by Zvi Baranoff
It was cold all the time.
In the winter, they didn't supply enough heat to warm the place. In the summer, the air conditioning blew icy cold day and night.
Each prisoner was issued one blanket. Possession of more than a single blanket was a breach of regulations and a punishable offense.
At night, teeth chattered as each man wrapped himself cocoon-like, each in his sweats and wool hat, wrapped in that single blanket.
Hundreds of men were housed together, each very much alone. Alone in his thoughts, alone in self-torture. Alone, doing his time.
Young or old, experienced or not, you do your time or the time does you. In the world, time is measured by clocks. In prison, time is measured differently.
A sentence of less than five years is measured by months, and looked at by most as if it was a holiday cruise. Five years is called a Nickel, and is worth about as much. More than that is counted by calendars.
A sentence of anything less than a Dime seriously holds little credibility. Seniority counts for prestige and influence in the distorted mirror world of prison as much as in any corporate setting.
I felt as alone as anyone could possibly be, there in the crowded prison dormitory. I arrived at this Federal Prison Camp in rural Georgia, with a sentence of less than five years. I was viewed as a short timer by other prisoners as well as the staff.
In the segregated subculture of prisons, nearly everything is black or white. The redneck prisoners held some advantage as most of the guards were from the same background. The black prisoners had the advantage of numbers.
Most prisoners kept to their own kind. Black, whites and the "others". There were a handful of Jews counted amongst the others.
I was just one small goat awaiting the passage of time. There were very few others in that place that would attend a Passover Seder, if such a thing were to happen.
In the world, in the America that we are most familiar with, there is an illusion of meritocracy, a semblance of fairness and a modicum of justice. That paper-thin veneer is torn away inside.
One might think that the prison system is a network of well-structured institutions with clear rules and orders from above. That's certainly how it all appears from the outside, looking in. From the inside, the perspective changes.
The Cat always had larger portions, more slack and an extra blanket. He had cigarettes. He had a cellphone. If you needed something - or wanted something - he could help, for a price.
Every prisoner has a prison job for which he is paid pennies an hour for the time at work. To bring some balance to the equation, inmates will slack off or pilfer. The Cat worked in the kitchen. He was no slacker at pilfering. He always had bananas and other delicacies that were rarely served in the chow line.
The day to day operations of the dormitory wing where I was housed depended on the Cat. With a wink or a nod, difficulties could be ironed out. The Cat did as he pleased, within limits.
Most of the guards appreciated the soft assignment of policing a low level joint. It was an easy gig. They did their time and went home. They avoided conflicts and ignored petty infractions because all of that just led to extra work.
There was one Bulldog that would occasionally clamp his incisors into the Cat, landing the Cat in solitary. It is not unreasonable to think that there was some theater involved. The Cat was never away for long. He always returned with few losses.
Food services were overseen by a CO named Mr Smith. He ran a tight operation, wielding authority like a stick. The prisoners that served under him could hardly get away with anything. He did not tolerate prisoners stealing. For him, such actions, from prisoners, was a personal affront.
Working directly under Mr Smith was the CO Ms Smith - no relation. Mr Smith was married and his wife worked at a school in town.
Ms Smith was a devout Christian, most evident by the Cross she always wore and the phrases such as "God Bless" and "Praise Jesus" that peppered her speech, even when speaking to inmates.
It was an open secret that Mr Smith and Ms Smith were having an affair.
Ms Smith, however, would not allow her vagina to be penetrated by Mr Smith. Her religion proscribed that. In their stolen moments of passion, she would only allow Mr Smith to fondle her breasts and to enter her anus.
Mr Smith found this somewhat frustrating and kept up a steady pressure on Ms Smith but she remained true to her faith.
They would relieve their tensions in the storage room. They believed they were out of the range of the security cameras and that no inmate could see them.
The Cat would sometimes watch from a spot in the crawlspace. Usually, however, he took advantage of their indiscretions for his own nefarious thievery.
On the days when she had been butt fucked, she smiled a little more and served slightly larger portions in the chow line. On the days that she had not been pleasured, she was irritable and the portions were smaller.
Between the two Smiths, they figured how to divert supplies from storage and out of the prison in the trunks of their cars. Ms Smith would sell the diverted goods through her church. This larceny padded their incomes.
This arrangement went on for years, but no fire can burn forever. It must have felt like a bucket of cold water when Ms Smith was busted for selling stolen goods.
Ms Smith claimed that she was misled by her passionate love for Mr Smith, however she alone lost her job and went to jail.
Mr Smith's infidelity and the scandal had rippling effects. His marriage ended in divorce and he was saddled with crippling alimony and child support payments.
Mr Smith also lost his supplementary income as he was under greater scrutiny and had no accomplice to sell the pilfered goods. To add insult to his injury, the prison system replaced Ms Smith with a homosexual who did his best to replace Ms Smith on a level that Mr Smith refused to rise to.
Everyone called the old man the Ox. He was in the final couple of years of a twenty year stretch. He could be found most days lifting weights. He was a large man with an even temperament.
When his stomach began hurting, he took his concerns to the medic. The doc prescribed antacid. The pains did not subside. They got progressively worse. He laid in his bunk, between trips to the sick bay to see the doc that was called the Butcher.
Months passed. Eventually, a new set of tests discovered the cancer that was eating out the insides of the Ox.
Of course, the Warden could have written a recommendation for a Compassionate Release, sending the Ox home for his remaining time. Instead, he was shipped to a prison hospital, behind a fence that made escape impossible.
There, in the Prison Hospital, the Angel of Death came and took the Ox away. We learned of his death the night of the first Seder.
The Cat had received his cut. The Bulldog looked the other way. There was nearly enough matzah and grape juice. In the Prison, deprived of all liberty, we read the story of the struggle for freedom, from the Four Questions to the tail end of the Seder - the song about a goat.
"Then came The Holy One, Blessed be He, and smote the angel of death, who slew the slaughterer, who killed the ox, that drank the water, that put out the fire, that burned the stick, that beat the dog, that bit the cat, that ate the goat, which my father bought for two zuzim. One little goat, one little goat."
Dizabin abba bitrei zuzim. Chad gadya, chad gadya.
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