It makes sense to me how someone can lose their mind and yet, you hear things about cruel and unusual punishment and how this is not allowed. Perhaps not, but still, cruel and unusual punishment exists.
Yes it does, and rest assured, cruel and unusual punishment is alive and well.
Time for reflection . . . .
Sitting in a small cage, and secured by concrete walls with a wooden bench, a steel commode, and black-barred door that opened and rolled shut, there was an ungodly smell to the place. The smell was filthy like the sewer; bodies reeking, and the smell of other bathroom functions filled the air with a solid and steady mixture of cleaning solutions that failed to mask or disinfect and solve the odors.
The corridor is eerie, let alone the sound of overhead humming that comes from the fluorescent lighting, which warns that even light is remanufactured and stolen from its freedom.
“No guns beyond this point” reads a sign above the doorway that leads to the cells.
And everyone waits.
Everyone sits.
But not everyone is comfortable with the system or ready for what will take place.
The jail cells line a flat hallway with green and black tiles and muted colored walls. This is where guilty men wait inside their perspective cages to be proven innocent before guilty.
Next up, a trip before the judge. And, so, every jailhouse lawyer speaks out about how to “get off” and tells what to say to the judge when meanwhile, a court appointed attorney stands next to you at your arraignment and trust this more than anything else; you say as little as possible.
A tall man walked in through the door, bloodied and beaten, stinking from some kind of alcoholic elixir. His story was perhaps no different from the other drunks or from anyone else who drank too much and swore that they were competent and well enough to drive.
Apparently, the tall man was wrong about this.
Apparently the windshield that smashed his face showed proof to the genius of seatbelts, but hey, he swore that he was good enough to drive.
He swore to this, until he found out that he swore wrong.
There was a loud sound of howling from another wino down the tier. In-between screaming about his rights was an echo from the street bum. This was him, the very one and the same, retching into the commode in his cell, —screaming his vomit into the mouth a stainless-steel bowl and spewing pukey acid from his mouth.
“I feel bad for anyone who has to sit in a cell with him,” remarked one of the men in a nearby cell.
“Choke, you rat bastard,” shouted another inmate.
“It’s late and I’m trying to sleep.”
“I know my rights,” screamed the old wino.
“You can’t do this to me!”
“Shut the fuck up!’ repeated from other cages.
A so-called man of God who claimed his connection to Jehovah was legitimate.
He beat his wife for not obeying him, which ws the reason for his incarciation.
However, toilet paper is not always provided and therefore his plea to the guards and requesst for toilet paper were met by the wise ass responding guards who said, “Pray for toilet paper and see if Jehovah answers.”
“Please,” he pleaded.
“I have to go to the bathroom!”
“Shit your pants for all I care,” said one of the gaurds.
“Hey!” shouted out from one of the nearby cells.
“Guard, don’t make that mother fucker shit next to me”
Not too much later –
Another junk master came in from the street. His eyes sharing too much and showing a softly nodding soul, it was clear.
It was clear to those who knew that the junkie was just another one of God’s creatures who sank like the grief of Eden.
He was just another body which used to be a soul who lost himself to ever-depending life of tiny packets that perfect a beautiful sickness.
Ah, yes, the sickness . . .
His kingdom for his sickness.
His kingdom for a bag . . .
This is a sickness that is both incredible and inevitable because soon, that man’s last shot would wear off all too quickly, —and next, the synthetic angels in his bloodstream would turn into dope-sick demons.
And worse, they would rage devour him as demons with no cure; and for him, there would be no solution until his arraignment in next morning.
This is, of course, considering, that his charge was minor or something releasable enough to be let go on his own recognizance.
Or if not, his best hope would be that bail was not a problem. Otherwise, there would be no ease for his achy sickness, —there’d be no rest for the weary or the wicked and no peace for the dope gods who infiltrated his system.
2:00am—
Another man of interest was brought in. He appeared to be well-dressed and scared while awaiting his moment with the judge.
His uneasiness was apparent to the other vultures that something terrible was lurking. His tells were worse than an outmatched card player, bluffing his worst bluff at a high-stakes poker table.
He wore an expression on his face like an impending doom that looked worse than anticipation of The Grim Reaper, or The Angel of Death, himself.
Playing with kids is an unthinkable offense. . . .
There is a reason for this, of course.
There is a painful truth of jailhouse justice to which the pedophiles or the deviants, and the predatory pervs are at risk of bodily harm.
And so be it.
So be it with their risks of brutal rape.
So be it with their “buck-fifty” slashings across their face to wear the mark of shame.
So be it when they are perpetrated and violated by plungers and forcefully penetrated by weapons of filthy destruction.
So be it.
And yes, all are welcome in the house behind bars.
Not all are equal. Not all are able to stand or survive and some need to hide.
Some need to hope to God they can sign a “P.C.” or pull a suicide card and hope for some medical intervention so that can use this as an excuse to lay low in Protective Custody.
No one knows what to expect.
No one can tell what they will hear or what the judge will say.
No one knows who they will see in the holding cells before they reach the judge.
No one knows if the fight is coming to them.
No one knows who is friendly and whose smiles are worse than an enemy.
No one . . .
No one knows what they will see or what will happen in the bullpens, which is where they corral the groups of criminals, herding them like cattle before heading “upstairs” to stand before the judge.
Two young men sat as co-defendants. Both were good-looking and sparky with too much testosterone and they sat in neighboring cells. Like everyone else, they sat in their little cages, waiting to see what their fate would be.
Like most everyone who arrived in handcuffs, they never assumed “this” would be “them.”
They never assumed this would be their fate after a street fight that escalated to an assault in the second degree.
This is a felony, by the way, and far more of a consequence than they bargained for.
Apparently, hitting someone in the head with a baseball bat, whether the bat belonged to the victim who threatened them and lost is no different from having the bat beforehand, —in the end, a few lumps, and a deserved concussion after being mouthy led to two men finding themselves behind the cages. And what came next?
Two men entering an expensive negotiation between attorneys and prosecutors.
Bail set $20,000
(But who has $20,000?)
No one ever wants to be that one.
No one expects to get caught and yet, it is unlikely and unthinkable to guess that yes, crime is an easy thing to pull off and all the cops are stupid.
Not true.
There is a revolving door at the jailhouse.
All are certainly welcome.
Just be advised that the welcoming committee’s hazing programs and the committee members themselves are far from kind and exceptionally further from peaceful and hopeful souls.
“Hell is empty,” said Shakespeare.
“The devils are all here.”
And he was, right. I’m sure.
Safe to say Shakespeare never did time in county, let alone state time or federal.
I wonder if Shakespeare would “lock it up,” and sign a P.C. in fer for his life.
Or would he take his chances in “gen-pop” amongst the masses of murderers, rapists, and thieves alike?
One never knows who has a “doing time,” kind of mentality.
Hence, the rats and the otherwise informants are sneaky with their wardrobes and tricky with their costumes.
I remember back when I started a Sunday morning program in a North New Jersey county jail.
I felt that old feeling come back when bracelets would not come off and my wrists were cuffed to a bar beneath a bench.
There are smells that never leave your memory.
And this place proved it.
I had to do a walk-through before my program could start.
I had to see all the housing as well as the isolation and the rubber room.
I stood outside while the rest of the crowd walked in the rubber room.
no, sir . . .
not for me.
The corrections officer asked if I was going to come inside, meaning the rubber room where the straightjackets live.
“No thanks,” I said.
“I’m fine right where I stand.”
The attending group laughed.
One person remarked, “too close to home?” and laughed.
“Close enough,” I responded.
But I did not laugh back.
The officer explained that we had to declare if we knew any of the inmates or if we had any connection to them, in any way.
I raised my hand.
I was doing county work at the time.
I was on the news a few times.
The prosecutor’s office thanked me publicly more than once.
Plus, I worked the overnight shift doing overdose reversal programs in the local hospitals.
I offered this fact to the officer.
“I’m going to see familiar people.”
“A lot,” asked the guard.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s try to keep it down to a minimum.”
We walked out from isolation and then we walked by the glass where one of the T.V. rooms faced the hallway.
A small group of men ran to the glass, throwing up gang signs to me, and started banging on the walls to get my attention and say hello.
“You weren’t kidding,” said the officer.
“No, sir.”
It’s funny.
Something similar happened when I went to visit someone in the psych ward at the hospital in Hackensack.
The nurse asked me, you seem to be really popular around here.
I shake my head . . .
I used to go to different nightclubs in New York City and wish I was known and popular or cool.
I’ve always wanted to be cool . . .
I just never thought I’d be the cool guy in the nut house or a county lock up.
This was the start of Breakfast with Benny which was held at a homeless shelter and the jail.
I don’t do groups like this anymore.
But I miss them.
I miss all the people who society would otherwise call “losers” because as bad or as crazy or as evil as some would call them, —they touched my life in ways that I will never be able to thank them for.
I saw a photo—
One young man from that program was celebrating the birth of his newborn child.
Years later. Still clean and sober.
I might not have done a lot of great things in my life, but I was there to see this man from the start of his journey.
I miss him and regard him well.
Thank you, my friend.
Your victory means more to me than you will ever know.
Dear Mikey “the rocket”
I wish you lived to see some of the things you inspired in me.
Maybe one day, I will see you again
I hope so
The Written Addiction 