This is one of a continuing series of posts recalling my youthful days while in incarceration (the previous one is here).
After my release from investment, I settled in to Unit 1. Things were a lot different on the upper units. Sunlight came pouring in from windows, we exercised in the outdoors, and the food was actually warm when it hit your esophageal tube. It wasn’t freedom, but it would have to suffice in the mean time.
I had a new set of handlers, and they were roommates on the outs. John was a shit-talking gung-ho bodybuilder who shaved his legs and chomped on sunflower seeds incessantly. He sported a tanning bed complexion and wore rolled up blue jean shorts. His roomie Bruce was the fattest chunk of worthless human debris that you ever laid eyes on. This muthafucka had to have been 500 pounds. We laid bets on where he hid his junk because the concave mound where his twig ‘n berries shoulda have been was as smooth as a baby tuckus. I hated both of them because they had shitty personalities and their job was to spy on me and report back to central command.
Here is how the game worked. The therapists were the primary intelligence gatherers. You were expected to spill your guts out to them twice a week in individual therapy and once a week in group therapy. The unit counselors, the teachers, the nurses, and the administrative staff filled in the gaps. Since the counselors had the primary exposure, they were required to keep detailed logs on all the shit that happened in the units and who said what. Even as a youngster I was a paranoid fuck, so I kept real mum around these shit heels.
Since I did not give the counselors much ammo, they had to fill in the gaps. Otherwise it would look like they wasn’t earning their keep. Being the college dropout armchair psychologists that they were, they would label me as passive-aggressive, anti-social, or just plain deceptive. All of the staff had monthly “action plan” meetings with the therapists to update their treatment agenda. I took a perverse delight in mucking up their Johnnypeepers profile. They had my body, but I was damned if they were going to hijack my inner brain workings.
During the day we went to school like the kids on the outs. One of my favorite teachers was this old senile hag named Rochelle. She was a big tubby broad that had cottage cheese jutting out of her stretch pants. She tried her best to teach Art and Humanities to a room full of bastards and mental cripples, but she was pushover. Her nephew had got popped for giving door-to-door gynecological and breast exams to housewives (without a medical license). Me and my buddies would bust up in her class hard up until the point where she would reach for the phone to the desk counselor to remove us from class. We would run to the front of the room, get down on our knees, and beg for her not to make the call. She loved the teenage male attention and would usually melt like butter in a heated sauce pan.
P.E. was a different story. The coach was a hunch-backed Swede with a thick accent. Anders shot so many steroids in the 70’s that he couldn’t even look forward when he walked. His limbs resembled gelatinous globs of flabby flesh hanging from a tortured frame. Worse than that though, the fucker was a pedophile. He always picked the pretty boys to be the shirtless basketball team. After P.E., when we had to shower, he would be the one to dispense the towels. I remember he would always make the boys stand naked for a few seconds, so he could ogle the glistening nude bodies, before he would throw you the towel. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had the locker room rigged with cameras to capture the visuals for his pedo video archive. Sick bastard. I hope he doesn’t have bowel control these days and has to eat from an IV tube.