16 November 05


Yard 4 has been locked down (no rec or showers) for two-and-a-half days because some shanks were found in a porter’s closet.
“I don’t get this lock-down shit, man. Someone was stabbed in the face in Yard 3 last week, and those fools didn’t even get locked down – they were out playin’ softball all day,” Long Island said into the vent, to our young Chicano neighbour, Flaco.
“I saw a jura [guard] find a big-ass shank behind our building this morning – the piece went from his hand past his elbow. It was huge,” Flaco said.
“I guess they’re trippin’ 'cause there’s some table legs missin’. A cop said the ADW thinks there’s more shanks on the yard,” Long Island said.
“Aw shit, here comes a shitload of juras to toss our houses,” Flaco said.
Fifteen guards – a dozen uniformed, wearing rubber gloves, and three CO3s in plain clothes – began searching D run's cells.
The jingling of keys announced our turn.
A brawny guard with a neat moustache entered our cell. He placed his arms akimbo, putting his massive arm muscles on display.
“I’m gonna strip you guys out one at a time. One of you wait outside,” he said.
Long Island exited.
I gave the guard everything I was wearing. Shrinkage commenced – my reproductives expressed discomfort by puckering up.
“Put your arms in the air.” He inspected my armpits. “Open your mouth. Good. Now fold your ears forward. OK. Now raise your balls. OK. Turn around, bend over, and spread 'em.”
I pitied the guard for having to examine dozens of behinds that hadn’t been showered for three days.
“Show me your feet. Alright. Now get dressed.”
“Is there anything in here that shouldn’t be in here?”
“Of course not.”
“Where’s that accent from?”
“What the hell are you doin’ in here?”
“It’s a long story. Stockbroker gone wild.”
“Stockbroker – is that what all the charts on the wall are about?”
“Yeah. The Dow Jones, NASDAQ, the S&P 500, gold and oil. I’m teachin’ my celly how to trade.”
Outside, I joined the crowd of inmates watching the guards search their cells. Nearby, a Chicano guard with slicked-back hair and a pronounced dimple was digging up soil with a shovel, looking for buried shanks. None were found in the search, but contraband was confiscated. Guards took water bottles (used for weight lifting), cardboard backs from writing pads (used to block air vents), empty pens (for making tattoo guns), and a TV from a two-man cell that had three TVs in it.
“Alright, Dog 11 return to your cell.”

Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

Copyright © 2004-2005 Shaun P. Attwood

Jon’s book wishlist – he is allowed used or new books as long as they are sent direct from publishers such as Amazon.


Anonymous said...

Great writing Sean. Hope you have a good Christmas and I'm sure your parents can't wait to see you.

All the best mate



Anonymous said...

I read your story in Cosmo over the weekend and was so moved. I'll be reading the blog regularly from now on.