About “Commissary Day”
When I wrote the following essay, describing in detail one of the more unfortunate rituals of prison, I received some rather strong reactions from readers. Most agreed that it was emotionally hard to read, and some of the more sensitive couldn’t manage to read it at all. I believe my writing was at fault…too much of my own misery leaked through the words. So, I’m rewriting the story, trying to make it more palatable.
I ask readers to understand that prison by its very nature breeds unpleasant experiences, and though I’ll attempt to remove some of my own raw emotion from the narrative, that doesn’t mean I can make it any easier to read.
The issue of race was also a problem for some readers. Race isn’t something I feel qualified or comfortable addressing, but the penitentiary is socially primitive. And however ridiculous, race defines inmates far more than people in the outside world. Let me say that I find racism in any form highly distasteful and don’t condone it. Also note that racism and racial division are not necessarily the same thing. Bi-racial friendships here, while not encouraged, are not uncommon and usually without consequence. Racial division is more a result of circumstance than actual hate. When you create an all-male environment full of deprivation, volatility and uncertainty, it seems inevitable that a tribal culture will result.
Commissary Day
“Principles have no real force except when one is well fed” — Mark Twain
It’s 4:30 in the morning, and my head must weigh 50 pounds as I part it from the “fire-proof” pillow. It’s not just fatigue. Actual torture probably doesn’t break a person as fast as the apprehension of it. Blindfold a victim, strike him at random, and the blows won’t hurt nearly as much as the pauses. I dread this coming day, and my yearning for return to bed weighs me down; every movement willed.
This penitentiary cellblock is a jungle at the best of times, but on Commissary day it’s like feed-time for a pack of hyenas; ugly passions unleashed. It brings out the worst in people, and I’ve found it to be a study in real human nature. It makes me realize that civilization is only a pretty act. Technology, medicine, law and altruism look good (they look great!), but strip away his luxuries and privileges and man reverts back into what he really is: an animal.
The predators will be out in force today, the scavengers close behind. I’d love to avoid the coming mayhem, just hide in my little cage until the day is past. But like all prisoners, I have debts to pay.
It’s true that the state generally provides for an inmate’s needs: they feed three meals a day, and if you’re ravenous, you might even enjoy them; they give us clothes to share, water, electricity (well, sometimes), and shelter… a truly stout and secure shelter. Yes, prison is a little slice of Utopia, but to be human is to be infinitely unsatisfied with one’s lot. Prisoners search escape from life’s sufferings the same as normal people; though, our yearnings may be a bit more fervent, exacerbated by an environment lacking in sensual stimuli. Our world is devoid of beauty for the eyes and flooded with ugly noise. Pleasant scents are rare, but not as rare as nurturing touch. Other than taste, our senses are starving. Is it any wonder that in such a bland, artificial environment that even a simple sugar treat can be mistaken for an exotic ecstasy and pursued with uncommon vigor?
You cannot ignore Commissary in prison any more than a real person in society can ignore money. Commissary is money. It’s the inmate’s currency, one of the few means to get those little extras that make existence a bit more comfortable. There are those without commissary who will do anything to get it. Need some powdered bleach to wash your clothes? Find a laundry worker and pay him a dollar in food to steal some bleach. Need help to navigate the law and its appeals process? Pay a couple hundred dollars to a jailhouse lawyer… installments are fine. Tattoos, radio repair, art, cigarettes, dope, pornography, and cheeseburgers smuggled from the kitchen. The list is endless, and it can all be purchased with Commissary. The Commissary is the National Bank of the penitentiary.
It’s hard to do without the comforts of Commissary in itself; I’ve tried. Even a die-hard ascetic feels better with a little deodorant and toothpaste. No doubt a guy could survive without it, but I cannot imagine wanting to.
There are rules against trading of any kind, but the rules are unreasonable and everyone knows it, and they’re impossible to enforce. No society in the world could resist trade, especially an incarcerated society.
Last week, I bought a much needed new set of bed sheets (to keep my skin from becoming stuck to the plastic mat I sleep on), some tape to repair my headphones, and some glorious contraband tomatoes (yes, “forbidden fruit”). Altogether I owe about 12 dollars to inmate entrepreneurs — not, generally speaking, the most civil bill collectors. Even if I were willing to do without, and stay in my grilled hole, the debts must be paid. Call me finicky, but I like keeping my blood in the convenient container it came in.
It’s a challenging feat to exercise your Commissary privileges at this prison unit, but it’s not meant to be that way. Prison Commissary, like water in the desert, is an easy sell: It’s a profitable business, and the State likes the texture of our family’s money. They’re not intentionally making it hell to patronize their store — it’s just bad management and employee apathy. They’ve shown it’s possible to give every inmate a chance to make store. There are days when outsiders come to visit our humble abode, and suddenly everything is by the book. The Commissary lady doesn’t take copious breaks to smoke and gossip; the sergeant keeps the line full, and everything runs smooth and bloodlessly. I don’t think there are any special visitors coming today.
At around five o’clock, the gate to my darkly comfortable kennel will be popped open. I will be released, and I will race to face my trial in the Hyena’s Den (that’s what I call the dayroom, which is both a recreation area and a holding tank). As I consider the tedious wait ahead, I debate with myself, as I have a hundred times in the past, whether to take a book. It’s a steady compulsion, and ridiculous: I don’t think I’ve managed to read an entire page of text in the Hyena’s Den. Ever. If the word “library” has an antonym, surely it would be “penitentiary dayroom”. No two environments could have such opposite intentions. The dayroom is a relatively small, overcrowded, cacophonous room laden with combustible levels of testosterone and fear. Seems like only a fool would even attempt to distract himself with a book in such a volatile atmosphere, and yet, distraction and escape are exactly what I long for whenever I’m trapped there.
The loudspeaker eliminates the artificial quiet of my cell with an echoed screech. Twenty-two heavy steel gates release with a clamor, and I spring out like a racing greyhound, reaching to snatch my useless book at the very last second. A score of inmates nudge and jostle their way to the Hyena Den: move fast or get out of the way. When I arrive at the room I hate, I take in a venomous scene: demon and dragon tattoos and scary scars on huge flesh canvases, yelling at each other. Will they spill blood this early in the morning? Violence is compulsory on Commissary day, but it usually takes a bit of time to simmer. It’s like those bank panics back in the 1920s with people assaulting each other to be first in line to withdraw their money. That’s not really an analogy. It’s like that and for the very same motive: people afraid they won’t get to spend their money.
Soon a guard will come unlock the dayroom door and call for a shot of ten. Every man in the room longs to be one of those first ten. Too many things can go wrong and halt or cancel Commissary. That’s why there’s always a desperation in awaiting Commissary: You never know if you’re going to make it. The first ten are usually big, black and gang related (Homeboys). In a tribal society such as ours, numbers and strength determine much. If a white guy makes it into that first shot of ten, it’s usually because he’s being extorted by a high ranking homeboy. On some cellblocks, the Mexican homeboys are numerous and fierce enough that a sort of truce exists. Instead of warring over the Commissary line perpetually, they more or less share the coveted places in line. But the Mexican homeboys don’t have the clout on this cellblock, so the black homeboys sort of rule the line. The most popular or high ranking homeboys will go first, followed by the more aggressive soldiers.
This morning, there are too many alpha males who want to be in the first shot, so there’s a lot of posturing and yelling. Technically, homeboys aren’t supposed to spill blood without permission, but fragile young egos are at stake, and violence doesn’t follow many rules. All hundred plus men in the room are as tense as a sniffing prairie dog poised at the edge of his burrow.
Fortunately, the ranking homeboys huddle up, and sanity triumphs. Money is, after all, the ultimate motivator, and an early morning riot would get Commissary cancelled in this tomb for a week. Off we’d be in an economic depression. Gang leaders live by extortion and drug sales; making peace is simply a good business decision. Normal operations resume.
In the midst of dayroom chaos, I ask the inmates around me, without much success, what “line” system they’re using today. Line…As if there could exist something so orderly in a cave full of hyenas and sheep. The guards mostly let us police ourselves in the dayroom. Perhaps the resulting drama relieves their monotony. Sometimes we use the steel benches as a sort of line, but this system is flawed because there are far more men than seats, and when a guard calls for a shot, sometimes those closest to the dayroom door crowd out and to hell with the people waiting on the benches. Once you get out of the door among the shot of ten men, you go down the hallway and stand in the actual Commissary line, which holds about 30 to 40 men from different cellblocks.
After a few fruitless inquiries, I discover they’re using the “place holder” system. Nine guys hand a tenth their ID cards (ID cards are necessary for Commissary purchases, much like credit cards. So in theory, one guy represents ten people in line. Not a bad system. Except that criminals are in charge of it, and you have to keep your eye on the place holder who has your ID to make sure he doesn’t misplace it).
A large crowd of men try to make a line by chucking ID cards and insulting each other. I manage to shove my way into the eighth stack of cards, which isn’t bad out of twelve stacks. For the rest of the day, I’ll have to track my place holder, checking in with him periodically.
Amazingly, I find a seat on one of the powder-blue steel benches — a piece of luck because the majority of sweating bodies are standing, and many seats are held in perpetual reserve by certain men. Yet another reminder of man’s beastly kinship: an innate need to define and defend a territory. In this case, a 5-man bench. Not that my opportune seat is an untainted blessing… It’s true that many a poor bastard will spend the next twelve hours balancing on their dogs, but sitting, packed leg-to-leg, on bare steel, isn’t exactly comfortable either. Especially with a couple of sweating Siamese twins attached to both sides. Sweating Siamese twins, I might add. What stinks even worse is that one of my twins obviously doesn’t splurge his Commissary money on deodorant (hygiene products are known as “junk money” and have less than half value of edible Commissary).
It’s almost 7:00 when the loudspeaker screams dayroom time. The pile of human flesh ripples as late-comers shove their way in. Again, ugly words and rooster postures are exchanged as more brutes try to muscle into the line. Now there isn‘t a single area of the dayroom where a man can really stand untouched. Dozens and dozens of shouted conversations rock the air. My ears only translate a roar.
A Bossman appears in front of the bars and magically has everyone’s attention. He smirks a hello and points a remote-control at the televisions mounted high on the brick wall, turning them to maximum volume. He asks what stations we want to watch, but jeers and shouted profanity are his only answer. Historically, thousands of prisoners have spilled blood over what snowy reception TV station to watch, yet nobody cares right now. Today is Commissary day.
At 7:23, the same smirking Bossman appears and demands ten people for Commissary in his exaggerated Southern drawl. The mood of the packed room brightens, and a gang leader leads nine swaggering homeboys out of the door. It’s an early start today, and that gives even the guys at the back of the “line” reason to be cautiously optimistic.
Ten minutes after the first guy leaves the dayroom, he returns with two transparent laundry bags of goodies. Every eye in the dayroom studies those bags through the bars, including mine. I think it’s involuntary. Whenever inmates see Commissary, their eyes cannot resist the colors. It goes back to the sensory deprivation thing: There are no bright colors native to prison. Inmates wear white uniforms, the guards wear Confederate Grey, and the building is red brick with shiny razor-wire. Stare at these dull colors for a few thousand hours and watch what your eyes do when suddenly presented with bright colors. It captivates them. It’s the reason magazines and photographs are treasured behind the walls.
It’s not just the colors that attract eyes to those bags laden with treats. There’s the sense of taste. Prison serves strictly bland food. Eat penitentiary cardboard long enough, and you start yearning for rich flavors. And our tongues know the flavors those bright colors represent.
As every eye in the room watches the homeboy General’s bags, he steps up to the bars and takes out some ice cream treats for some of his minions. Later today when the temperature exceeds a hundred degrees, ice cream will seem like life-giving medicine. It’s standard etiquette when returning from the Commissary to drop off a few ice cream novelties to your friends suffering in the Hyena Den and hope they return the favor sometime.
The general climbs the stairs to his cell. Returning from Commissary is, by rule, the only time an inmate can come back to the cellblock and go directly to his cage. A rule likely more motivated by medical bills than humaneness. Sending a person into the dayroom with a bag of Commissary would be like dropping a bloody carcass into an alligator pit. Before the administration caved, prisoners would come in the dayroom with goodies, and someone would sneak from behind with a razor blade and slash open the bag. The contents would fall everywhere, and dozens of scavengers would dive to grab something — anything! Naturally, people were injured. Sometimes killed.
Just a few minutes pass before the second homeboy returns with his bounty. If the lady (the prison Commissary industry in this state seems to have a majority of women employees) wants to, she can move the line fast. It's not like you can browse or make selections, and you’d better keep your damn questions to a bare minimum. (An inmate must turn in a written order each time he goes to the Commissary, and he has a spending limit of $95.00 twice a month, though not many men have the resources to spend the limit every time.) If the items you order are out of stock (more than common and insanely frustrating for the inmates), tough luck. The Commissary window line really moves if the lady doesn’t take a lot of cigarette breaks, and there’s not a host of prison guards cutting the line for their own snacks. But even when a lady comes to work ready to rock, she may often face an empty line, as it often falls to an apathetic and overworked cellblock sergeant to fill her line.
I’m hoping they’ll run another shot of ten before count-time. They don’t. Not that count-time shuts down the Commissary by rule, yet it often happens that way, depending on the nature of the shift sergeant. That’s important to us non-homeboys trying to make Commissary, because count-time can last anywhere from forty-five minutes (at best) to four or more hours (at worst). If the worst happens, combined with an apathetic sergeant, we won’t make Commissary today.
Count-time comes, and we exit the dayroom to pair up in line on the run. I feel the start of a headache, and I’m sweating profusely. This old brick building with walls of windows heats up fast. We’re counted and stuffed back in the dayroom. I sit again, feeling the body heat of my Siamese twins and consider the sweat mixing where our bodies touch. Kind of gross, but you get used to it. The Siamese twin on my right is talking to me, but I cannot hear a word. I nod and smile in time with his facial expressions, yet I really wonder how anyone can deliver such a long, uninterrupted stream of dialogue to a stranger who hasn’t uttered a word.
The line stagnates. No more shots to Commissary until count clears. The temperature is steadily rising in the dayroom sauna, aided by a mass of bodies. They finally clear count, two hours after it began, and another shot of customers is called out the door. Ten minutes later they call chow, and now it’s decision time. I’m hungry, but to leave the dayroom is to risk getting shuffled back in line. And then there’s a possibility of getting caught in the hallway without an ID card… I watch the guy holding my ID card in what is now the fifth stack. He passes the stack to someone so he can go eat. That makes up my mind to stay and watch the new card holder. My stomach growls and my headache beats the drums in protest.
At 12:15, it’s count-time again, and we’re still waiting to see the fourth shot called out. The temperature is over a hundred degrees outside, and there’s no telling what it is inside this brick oven gorged with epidermis. The noise, the heat, the stress — they have become physical pain. I’m desperate to make Commissary without knowing if it’s even possible. It’s the anticipation that kills, I’m telling you. My only relief is the coolness of my sweat-drenched clothes and the beautiful air provided by fanning my not-so-worthless book in front of my face.
At 12:40, the first fight of the day breaks out. It’s white versus black. The black man, “Cadillac”, evidently tried to shuffle the white guy’s ID card out of place, and John (the white guy) refused to accept it. For a few seconds, everyone lets them go at it until John lands a punch that staggers Cadillac. At this point, John is enveloped, eight to twelve black men attack him, kicking and stomping him as he balls up against the wall. John is a homeboy, and I know that two of his fellow gang members are present, but they stay well away from the beating. I guess suicide isn’t part of their homeboy constitution. Who can blame them? They are two white faces in a sea of black faces.
John is rescued only by economics, as once again the chiefs step in to restore order. Killing this white boy would cost them big. The Commissary would become more than elusive if a dead body shows up in the dayroom. John fares remarkably well. No doubt he’s bruised up, but he never lost consciousness. And though his nose looks broken and the rest of his face is a mess of lumps and cuts, he manages to stand up and walk over to the sink to wash his face and minimize evidence.
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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