Chapter 3 of 4
The Dumping Grounds
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Summer 2013 – Day 16
In 1957 Ervin Goffman wrote:
Many total institutions, most of the time, seem to function merely as storage dumps for inmates, but, as previously suggested, they usually present themselves to the public as rational organizations designed consciously, through and through, as effective machines for producing a few officially avowed and officially approved ends. It was also suggested that one frequent official objective is the reformation of inmates in the direction of some ideal standard. This contradiction, between what the institution does and what its officials must say it does, forms the basic context of the staff’s daily activity.6
A lot has changed since 1957, but not this.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 17 – The Dumping Grounds
I don’t care how good B-Unit might look on paper, the people on the receiving end experience it as a place where they have been dumped, and then forgotten. Nothing more.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 18 – The Dumping Grounds
As you can now see, the scant social support found in here comes not from ’the best psych program in the state‘, or its phantom staff, but from the few inmate companions one manages to come by, if one is capable of making friends. Many of the people in here are too shy, drugged, or awkward to navigate even this basement level of society… instead they spend their days staring at the wall, becoming closer friends with insanity. Walking by cells and seeing them curled up in bed, sleeping their lives away, or staring at the wall like lobotomy victims, is a normal part of asylum life. I feel for these people, but I also thank the Lord for making me more socially able. I tend to make friends wherever I go, and my social circle has broadened a bit lately.
Meet the freakosystem. June, the young woman who gave me pens and paper the other day, is a 21-year-old Ethiopian American girl who burned down her parents’ house because her father abused her. But she’s schizo and her dad is a man of status, so claims of abuse have been ignored and she will probably spend the rest of her life in the care of law enforcement, state hospitals, or the questionable hands of her father.
June comes to my door when there is a cop on duty who turns a blind eye to co-ed conversation. She is intelligent, preaches the gospel like a pro, speaks openly about her homicidal urges, and refuses to let any of the other crazy chicks come near my door. This is flattering, but my competition in here is slim.
The attention she gives me drives my neighbor Jason up the wall, which is of little consequence because he is already miserably maladjusted. Jason is a tall, weasely-looking psychopath who likes to pick on anyone he sees as crazier, weaker, or less decent than him – which is everyone, because he sees the world through the lens of narcissism and paranoia. He spends whole days rambling through the vents, telling me, and the downstairs neighbors who share ventilation ducts with us, about the pathetic condition of our modern society, the downfall of an older, more decent America, the flaws of all the characters in our little cellblock neighborhood, the foul insults and abuse the world has visited upon him, and the infinite well of humble dignity that allows him to deal with all of it in such a graceful manner.
All first world jails and prisons have ventilation systems that allow prisoners to speak to their neighbors as though they were sitting right there in the cell with you. All you have to do is stand on the bunk or the desk or whatever is available, put your head up next to the vent and say, “Howdy” – or you can shout from the comfort of your cot. Either way, a bunch of people will hear you, whether they like it or not.
This is an arrangement that often creates problems, even in a normal cellblock. Many fights and stabbings have been the product of someone violating the inmate-enforced jailhouse noise ordinance by chatting with one neighbor at the expense of another neighbor’s sleep cycle. But in a psychiatric cellblock, there is no courtesy, no inmate-enforced anything, and the vents facilitate an enormous amount of chaos: psychopaths deliver sadistic 72-hour filibusters, schizophrenics yell through the vents at the voices in their heads, depressives lose their nerve and spit brief bursts of rage at whoever is keeping them awake. The guards periodically threaten the loudest and most obnoxious with violence or a trip to the rubber room, and if that fails, they make good on their threats.
Jason seems to be a history buff. When he learned my name is O’Connor, he got in the vents and launched into an impressive review of Irish History, ending with comments about me being “a dirty Irish whelp” descended from a “weak, conquered people”.
So far I haven’t said a word back to him. A year or two in psychwards and you learn how to deal with this type. Total non-reaction. It kills them dead. When he first realized my strategy he spent two days droning and hissing sadistic drivel through the vents, trying to provoke a response, but only wore himself out. Now he just tells me I’m worthless a few times a day, just to let me know he hasn’t given up on me, and probably to reassure himself that he hasn’t been bested.
Geary is a nice, old wino who’s serving a 30-day sentence for unpaid tickets he got for sleeping in abandoned houses. I occasionally chat with Geary through the vents, once or twice a day he’ll say something random like, “We’re on the wrong side of creation now”, or ask me to solve an old riddle: “Neither fish nor flesh, Nor feathers nor bone, But still has fingers, And thumbs of its own.” I have never actually met Geary in person, only through the vents, but he currently lives downstairs somewhere and for the most part also ignores Jason. But, if Jason is keeping him up at night, he brings up the milkman incident. Geary hung out with Jason on the streets, and apparently Geary once saw Jason get his ass kicked by a milkman. By the way Jason reacts to the mention of this incident – it would appear that he did in fact get his ass kicked by a milkman.
I have an unusual knack for tuning out even the most distracting noise pollution, but when the ward starts to act up, there isn’t much you can do. If some hateful nut two doors down goes berserk and four of your neighbors decide the wise reaction is to scream and kick their doors for as long as they can, hoping to drown the guy out, you will eventually want the cops to come and beat the crazy out of him, or all of them. So after half a day of Jason’s classic serial killer voice slithering through the vents, I can’t help but feel a pang of playground sadism when Geary’s garbage disposal growl of a voice finally cuts in and says, “So what did you say to that milkman to make him so angry anyway?” It won’t shut Jason up but it pops his narcissistic bubble and his self-assured droning becomes an angry self-consciousness that pleases the juvenile heart if only for a moment.
Jailhouse psychwards breed negativity. It oozes through the vents and drips down the walls. If you’re not crazy when you arrive, you might be when you leave. I’ve watched places like this eat people. I’ve watched places like this suck people’s brains right out of their skulls and leave them rocking back and forth, drooling at the wall.
Naturally, in an environment like this, any tolerable friend is an asset, even if they’re nuts. So far my B-Unit squad consists of the zany, confidant Alex, the beautiful, young, firebug June, and the gravely, wheezing, disembodied voice of Geary. Between the three of them I have some kind of company, at some point, most days out of the week. They’re hardly a semblance of society, but I can’t help but cherish their crazy souls.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 19 – The Dumping Grounds
I’m standing at my cellfront, eating oatmeal out of an eight ounce chocolate-milk carton, with a bright, safety-orange spork, watching the Latinas talk shit as though they were normal teenage girls hanging out at a friend’s house on a Sunday afternoon – not two stories underground in a cage.
The unit cop is running a split program today, locking the doors at the top of the staircases, so two OCA groups can be run at the same time, one upstairs and one downstairs. June’s OCA group has the run of the upper tier right now. I can see her walking down the tier, barefoot on the shiny waxed linoleum, French manicure worn and chipped, and her gloriously un-behaved hair adding six inches to her true, slim stature of five foot five, large, clear tumbler of instant coffee never far from her lips… that are presently speaking to the voices in her head.
Some schizophrenics can tell the difference between their hallucinations and reality. Others can’t. More importantly, some who initially have difficulty making this critical discernment can learn the difference, over time, and radically improve their quality of life and ability to function in society.
Most of the time June seems to be able to tell the difference between her personal, internal insanity and the shared insanity we call ‘objective reality’. She has even joked to me comfortably about her voices, referring to them as ‘entertaining nuisances’. And so far she has not displayed any of the more typical ‘Shut up! Get out of my head!’ antics exhibited by some of our other neighbors.
Right now she is carrying on pleasantly, smiling, laughing, and sighing casually at whatever her voices are saying, like one might with an old friend if they were tucked away at a nice quiet café, as she twirls a thick lock of her tempestuous hair, dreamily, all the way up to my door.
“… completely absurd. None of that’s even possible,” she says to her voices, or voice, while looking at me, then switches to conversing with me. Totally unselfconscious about me having seen her speaking to her hallucinations, something schizophrenics often try to conceal from others.
“Hello.” She flashes a flirty smile.
“Hey there, you look like you’re on a cloud today.”
“Yes. It’s called coffee.” She giggles.
I scrape the last sporkful of oatmeal out of the mini-milk carton.
“Oh My God! Is this how your living?” She stabs a finger at my make-shift kitchenware three times fast, planting a bunch of fingerprints on my window.
“Yeah,” I shrug.
She looks exasperated, then storms off; returning shortly with a plastic bowl, held high for me to see.
“What did Tom Petty say?” she demands.
“You don’t have to live like a refugee.”
“Yes! He did say that! Because he’s an idiot!” she half shouts… but then calms herself, with some effort. “But most musicians are very unrealistic people. Some people have to live like refugees. Like us. But now you can live like a refugee who owns one single, flimsy bowl. Which is exactly how a refugee would live.” She laughs at her cynical joke and I laugh at her antics and her attack on Tom Petty (whom I have nothing against).
She sets the pale, lime-colored bowl on the floor outside my door, so I can retrieve it when I come out on OCA.
“Thank you,” I say.
“No problema mi amigo.”
We proceed to chat the rest of her OCA away. Compared to her behavior earlier when she was talking to herself and laughing seemingly without reason, her behavior now is indistinguishable from a normal, sane young woman. A young woman I would probably have a crush on if she wasn’t nuts.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 20 – The Dumping Grounds
The jail provides us with cheap, white-soled, black canvas shoes. But they do not provide shower shoes. Until you purchase a pair of flip flops from the jail’s commissary, you’re forced to shower in your big ugly digs. Fortunately, they dry fast. The super-filtered, low-humidity air the jail pumps down from the surface world yanks the moisture right out of the cumbersome footwear in 24 hours flat, every day, right on time for your next shower.
Apparently one of my neighbors noticed me squishing and squeaking in my soaked shoes, as I plodded back to my cell from the showers, because today he came out on his OCA (something he usually does not do) and climbed the stairs (something I have never seen him do), to come see me at my cellfront.
Until today I had seen this little old man appear out on the rec patio only occasionally. He would materialize from some cell out of sight downstairs and walk his frail, grey-haired frame slowly out to the rec patio, where he would sit against the wall with his knees pulled up, clutching them as though he were cold, even when it was warm out, then disappear for another few days.
Today he takes a long break halfway up the stairs, catching his breath, his weathered face looking exhausted, but focused and patient. His hand clutching the railing firmly as his chest rises and falls raggedly.
When he finally summits the staircase and comes walking slowly down the tier, I can see he has stubborn, grey eyes, and a thick scar slashed across his neck.
He walks up to my cell, plants a hand on the wall, leans over and slides a pair of shower shoes under my door, brand new, still in the plastic bag the jail sells them in.
“Thanks man. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, alright?” I say.
He waves my offer off, gently, like it was an obnoxious butterfly.
“My name’s Kelton.”
“I know, I’m…” he holds a finger up, to beg a moment, while he takes deep, labored droughts of atmosphere. “I’m Geary, from the vent.”
“Oh!” I smile, genuinely happy to put a face to the voice. “Good to meet you in the flesh.”
“Good to meet you.” He’s still breathing heavily.
“Are you alright? You want me to call for a nurse?”
“No. I’ve just got… I’ve just… COPD. I’ll be alright.”
With that, he gives me a parting obnoxious-butterfly wave, and walks back down the tier, at a tedious pace.
“Alright then, thanks Geary,” I call after him.
It’s a cliché, but when you’re locked up, and especially when you’re in solitary, small things like this matter a lot. Any improvement in your quality of life or gesture of kindness contrasts sharply with the long, nothing-filled hours, punctuated by disappointments and rudeness.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 22 – The Dumping Grounds
I have attempted to arrange an oranges-for-cookies trade agreement with all the guys in my OCA group, but they are paranoid and unwilling. What they suspect me of, I don’t know. The only one who is not freaked out by my offer is a heavily medicated, oily-haired, dead-eyed, chunky, pale skinned guy who just recently got reshuffled from another OCA group into the one I’m in. He says he likes his oranges, and sneered slightly at the notion of giving them up for, of all things, refined sugar.
So I was happy today, when I came out to the patio on OCA and found a new guy pacing the little block of ‘outdoor’ space; a five-foot tall, cherubic, redheaded young man who did not look medicated or psychotic at all. I immediately hoped I had found someone to trade my cookies off to.
“What’s up man?” How ya’ doin’?” I called across the patio, in a perfectly civil fashion.
At the sound of my voice the little guy slowed his walking motion to a halt and froze, mid-stride, like one of those street performers who paint their body silver or gold, and then stand perfectly still for hours on end, in the stupidest form of entertainment ever conceived.
Naturally I was baffled. I decided to jog the patio and try him again later.
Later: I walked up to him while he stood in front of the TV.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your walk earlier. My name is…”.
That’s all I got out before he started to dance, popping and locking and gliding off into the middle of the dayroom, before flitting away like a startled forest spirit.
Until I learn this individual’s name I’m just going to call him Cherub.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 24 – The Dumping Grounds
Yesterday I brought a pack of chocolate chip cookies out to the patio and held them out to Cherub, with neutral body language, much as you would offer food to a wild animal. He hesitantly tip-toed over, feather-like, mischief and quandary on his face, but when he reached for the treat I pulled it away.
He shot me a look of great hostility and reproach.
“For an orange,” I said.
He turned his nose up and walked off, but today he approached me with seven oranges, smiling and jolly, though still unwilling to use actual words. We came to an agreement by way of my words and his gestures, and I walked away from the encounter rich in oranges, owing a weeks’ worth of cookies, and feeling that he, the mute, was somehow more articulate than I.
Tomorrow I’ll fast on water and oranges and do a lot of yoga.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 30 – The Dumping Grounds
Crash was diagnosed with prostate cancer approximately three months ago, on Valentine’s Day, while living in Reno, Nevada.
The tall, gaunt, American Indian slouched in a chair in the examination room wearing his usual uniform – combat boots, blue jeans, t-shirt, ceremonial medicine pouch, and Mohawk – only half listening as his body craved nicotine and amphetamine – the doctor droning on about how long it would take for the cancer to kill him, if left untreated, the likelihood that the chemo would kill the cancer, the slim chance that it would kill him as well.
Homeless, on parole, dead broke, strung out, sick of Reno, and not particularly eager to throw some chemo on top of it, Crash decided he would just ’walk it off’ (yes, the cancer).
An interesting approach and a humorous turn of the phrase, certainly, but there was nothing abstract or humorous going on in Crash’s mind when he made this decision. He understood how important it was to his survival that he perform a major head change. He had to drop the addiction and Reno wasn’t going to help him do that. Going walkabout would take him away from his junkie friends, the flop houses, the casinos, and at the same time, strengthen his mind and body.
Before leaving town he stopped at one of his usual drug house hangouts and told a buddy he was going to hop a train down to Los Angeles to visit his grandmother, before walking the coast of California up to Oregon.
“Fuck sitting around this place dying of chemo and pain pills. I’ve been doing drugs my whole life. I don’t need a bunch more drugs. If I can’t beat this shit with natural medicine and my spirit, I’ll go die under a redwood tree. I’m OK with that.”
Ericka, an 18-year-old Jersey girl on her first trip into America and meth, happened to find herself in Reno on this same Valentine’s Day, sitting on a couch in this same grimy hangout where Crash was telling his buddy about his plan. They were strangers, but she asked him to take her with him anyway.
Two days later, in a moving freight car, she realized he had no drugs and no intention of supplying her, for sex or anything else.
She was angry and could easily have drifted back off into dopeland as soon as they got to the LA area, but she stuck with him, got clean, and visited his grandmother with him. When it came time to hike the coast, she strapped on a backpack heavy with food, water, and gear, and followed him down the road.
But something went wrong, or he wouldn’t be in here, pouring his tale out to me.
I’m still a little fuzzy on the details of his arrest. Something about a big, orange taco truck he swears he didn’t steal.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 32 – The Dumping Grounds
I awake to the ruckus of a shakedown. It’s 8:00 in the morning, at best, and I am still in bed when my door clacks open and a short sheriff, a sallow-skinned 20-something, drags a garbage can into the middle of my cell.
“Get out!” she orders with a snob-faced ‘duty’ in her voice. Her short, gelled hair sticking up like a shiny black cactus. A large armed, hollow cheeked, Japanese sheriff with traditional tattoos peeking out from under his uniform steps into the room behind her in a measured, uninterested manner; a bulldog lazily following in the wake of a psychotic lap dog’s yapping.
I move to step out of the cell in my pants and socks (no shirt), which is not against the rules or unusual. Nonetheless she barks, “Hey! What the fuck are you doing?!”
“I was under the impression you wanted me to step out of the cell.”
“No shit! But not like that! Get your fucking clothes on!” She shakes her head. “Retards! I’m surrounded by fucking retards!”
I grab my shirt and step out of the cell. The Unit has about 20 cops, broken into pairs, circulating from cell to cell, searching for porn, knives, drugs, etc. (Half the guys standing outside their cells waiting for the cops to finish searching their rooms are shirtless.)
Most of the sheriffs are being respectful of people’s property. A few teams, like the one I got today, are joyfully vandalizing anything they can get their hands on. (Cactus Hair is clearly having fun, the big Japanese dude does not appear to be the kind of person who has fun, but also doesn’t appear to give a shit about being respectful of prisoners’ property.)
This is normal jailhouse bullshit. Nothing special.
I don’t have much, so it only takes a few minutes to trash, completely. My legal documents and case files are strewn on the floor, as are the few photos and letters I have received from friends and family since I arrived in this facility. Three perfectly good oranges thunk into the garbage can.
“What the fuck is this shit?” Cactus Hair holds up a bowl of oatmeal I saved from breakfast.
“That’s my lunch.”
“It’s disgusting! How old is this shit?”
“It’s from this morning.”
“Well it looks rotten.” It doesn’t look rotten, but saying it’s rotten gives her an excuse for throwing away my lunch, along with the bowl June gave me.
When they’re done searching the cell, they throw my mattress on the floor and tromp over my meager possessions, dragging the garbage can behind, scattering the early drafts of this book, some of which I will now have to rewrite.
“All right, dumbass! You can go back to your cell!” Cactus Hair announces in an unnecessarily loud voice as she is walking away.
“You mind if I get my bowl out of the garbage?”
“You really want this shit? After it’s been in the garbage?”
“It’ll wash off fine.”
I fish the bowl out of the can. She overacts her disgust.
“Filthy, fucking, retards! I’m surrounded by filthy retards!”
Most likely this girl’s behavior boils down to her showing off in front of her fellow officers, and probably for the benefit of a few specific bully cops she looks up to.
Back in my cell I assemble my bed and files and find that Cactus Hair didn’t just throw my oatmeal away, but also the brown bag lunch from this morning, which we are supposed to be allowed to keep for the rest of the day, or at least until lunch. I officially have no food until dinner.
As I digest this relatively minor travesty I can hear someone downstairs kicking their door and screaming at the cops for stealing their food.
Noon. The search teams are done and gone. June pops up at my cellfront, massive Afro bundled into cute Afro-buns, arms full of candy, Top Ramen, and granola bars.
“Those fuckin’ pigs robbed you didn’t they?” She appears to be pretty steamed.
“Little bit.”
“Here, you like healthy stuff, right?” She drops a couple granola bars on the floor and kicks them under my door, along with a two-ounce packet of peanut butter and a Top Ramen. “I hope those fucking cops die of starvation. I really do.”
“You’re the best, June, thank you.”
“I’m a sinner,” she says sternly. “The Lord’s the best. Never forget that.” She smiles. “But thank you. That’s very kind.” She then marches down the tier to Alex’s cell, and then Crash’s cell, and a few others, where she continues to dispense God’s junk-food-bounty.
Evening:
Crash swaggers down to my cell, Mohawk spiked up with God knows what, a Milky Way pealed to the hilt, and a steaming cup of coffee.
“June is my favorite,” he says, biting into the Milky Way.
“She might be the sweetest psycho ever.”
“I think she gave away all of her commissary.”
“Did you spike your Mohawk with that pudding they just served.”
“I sure as shit wasn’t gonna eat that crap.”
We both laugh.
“Hey, you see this old crusty fucker?” Crash gestures slightly to the elderly cop at the kiosk.
“Yeah. What about him?”
“Watch this dude tonight. Once we’re locked up for the night, check out his computer screen through the reflection in the office window behind him. I thought I was bad, but this guy’s a chronic wanker, like clinical, addictive behavior.”
“He surfs for porn on the jail computer?”
“See for yourself. I’ve gotta go thank June and take a shower.”
Around 10:00 that night, I’m doing pushups and pacing my cell when I remember what Crash said.
It turns out that the window behind the cop does reflect the images on his computer monitor well enough for me to see he is checking out porn. From this distance, reflected through warped glass, I can’t make out exactly what’s going on, but it’s a mess of flesh-colored undulation, punctuated occasionally by a close-up of a woman’s moaning face.
The old guy makes trips to the bathroom every 30 minutes, all night. We may always need turnkeys, but it’s hard to imagine how the nightshift will survive the onslaught of automation presently upon us.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 38
Over a few OCA’s, some mine, some Crash’s, I learn his tale.
Crash and Ericka stayed off the highway as much as possible, opting instead to follow small roads and hiking trails, meandering through coastal groves of oak, eucalyptus, and redwood. They stopped in towns to panhandle and shoplift; they camped on beaches, in fields, or local squats. They refused any and all rides that were occasionally offered. Everything was smooth, until they reached San Francisco.
When they reached the city, two events massively derailed the mission. The first event occurred while Crash was asleep. Ericka slipped off to do something, but never returned to camp. Over the course of the first few days that she was missing, Crash assembled a theory of what had happened to her. He believes she went out looking for meth. When they embarked on their journey from his grandmother’s house, he made it clear to her that if she wanted to travel with him, she had to stay away from any kind of hard drugs. She agreed to this, and abided by it, but had clearly wanted to stray on a few occasions. He thinks she snuck off to prowl around looking for drugs, and found them, but got snatched up by some kind of shady element – be it individual, or some kind of prostitution ring. His main reason for thinking she was being held against her will was that she had left behind her personal effects, many of them treasured, and had not turned up in jail. (He had called the jail repeatedly.)
This theory found support when Crash called Ericka’s mother in New Jersey, hoping her mom had heard from her. She had received a call from Ericka but it was brief. Someone had yelled at Ericka and rushed her off the phone. When she tried to call her daughter back on that number, it became apparent Ericka had borrowed a cell phone from someone, and that someone had no interest in talking about where he met Ericka, or what kind of activity had gone on between Ericka and him.
Crash drifted around the city, searching squats, hoping Ericka would turn up or call home and let her mom know where she was. He called Ericka’s mom regularly, each time promising not to give up. And he wouldn’t have, if it were not for the second unlucky event.
Like the disappearance of Ericka, this second misfortune befell Crash while he was asleep. This time someone stole his backpack, which would have been no major catastrophe, if it were not for the medication that was in the backpack.
Crash has been on heavy antidepressants, antipsychotics, and anti-seizure meds since he was a child. When he is deprived of his medication, things go south. Fast. In this case Crash continued to search for Ericka, but his epilepsy, paranoia, and hallucinations rendered him useless. He soon found himself under the care of a strung-out old squatter named Oklahoma.
Oklahoma would revive him from seizures, feed him, and talk to him when he began to drift off into dangerous degrees of confusion. But Crash was paranoid, disoriented, and in poor health. Eventually he succumbed to something he refers to as ‘apocalypse syndrome’.
In Crash’s deranged mind, it was suddenly crystal clear that San Francisco was digesting him – slowly stealing his life force, his very being. If he didn’t escape immediately he would forget everything and meet his doom as a helpless vegetable, rotting in the streets, discarded.
He has no recollection of how he escaped the rancid gutters of San Francisco, or how he travelled down the next leg of his journey, but his body is evidence that he continued northward. Next thing he can remember: dumpster diving with a squad of hobos somewhere in Napa County… wine country.
I remain unclear on how all of this lead to the situation with the taco truck.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 39 – The Dumping Grounds
No visitors today. Just pushups.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 40 – The Dumping Grounds
“June. Does Cherub ever talk at all?”
“He talks to me all the time.”
“Why doesn’t he talk to me?”
“He doesn’t trust you. But he thinks everyone’s a threat, at first.”
“A threat in what way?”
“That’s not my place to say. You’ll have to talk to him about that.”
(…MutherMcFucker!)
“Hey, you met the new girl yet? The pretty one who pulled all her hair out?” June asks.
“Maybe… well, I thought she was a cancer patient or something,” I say.
“Big rocks, blue eyes, blond hair, what’s left of it – you can’t miss her.”
“Yeah, that’s the one I met. What about her.”
“She killed her mom and scooped her eyes out with a spoon.”
“That’s definitely crazy.”
“It definitely SOUNDS crazy. But I don’t think she’s crazy at all. I think she’s full of it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I could be wrong. What does little old June know ‘bout bein’ crazy?” she drawls sarcastically. “Maybe nothing? But I think she killed her mom out of hate, pure and simple, and then when she realized she was gonna have to answer for it, she went back and scooped her mom’s eyes out just to make it look like some crazy shit. And now she’s in here pullin’ on her hair and pretending to cry and saying all sorts of stupid stuff that she thinks a crazy person might say. THAT’S what I think.”
“If she’s full of shit, the doctors will see it.”
“Who do you think is the craziest person in here?” June asks, eager to gossip.
“Fuck, I don’t know.”
“Cherczog” (pronounced Kersog)
“Who?”
“You know Cherczog. He’s in your OCA group. I saw you guys talking the other day. He’s the grandma killer.”
“I don’t know. What’s he look like?”
“Glasses, acne, oily hair, with that creepy, cold emotionless thing going on, and I mean, he’s just crazy as fuck.”
“He’s kinda tubby, maybe 20 years old?”
“Yeah. That’s Cherczog. I know I’m crazy, but fuck! Not like that mutherfucker. His cell is stacked full of philosophy books and ethics books – he was an ethics major before he killed his grandma – but when I asked him why he did it, why he killed his grandma, he just said, ‘cause she deserved it’. WHAT THE FUCK!”
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 41 – The Dumping Grounds
“Through a rock, Through a reel, Through an old spinning wheel, Through a bag of feathers, Through an old mud wall, If that’s not a riddle, There’s no riddle at all.”
“I already told you Geary. I can’t get this one.”
“Through a rock, Through a reel, Through an old spinning wheel, Through a bag of feathers, Through an old mud wall, If that’s not a riddle, There’s no riddle at all.”
“Alright. Just give me some time.”
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 44 – The Dumping Grounds
Cherub is dance-obstructing Cherczog, I suppose? From where I’m sitting on the rec patio I can see Cherczog sitting on a chair in the dayroom, attempting to watch TV as Cherub dances spastically, getting as close to Cherczog as possible, and invading his personal space in the most egregious way imaginable, short of physical assault.
I have shaken Cherczog’s meaty hand, and though he looks like a big tub of jiggles topped with oily hair and reading glasses, I promise he’s more than strong enough to snatch Cherub’s small, joyful body and strangle the life out of it without breaking a sweat.
Each time the little redhead darts or struts tenuously close to Cherczog’s face, my tendons flex just a little bit, expecting that to be the final slight that causes Cherczog to freak out and commence strangulation. I imagine Cherczog’s dead eyes bugging out while his grandma-killing hands spring into action with angry-panda-speed, or maybe his facial expression will remain absolutely dull and placid even while Cherub’s little appendages flail and claw at him in futility? But Cherczog doesn’t go into kill-mode. He just keeps pursing his lips and readjusting his glasses in an overly deliberate manner. He tries to lean to one side first, then the other, to get a better view of the TV. There is no suggestion of anger, but for his trembling hands.
When Cherczog finally gives up on today’s one shot at TV glory and retreats back to his cell, Cherub marches, convulses, and shimmies along with him, up to the door of Cherczog’s cell, and then comes strutting out into the rec patio, where he proceeds to pace, while I sit, my back against the cool, hard wall. I have long since given up on getting Cherub to speak to me, but I feel compelled to try to talk some sense into the guy.
“Cherczog killed his grandma. He probably isn’t the best person to fuck with like that.”
“That’s precisely why I do it,” Cherub says, surprising me with a dignified, lilting, alto voice which travels easily.
Knowing how flighty he can be, I am suddenly scrambling for a response, doubly caught off guard because I had no expectation that he would respond, but also because he is taking such a contrary position.
“You mean to say… you do it just to place yourself in danger?”
“Not in the least. I avoid danger, but I also do not approve of the killing of grandmothers.”
“I see.”
He stops pacing the patio, abruptly, and turns sharply to face me… or rather, look down his nose at me.
“DO you?” he says in an unconvinced, accusing tone.
I’m not sure what to think of this behavior. I now question if I do or do not understand anything about Cherub, at all.
Before I summon a response, he turns dismissively and walks back into the dayroom.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 52 – The Dumping Grounds
There has been a drought of social activity for me this week. June is having paranoia and doesn’t want to talk to anyone and Alex got transferred to another unit unexpectedly.
The blond girl who has pulled out her hair, and who June believes to be masquerading as a lunatic, has come by my cell a few times, and I get the feeling June is right about her. She seems like a poser. She is forcing herself to cry, and melodramatically complains that she misses her mom. She makes for poor company.
Crash has gotten a stretch of late night OCAs, and though I have been stopping by to say hi to him, I spend nearly all of my OCA jogging and working out.
As I finish a jog, a round-bellied, shiny-headed, white bearded old man with much of his dinner on his shirt approaches me with polite, blissed-out smile.
After walking directly up to me, at handshake range, he waves at me and shouts, as thought he is trying to speak over the clamor of an assembly line:
“48! And you?”
“Excuse me?!” I shout back.
“I’m with Charter 48! The Union! Are you with the union?”
“Yes!” I shout back.
His smile brightens and he nods in approval. Then his sunshiny smile clouds over for a moment, and he re-smiles uncertainly.
“Do you happen to know where I might find the lady’s room!?” he shouts.
“Sorry! I really don’t! Why do you need the lady’s room?” I shout.
“Lucia, my wife! She was just headed there, and now I can’t seem to find her!” he shouts.
He is fidgeting with his ear and looking around anxiously, then flashes another painfully uncertain smile, but says nothing.
“She’s bound to turn up sooner or later!” I shout, in the most reassuring tone I can muster.
He nods, still smiling, but unconvinced.
“I’ve got to go take a shower! You have a nice day!” I shout.
“Yes, of course! Good day!”
From my experience in wards over the past five years, I am pretty sure I can now competently identify between schizophrenics and victims of dementia or Alzheimer’s. This guy is some variety of senile.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 53 – The Dumping Grounds
Rates of senility within prison and jailhouse populations are significant. There is no conclusive data to indicate the national rate of incarcerated persons who suffer from dementia,7 but in the broader US population it is estimated that 8.8% of adults over the age of 65 are afflicted,8 and we can assume the rates behind bars are more pronounced because all the factors that contribute to the manifestation of this horrible disease – sedentary lifestyle, stress, high glycemic diet, etc. – are enhanced behind bars. Although also not conclusive, we can glean better perspective from a review of ten prison-based studies that indicate that the rate ranges from 1% to 44%, depending on the facility in question.9
Plenty of old swindlers and thugs become senile while serving out the lengthy sentences they earned in youth. For these souls society may have less sympathy. It could be said that they are simply reaping the full, ugly extent of their punishment. But others, whom I have met both in prisons and jails, appear to have been lawful citizens, before they got swept into the criminal justice system as a result of their senility.
How can senility lead to incarceration? It’s actually simple: our society has chosen to abandon many of its elderly. Old age easily renders one homeless, and homelessness has been criminalized. A diligent and lawful vagrant can avoid incarceration with some effort, but when that person is senile it is easy for strange behavior to draw the attention of the police, and confused, angry outbursts to result in arrest. If the person drinks, or gets physical when confronted, they can find themselves jailed frequently, or even sent to prison.
I was thinking maybe the old union worker would make a good spokesperson for this demographic, but he has proven himself an ephemeral anachronism. Luckily I know another, likely more ideal, ambassador for the captives of twilight.
Remembering Erland Huxley Dalton, IV
I started taking notes on my cellmates four years ago, while living with Earl, and because I was living with Earl – a senile Vietnam vet who could remember only a handful of his life experiences. Each day he would tell me the same stories, everything he could remember about himself. By the next day he would have no recollection of having told me any of it; in fact, I would occasionally wake up to the frail, confused, blue-eyed Santa Claus in pajamas which Earl had become, as he stared down at me, utterly spooked that the sleeping stranger in his cell had just awakened, and was looking back at him.
“How’d you get in here?” he would ask.
“The guards put me in here Earl. I’m your cellmate,” I’d say, yawning, wiping away the sleep and any of the like.
“No. My cellmate is that colored-feller, and you ain’t colored. So who the fuck are ya, and how the fuck’d ya get in here?”
“My name is Kelton. Your old cellmate’s name is Gabriel, but he got moved three months ago and I’ve been your cellmate ever since.”
Creasing his forehead in thought, he would weigh my argument.
I would calmly wait for some tinkle of recollection to come echoing up from that dry well in his head.
“No. I would remember that.”
Having been through this plenty of times and knowing it can go in circles indefinitely; I would just skip right to coffee. Coffee was like a restart button.
He could be screwing himself up for some good hostility, but mid-sentence I would say,
“You feel like a cup of coffee?” and this would immediately distract him from his previous train of thought.
“Oh, uh, I could go for some mud, yeah,” he would say..
Dementia steals not only one’s memory but also corrodes motor function and the ability to coordinate simple physical tasks. Activities that demand that your hands do different things at the same time can eventually require herculean focus; even basic stuff like getting dressed or taking the lid off a jar can become impossible.
Sadly, Earl no longer had the basic cognitive capacity needed to heat water in a hotpot, spoon out one serving of instant coffee into a cup, and pour the hot water, without making some tragic mistake. He could go for hours on end looking back and forth from the jar of coffee to the hotpot, fully aware of his goal, but not knowing how to achieve it. I had witnessed him place the plastic jar of Folgers into the hotpot (without water) and simply plug it in. Then go sit down and wait, confidant that his coffee would soon be done. On another occasion he got the water into the hotpot, but then sat down without plugging the thing in or turning it on. And he managed worse than that.
The closer to victory he came, the more catastrophic the results were. One day I came back from the yard to find he had dumped a heroic dose of coffee into a clear plastic tumbler full of water, which was, miraculously, hot. Having drunk half of it, he was standing bolt upright, vice-grip-clutching the cup with both hands, shuddering, wide-eyed, with coffee flakes all over the floor and sticky coffee-flake-paste smeared in his beard and adjacent shirtage, as he half-yelled,
“This is some good shit! Ya know what it’s like?”
“I don’t know. What’s it like Earl?”
“I don’t know. I was asking you.”
We both looked at each other in bafflement. I laughed and then began to suspect he had ingested a fantastically unreasonable and possibly dangerous amount of caffeine.
“You’ve succeeded Earl.”
“Have I?” he asked, looking excited.
“Yes. You’ve finally made a cup of coffee on your own.”
“Damn straight! And it’s a good one! You know what it’s like? It’s like that shit they put in rockets.”
“Rocket fuel?”
Earl’s eyes snapped open to full-crazy as he yanked a shaky hand off his mug of rocket fuel so he could point it at me.
“That’s it! I’ve been standing here trying to remember that for, well… all day, I think?” (probably about two hours) “I could see the rocket goin’ up and all the smoke ‘n’ fire ‘n’ everythin’. But I couldn’t remember what it was called that makes it go up.”
That’s about when I took a look at how much of the instant coffee flakes he had managed to get on himself, on the ground, and how much remained in the jar – and estimated that he must have gotten about a third of the jar in his cup – and drank half. I then gently pried the cup from his hands, discovered it was thick as molasses, and began to clean up the room, and Earl.
To avoid such catastrophes I assumed the role of Earl’s personal barista, and any time I woke to an Earl who had forgotten who I was, I would offer him a cup of his own coffee, start some water, and throw some Folgers in his mug for him. At some point he would usually smile and say, “Oh yeah… you’re the guy who makes my coffee for me, aren’t ya’?” And then start telling me what he could remember of his life story.
I quickly discovered that telling his story was the only thing that kept Earl properly anchored to reality. If he wasn’t actively remembering who he was, he could succumb to confusion. If I tried to read a book, write a letter, take a nap, or do anything else which left him isolated in the confines of his ravaged mind, he tended to stew in uncertainty and then get upset and attack me with strange accusations – either I was stealing his stuff or I was a spy. If I let him get into one of those moods, that was it for the day. He would be an emotional wreck. Occasionally he’d try to kick me out. I would have to explain that the doors were locked and we were in prison, a revelation that usually surprised the hell out of him. Then I’d calmly do my best to help him re-orient to reality, which would put us on better footing, but he would remain in a darkened mood all day.
So, to avoid all that, I would listen to his story. Every day.
Thankfully Earl has an excellent story to tell, and having heard it 100 times or so, I couldn’t forget it if I tried. But I wrote it down anyway. It may have been my way of coping with the experience of watching a dying man forget who he is. I don’t know… but it seemed appropriate.
I ended up living with other guys who were at various stages of forgetting everything they had ever known. I became familiar with some of the telltale gestures and expressions exhibited by victims of dementia or Alzheimer’s; the mixture of confusion and fear that flashes momentarily on the face of an early-stage victim, or settles permanently over the end-stage mental fatality during the final, grand befuddlement.
I can see it on some of the elderly, here in B-Unit, as they hesitantly peer out of their cell windows, wander the dayroom as if exploring a forbidding alien landscape, or appraise their jailhouse attire in astonishment.
(Censored) County Jail, B-Unit – Spring 2013 – Day 61 – “Best Psych Program in the State”
Sitting side-by-side, eyes glued to the huge flat screen TV, Cherczog and I are transfixed as we take in the dramatized news surrounding some kind of low-level NSA operative who was smart enough to steal a bunch of top secret documents, but also somehow stupid enough to get himself stuck in an airport in Moscow.
Cherub seems to eschew everything that comes out of the TV, unless it’s music, and he is most definitely immune to the news, but he is pantomiming wild shock at today’s revelations, in the course of his silent terrorism of Cherczog. Sitting on the edge of the seat on the other side of Cherczog from me, Cherub leans in on Cherczog’s space heavily, little freckled face crowding Cherczog’s fat, pimply head with a look of shock fired point blank at Cherczog’s ear, jaw dropped, hand gesturing to the TV dramatically, palm up. He has frozen himself in this position of exclamation, and considering how motionless Cherczog and I are while the news pours into our eyes, this probably renders our real life scene as a strange, still-life diorama, with only the TV exhibiting signs of ‘life’.