I recently spent ninety-one days of quality time in the "Big House" as a guest of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Throughout my life I've been guilty of countless crimes against humanity, the arts, fashion and common sense. I shall spare you those confessions until a later date (preferably after I depart this mortal coil) but for the time being, here are five impressions gleaned from my incarceration.
1) WHITE MEN GUARD THEIR JUNK CLOSELY
I don't consider myself to be a prude, but when did it become de rigueur for grown men to walk around with both hands buried deep within their skivvies, excavating for that lost roll of Certs or misspent youth? It's truly disconcerting when you stumble upon a summit meeting of these waistband spelunkers. After solving the world's problems the hands resurface for high-fives, fist-bumps, ass-pats or a quick punch to their neighbor's nuts and then disperse to play cards, or use the public telephones.
2) BON APPETIT!
Cuisine gets creative in the slammer. On my first full day of lockup, I watched with fascination as my fellow diners slavered three pieces of bread (the average inmate consumes at least half of a loaf of bread a day- but hey, at least it's wheat!) with margarine, applesauce, cooked carrots and a bifurcated baked potato. This masterpiece was topped off with a thin, oblong hockey puck. EDITOR'S NOTE: I later discovered a menu plastered on a wall by the bathroom. The mystery meat in question was listed as "Beavertail". I shit you not. Beavertail also appears on the menu under the aliases "Meatloaf", "Salisbury Steak", "Hamburger" and "Chili"(???). I didn't have the tools at my disposal to perform a proper autopsy, but my edumacated guess is that Beavertail consists of soy, shredded cardboard and any entrails deemed too risky to be legally added to hot dogs. The "meat" is then mashed, ironed and molded into a patty and cooked until all moisture and flavor evaporates. Before serving it is repeatedly reheated until it turns at least two shades of dark, which I have dubbed "Asphalt" and "Staring into the Abyss".
If you have money in your account Commissary is King, and the barter system is alive and flourishing in York County Prison! Food is the coin of the realm. Monster Iced Honey Buns are the Gold Standard, followed by Sun Butter and coffee. Sun Butter is margarine made from sunflower oil and is given to those who qualify for "special diet". It is breathlessly compared to peanut butter and is often consumed by the spoonful. I tried some, and although it does have a whiff of peanutyness I remain unconverted to its charms.
Ramen Noodles are no longer just for musicians, college students and other unemployed homeless people. After dinner the true chefs of YCP take center stage. My next door neighbor was the master of jailhouse stromboli. He created the dough from pulverized Ramen Noodles, crackers (Ritz, Saltines or both) and water. This was meticulously kneaded and rolled into a giant ball, wrapped within a towel and left to "cook" for how ever long the chef felt necessary. It was then rolled out into the desired dimension and filled with the meat of the day along with cheese and chips and whatever other ingredients were handy. On Stromboli Days the driveway next to my bunk was Standing Room Only.
Another favorite is "Chi". Chi is basically a combination of Ramen Noodles and the kitchen sink. Chi how easy that is?
3) LEGAL EAGLES
Everyone in jail could pass the bar exam right now without any further prep work. The inmate population knows more about your legal situation than all of the Supreme Court Justices combined. You will never find a group of more learned men in one place in your life. And the best part is...they're all INNOCENT!
4) ANIMAL FARM
After a week in "Pre-Class" I was moved to a dorm. This is a large, rectangular, concrete room with a high ceiling with six slotted windows that supply minimal light. The room is divided into two sections by a short, split wall. The first section is known as the Day Room. It's furnished with eight octagonal tables that have four hard, round seats connected to its base. I searched but couldn't find a plaque or engraving crediting the inventor, but I guarantee it was the Marquis de Sade. These, along with tabletops jutting from the rec room wall with corresponding benches are meant for eating and lounging. The only furniture in the dorm with a back is the C.O.'s desk chair. My spine is now shaped like the letter "S".
Both sides of the Day Room have a lavatory and shower room. There are no doors. The toilets and showers are separated by tiny, four foot high walls. "Hey, buddy! Wassu...nevermind..." The stainless steel toilets have no seats. The water's deep. Cold, too.
The second side of the room consists of metal bunk-beds for 56 male inmates. At night it transforms into a living, snoring, farting beast. Lights Out is at 11:00 p.m. At 11:30 everyone is supposed to be in their rack and quiet. Shuh! Imagine you are an only child having a slumber party and your parents left town but forgot to call the babysitter. Apparently no one has a chance to chat during the day. My buddy Jose' likened it to a chicken coop. Yeah, if the chickens were tweaking on caffeine and honey buns and hadn't seen a women in months! You gotta give them credit, though. They sure do enjoy themselves. The room ricochets with laughter and profanity. And it seems that the dreaded "N" word has now replaced "shit" as the most elastic word in history. Verb, noun, adjective, adverb, propositional phrase: you name it! It's that versatile!!
5) LIFE IS A CABARET, MY FRIEND
If someone were to film a documentary at York County Prison, I'm sure they would be shocked to discover that it's a musical. Everyone from the inmates to the correctional officers to the infirmary staff and all points in between will burst into spontaneous song without coaxing or embarrassment. It's like "La La Land" except the cinematography is predominately orange. The voices range from impossibly high falsettos to monotone (although falsetto is clearly the preferred choice).
One day while reading in my bunk, the afternoon movie ended and something unexpected and wonderful happened. I have no idea to this moment what my fellow detainees were watching, but the song that played over the end credits was Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'". Without prompting, every person on the other side of that wall began to sing along. In falsetto. Porpoise-high falsetto. It was magical.
The moral to this story (as I see it) is that even though life is often unfair and may seem hellbent on knocking us down, there is still hope and laughter and Journey to inspire us to hitch up our petticoats and wade through the funk. Soothe that savage beast, baby. Sing!