Contraband

My second day, and now I have my little red card with my chubby picture on it. A little piece of me dies each time somebody compliments me on this photo, and its excellent resemblance…

The card is like my prison passport. I can get neither in, nor out without it, and it gets me my handy dandy PPD (Personal Protection Device). Because I’m still a temp, I have to be walked in and out of the perimeter (through the Yard with over a 1000 prisoners, some of them assuredly depraved). Our secretary, Dustie, is this petite woman a few years older than me. She is capable of being my safety belt, apparently. Makes the same sense as my mother-in-law who used to insist her 30- and 40-something year old sons sleep separately from their girlfriends (me) at the cottage. That theory didn’t keep us safe from pre-marital wickedness.

Okay, I just reread the last paragraph, and I would like to clarify. Me and my now sister-in-law. I wasn’t sleeping with BOTH brothers and you who thought that need to wash your brains out with anti-bacterial soap.

Anyhow, Dustie walks me out, and I get to the gate, and NO ID. Doesn’t matter that count is going on (all the prisoners are in their areas and being counted to make sure none have slunk out over the 20 foot razor wire fences) and the yard is deserted. I MUST be walked back to the office. Good thing the weather is perfect and I’m not dragging her through the rain.

Bologna sandwich again. I think it is comforting for me. It is also indicative of my lack of interest in cooking when I get home as I am hoarding leftovers for later-in-the-week-dinners. I’m going to give the Unnamed Temp Agency a little ringy ding and discuss they’re lack of accurate information in the sex department. (Again, your mind is a dirty place. REMEMBER?? They told me it was a woman’s prison, and it is a MEN’S prison). As I mentioned, we can’t bring either food or cell phones into the perimeter, so I left my phone with my lunch. I took it, strolled out front of the building into the sun and called my little friend at the Temp Agency. She was appropriately appalled to hear about her confusion and my edification and was apologetic to hear how long it took to get my husband off of the ceiling. Mission accomplished, and I strolled back into the building, apparently waving my cell phone around oblivious to the fact that I was ineffectively smuggling contraband into the prison.

My erstwhile friend, Officer Eagan, smiled at me, than blanched as she caught sight of the phone. “You can’t bring that in HERE!” And the blood flooded back into her face. I explained I wasn’t going to bring it into the perimeter, but just leave it with the remains of lunch to be removed that afternoon when I left. Her color did not return. Apparently, I didn’t get it. Food is okay in the front of the building, cell phones, like weapons, are not welcome at all. It hadn’t occurred to me that the guys that cleaned – “Porters” - were allowed outside the perimeter and cleaned this area of the prison. They must have a higher level of trust, but probably not one that could resist a ringing cell phone coming from a lunch bag. As all of this is being explained to me, I’ve gathered a peanut gallery. Or maybe they’re more of a Greek Chorus. Three or so other women hanging around gleefully start razzing me about my sad attempt to smuggle the cell in. I have a police magnet, and this is a perfect example.

I explain to Officer Eagan that my car keys are in my desk. What would she like me to do with the phone?? Well, I suspect she would have liked me to vaporize it, or teleport it up to the Enterprise. Or maybe just jump up and down on it until it was pile of harmless plastic and metal, no longer an instrument of seduction for hapless prisoners. But, she agreed to let me leave it at the desk. I set it down, and she literally took a step back from it as though it might bite her and infect her with a dread strain of Hepatitis. “I’d prefer you turned it off.” I have no idea why, but I immediately did so. Women in uniforms can be scary.

So, my little friend, Dustie, had appeared by then, watching the proceedings with no appreciable expression on her face. She walked me in AGAIN, and walked me back AGAIN. The Boss-Guy met us half way back and sent her back to the office. He attempted to comfort me. He still seems to believe I’m fragile. As he came back from lunch, one of the Custody guys that drives the outside of the perimeter watching for suspicious activity, had seen my suspicious activity, and told Boss-Guy. Apparently, by my second day, I am known…

I just finished my eighth day of work, and I am still getting cell phone comments from perfect strangers…