Kid goes to kilby

StSEPTEMBER 2003

WEEK ONE – WELCOME TO KILBY PRISON

9/7/03

Incarcerated sound bytes.

On one row of metal bunk racks, there is a group diligently listening to Ole Man

Davis. He has a Bible cracked open across his knees.

Over in a corner in the back, the rear EXIT door and one of the metal drawers

connected to the bottom bunks are being beaten in a rhythmic pattern. It is an imitation to

a bass to keep the free style rapper in time.

There is another group near the toilets and sinks, hiding their smoke (tobacco is a

citation of ense in quarantine) while the tallest of the participants “hotrail” for

correctional of icers. “Hotrail” means something dif erent to me back home – it's a

method of drug use for people that like the bathtub version of meth. In prison, I have

recently learned, it means looking out for the police, and yelling “one-time” when they

enter the dormitory. I am not home anymore, so I must learn all the new slang

terminology. Funny, some might think: “prison is not home for anybody.” Not true. Most

inmates in this room have been here many times before. They seem to be at home. A lot

more than I do, anyway.

The television is barely audible over these noisy molecules of incarceration. The

background roar of many conversations remind me of my high school lunchroom, with

profanity and volume added to the utmost degree. I lay on my rack (more specifically, rack

number 19 in East Dorm), putting forth zero sound. No noise. No sound byte to contribute.

I only wish to reflect on what I just witnessed.

I just saw a dead man. It was seen through bars, then inches of thick, dirty, glass,

and then bars again, yet I could view it easily. No face. No color of skin. Just a stretcher

with a red blanket, covering the silhouette shape of a human body. I knew they were dead

from the clue we learn while watching movies – the blanket covered the body from the bottom of the feet to the top of the head.

It wasn't the body that bothered me. It was the of icer pushing it. He didn't

transport this person through the penitentiary hall with his eyes fixed on the floor. No, CO

Harris (the name on the uniform breast) didn't express any tears or even a frown over this

passing on of a life. In fact, he was laughing and smiling - playfully joking with another

of icer. They weren't pushing a man that had just inhaled his last breath in prison – they

were dealing with an identification number. They were compiling one mundane event on

top of another until the events added up to enough time that it was the shift's end. Time to

punch out and go home.

Here, I am a number. 219202. Not Zac Langley. And it just occurred to me..... my

well being and existence are things only important to me in here.

This is it. If I were a calvary man in Vietnam, they would call where I currently

reside “in the shit.” This is prison. And I am in the process of being processed.

I remember just how lost and forgotten I felt; at the time it was all over the news

that football superstar OJ Simpson had killed two people and would probably walk away a

free man. To a young man, it put it in my mind that rules and laws only applied to certain

people. That's the irony of it, though. On the very day that I trandscribe this comment,

comedy legend Bill Cosby, a now almost blind and decrepid old man, just got a state

sentence of three to ten years for past sexual misconduct. I guess all those women had

more than allegations. It's funny what life will reveal. You just have to keep living long

enough to see the upcoming revelation.

9/8/03

Night-time in quarantine may seem to be noisy, crowded and wasteful, but a

convict's schedule during the dayshift is booked. Booked doing what? Standing in line.

There is always a line to stand in. No man would ever think entering prison would start

with a shuf ling of one line to the next, but that is exactly what it has amounted to. Also,

there are the inmates from “the other side” that come and get us, herding us where to go as a dog does sheep. Prisoners from “the other side” are those that live in Kilby; they

aren't just passing through to be processed and reside in Kilby. They are also known as

permanent party. Other than acting as the processing camp for the penitentiary system,

Kilby correctional facility is also a level five security camp. So, while constantly taking in,

evaluating health, assigning level of security and risk to hundreds of inmates each week,

KCF also has over a thousand long term residents that are considered those in need of

maximum surveillance. The correctional of icers seem to do very little. And with convicts

being in charge, there is foul play afoot.

The of icer that oversees the dorm I am in is an older overweight black lady by

the name of Crenshaw. I have gathered that this dorm is her regular post and she has

occupied it for years. I came to that conclusion by the comments she makes.

“190303....Cummings! See yo is back. Damn boy yo sorry ass waddnt gone a year!

Gotdamn pitiful.” Things like that.

Charming place huh?

It may not seem like much to those of us that have been in a county jail for a long time, but

“this is prison, bitch”, to quote the inmate that issued my combination lock to me today.

Just on the other side of Kilby, cof ee, tobacco, and Coca-Cola are readily available. So,

for those with money, commodities can seep over into quarantine. Carved indulgences that

give a bitter taste from the “free-world”; bitter, yes, but no less longing for. To get a hold

of any of these items while in quarantine is not Utopia, by any means, but it is refreshing.

To say the least.

I will say that the atmosphere is not as mathematical as when I first arrived. It's

not so definitive. It's more like chemistry now. To try and explain - life has seemed to have

calmed down to at least a chemical version of happiness. Albeit, detainees have a touch

less of the detainment stench that we had with us from our respective county jails.

But to look at it in the form of hard numbers, it's ONLY my sixth day. The penal

system never ceases to amaze me. For the sake of anonymity, I will not mention names here, but there is a former political figure sleeping mere feet from me. He is serving LIFE

for killing three people in a car accident. He was a mayor from a small town in Mobile

County. From his looks and demeanor, he was a Good Ole Boy; possibly even a part of

that South Dixie Mafia I've always heard rumors about. If he was a part of that high

ranking powerful bunch, it looks like they revoked his membership, so to speak. If not, he

wouldn't be here. Either way, he's a Republican, like I am, although I'm sure neither one of

us will broadcast that in here.

Having said that, I wonder his views on Riley's Tax Amendment. I thought guys

like this man could pull strings to stay out of a place like Kilby. Lord knows I did. Maybe,

at some point, everybody runs out of strings.

Should be out of quarantine tomorrow.

It was the very next day that the polls were opened statewide. Alabama voters

showed up in droves to cast their ballot on many things, including Governor Bob Riley's

twelve billion dollar tax plan. Riley had warned Alabamians that if some entities didn't get

immediate financial relief then they would be hindered incapable to provide their services

to the fullest. Among those entities was the grossly overcrowded Alabama Department of

Corrections. I can't believe that I failed to mention the vote again. The talk among guards

and convicts at Kilby was that if the tax plan did not pass then the DOC would be forced to

start letting go inmates early. There was even speculation in depth enough that inmates

with little time left and non violent crimes were being told that they would probably be let

go any day. Rumors were also flying around that the state was forced to send some of

Alabama inmates to as select few privately ran prisons in Mississippi. This was to help

alleviate the overcrowding until the early releases began.

The tax plan didn't pass.

Talk of early releases fizzed out after a week

9/10/03

I haven't been “classed up” yet, but I am out of quarantine. You can basically guess what is going to happen to you by talking to other inmates. It's really all you have to

do in here – talk, asking questions in the form of, “so with my situation, what do you

think?” And that prison talk has led me to believe that I will be at a Level Four because I

have pending charges. People that commit violent crimes like assault and rape, that's

Level Four material! I'm not that guy! I just a have a damn pending charge that amounts

in seriousness to stolen fifty dollar check! Why can't they just call Tuscaloosa County and

find that out before they house me with dangerous people?! It bothers me, of course. I

mean, a fifty dollar check. For that, I have to go to Draper or Bibb, instead of an honor

camp like Frank Lee.

There is no “honor” in being a drug addict, though. I am getting what I deserve. I

feel more and more like a criminal, instead of a victim, everyday. Maybe I am

transitioning into how I should have felt all along.

I saw a commercial today that brought up old feelings. It was a MasterCard ad,

with the “da-da-da= priceless” sales tactic. I can't remember all the punch lines now, but

what struck my attention was the mini-story within the ad. It displayed a child, growing up

and through stages in life. As he got older, his parents were shown aiding him the entire

way. The last scene was a young adult, packed across the shoulders like a mule, walking

toward a college campus. He was walking toward a new life of possibility and hope and

away from his aged parents. They lingered as he trotted toward his dorm.... farther and

farther from their idling car.

My life wasn't like that. I always wanted it it be, though. The MasterCard

commercial fit more to the life of my friends I had in my last stay of slumming in

Tuscaloosa. College will never be that way for me. It could have been; the first time, at

least, it could have been like that. I pushed my parents away, though. I wanted it done my

way: no dorm (because of drugs), no parental involvement (ditto). This last time, I was

having to work for dope and rent, while Dad slipped me money behind Mom's back.

When I was doing pain pills and trying to act grown, I didn't want MasterCard commercial parents. Too picture perfect. Now, I'd kill for it. Except... I am 22 years old, in

prison, and now have to worry about surviving for the next year or two without being

raped, as opposed to “surviving” a mid-term. I guess any real degree you get in life that

people care about comes from education over experience.

And that's irony for me to come to that conclusion NOW of all times! I tried

Oxycontin and K-4s in the hopes for a new experience. I started rebellious activity for a

new experience. Instead, I missed out on any real new experiences I wanted, like young

college life, and dealt myself all these experiences (defeat, loss, prison) that I never

wanted.

I have moved to Tuscaloosa twice in the attempt to be a University of Alabama

graduate, as I've broadcast since I was knee-high to my grand dad JA, who was a die-hard

Roll Tide fan. The first time I went to Tuscaloosa with those intentions, I had a drug

problem, but my parents were unaware of it. I was fully supported. Then..... the pharmacy

break-in, which was accompanied by probation, rehab for the first time, a half-way house

to follow (where Dilaudid was introduced), relapse, etc....Somewhere among all of that, I

managed to mosey my way down to T-Town again. This is when God chose for me to meet

all the students that had parents like mine tried to be a year and a half prior. Every time I

tried to go with what I thought was cool, it turned out to be the opposite. When I would flip

sides, so would it.

Only thing for sure.... prison ain't cool. I'm losing ground on life in here. **

Okay, you have to realize something. You are witnessing the start of a journal

from someone that has finally backed himself into a corner. A corner he could not bullshit

his way out of with words. Huge moment. God Bless Him. I had finally ran out of luck.

And it also seems from what I was writing that I had JUST NOW realized and accepted

that I wasn't too good or above being sent to prison. For someone who really thought that

they were intelligent, I was a little slow there with the Reality Check