war, free slave labor and then Jim Crow, is somehow passed down to younger generations along the Bible-belt.  Our guards wear Confederate gray, and many of them have rebel flag stickers and rifle-racks on the back window of their pickup trucks.  If you’ve ever driven past a Texas penitentiary and witnessed the countless black prisoners picking cotton and other back breaking labor with a gun-toting bossman on a horse yelling at them to work harder under the blistering sun, you might even agree with my theory.  (Of course nowadays you have a sprinkling of a few white and brown slaves, but in this region, prisoners are less human than historical slaves ever were.)  This outdated southern justice system is far more brutal than the rest of America and with the way they fight any kind of reform tooth and nail, it may stay that way for a long time.

 Texas, our country’s largest producer of both human warehouses and the sub-human cattle that fill them, takes great pride in the cruelty of its prison system and spends money to advertise it: “Don’t mess with Texas,” threatens the beefy, blustery, white cowboy in his southern drawl.

 

My personal slice of hell is the largest of Texas’ 106 prisons and is considered old school.  (“Old school” in this case means tough place to do time.)  This giant building was built in the seventies to persecute 2,000 souls but a tough on crime political agenda forced them to cram another 2,000 in the same building, so now the place is bursting at the seams, and adding to the fun is that Texas prisons have become critically short-staffed with more than 5,000 unfilled positions.  (Apparently not all southerners take glee in demoralizing human beings.)  It’s a savage environment and obstinately old-fashioned, but to the South’s credit, some improvements have been made since Andersonville, so check back in another few centuries.

 

Not all of the inhumane conditions and treatment are intentional.  Much of it is just indifference.  This place is an administrative nightmare after all, and it was never equipped to handle such an overwhelming population.  It makes routine and security, which are prevalent in most institutions, impossible. 

 

While I’m not thrilled about living in one of America’s most brutal penitentiaries and I’d trade, say, a few living fingers to science for residence in a northern prison, I’ve managed to prove that one can indeed get used to anything.  Well, almost anything.

 

The gates of our cages crash open at 5:30 AM, and it’s time to go wash our stinking bodies.  It’s also time to get rid of any human dignity that might be stubbornly clinging to you.  We leave the cellblock in single file, staying to the right of the yellow line painted on the floor.  We reach the main hallway, which may be warmer than the 39-degree temperature outside but it’s hard to tell.  All told, it’s about a hundred yards from the cage to the shower and by rule, you’re only allowed to wear boxer shorts; gooseflesh is optional.

 

We arrive into a picture of Hades.  The shower room, in my guesstimation could probably hold about 120 people without them being forced to touch each other - if they were all frozen.  There are way more than 120 people in the shower this morning, and it’s literally packed.  When I say packed, I mean sardines in a tin packed; a sea of writhing flesh.  You cannot avoid skin contact, or move in a chosen direction, or even stand firm.  You are physically forced along.  There are only about 60 working showerheads and hundreds of disposable people waiting to get at them.  Some of the showerheads are shared by 2 or 3 men, alternating soap and rinse.  Plenty of other nude bodies stand naked against slimy walls and shiver.

 

I get lucky today and catch a friendly acquaintance finishing his rinse; he holds the showerhead in his hand to make sure I’m ready, and then we move simultaneously to make the shower exchange; that way, none of the other eager unwashed get any ideas.  The water is unpleasantly cool, but it beats the hell out of the chilly 20-minute wait that most other guys will endure for an open showerhead.  Their lips will be blue by then.

 

After a 57.3 second shower (loose estimate), I join the mass of men trying to get some clean clothes.  On those rare days that they don’t overcrowd the showers, men actually form a somewhat orderly line for prison uniforms issue.  Today, we’re herded in like animals, and that’s exactly how most of these trapped men act, like animals.  It’s a free-for-all, grab some clean underwear anyway you dare, fuck human decency.  I take a deep breath and follow the giant acne scarred back coated in gang-banger tattoos, as he wades to the issue window.  The mad grab for clothes makes our shower experience perilous.  I keep waiting for another gang member to get angry when someone shoves in front of him.  A fight in this stuffed potential mausoleum would get a lot of people hurt, especially if the guards shoot tear gas.

 

I don’t even want to think of the word fire.  There are only two bottleneck doors out of this death-pit and countless bodies piled between me and those life-giving exits.  It’s pretty damn scary when you think about it.  Even if the situation weren’t dangerous, it’s grotesque the way they herd us in here, it’s not just inhumane, it’s evil.  An emergency is going to happen in this shower someday and a lot of people are going to die.  Pardon my lack of nobility, but I don’t want to be one of them. 

 

Some prison officials have recognized this liability and occasionally they try to make some changes, but it’s just so inconvenient to slow the shower process down, it puts everything behind schedule.  That’s why they pack us in like sewage, to hurry us, to try to keep on schedule.  The warden will order the guards to stop overcrowding the shower but also crucify them for delaying count-time to finish showering.  So after one of his orders, they’ll slow down and shower us like humans for a little while, yet invariably they’ll start packing us back in to speed the process.

 

So, I don’t necessarily believe it’s malice on their part, just job cultural apathy.  Whenever we’re in the hallway, be it for the showers, chow or the recreation yard, they stop calling us inmates, and start calling us “traffic”, or “bodies”.  “Hey Billy Bob, I got too much traffic down here, hold’em up.”  “Yo, Hambone, send 25 more bodies”, they say into their radios.  I believe they forget all about the human aspect.

 

I make it through the bathing process without being hurt today and life is good.  Unfortunately there’s a cynical, cowardly voice in my head asking me: What about tomorrow tough guy, you gonna make it out of there alive tomorrow?  It’s almost enough to make you avoid showers period, and sponge bathe.  But in a cesspit infested with Hepatitis, AIDS and tuberculosis, neglecting hygiene is probably more lethal than the shower room. 

 

At last I reach the cellblock and my heart rate slows to a healthier pace.  You’d think that prison life would be dull, but to the ugly contrary, it can be terrifying.

 

Well, no one ever said hell would be boring.