Date: Fri, 28 Sep 2012 22:46:59 -0400 From: d.a. w Subject: The Professor's Practicum Chapers 13 and 14 I hope you enjoy. daw CHAPTER 13 Suddenly there was this loud, irritating bell. I wondered, "What the hell! I don't have a bell like that. Who's come to my house to make this outrageous racket?" Then I really did wake up. Above me was a sheet of steel. Under my back was a slick, hard piece of plastic. My chest and legs were buried under something harsh and heavy. I looked down past my feet, and I saw a wall of bars. Around me, I heard piss splashing, shit dropping, toilets flushing. It was like I'd been locked in a restroom for the night. Then I remembered--I was in prison. I could hear Stretch moving in the bunk below. "You need to piss bad, fish?" "No sir," I replied, acknowledging Stretch's superiority and seniority in my new home. "Good. I'm pretty regular. I piss and shit first thing. Senior man in the cell," he sighed with satisfaction, "gets first use of the toilet. You keep in the rack until you hear this toilet flush. Then you turn over and climb down and do whatever you need to do."When it was my turn, I just needed to piss. I realized that yesterday I had survived on only one so-called meal. I had missed breakfast in the jail, as we left before it was served. During what should have been lunch time, I had gone through the hell of processing, and far from being fed, I had experienced just the opposite. My alimentary canal had been thoroughly cleaned out, and I had had to experience without protection having fingers and thermometers and other probes stuck up my ass. Finally I had had dinner here, but I had been able to eat very little. My stomach was growling, but remembering yesterday's meal, I was not looking forward too much to breakfast. When I snapped out of my mental review of yesterday, I saw that Stretch was staring at me, which wasn't a surprise, since I was just standing at the toilet, my dick in my hand, looking down at it and the liquids stinking in the can. Right then, I was thinking about how weird my dick looked, sticking out that way, without any hair to protect it."Well," he said, "I seen fish do a lotta strange things while they're learning to be a prisoner, but that pose is a new one. I guess you're in some other world over there, looking into the toilet and holding your own dick. "Snapping back into this hellish new world, all I could do was hurriedly stuff my cock back into my boxers, and reach for my stack of browns. Until you put on your browns, you can pretend to yourself, for a minute, that you just stopped in to use the can, or that you are one of those nice, well-meaning visitors like I used to be, just getting to know an offender or two, or that you are on your way to the showers in some primitive kind of gym. But when you put on your browns, you know that this is a prison, and you are a prisoner, and this is your prison uniform. Now you are one of the offenders that you are getting to know, and this is one of your ways of doing that. Pulling the brown shirt that says INMATE down over your chest . . . sticking your legs into those brown inmate trousers--which is easy, since there's no belt to worry about, just elastic . . . pulling them up over your cock . . . then looking down at your body, the way it is now . . . Yeah, you think, this is a convict. I am a convict. If I were back at my own house, the house I owned, I'd be looking through my wardrobe for a shirt and slacks that would complement each other and project a quiet dignity. I would never dream of wearing a shirt of exactly the same color as my slacks. Or wearing thick, clodhopper shoes. Or being shaved bald. This morning, however, I didn't have to choose my clothing. It had all been done for me, and the color scheme was simple--it was completely the same, top and bottom. It projected insignificance. It projected a dumb subservience. It projected an ability to line up and be caged with all the other offenders who were wearing the same color of dirt."Yeah," I said. "I guess yesterday was almost too much for me. What comes next in this entrance to the inferno?" That was my oblique reference to Dante, which I didn't expect Stretch to recognize. "Well," he said, with that same quizzical look, "this is about as close to hell as anybody would like to get."There was something about the way he said it that made me feel again that there was much more to Stretch than he ever let show."What comes next?" I said. "The Count." "Really? They really think one of us did a Star Trek and beamed out of here last night?"Stretch gave me his half smile again. "Must be. I never figured any reason for it myself, and that reason is as good as any." He was right. Now the loudspeakers were on again. "INMATES WILL STAND AT THE BARS AND RESPOND TO THE COUNT!"Stretch took the more open space next to the toilet. I moved to the narrow space between the end of the bunk and the bars. I heard the cadence as it approached us. "B15, SOUND OFF!" "B16, SOUND OFF!" I wondered why it had to be shouted. The officer could only be four, maybe five feet from the bars of the cage, even if he were standing by the guard rails at the edge of the walkway. However, I was coming to understand that if some action was the rational and reasonable one, that would be the one that would be totally rejected by prison authorities. "116198 SIR!" a convict shouted back. "116198 present for count," an officer repeated, bored and surly, as if any time he spent saying it was so much time he couldn't spend smoking and texting. But inmates were not permitted to be bored or surly. They had to respond with alacrity. "117156 SIR!""117156 present for count."Once I got the idea of the count, I fell back in my world of thoughts. How would I be using my own time right now, if I wasn't stuck to the bars, waiting to shout my number? I'd be eating my cereal and pouring myself a second glass of orange juice. I'd be going over my schedule for the day, planning my appointments. Seminar, office hours, student advisees, maybe an interview with the newspaper . . ."B22! SOUND OFF!"Suddenly an officer's uniform appeared on the other side of the bars, blocking the light in front of me. The face on top of it did not look happy. Another officer stood in front of Stretch. That face didn't look happy either."B22 !" bellowed the first officer, reminding me of my address. "Report for count!""100914 SIR!" Stretch dutifully replied."100914 present for count," the second officer intoned as he marked something on his clipboard."117213 . . . SIR!" I shouted, trying to sound as loud and confident as the others I had heard respond.I wondered whether making his response as loud as he could was the one way a prisoner could make himself feel almost a citizen. For that moment, anyway."117213 present for count." The officer noted my indication that this piece of state property was stored where required by the inventory list.We had performed to specifications, although we had to stand by the bars until the count was complete. Stretch smiled at me and said in a carefully low voice, "Nice job kid. Thought you were gonna lose it there for a second.""Yeah, almost," I said. But I felt pride that I had not brought dishonor to our cell."A11! Sound off!""C28! Sound off!"I became more aware that the scene going on down our range was being repeated above and below us. I looked to see if we were dismissed, but Stretch wasn't moving and so neither did I. We remained facing the bars. I soon noticed that I'd gone back instinctively to the caged man's behavior--I was gripping the bars with both hands and peering out between them, as if there were anything on the other side that I wanted to see. What I saw was a lead-pipe railing, then an empty space-- the drop-off to the floor below--then a concrete wall with a line of thin windows, too thin and too full of bars to make out anything except the greenish color of a field at some indeterminate distance from the bars that were pressing against my chest. If a camera man came by, he would have a perfect picture of a Locked Down Convict.Finally I heard the shout: "TIER A COUNT CLEAR." Then another: "TIER B COUNT CLEAR." THEN ANOTHER: "TIER C COUNT CLEAR.""Inmates prepare for mess!" was the order that boomed from the speaker system. I looked at Stretch for some idea of what that order meant."We have fifteen minutes to shave and if you ain't pissed and shit before Count, you gotta get that done. I shave first."I sat on my second floor bunk and watched while Stretch used the cold water to shave. I noticed he had shaving cream. He finished his preparations by making sure his brown trousers were straight and his white tee was straight and showed correctly underneath his brown pullover shirt. I'd noticed that his number was inked in, small but visible, on his shirttail. Now I noticed it on the inside of the waistband on his trousers. "Oh yeah," he said. "Today New York will come by with a clothing marker. He'll tell you to have all clothing marked by the next time you're out on tier. It's so your clothes don't get lost in the wash." He paused. "I'll help," he added.Once again, I was thankful for one decent person in my new world. The more I thought about Stretch, the more I decided he was actually one of the better people I had known in my life. Even though I had worked with many inmates, I had to admit to myself that I did feel superior to all of them, both as a person and as somebody who was "giving of himself" to others "in need." In need of what I had. By this I smugly meant my superior position in society and in intellectual prowess. I told myself that these convicts had shown themselves unable to resist base impulses, whereas I was built of sterner stuff.Now I realized that Stretch was superior to me in almost every way possible. I told myself that in six months, when I escaped from this hell, I would devote myself to helping him. I couldn't do so personally, not without giving myself away, but I could certainly spend the funds and call in favors to be sure he had superior legal representation, would receive every chance for parole as soon as possible, and would have job opportunities after release. I owed him, and I resolved that I would repay. As I was thinking of the nobility of Stretch, New York came to our cage with a paper bag. "Commissary for 117213," he said, glancing briefly at me. "Yo Stretch," he said, and smiled."Whazzup," Stretch acknowledged. We were three men in brown, but one of us was still on the outside of the recognized group of experienced inmates, and that was me."I haven't ordered any commissary," I said, reminding the porter of my existence. "You didn't have to," he replied. "This order was placed by the state. It's your shower shoes, your shave cream, your soap. All stuff like that."I looked into the bag. Yeah, there was a bar of soap, a little can of shaving cream, an extra pair of boxers, and a pair of rubber flip flops."I have no money on my books to pay for this" was my irritated reply. The last thing I needed was to get caught stealing something. I didn't mind not shaving for a few days, if that was allowed--although looking at New York's beardless face implied that it probably wasn't.This is when Stretch chimed in. "You remember that ten bucks the state put into your commissary fund?""Yeah," I replied.Stretch smiled broadly. "Well lemme tell you the state scam. Some dude in the legislature, probly white"--this caught a laugh from New York, who was standing with his hands on his elbows, turning from time to time to see if the officer at the desk could see him hanging out with his buddy--"some dude in the legislature somehow got to wondering about us inmates.""Yeah?" New York sneered."Yeah. Don't know why. Maybe one a these . . . humanitarians. So he thought, maybe, just maybe, you get some new fish in here, and he's comin' through all bald and naked and shit, and this fish ain't got no cash. No cash, no relatives or shit like that, no commissary.""Yeah, that could happen," New York joked."So, this dude thinks that possibly, just possibly, this might lead to the fish buyin' all his . . . shaving cream by selling `sexual favors.'" "No shit! That couldn't never happen here!" He leaned in toward the bars, cracking up and trying to keep the officers below from noticing."No, it couldn't," Stretch continued. "But anyway, that's what these ignorant honkies think. So what he does, he gets the state to give every fish a brand new $10 credit in the commissary. Which is cool, right? We should all be on our knees, thankin' this honky. So then what happens? The DOC just reduces what they give us in those little bitty tiny little Induction Packages, which is what they call your toothbrush, fish. And they use the $10 to pay for your shower shoes. And so, like always, the con gets screwed, and the screws get all the money."I was mad; but Stretch and New York were laughing like crazy over the state scam. That was it, all right. For that minute, I thought I was still on the outside. I was the outraged citizen, preparing to write a firm letter to his state representative. But they were on the inside, knowing what all that meant."Oh man! He seen me! I'm fucked!" New York said, turning back from another glance at the desk below. "I'm outta here!" With his hands still holding his elbows, he strode on down the tier. Right away, the loudspeaker started ordering the tiers to march to breakfast.The day in this warehouse of offenders awaiting assignment to their long term place of punishment went pretty much as I had already experienced. We went to mess three times--"breakfast," "lunch," and "dinner." I was grilled on each of these occasions, and got myself identified as an arrogant son of a bitch. But I didn't take Stretch's advice about complaining to an officer about my mixed-race cell assignment. That afternoon, New York came by with a marking pen, and Stretch showed me where to write my numbers on my uniform. The trick was to write them large enough so some laundry geek would see them but small enough so you might not notice them yourself. "Next shower day, they'll hand you your change of browns, and you can have the pleasure of doing it all over again." Yeah, pleasure. Every time I wrote my new name, no matter how small I wrote it, I was writing it deeper and deeper into myself. On my third full day as an RDC con, everything began as usual. We got through breakfast and finally I found a "white" table where my fellow diners just asked the normal stuff...who are you...where are you from...when are you getting out. That's about all that can be done in 10 minutes, besides shoveling prison "food" into your mouth. Breakfast was some mysterious round meat wad, with yellow something that might at some time been a part of an egg, and a piece of bread that could have been used as a component of a building project. This was "toast." Thus my official breakfast was sausage round, scrambled eggs, toast and coffee or orange juice... I forgot to include the orange juice. It was in a little, and I mean maybe two inches high, plastic cup with some sort of metal top, which I could only get off by putting it in my teeth and pulling. This action amused my table companions. After breakfast we returned to our cage and got ready for inspection. I was with the program now, and knew that my duty in our apartment was to be sure the toilet and sink would pass inspection. I had no idea what would happen if we did not pass inspection, but I knew that officers would have found some way to make this awful place even worse as a consequence. My chief motivation was not to cause Stretch to be disappointed or dissatisfied with me. He clearly saved me from having an even worse time than I was having now.After inspection, which we passed because no comment or criticism was made, I was sitting at the back of the cell, writing more of my observations on some sheets of paper that Stretch had given me. Suddenly there was an officer at the front of our cage."Offender 100914," he shouted, as if Stretch was on the far end of a football field. "Pack up your shit. You are being transferred to your place of incarceration. Here's your bag. You got five minutes." He pushed in a white plastic sack. It was like the white plastic sacks I used to line my kitchen garbage pail. I was devastated. I relied on Stretch for everything--companionship, safety, and just as much of a feeling of security as I thought I could have in here. Stretch looked down at me, I think with a bit of sadness. "Sorry boy. I guess you're on your own now. Be careful." He didn't say anything more; he just went around the cell and collected his "personals." His bag was still practically empty when the guard came back. This time he was joined by two other guards and a little parade of three other offenders. These were linked together onto one chain, a chain that had a set of handcuffs every two feet or so. It was just like the chain and cuffs I had worn on my trip to the RDC. Stretch knew the drill and as soon as the order to "Cuff up" was given he held the plastic bag in one hand and backed up to the open door to our cell. Very efficiently his wrists were inserted in one of those sets of cuffs, and his hands were locked behind his back. Now he was part of the chain of convicts which, as soon as he cleared the door, began its journey to his permanent home. Wherever that was--nobody said.I watched as long as I could as Stretch and the others were marched along B Tier. They stopped at two other cells, and two other cons were attached to the chain. Then with all six cuffs secured around the wrists of all six convicts, the group shuffled away, on the first stage of their journey out of the Reception and Diagnostic Center to their final place of imprisonment. Stretch sort of looked back once; then they were gone. I repeated in my mind that when my six months were over, Charles Wilson, 100914, would be the object of my generous support of his canteen--I would review his case, his trial, and every aspect of the investigation. I would use my own knowledge and the knowledge of the best criminal and appeal lawyers I knew, people I would pay to find a way to reduce or overturn his sentence, and if there was no possibility...I did know there was a possibility that Stretch had done the crime... then I would be sure that his records would be examined for any clemency and early parole he could be given. AND once Charles was out, he WOULD have a job, a place to live, and as much support as I could give him to stay out of prison in the future. I made this vow with as much emotion...no, perhaps more emotion...than I had ever brought to any resolution before this. At lunch I was so depressed that I ate even less than usual. When I sat down at a white table with only one other inmate there, he looked over at me and to my surprise said, "Saw you lost Stretch this morning.""Yeah. I am really bummed."I realized my reply was not inmate quality. It had no profanity, vulgarity, or macho bravado. The guy then amazed me with, "Stretch was a good guy. Not many in here have any honor. He did."That was it. Stretch was recognized by other experienced inmates as an extraordinary man. After trying to eat something, I just sat there. The others who came after the inmate who made the original comment all nodded at me, but said nothing. I began to think that maybe there was some "honor among thieves"...or at least some imprisoned men.The bell rang. I stood up and stuffed my tray into the rack. Then I went over to the line that was forming to march us back to our cells, where we would be caged for another six hours. We trudged up the stairs, stomping with our right foot first, as for some reason we were required to do. I marched in line, hands on my elbows, stomping along with the others.CHAPTER 13 Suddenly there was this loud, irritating bell. I wondered, "What the hell! I don't have a bell like that. Who's come to my house to make this outrageous racket?" Then I really did wake up. Above me was a sheet of steel. Under my back was a slick, hard piece of plastic. My chest and legs were buried under something harsh and heavy. I looked down past my feet, and I saw a wall of bars. Around me, I heard piss splashing, shit dropping, toilets flushing. It was like I'd been locked in a restroom for the night. Then I remembered--I was in prison. I could hear Stretch moving in the bunk below. "You need to piss bad, fish?" "No sir," I replied, acknowledging Stretch's superiority and seniority in my new home. "Good. I'm pretty regular. I piss and shit first thing. Senior man in the cell," he sighed with satisfaction, "gets first use of the toilet. You keep in the rack until you hear this toilet flush. Then you turn over and climb down and do whatever you need to do."When it was my turn, I just needed to piss. I realized that yesterday I had survived on only one so-called meal. I had missed breakfast in the jail, as we left before it was served. During what should have been lunch time, I had gone through the hell of processing, and far from being fed, I had experienced just the opposite. My alimentary canal had been thoroughly cleaned out, and I had had to experience without protection having fingers and thermometers and other probes stuck up my ass. Finally I had had dinner here, but I had been able to eat very little. My stomach was growling, but remembering yesterday's meal, I was not looking forward too much to breakfast. When I snapped out of my mental review of yesterday, I saw that Stretch was staring at me, which wasn't a surprise, since I was just standing at the toilet, my dick in my hand, looking down at it and the liquids stinking in the can. Right then, I was thinking about how weird my dick looked, sticking out that way, without any hair to protect it."Well," he said, "I seen fish do a lotta strange things while they're learning to be a prisoner, but that pose is a new one. I guess you're in some other world over there, looking into the toilet and holding your own dick."Snapping back into this hellish new world, all I could do was hurriedly stuff my cock back into my boxers, and reach for my stack of browns. Until you put on your browns, you can pretend to yourself, for a minute, that you just stopped in to use the can, or that you are one of those nice, well-meaning visitors like I used to be, just getting to know an offender or two, or that you are on your way to the showers in some primitive kind of gym. But when you put on your browns, you know that this is a prison, and you are a prisoner, and this is your prison uniform. Now you are one of the offenders that you are getting to know, and this is one of your ways of doing that. Pulling the brown shirt that says INMATE down over your chest . . . sticking your legs into those brown inmate trousers--which is easy, since there's no belt to worry about, just elastic . . . pulling them up over your cock . . . then looking down at your body, the way it is now . . . Yeah, you think, this is a convict. I am a convict. If I were back at my own house, the house I owned, I'd be looking through my wardrobe for a shirt and slacks that would complement each other and project a quiet dignity. I would never dream of wearing a shirt of exactly the same color as my slacks. Or wearing thick, clodhopper shoes. Or being shaved bald. This morning, however, I didn't have to choose my clothing. It had all been done for me, and the color scheme was simple--it was completely the same, top and bottom. It projected insignificance. It projected a dumb subservience. It projected an ability to line up and be caged with all the other offenders who were wearing the same color of dirt."Yeah," I said. "I guess yesterday was almost too much for me. What comes next in this entrance to the inferno?" That was my oblique reference to Dante, which I didn't expect Stretch to recognize. "Well," he said, with that same quizzical look, "this is about as close to hell as anybody would like to get."There was something about the way he said it that made me feel again that there was much more to Stretch than he ever let show."What comes next?" I said. "The Count." "Really? They really think one of us did a Star Trek and beamed out of here last night?"Stretch gave me his half smile again. "Must be. I never figured any reason for it myself, and that reason is as good as any." He was right. Now the loudspeakers were on again. "INMATES WILL STAND AT THE BARS AND RESPOND TO THE COUNT!"Stretch took the more open space next to the toilet. I moved to the narrow space between the end of the bunk and the bars. I heard the cadence as it approached us. "B15, SOUND OFF!" "B16, SOUND OFF!" I wondered why it had to be shouted. The officer could only be four, maybe five feet from the bars of the cage, even if he were standing by the guard rails at the edge of the walkway. However, I was coming to understand that if some action was the rational and reasonable one, that would be the one that would be totally rejected by prison authorities. "116198 SIR!" a convict shouted back. "116198 present for count," an officer repeated, bored and surly, as if any time he spent saying it was so much time he couldn't spend smoking and texting. But inmates were not permitted to be bored or surly. They had to respond with alacrity. "117156 SIR!""117156 present for count."Once I got the idea of the count, I fell back in my world of thoughts. How would I be using my own time right now, if I wasn't stuck to the bars, waiting to shout my number? I'd be eating my cereal and pouring myself a second glass of orange juice. I'd be going over my schedule for the day, planning my appointments. Seminar, office hours, student advisees, maybe an interview with the newspaper . . ."B22! SOUND OFF!"Suddenly an officer's uniform appeared on the other side of the bars, blocking the light in front of me. The face on top of it did not look happy. Another officer stood in front of Stretch. That face didn't look happy either."B22 !" bellowed the first officer, reminding me of my address. "Report for count!""100914 SIR!" Stretch dutifully replied."100914 present for count," the second officer intoned as he marked something on his clipboard."117213 . . . SIR!" I shouted, trying to sound as loud and confident as the others I had heard respond.I wondered whether making his response as loud as he could was the one way a prisoner could make himself feel almost a citizen. For that moment, anyway."117213 present for count." The officer noted my indication that this piece of state property was stored where required by the inventory list.We had performed to specifications, although we had to stand by the bars until the count was complete. Stretch smiled at me and said in a carefully low voice, "Nice job kid. Thought you were gonna lose it there for a second.""Yeah, almost," I said. But I felt pride that I had not brought dishonor to our cell."A11! Sound off!""C28! Sound off!"I became more aware that the scene going on down our range was being repeated above and below us. I looked to see if we were dismissed, but Stretch wasn't moving and so neither did I. We remained facing the bars. I soon noticed that I'd gone back instinctively to the caged man's behavior--I was gripping the bars with both hands and peering out between them, as if there were anything on the other side that I wanted to see. What I saw was a lead-pipe railing, then an empty space-- the drop-off to the floor below--then a concrete wall with a line of thin windows, too thin and too full of bars to make out anything except the greenish color of a field at some indeterminate distance from the bars that were pressing against my chest. If a camera man came by, he would have a perfect picture of a Locked Down Convict.Finally I heard the shout: "TIER A COUNT CLEAR." Then another: "TIER B COUNT CLEAR." THEN ANOTHER: "TIER C COUNT CLEAR.""Inmates prepare for mess!" was the order that boomed from the speaker system. I looked at Stretch for some idea of what that order meant."We have fifteen minutes to shave and if you ain't pissed and shit before Count, you gotta get that done. I shave first."I sat on my second floor bunk and watched while Stretch used the cold water to shave. I noticed he had shaving cream. He finished his preparations by making sure his brown trousers were straight and his white tee was straight and showed correctly underneath his brown pullover shirt. I'd noticed that his number was inked in, small but visible, on his shirttail. Now I noticed it on the inside of the waistband on his trousers. "Oh yeah," he said. "Today New York will come by with a clothing marker. He'll tell you to have all clothing marked by the next time you're out on tier. It's so your clothes don't get lost in the wash." He paused. "I'll help," he added.Once again, I was thankful for one decent person in my new world. The more I thought about Stretch, the more I decided he was actually one of the better people I had known in my life. Even though I had worked with many inmates, I had to admit to myself that I did feel superior to all of them, both as a person and as somebody who was "giving of himself" to others "in need." In need of what I had. By this I smugly meant my superior position in society and in intellectual prowess. I told myself that these convicts had shown themselves unable to resist base impulses, whereas I was built of sterner stuff.Now I realized that Stretch was superior to me in almost every way possible. I told myself that in six months, when I escaped from this hell, I would devote myself to helping him. I couldn't do so personally, not without giving myself away, but I could certainly spend the funds and call in favors to be sure he had superior legal representation, would receive every chance for parole as soon as possible, and would have job opportunities after release. I owed him, and I resolved that I would repay. As I was thinking of the nobility of Stretch, New York came to our cage with a paper bag. "Commissary for 117213," he said, glancing briefly at me. "Yo Stretch," he said, and smiled."Whazzup," Stretch acknowledged. We were three men in brown, but one of us was still on the outside of the recognized group of experienced inmates, and that was me."I haven't ordered any commissary," I said, reminding the porter of my existence. "You didn't have to," he replied. "This order was placed by the state. It's your shower shoes, your shave cream, your soap. All stuff like that."I looked into the bag. Yeah, there was a bar of soap, a little can of shaving cream, an extra pair of boxers, and a pair of rubber flip flops."I have no money on my books to pay for this" was my irritated reply. The last thing I needed was to get caught stealing something. I didn't mind not shaving for a few days, if that was allowed--although looking at New York's beardless face implied that it probably wasn't.This is when Stretch chimed in. "You remember that ten bucks the state put into your commissary fund?""Yeah," I replied.Stretch smiled broadly. "Well lemme tell you the state scam. Some dude in the legislature, probly white"--this caught a laugh from New York, who was standing with his hands on his elbows, turning from time to time to see if the officer at the desk could see him hanging out with his buddy--"some dude in the legislature somehow got to wondering about us inmates.""Yeah?" New York sneered."Yeah. Don't know why. Maybe one a these . . . humanitarians. So he thought, maybe, just maybe, you get some new fish in here, and he's comin' through all bald and naked and shit, and this fish ain't got no cash. No cash, no relatives or shit like that, no commissary.""Yeah, that could happen," New York joked."So, this dude thinks that possibly, just possibly, this might lead to the fish buyin' all his . . . shaving cream by selling `sexual favors.'" "No shit! That couldn't never happen here!" He leaned in toward the bars, cracking up and trying to keep the officers below from noticing."No, it couldn't," Stretch continued. "But anyway, that's what these ignorant honkies think. So what he does, he gets the state to give every fish a brand new $10 credit in the commissary. Which is cool, right? We should all be on our knees, thankin' this honky. So then what happens? The DOC just reduces what they give us in those little bitty tiny little Induction Packages, which is what they call your toothbrush, fish. And they use the $10 to pay for your shower shoes. And so, like always, the con gets screwed, and the screws get all the money."I was mad; but Stretch and New York were laughing like crazy over the state scam. That was it, all right. For that minute, I thought I was still on the outside. I was the outraged citizen, preparing to write a firm letter to his state representative. But they were on the inside, knowing what all that meant."Oh man! He seen me! I'm fucked!" New York said, turning back from another glance at the desk below. "I'm outta here!" With his hands still holding his elbows, he strode on down the tier. Right away, the loudspeaker started ordering the tiers to march to breakfast.The day in this warehouse of offenders awaiting assignment to their long term place of punishment went pretty much as I had already experienced. We went to mess three times--"breakfast," "lunch," and "dinner." I was grilled on each of these occasions, and got myself identified as an arrogant son of a bitch. But I didn't take Stretch's advice about complaining to an officer about my mixed-race cell assignment. That afternoon, New York came by with a marking pen, and Stretch showed me where to write my numbers on my uniform. The trick was to write them large enough so some laundry geek would see them but small enough so you might not notice them yourself. "Next shower day, they'll hand you your change of browns, and you can have the pleasure of doing it all over again." Yeah, pleasure. Every time I wrote my new name, no matter how small I wrote it, I was writing it deeper and deeper into myself. On my third full day as an RDC con, everything began as usual. We got through breakfast and finally I found a "white" table where my fellow diners just asked the normal stuff...who are you...where are you from...when are you getting out. That's about all that can be done in 10 minutes, besides shoveling prison "food" into your mouth. Breakfast was some mysterious round meat wad, with yellow something that might at some time been a part of an egg, and a piece of bread that could have been used as a component of a building project. This was "toast." Thus my official breakfast was sausage round, scrambled eggs, toast and coffee or orange juice... I forgot to include the orange juice. It was in a little, and I mean maybe two inches high, plastic cup with some sort of metal top, which I could only get off by putting it in my teeth and pulling. This action amused my table companions. After breakfast we returned to our cage and got ready for inspection. I was with the program now, and knew that my duty in our apartment was to be sure the toilet and sink would pass inspection. I had no idea what would happen if we did not pass inspection, but I knew that officers would have found some way to make this awful place even worse as a consequence. My chief motivation was not to cause Stretch to be disappointed or dissatisfied with me. He clearly saved me from having an even worse time than I was having now.After inspection, which we passed because no comment or criticism was made, I was sitting at the back of the cell, writing more of my observations on some sheets of paper that Stretch had given me. Suddenly there was an officer at the front of our cage."Offender 100914," he shouted, as if Stretch was on the far end of a football field. "Pack up your shit. You are being transferred to your place of incarceration. Here's your bag. You got five minutes." He pushed in a white plastic sack. It was like the white plastic sacks I used to line my kitchen garbage pail. I was devastated. I relied on Stretch for everything--companionship, safety, and just as much of a feeling of security as I thought I could have in here. Stretch looked down at me, I think with a bit of sadness. "Sorry boy. I guess you're on your own now. Be careful." He didn't say anything more; he just went around the cell and collected his "personals." His bag was still practically empty when the guard came back. This time he was joined by two other guards and a little parade of three other offenders. These were linked together onto one chain, a chain that had a set of handcuffs every two feet or so. It was just like the chain and cuffs I had worn on my trip to the RDC. Stretch knew the drill and as soon as the order to "Cuff up" was given he held the plastic bag in one hand and backed up to the open door to our cell. Very efficiently his wrists were inserted in one of those sets of cuffs, and his hands were locked behind his back. Now he was part of the chain of convicts which, as soon as he cleared the door, began its journey to his permanent home. Wherever that was--nobody said.I watched as long as I could as Stretch and the others were marched along B Tier. They stopped at two other cells, and two other cons were attached to the chain. Then with all six cuffs secured around the wrists of all six convicts, the group shuffled away, on the first stage of their journey out of the Reception and Diagnostic Center to their final place of imprisonment. Stretch sort of looked back once; then they were gone. I repeated in my mind that when my six months were over, Charles Wilson, 100914, would be the object of my generous support of his canteen--I would review his case, his trial, and every aspect of the investigation. I would use my own knowledge and the knowledge of the best criminal and appeal lawyers I knew, people I would pay to find a way to reduce or overturn his sentence, and if there was no possibility...I did know there was a possibility that Stretch had done the crime... then I would be sure that his records would be examined for any clemency and early parole he could be given. AND once Charles was out, he WOULD have a job, a place to live, and as much support as I could give him to stay out of prison in the future. I made this vow with as much emotion...no, perhaps more emotion...than I had ever brought to any resolution before this. At lunch I was so depressed that I ate even less than usual. When I sat down at a white table with only one other inmate there, he looked over at me and to my surprise said, "Saw you lost Stretch this morning.""Yeah. I am really bummed."I realized my reply was not inmate quality. It had no profanity, vulgarity, or macho bravado. The guy then amazed me with, "Stretch was a good guy. Not many in here have any honor. He did."That was it. Stretch was recognized by other experienced inmates as an extraordinary man. After trying to eat something, I just sat there. The others who came after the inmate who made the original comment all nodded at me, but said nothing. I began to think that maybe there was some "honor among thieves"...or at least some imprisoned men.The bell rang. I stood up and stuffed my tray into the rack. Then I went over to the line that was forming to march us back to our cells, where we would be caged for another six hours. We trudged up the stairs, stomping with our right foot first, as for some reason we were required to do. I marched in line, hands on my elbows, stomping along with the others.CHAPTER 14Back at B22, I stood inside and waited until I heard the door of bars slide shut, locking me inside my cage again, but this time alone. I stood there, and then for the first time sat on the steel seat by the wall. I sat there and felt sorry for myself all over again. I alternated moping and looking through the bars, as if looking would suddenly bring Stretch back. I knew that would never happen. Then I heard the cat calls and shouted comments announcing that a new batch of fresh made state prisoners had arrived. I went to the bars and looked down the tier. I heard all the yelling and banging on the bars. I realized that all that noise was present at some level almost all the time, but by this time I almost ignored it. I sat down to mope some more. Then I heard the pounding of inmate shoes on steel stairs, and I realized that the new batch of convicts was now being distributed. I heard stomping coming toward my cage. I suddenly I had this awful unacceptable thought. One of these new born prisoners was coming into my cell, but I did not want someone else. No one could take Stretch's place, and I wanted to be left alone in my self- pity. But while I was formulating a protest against some new convict coming into my house, the parade stopped at my door."Back of the cell, 213!" That was the order. I knew I couldn't disobey. My induction experience had convinced me that the free persons who were running this entrance to hell could and would do anything they wanted with me. "SIR yes SIR" was my response. Gone were the brave thoughts of protest. I knew that somewhere in this warehouse of misery there could be a someone in authority who could make my cage seem like a place of pleasure. There was a clanking of chains. One suit of brown was being removed from the other suits of brown. Detached from the group came a white bald teenager. He looked at me with the same look of contempt that I am sure covered my own face. "Harris 114832--IN!"Harris 114832 walked in with the sort of swagger I had seen on campus and found particularly irritating. As far as I could tell, teen males who had the least in brains and abilities of other teens but showed the most attitude. Almost subconsciously I wondered how this teen had a DOC number much lower than mine.The door closed behind him, and we two were unhappily in the cage together. I realized again how small a prison cell can be. Small, and made of steel."Yo gramps. What you in for--drivin' your wheelchair without a license?"He laughed, easily amused by his own puerile humor."No," I said."No" "Come on Gramps. Spill it. I know you're in for some pansy deal." "Grand thieft." "Wow. Some big dangerous criminal!" he sneered. "Gramps I was first sent up to the state boys school for grand thieft auto when I was a freshman. I graduated from the state boys' prison high school. They got me this time for drug dealing. I was driving my own Corvette at the time. Paid cash for it. Should have known no good for a nineteen year old driving his own Corvette over 115, but I sure gave those coppers and good chase." Wilson continued to look at me. I would have to admit his stare almost seemed like he was doing an x-ray of my whole body. "Gramps you smell queer to me. I going to give your queer ass the privilege of serving my needs in this cell. Right now just sit there at the back of the cell. Don't talk. I'll call you if I need you. I think we're goin to start you out on toilet duty. I hate that scratchy cheap tp the state buys. You will have the great privilege of licking my butt hole clean. (writer's note to SIR. I think I will not have him actually lick it clean. Harris will make the professor use his wash cloth to wipe Harris's butt...) The other thing you need to remember now that where you are is your spot in my cell." After he had issued his orders he sat on the little seat, and started going through all my things. "Boi you ain't got any shit worth taking. You're pitiful. I may have to rent you out to get you paying your fee for me allowing you to live in my presence." I did not know what to do. I did have a thought that when in prison, perhaps you should appreciate whenever you are not being used by the free persons of society and the free persons who were in charge of you in the department of corrections (now there is one ironic title for this place) or someone like Harris, who had just indicated his intention to make me into a prison bitch. I had almost decided that stories of men being bitched out were more exaggeration than reality. Stretch had me convinced these stories were not true. Harris now was showing me that all I feared. (Although I dare I admit to myself that somewhere in the deepest part of my fantasy of life in prison I did imagine being made into a prison bitch.) As Harris hummed to himself, I crouched as ordered. Fear named Harris controlled me just as effectively as the bars. My knees were really hearting and I was beginning to wonder what pain was worse – the pain in my knees or the pain I was sure Harris would inflict upon me if I interrupted him in whatever he was doing. Fortunately I was saved by Harris glancing over at me. "Yo Gramps you look a little wobbly on your knees. Sit on your ass with your knees wide apart so I can kick you in the nuts if I want to." I wondered if I should acknowledge the order by saying something like "SIR YES SIR" or just do as ordered. I chose the latter and since I did not get yelled at I was thankful that I had guessed correctly. He looked over at me with a sort of look of amusement and contemplation. "Gramps it should be getting close to our time to go downstairs to dine." I could see from the smile on his face that he was enjoying his attempt at verbal irony by calling what we would stomp down the stairs to do had any connection with the pleasure of dining at some fine restaurant. "When we go down you will follow me. YOU ALWAYS FOLLOW ME." He said that much louder and more forcefully. I responded to that clue, by nodding vigorously. I got an almost smile as my reward. "When we get trays I will lead the way to my table. You will sit on my left, and sit after I am seated. You will put your tray in front of you but also toward me. The screws will not allow you to just give me your tray. You will put your hands to your side, and you will maintain that position, looking down at the table until I allow you to eat. If you have pleased me you may use the spoon, and I will say `spoon.' If I do not say spoon you will eat with your hands like some lower form of human...which is of course what you are." "After we eat you will take my try and yours to return them. If the screws get pissed about that I will take mine. However, for doing whatever you did to gain the screws' attention I will physically punish you when we return to my house." I again nodded in agreement. I stayed sitting on my butt for another period of time as he went to the bars, and started shouting out them. I do not know how he knew where to yell, and with all the racket the perpetually echoed around the cell house, how he could expect another inmate to make his voice out, and how he could make out the reply, but apparently after some yelling, he must have been successful, because he turned to me. "I got some homeboys here, and we are good for my table. I will let them know you're mine, and go from there." Not much later we were ordered to the bars, and I assumed my place squashed between the end of the bunk and the cell, and the new lord and master took the more open area by the stainless steel throne. The familiar routine of being called out, coming out, grabbing hands to elbows, and stomping, down and across all repeated itself but I could almost not contain my fear and feeling of worthlessness as I knew soon I would be shown to all the inmates of our dinner group as a newly minted bitch sub. After we received our trays, Harris directed me to an empty table. I placed my try down and sat on the little stool. Three other inmates joined our table. I gathered that my new owner was known by enough others that my place in the scheme of things was clear, and others of his gang ( I assumed his gang) joined him. A nod from Harris and the other three helped themselves to items from my tray. The fruit was scooped away, and my mystery meat disappeared. I was now left with a mound of something that clearly was starch of some mysterious origin. Again a nod from Harris, and they stopped, and his nod and one word spoon allowed me to eat the starch, and scrape the remains of he syrup from the fruit. I also was allowed to eat something that might charitably be described as a slice of pie... mostly a past like crust and some red things that looked like cherries that had been beaten to death. The other three were talking a language that I did not understand. It clearly was English based but a slang vocabulary that was as foreign to me as the most obscure language on the planet. I was slowly realizing that not only was my cell mate younger, but he was indeed an important gang figure, and probably I was identified to be his cell mate with the understanding of prison officials that I would become Harris's personal slave. I wondered if I was a freebie or indeed some favors had been given to prison personnel to make me a sub prisoner to a superior prisoner. When the order to stow the trays was given I picked up mine and Harris's and with seeming no notice by the guards Harris remained seated as I trotted over to do my duty. The routine of the return to our cells now occurred. As we went back, I really found myself almost as a robot. How far had I traveled from that naïve professor in a week. I now knew inwardly the routine of this place, I now knew the kindness of another prisoner and the cold domination of another, and through it all I had become accustomed to this mind numbing routine, and the constantly repetitive theme of a prisoner was an offender, and the state was quite comfortable to allow one of this sub species to dominate and own another of the sub species. I was becoming less capable of thinking. I was becoming the lower level species of humanoid who lived close to basics, and accepted that I was fairly close to nothing. As we stopped to be locked into our cage, I really found myself amazed at my descent, Did Jim really know what would be happening to me? Could anyone who has not experienced this life in reality really come to grip with its reality? I really hope that Jim was at least a bit as naïve as I was. Once in our ...no not our... Harris's cell, I went automatically to the back sat down on spread my legs as I had been ordered. Harris sat down, glanced over at me, smiled, "You show promise as a bitch, but from now on when we are back in my cell, you will strip down to boxers before you assume your "ready to serve" position at the back of my cell. If I train you well, maybe I'll sell you." I did not say anything, but did as ordered. To me this concept seemed absolutely impossible. I was an inmate. I was legally in the custody of the state. I was certainly supposed to be punished, and serve my time as punishment, but was all this also part of what the state was willing to allow to happen to a citizen even if that citizen was convicted and imprisoned? I almost moved in absolute shock at the answer. Clearly I had just shown the answer. The officers at the mess hall had to know what was happening to me, and what it meant when I allowed others to consume much of my meal as I sat there with my hands at my sides. Obviously they knew and allowed me to show my subservience as I took my master's tray back to the slots. Obviously the state was willing to allow all this primitive survival-of-the-most-violent-and-strongest environment. I again decided that when I was released, returned to my former life I would become an eloquent and indefatigable advocate for prison reform, and prisoner rights. I almost smiled as I contemplated what I could bring to this task in my old life. Not only did I have two professorships which would add credibility to my goals, but I had contacts with prominent persons in both the political, legal, and judicial areas. As I sat on the cold concrete floor, legs spread wide exposing my groin area behind my boxers, I must have smiled outwardly as well as inwardly. `YOU BETTER BE SMILING AT THOUGHTS OF HOW TO SERVE ME GRAMPS! ANY OTHER REASON FOR SMILING WILL BRING YOU TROUBLE." "SIR yes SIR" was my reply. `GOOD BOY. I am about ready to take a piss and shit. You need to get your wash cloth, get it moist, and be ready to wipe your MASTER's butt after HIS shit with your cloth. It shows your place, and that what has had the honor of cleaning my asshole will be used to clean your face. Do you agree that I am very generous to share such an intimate place with a lowly shit like YOU?" I know what I wanted to say. I also knew what I would say. "SIR that is a great honor and privilege SIR." I then went to the little bag of my personals which my Master had returned to me after he had made his search for any items he wanted. I got out my wash cloth, went to the sink part of the stainless steel alter to inmate cleanliness, and put it under the water to get it wet. "Wring it out so that it is damp, but not wet, and then stick it under your shirt on your chest to get it warm." I did that and then was ordered "Get over to the bars and let me know it is safe to shit. Those cunt guards get some sort of sick fun out of watching us real men shit." I had to admit that even Stretch thought that some of the female guards seemed to come around a cell when an inmate was shitting a bit too often for it to be an accident. I looked as far as I could. "Shit for brains. I forgot you don't know shit. Take my mirror and use it to look up and down the tier." I took his mirror all the time wondering how he managed to have it in this Reception Center. Ah well, mine is not to think, only to obey. I took the mirror out and used to look both ways. I did not see a guard on the walkway in front of our set of cells. "SIR boy does not see any guard on the tier, SIR." I reported. "You better be right, boy," was his reply as he pulled down his pants and boxers, and sat on the stainless steel rim of the toilet. There was no toilet seat. "Boy to the bars and keep a look out." I hastily returned to searching back and forth for a guard making her way down the tier. I could hear him both shitting and then standing up. "Ready for your service boy." he ordered. Harris stood up and moved aside so that I could go around him. He was now facing the bars and I was behind him looking at his bare butt. "DAMN I need to tell you everything. You are truly one dumb old fart. Kneel down, gently spread my cheeks with your hands, and then with one hand keep them spread as you take your other hand, get the cloth, and make sure the hole and area around the hole is completely clean. You need to do this carefully but quickly. Say `CLEAN' when you are done. Then take the cloth now full of your MASTER's essence, and return in to your bunk pillow to dry." I meekly did as ordered. There were now brown streaks and smudges on my washcloth. I did have a second one but I knew deep down that I would be told that I had the honor of using this one for my morning cleaning activities. I did also notice that his cock was probably eight inches soft. I had probably three inches. I knew when he had time to notice, he would really make fun of my little cock, and probably tell everyone in the area about it. He did both during that first evening tier. He shouted to his buddies in neighboring cells that his boy had the smallest cock he had ever seen. He made jokes about how I could have sex with any woman...if that was my preference, which he doubted, without ever worrying of getting the bitch pregnant. Every time I thought he had brought me as low as possible, I found he had more degradation to heap on me. Not much more happened until the announcement that lights would be out shortly. He got into his bunk, handing me his pants and shit shirt. "Fold them according to regs, and put them at the bottom of the bunk." I was ordered. When I had finished my task, I was ordered to the top bunk, and threatened to be sure that I did my prison pants and shirt well enough that I would bring no official demerits to his cell. I stripped off, folded carefully, and got under my blanket, although it was both so small and so thin that the term blanket could be thought of as honorary. The next morning through the entirety of the whole day was a carbon of my life the first full day of being punked out sub. Two days later I was informed that it was perhaps time for me to learn to serve his cock by being sure after a piss that there was no little pearls of his essence on the tip. I was to be given the high honor of cleaning his cock off, but he made it clear I was not yet worthy to suck him off to give him relief from his built up need to spurt. I knew it was coming, but I feared this almost more than having to carefully soap and clean up my washcloth in the morning to wash my face after my wash cloth had been used as my MASTER's toilet paper. I had almost expected my MASTER to make me wash my face without any cleaning, but he seemed to not even notice when I washed my face. The morning inspection both by Master and the authorities went as before. Breakfast and my humiliating passivity while my food was taken was repeated, as it was at lunch. In between time, I had time spent at the bars making sure no one would see Master piss or shit. I of course had to take my chances, and after I asked permission, I was allowed to piss about the middle of the morning. As I stood there doing my business a guard came by. He was male, but he stared at me pissing. "Your boy doesn't have much of a dick does he." the guard said to Master. "Naw, but it is only used for pissing and so its baby size is unimportant." was Master's reply. By this time I had finished, but as I had been instructed, I waited dick in hand, and waited until the two superiors finished their conversation. Then I asked, "SIR permission to stash my pitiful cock back up, SIR? "Sure, zip up, and then get to work cleaning the toilet and sink." "SIR yes SIR." I answered quickly. I had learned yesterday that if I were too slow to acknowledge a command that I would receive a sharp smack on my butt. Master then moved over a bit so I could work, as again my wash cloth was the means to wipe off the rim of the toilet until the metal shone, and then to do the same with the sink portion of this combined tower of steel. All the time I was cleaning, Master and the guard, (I guess they are officially called co's, but other less flattering names should be applied to these persons who condone subjugation of the weak, and perhaps even get a voyeur's enjoyment from this subjugation) carried on a conversation. I then moved to the back of the cell, sat down on my butt, and opened my legs up. I had so accepted his domination of me that I did not even think that I was also clearly showing both my subservience but also Master's superiority. The guard left, and MASTER sat down on the stool, and looked over some papers. As I sat there I wondered where he had obtained these papers. I certainly had not been given any papers to read to keep up with current events. There were tv sets from pipes hanging about ten feet or so away from the edge of the walkways in front of the cells. There were several of these hanging tv's across the width of the cell block. I had noticed them, and noticed that on the screens the shows were not anything which interested me. CHAPTER 14Back at B22, I stood inside and waited until I heard the door of bars slide shut, locking me inside my cage again, but this time alone. I stood there, and then for the first time sat on the steel seat by the wall. I sat there and felt sorry for myself all over again. I alternated moping and looking through the bars, as if looking would suddenly bring Stretch back. I knew that would never happen. Then I heard the cat calls and shouted comments announcing that a new batch of fresh made state prisoners had arrived. I went to the bars and looked down the tier. I heard all the yelling and banging on the bars. I realized that all that noise was present at some level almost all the time, but by this time I almost ignored it. I sat down to mope some more. Then I heard the pounding of inmate shoes on steel stairs, and I realized that the new batch of convicts was now being distributed. I heard stomping coming toward my cage. I suddenly I had this awful unacceptable thought. One of these new born prisoners was coming into my cell, but I did not want someone else. No one could take Stretch's place, and I wanted to be left alone in my self- pity. But while I was formulating a protest against some new convict coming into my house, the parade stopped at my door."Back of the cell, 213!" That was the order. I knew I couldn't disobey. My induction experience had convinced me that the free persons who were running this entrance to hell could and would do anything they wanted with me. "SIR yes SIR" was my response. Gone were the brave thoughts of protest. I knew that somewhere in this warehouse of misery there could be a someone in authority who could make my cage seem like a place of pleasure. There was a clanking of chains. One suit of brown was being removed from the other suits of brown. Detached from the group came a white bald teenager. He looked at me with the same look of contempt that I am sure covered my own face. "Harris 114832--IN!"Harris 114832 walked in with the sort of swagger I had seen on campus and found particularly irritating. As far as I could tell, teen males who had the least in brains and abilities of other teens but showed the most attitude. Almost subconsciously I wondered how this teen had a DOC number much lower than mine.The door closed behind him, and we two were unhappily in the cage together. I realized again how small a prison cell can be. Small, and made of steel."Yo gramps. What you in for--drivin' your wheelchair without a license?"He laughed, easily amused by his own puerile humor."No," I said."No" "Come on Gramps. Spill it. I know you're in for some pansy deal." "Grand thieft." "Wow. Some big dangerous criminal!" he sneered. "Gramps I was first sent up to the state boys school for grand thieft auto when I was a freshman. I graduated from the state boys' prison high school. They got me this time for drug dealing. I was driving my own Corvette at the time. Paid cash for it. Should have known no good for a nineteen year old driving his own Corvette over 115, but I sure gave those coppers and good chase." Wilson continued to look at me. I would have to admit his stare almost seemed like he was doing an x-ray of my whole body. "Gramps you smell queer to me. I going to give your queer ass the privilege of serving my needs in this cell. Right now just sit there at the back of the cell. Don't talk. I'll call you if I need you. I think we're goin to start you out on toilet duty. I hate that scratchy cheap tp the state buys. You will have the great privilege of licking my butt hole clean. (writer's note to SIR. I think I will not have him actually lick it clean. Harris will make the professor use his wash cloth to wipe Harris's butt...) The other thing you need to remember now that where you are is your spot in my cell." After he had issued his orders he sat on the little seat, and started going through all my things. "Boi you ain't got any shit worth taking. You're pitiful. I may have to rent you out to get you paying your fee for me allowing you to live in my presence." I did not know what to do. I did have a thought that when in prison, perhaps you should appreciate whenever you are not being used by the free persons of society and the free persons who were in charge of you in the department of corrections (now there is one ironic title for this place) or someone like Harris, who had just indicated his intention to make me into a prison bitch. I had almost decided that stories of men being bitched out were more exaggeration than reality. Stretch had me convinced these stories were not true. Harris now was showing me that all I feared. (Although I dare I admit to myself that somewhere in the deepest part of my fantasy of life in prison I did imagine being made into a prison bitch.) As Harris hummed to himself, I crouched as ordered. Fear named Harris controlled me just as effectively as the bars. My knees were really hearting and I was beginning to wonder what pain was worse – the pain in my knees or the pain I was sure Harris would inflict upon me if I interrupted him in whatever he was doing. Fortunately I was saved by Harris glancing over at me. "Yo Gramps you look a little wobbly on your knees. Sit on your ass with your knees wide apart so I can kick you in the nuts if I want to." I wondered if I should acknowledge the order by saying something like "SIR YES SIR" or just do as ordered. I chose the latter and since I did not get yelled at I was thankful that I had guessed correctly. He looked over at me with a sort of look of amusement and contemplation. "Gramps it should be getting close to our time to go downstairs to dine." I could see from the smile on his face that he was enjoying his attempt at verbal irony by calling what we would stomp down the stairs to do had any connection with the pleasure of dining at some fine restaurant. "When we go down you will follow me. YOU ALWAYS FOLLOW ME." He said that much louder and more forcefully. I responded to that clue, by nodding vigorously. I got an almost smile as my reward. "When we get trays I will lead the way to my table. You will sit on my left, and sit after I am seated. You will put your tray in front of you but also toward me. The screws will not allow you to just give me your tray. You will put your hands to your side, and you will maintain that position, looking down at the table until I allow you to eat. If you have pleased me you may use the spoon, and I will say `spoon.' If I do not say spoon you will eat with your hands like some lower form of human...which is of course what you are." "After we eat you will take my try and yours to return them. If the screws get pissed about that I will take mine. However, for doing whatever you did to gain the screws' attention I will physically punish you when we return to my house." I again nodded in agreement. I stayed sitting on my butt for another period of time as he went to the bars, and started shouting out them. I do not know how he knew where to yell, and with all the racket the perpetually echoed around the cell house, how he could expect another inmate to make his voice out, and how he could make out the reply, but apparently after some yelling, he must have been successful, because he turned to me. "I got some homeboys here, and we are good for my table. I will let them know you're mine, and go from there." Not much later we were ordered to the bars, and I assumed my place squashed between the end of the bunk and the cell, and the new lord and master took the more open area by the stainless steel throne. The familiar routine of being called out, coming out, grabbing hands to elbows, and stomping, down and across all repeated itself but I could almost not contain my fear and feeling of worthlessness as I knew soon I would be shown to all the inmates of our dinner group as a newly minted bitch sub. After we received our trays, Harris directed me to an empty table. I placed my try down and sat on the little stool. Three other inmates joined our table. I gathered that my new owner was known by enough others that my place in the scheme of things was clear, and others of his gang ( I assumed his gang) joined him. A nod from Harris and the other three helped themselves to items from my tray. The fruit was scooped away, and my mystery meat disappeared. I was now left with a mound of something that clearly was starch of some mysterious origin. Again a nod from Harris, and they stopped, and his nod and one word spoon allowed me to eat the starch, and scrape the remains of he syrup from the fruit. I also was allowed to eat something that might charitably be described as a slice of pie... mostly a past like crust and some red things that looked like cherries that had been beaten to death. The other three were talking a language that I did not understand. It clearly was English based but a slang vocabulary that was as foreign to me as the most obscure language on the planet. I was slowly realizing that not only was my cell mate younger, but he was indeed an important gang figure, and probably I was identified to be his cell mate with the understanding of prison officials that I would become Harris's personal slave. I wondered if I was a freebie or indeed some favors had been given to prison personnel to make me a sub prisoner to a superior prisoner. When the order to stow the trays was given I picked up mine and Harris's and with seeming no notice by the guards Harris remained seated as I trotted over to do my duty. The routine of the return to our cells now occurred. As we went back, I really found myself almost as a robot. How far had I traveled from that naïve professor in a week. I now knew inwardly the routine of this place, I now knew the kindness of another prisoner and the cold domination of another, and through it all I had become accustomed to this mind numbing routine, and the constantly repetitive theme of a prisoner was an offender, and the state was quite comfortable to allow one of this sub species to dominate and own another of the sub species. I was becoming less capable of thinking. I was becoming the lower level species of humanoid who lived close to basics, and accepted that I was fairly close to nothing. As we stopped to be locked into our cage, I really found myself amazed at my descent, Did Jim really know what would be happening to me? Could anyone who has not experienced this life in reality really come to grip with its reality? I really hope that Jim was at least a bit as naïve as I was. Once in our ...no not our... Harris's cell, I went automatically to the back sat down on spread my legs as I had been ordered. Harris sat down, glanced over at me, smiled, "You show promise as a bitch, but from now on when we are back in my cell, you will strip down to boxers before you assume your "ready to serve" position at the back of my cell. If I train you well, maybe I'll sell you." I did not say anything, but did as ordered. To me this concept seemed absolutely impossible. I was an inmate. I was legally in the custody of the state. I was certainly supposed to be punished, and serve my time as punishment, but was all this also part of what the state was willing to allow to happen to a citizen even if that citizen was convicted and imprisoned? I almost moved in absolute shock at the answer. Clearly I had just shown the answer. The officers at the mess hall had to know what was happening to me, and what it meant when I allowed others to consume much of my meal as I sat there with my hands at my sides. Obviously they knew and allowed me to show my subservience as I took my master's tray back to the slots. Obviously the state was willing to allow all this primitive survival-of-the-most-violent-and-strongest environment. I again decided that when I was released, returned to my former life I would become an eloquent and indefatigable advocate for prison reform, and prisoner rights. I almost smiled as I contemplated what I could bring to this task in my old life. Not only did I have two professorships which would add credibility to my goals, but I had contacts with prominent persons in both the political, legal, and judicial areas. As I sat on the cold concrete floor, legs spread wide exposing my groin area behind my boxers, I must have smiled outwardly as well as inwardly. `YOU BETTER BE SMILING AT THOUGHTS OF HOW TO SERVE ME GRAMPS! ANY OTHER REASON FOR SMILING WILL BRING YOU TROUBLE." "SIR yes SIR" was my reply. `GOOD BOY. I am about ready to take a piss and shit. You need to get your wash cloth, get it moist, and be ready to wipe your MASTER's butt after HIS shit with your cloth. It shows your place, and that what has had the honor of cleaning my asshole will be used to clean your face. Do you agree that I am very generous to share such an intimate place with a lowly shit like YOU?" I know what I wanted to say. I also knew what I would say. "SIR that is a great honor and privilege SIR." I then went to the little bag of my personals which my Master had returned to me after he had made his search for any items he wanted. I got out my wash cloth, went to the sink part of the stainless steel alter to inmate cleanliness, and put it under the water to get it wet. "Wring it out so that it is damp, but not wet, and then stick it under your shirt on your chest to get it warm." I did that and then was ordered "Get over to the bars and let me know it is safe to shit. Those cunt guards get some sort of sick fun out of watching us real men shit." I had to admit that even Stretch thought that some of the female guards seemed to come around a cell when an inmate was shitting a bit too often for it to be an accident. I looked as far as I could. "Shit for brains. I forgot you don't know shit. Take my mirror and use it to look up and down the tier." I took his mirror all the time wondering how he managed to have it in this Reception Center. Ah well, mine is not to think, only to obey. I took the mirror out and used to look both ways. I did not see a guard on the walkway in front of our set of cells. "SIR boy does not see any guard on the tier, SIR." I reported. "You better be right, boy," was his reply as he pulled down his pants and boxers, and sat on the stainless steel rim of the toilet. There was no toilet seat. "Boy to the bars and keep a look out." I hastily returned to searching back and forth for a guard making her way down the tier. I could hear him both shitting and then standing up. "Ready for your service boy." he ordered. Harris stood up and moved aside so that I could go around him. He was now facing the bars and I was behind him looking at his bare butt. "DAMN I need to tell you everything. You are truly one dumb old fart. Kneel down, gently spread my cheeks with your hands, and then with one hand keep them spread as you take your other hand, get the cloth, and make sure the hole and area around the hole is completely clean. You need to do this carefully but quickly. Say `CLEAN' when you are done. Then take the cloth now full of your MASTER's essence, and return in to your bunk pillow to dry." I meekly did as ordered. There were now brown streaks and smudges on my washcloth. I did have a second one but I knew deep down that I would be told that I had the honor of using this one for my morning cleaning activities. I did also notice that his cock was probably eight inches soft. I had probably three inches. I knew when he had time to notice, he would really make fun of my little cock, and probably tell everyone in the area about it. He did both during that first evening tier. He shouted to his buddies in neighboring cells that his boy had the smallest cock he had ever seen. He made jokes about how I could have sex with any woman...if that was my preference, which he doubted, without ever worrying of getting the bitch pregnant. Every time I thought he had brought me as low as possible, I found he had more degradation to heap on me. Not much more happened until the announcement that lights would be out shortly. He got into his bunk, handing me his pants and shit shirt. "Fold them according to regs, and put them at the bottom of the bunk." I was ordered. When I had finished my task, I was ordered to the top bunk, and threatened to be sure that I did my prison pants and shirt well enough that I would bring no official demerits to his cell. I stripped off, folded carefully, and got under my blanket, although it was both so small and so thin that the term blanket could be thought of as honorary. The next morning through the entirety of the whole day was a carbon of my life the first full day of being punked out sub. Two days later I was informed that it was perhaps time for me to learn to serve his cock by being sure after a piss that there was no little pearls of his essence on the tip. I was to be given the high honor of cleaning his cock off, but he made it clear I was not yet worthy to suck him off to give him relief from his built up need to spurt. I knew it was coming, but I feared this almost more than having to carefully soap and clean up my washcloth in the morning to wash my face after my wash cloth had been used as my MASTER's toilet paper. I had almost expected my MASTER to make me wash my face without any cleaning, but he seemed to not even notice when I washed my face. The morning inspection both by Master and the authorities went as before. Breakfast and my humiliating passivity while my food was taken was repeated, as it was at lunch. In between time, I had time spent at the bars making sure no one would see Master piss or shit. I of course had to take my chances, and after I asked permission, I was allowed to piss about the middle of the morning. As I stood there doing my business a guard came by. He was male, but he stared at me pissing. "Your boy doesn't have much of a dick does he." the guard said to Master. "Naw, but it is only used for pissing and so its baby size is unimportant." was Master's reply. By this time I had finished, but as I had been instructed, I waited dick in hand, and waited until the two superiors finished their conversation. Then I asked, "SIR permission to stash my pitiful cock back up, SIR? "Sure, zip up, and then get to work cleaning the toilet and sink." "SIR yes SIR." I answered quickly. I had learned yesterday that if I were too slow to acknowledge a command that I would receive a sharp smack on my butt. Master then moved over a bit so I could work, as again my wash cloth was the means to wipe off the rim of the toilet until the metal shone, and then to do the same with the sink portion of this combined tower of steel. All the time I was cleaning, Master and the guard, (I guess they are officially called co's, but other less flattering names should be applied to these persons who condone subjugation of the weak, and perhaps even get a voyeur's enjoyment from this subjugation) carried on a conversation. I then moved to the back of the cell, sat down on my butt, and opened my legs up. I had so accepted his domination of me that I did not even think that I was also clearly showing both my subservience but also Master's superiority. The guard left, and MASTER sat down on the stool, and looked over some papers. As I sat there I wondered where he had obtained these papers. I certainly had not been given any papers to read to keep up with current events. There were tv sets from pipes hanging about ten feet or so away from the edge of the walkways in front of the cells. There were several of these hanging tv's across the width of the cell block. I had noticed them, and noticed that on the screens the shows were not anything which interested me.