Date: Tue, 21 Aug 2012 23:12:57 -0400 From: d.a. w Subject: Professor's Practicum Chapters 9 and 10 THANKS to all of you who sent me a message about enjoying the story. Your response keeps me writing. THNAKS AGAIN!Please also remember to support Nifty. We who write need a place to share these stories, and both you and I have long enjoyed reading stories here. CHAPTER 9After reading the rules and making sure I had a plan for the day to follow them, I retrieved my paper bag project, and began anew to disassemble the bag into a sheet of paper. I also took advantage of having a window on the whole cell block. By keeping track of the cell block I discovered that breakfast was served to the cell block as a whole. A cart of trays was brought into the cell block central area, and inmates came out of their cells and individually picked up a tray. It was efficient and quick. I also noted the attendant who rushed me so much in the previous evening took some time to talk with several inmates. After he had socialized, he took six trays and headed up for those of us in individual cells. Therefore I was waiting for him when he arrived and placed my tray on the slot shelf. I immediately grabbed the tray, and consumed what I think were scrambled eggs, a piece of cold toast, and what was some mysterious meat in a small patty. I finished and returned the tray to the shelf. I could see now why we victims in the punishment solitary cells were given only a little time for meals. The inmate porter spent his time down in the cell block central area, and therefore had to rush for us. I was angry but powerless to see that not only the officials of the jail added to the misery of those of us being punished in these individual cells, but also the inmates were given license by the guards to add to our misery. I began by adding a new chapter to the book or articles I planned from this experience about how inmates were only too happy to "pile on" other inmates. No common bond of the oppressed here. After breakfast, I returned and finally finished my paper project. I now had the paper bag disassembled, and realized I nothing to use as a writing utensil.I decided that I might as well to what I realized I had forgotten to shave, brush my teeth, and take care of my elimination needs. I was surprised that I suddenly realized I had neither pissed nor shit yet. I sat there for a moment, and decided I would pass some time looking out my window on the cell block one floor below me.To my surprise as I looked out, what I saw was an officer, coming up directly to my cell door. "COX, cuff up!" was the loud and almost angry sounding order.I did know from tv and also from some of my research times in a prison what to do. I knelt down and placed my wrists on the shelf of the bean hole.My wrists were roughly grabbed, and I received the familiar pain of the cuff being snapped shut around my left wrist. The right wrist soon followed. "Open B-14" the officer ordered.He released my wrists and I began to try to stand up. It is not easy without the use of your hands. "COX !!!" My name caused me to freeze. "JUST STAY WHERE YOU ARE. MOVE WHEN WE MOVE YOUR ASS OR WHEN YOU ARE ORDERED!"I froze with me crouched on my knees and my handcuffed hands brushing the door as it opened. "TURN AROUND!"Staying on my knees, I maneuvered around, and to my amazement I felt leg shackles being attached to my ankles. "REALLY?!" my brain was saying. I am inside a jail. I am not inside the jail, but inside a cell block. Even if I were outside the cell block I would not have any access outside the jail. I need to be shackles??Getting a little smarter as an inmate, I just obeyed. An officer grasped me under my arms, and pulled me up. Then grasping me by my restrained arms, I was guided down the walkway toward the stairs.In my fantasy life, I would have found the sound of the chain connecting my ankles clanking on the floor and against itself would have been erotic enough to cause me to get an erection. This was not fantasy, and I was just too shocked to react.We went down the stairs, which is not just a task done with no thought when in shackles. It was not helped that I was being dragged along. The officer did go slowly enough that I did learn how to place my feet to be able to make the step down without getting hung up because the connecting chain would not allow my foot to hit the step below.Down the stairs the leg shackles really making a merry tune on the steel stair steps. That racket did arouse some additional interest from the many inmates in the central say area of the cell block, but not enough for more than a casual glance. I am sure if they had been here very long this little parade or chained inmate, too many times to be interested. We arrived at the door out of the common area of the cell block. The door opened and I saw that my idea was correct. On my left was a cement block wall. On my right was an officer sitting at a desk looking out at the bull pen common area of the cell block. Although there was a window to see into his area, there was no door into his area. His job clearly was to keep track of the animals in this cage of the jail zoo.With a tap on the window, the outer door was opened, and I was in the corridor. Off we went clanking to the elevator, and without being told, I went in and faced the back wall.I thought I might get a "Good job" but we rode down in silence. Finally we reached our destination and with a tug on the cuffs, I backed out of the elevator. I was in a hallway. Somehow I knew we were below ground. We went long the hallway to a door which was opened by the officer punching in some code.Once inside here, I was moved along a series of other doors. The seemed about far enough to be the doors to a series of storage closets. The officer, fished out a key, unlocked one of the doors, and I saw I was in an interview room. On one side was the "mirror" which everyone knew was actually a one way glass so that what went on could be observed. I was taken over to a chair facing the window. As I sat I heard my escort officer's voice for again after our long journey in silence. "When you sit down, put the leg shackle chain inside the floor clamp," In my interest with the rest of the room I had not noticed a sort of hinged clamp on the floor. I would guess it was about three inches long. I did as ordered and when I moved over between the chair and the table, I moved my ankle so that the connecting chain was inside the two sides. I sat down, and the officer went behind me and my wrists were freed. However, now I saw a cuff dangling from the side of the table, which could not see was bolted to the floor. As my handcuffs were removed, my left wrist was snapped into the dangling cuff. I discovered I did have enough chain on the cuff to allow both my hands to rest on the table."Keep quite until your interrogator arrives."With that he left, and I was happy to look at four three walls, The one opposite me faced the mirror, and the one to my right had the door from which we entered. On the left was some sort of bulletin board. Nothing was on that board.I knew better than to begin talking. After what seemed like a fairly long time, but probably wasn't, - time really slows in a room as boring as this one, and especially when you have no ability to pace or even move all that much.After what seemed a long time, in waked my neighbor Officer Jim. He had a file folder which he put onto the table. He opened the folder and passed a couple of papers over to me.The first had a comment. "Everything in this room is taped both audio and video." I was forewarned."Cox, I wonder if you have knowledge of any of these other crimes done in your area." I looked over a list of crimes that he gave me. "No Officer I only admit to the crimes for which I was arrested.""Really" We did some more fake conversations about crimes and any of my supposed criminal friends.Finally he put another paper in front of me. It had printed, "A lot of times it takes a week to get you our of state tier and into Reception and Orientation. I am going to get you there as soon as possible. Having fun yet?"I still think you have some knowledge of some of these crimes. I will keep trying to get you to help yourself by helping me clear these other crimes. We will meet again."He got up, tapped on the door, which was promptly opened, and I was left there with more information. I had never been in the "Reception and Orientation" facility as visitors were not really allowed. Even lawyers needed some really overwhelming reason to get to see a person inside that big and fairly new facility I had seen on the west side of the city.I remained locked in place for what seemed like a long time, and then was released from my leg shackle lock, and made the return trip to my cell. I had already decided there is a lot of repetition in jail.Back home in B-14 I knelt...this time the escort officer actually helped me down so that I did not crash down on my knee, My politeness home training kicked in, and I said "Thank you officer." He stared at me. Shook his head, unlocked my leg shackles, stood outside the door, and when it closed, my shelf was down and I dutifully inserted my cuffed hands into the opening, and was unlocked. I was surprised when the officer leaned to the opening."Be careful sounding too educated and polite Everyone will assume you're easy prey."With that he left, and I got up to sit on my little round seat and contemplate my fate.For two more days I sat in my individual cell. I already found that what some of the inmates talked about being in jail, and especially in solitary that it was the boredom that was almost mind numbing. I did manage to talk an officer into giving me a pencil What he gave me was one of those golf course little three inch pencil stubs, but to me it was beautiful. I began writing down observations and thoughts. I wrote in almost micro writing because I knew that I would not be able to buy more supplies. I was asleep in the very early morning of my fourth day of imprisonment. I had become acclimated to jail days that were very different than my free person day. My free person day began at the earliest at 7:00 am, and most days closer to 8:00. By that time in jail, we had been fed, inspected, and were part way on the way to lunch. Meals were amazingly repetitious and uniformly long on starch and short on protein.I was asleep in my cell when suddenly I heard the bean door open. In jail certain noises are important enough that when heard the body almost unconsciously reacts... I guess that sensitivity to some noises exists all the time, but here, with so little else as stimulation, this situation had become very clear to me. The sound of that important connection with the outside world of my cell... even if it was only the larger cell block was one of those now important noises that caused my body to react almost subconsciously. Aroused a bit I became very alert when I heard "COX, get your gear together, and be ready to cuff up in two minutes." I paused to consider that "gear" I had to get together. I had only my "personals" that were jail issue, and my little piece of paper with my reactions to the experience so far. I folded my paper and put it into my pocket."CUFF UP COX." was the order, and I dutifully put my wrists up on the shelf to be cuffed, of course I knew that the cuffs were to be locked behind my back and so I backed to the door.After I had been cuffed I heard the voice order the door to be opened, and I stayed on the floor. I had been trained (rather like a good dog) to await an order to move.I was soon lifted up."Any personals?" "SIR only a paper in the pocket with some thoughts I have ad at being incarcerated.""Shit COX, are you trying to be college prof or something/""SIR not SIR.""Leave the rest of that shit, Let's gt moving"With hands firmly grasping my cuffed hands we headed down the walkway. We went down the stairs, and there I was placed next to a table."STAY THERE COX!" again was the order.Going away from me, the officer went to a barred cell door, again barked an order to an inmate, and then went to three other cell doors. Soon each cell door was opened in turn, and I soon found myself as the fifth man in a little parade of cuffed men. Two were white and three were black. One of the black seemed to be older than a teen, but the others were clearly late teens.As we stood in our line, another officer came out from the gate to the hallway dragging a chain with cuff spaced on it. Soon one cuff was added to each of our wrists, and we were now a chain gang. I was the end of the line, and I saw that there were six cuffs on the chain, and so the other officer wrapped the connecting chain around my hips a couple of time, and I got the prize of being double cuffed on both wrists."All right! March out! Mouths Shut!"He surveyed his little brood, and then ordered "MARCH!"I followed right foot, left foot from those who began in front of me.As we arrived at the first door out of the cell block, it opened. When we were all in the space between doors, we had no choice but to scrunch up tightly. The inmate in front of me was one of the black teens. As we were pushed together, his cuffed hands were pushed against my cock. He wiggled his hands to push against my cock. I reacted a bit by moving backward, which got my butt stroked by one of those little batons they carried."Stay still!" I was ordered. I knew better to react by saying "That inmate in front of just groped me." My real response was "Yes SIR. Sorry SIR."The inmate tried to get me again, but I moved just a bit to the right and he missed. I just leaned left. I did know better than to move my feet. Soon we were through the second door, down the hall, and finally stuffed into a stair well and down the stairs. I figured out all five of us plus the guard would not fit in the elevator.When we got down several flights of stairs, I knew from counting the doors to floors that we passed that we were on the first floor.The door was unlocked and I discovered we were in a garage area, and in front of us was a van. There was a step up and our little band was able to sit down the line of seats on one side of the van.We were each seat belted into our seat, which also fastened us into the seat as the handcuffs prevented our release of the belt. The door opened, and the officers got in front. The one clearly in charge was the one who had gathered our little parade. A driver got in, the big steel garage door opened, and once again I was outside and looking at the city from the windows of a vehicle.I noted as we drove by one of the time signs on a bank that we were on our way at 5:45 am. We wound around, and were soon on the interstate heading west. I realized that we were on our way to the state prison system's Reception and Diagnostic Center west of the city. There was not much traffic on the interstate, but when cars passed us, especially if there were a passenger, we inmates in our orange, were really stared at. There were bars on the windows of the van and so we were literally behind mobile bars, but clearly behind bars. There were also bars at the front of the van which separated us from the driver and front seat passenger.After a bit of a trip on the interstate we pulled off, went through the downtown area of a little town, and then we wound around to a large brick structure surrounded by three rows of fences with the spiral wire at the top. One gate was opened, we moved foreword slowly, and that gate closed. An officer came out from the guard house, paperwork was passed out to the officer, the officer walked around the van looking at our manifest of human cargo, and then returned to our two guards. They seemed to spend a bit of time chatting about something. I probably could have eavesdropped but frankly I was distracted by my own situation.After we were matched with our delivery documentation, the guard then came around the van and inspected it to see if any extra person was hiding under the bus or on top of it. I mentally wondered who was being expected to break inside a prison, but I suppose there might be someone who was that demented. To me the logic of this search really showed stupidity and bureaucracy. It was stupid because if anyone wanted to break us out that person would clearly have done it before being caged between two closed and locked gates. After this inspection, some more conversation between out guards and the gate tender, the second gate was opened, and in we went to a third gate, and we repeated the conversation, search, inventory assessment a second time. We did our dance one more time, and finally we were definitely inside a prison compound. We drove over to another fenced area, and were admitted. We were stopped again. When the window was rolled down, another guard came up to the van."You're number one as usual." He said to the driver."Yah, well we don't have far to go. Sort of express delivery.Any chance of unloading early?""Don't know park in the number one space. I'll call in to see what's up." We parked, the guards got our and began smoking, and we realized we were just parked like the bus.The prison guard came back, joined the other two in lighting up, and seemed to be having a fine time. It seemed relatively long to me, at least. I wondered why we had to get up so early just to sit in a van and wait. As I sat uncomfortably, I decided that it was probably not intentional, but was a good introduction to the fact that we were cargo, at best like animals being driven to market, and at the least just things being delivered, and not even very important – a task to be accomplished as early and easily as possible.As we sat there I heard from behind me. "Hey whities. You know you will be bitches to black brothers in prison don't you? You both look like you're weak and ready to be taken. When we are done with processing, just be prepared to be turned if celled with a brother."Both the other white guy and myself (and I did note that he was no more a body builder than I, although he did look a bit more muscular than I) chose not to reply."Listen bitches, you better hook up with a brother as soon as possible of the whole cell block will use you until one takes you as his bitch."The driver's window was down and apparently the black prisoner's remarks were loud enough to be heard, as the two drivers were just smoking and not talking too much at that moment.The driver came to the window. "SHUT UP ASSHOLES OR WE WILL TAPE"EM SHUT!"I was thankful for this order, and I suppose the other white man was also, Locked in the seats as we were, it was not really easy to turn around. One thing for sure, in my interest in this experience I had not fully considered the possibility of either fighting or submitting. As I sat there I thought "You are one dumb fool, to let your cock do your thinking. Where was your brain when you agreed to this?? Of course I knew as a white man I was a minority in prison. I also knew in the super masculine world of prison you might either have to fight or submit. As I sat awaiting my processing I had now a lot too occupy my time. I started thinking how can I contact Jim and how can he get me out of this? That was the first time I had a chilling thought. Jim does know what I am facing. He does know how much I might suffer from assault both physical and sexual. He has a plan to take advantage of my helplessness... and that helplessness far more than just the state ownership of me while I am literally in the custody (read ownership) of the state. I shuddered involuntarily. It only caused my chains to clank a little bit. I was caught. Chapter 10 "Reception and Diagnostic Center" sounds a little like some sort of a hospital area where you might be asked questions and after an interview, and perhaps some tests, be ushered into some waiting room to await the results, then be called in for a conference with an employee who would outline some course of action for your benefit. As we sat there now fairly quietly, we could hear one of the guards from the Center come out to our two officers. "Everything's ready inside. Bring yours in." I figured "yours" was us, and I must have been right because the officers came around to the back of the van and unlocked and opened the rear doors. I heard them wrestling around back there. Then they seemed to have found whatever they wanted, because soon the doors slammed shut. The officers reappeared with what looked like two plastic boxes...like the crates they put milk containers in, to deliver them to the supermarket. The officers went to the side that had the door to our part of the van, opened it, and told us to prepare for our walk into the Center. Our band of five prisoners were unbelted from the seats; then carefully, with legs still shackled together, we climbed out of the van. The boxes were waiting for us. The first inmate, then I, each had one of the plastic crates placed in our cuffed hands. We shuffled toward a door with "INTAKE" on a big sign above it, the plastic crate now hitting my legs every step I took. I also noted that three other vans and at least four police cars had arrived and were sitting in the parking lot. As we walked toward the entrance, I could see other cuffed and shackled men being escorted toward the door. The door was steel, locked in a concrete wall. It had no knob or handle. But as soon as we came up to it, the blank steel opened in front of us. Nobody had to knock. Any door that an inmate went through was controlled by others—by officers and machinery that were out of sight, and out of any possibility of an inmate controlling or probably even finding them. We clanked through the door, into a sort of waiting room. Lining the edges were the now familiar thick wooden benches, securely bolted to the walls, with the now familiar little clamps on the floor, which I now knew were to lock our shackle chains to the floor. On the walls behind the benches I could also see short chains which could lock onto handcuffs, and lock anyone in those cuffs to the wall. I again thought about the extreme measures the authorities seemed to feel necessary to reassure themselves that an inmate could not even move from where the authorities wanted to put that inmate. Escape was not even a remote possibility. Since we were the first ones being processed this morning, we did not have to sit cuffed and safely locked into position. We stood, lined up, with our crates in front of us, and the officers who had delivered us to the institution waved at another officer behind thick glass. Slowly the door in front of us opened. A few feet in front of us a second door barred any further progress. After officers and prisoners were squeezed inside, the outer door closed, and the inner door opened. I was now so used to this double door system, I did not even expect to go anywhere through a single door. Our second step into the Reception Center had taken us into a barren room. No benches, nothing except another window, but this one had glass that was so dark we could not see inside. The officers ordered us to stand in line as far apart as possible, given the chains we were wearing. They then began the unlocking of all the locks keeping us totally subjugated. First they unlocked the two cuffs from my wrists. Then the others were detached from the connecting chain. Now we found what those crates were for. "Tubs on the floor!" one of the officers said. We set down our boxes. Then the other officer dropped the chain and the cuffs into the first plastic crate. In my bedroom I might have had some penile reaction to the sound of all that steel dropping at once. In this situation, I just stood like the convict I was becoming. Next we were ordered onto our knees. The officers were actually considerate enough to "help" each of us down so we didn't just fall on our knees. Then we were each released from our leg shackles, and these also clanked loudly into the box with the connecting chain. Finally all of our handcuffs were removed and dropped into the box. It was full of chains and cuffs. I looked at how much steel was loaded in that box, and I smiled. Those two somewhat plump examples of doughnut fed law enforcement were going to have to lug all those pounds of chain that we had been wearing out to the van by themselves – with no convict labor to save them from real physical exercise. One of the officers saw my smile. In a second he was in my face, and I do mean literally, not figuratively. "SOMETHING FUNNY YOU PIECE OF CONVICT SHIT?! "SIR no SIR!" I yelled. Inwardly I yelled at myself. I knew that convicts were NOT wise to anger an officer who had so much power over them. I guess it was obvious that I needed another lesson about who I was now. Nobody yelled at a college professor. The worst thing that could happen would be that somebody might hint that your latest teaching evaluation might not be all that could have been desired. And when I fantasized in my bedroom about being in jail, I never felt an officer's spit hitting me in the face. But I was no longer a respected professional who happened to enjoy a mild sexual fetish in the privacy of his own home. I was a publicly convicted criminal, locked behind concrete walls, barbed wire fences, and blank steel doors with no knobs or handles. I was being "received" into my new home, where I would be "diagnosed" for all the diseases my keepers might find in a piece of convict shit. "When we get inside, I'll give you something to smile about," was the officer's comment as he glared at me. Inside? How much farther could I go inside? But I had no doubt I would soon pay for my lapse in keeping the proper convict neutral facial expression. As I and the other new pieces of convict shit rubbed our wrists to get some circulation in them, I heard the next order. It was an unwelcome surprise. "STRIP DOWN, NOW!!!" All of us began unzipping our jumpsuits. Soon we were all standing in nothing but our jail issued boxers. "FOLD AND PLACE THE JUMPSUITS IN THE OTHER BOX!" These orders were yelled at us. Even though we were in a relatively small space, and were quite close to the officers, for some reason they felt we had to be yelled at. When we had all placed our jumpsuits in the plastic box, it seemed to be full, with a lot of orange coming over the top. "YOU! FUNNY BOY! GIT OVER HERE AND STRAIGHTEN OUT THOSE UNIFORMS!" I could have guessed I had become Funny Boy, but the officer's glare confirmed my selection. I got to the plastic box, took out each of the five suits, and laid them on the floor. I was just reaching to start smoothing each of them out so I could fold it more neatly and it would take less space in the box, when I heard the order. "STOP!" I immediately stopped what I was doing. The other officer had another idea. "You think that's right, boy?" "Sir . . . I . . . " "Shut up. We're gonna start with the basics and work up from there. All right, Funny Boy, shuck your boxers. Fold `em, and put `em in the bottom of that box." I shucked my boxers and placed them in the bottom of the box, smoothing them out as I did so. Boxers are a lot easier to fold than jumpsuits. The bad thing was, I was feeling cold air on my balls and crack. Now I was naked. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been stood up naked in public. High school? I don't think so. Even at the health club, nobody would just stand without a towel or a jock or a pair of briefs to give him dignity or style or some amount of privacy. "The rest of you, shuck your boxers. Hand `em to our clothing attendant here." I stood there, naked. I should have guessed I would have to go to each of my fellow inductees into this wonderful world and get their boxers from them, but I was scared to move without being ordered. I decided not to. "Well dumbshit, get moving. Do I have to tell you everything?" Mentally I wanted to answer him with, "Of course I have to wait because it has been clear since I was handcuffed in the courtroom that a convict doesn't do anything without an order." That is what I wanted to say. I knew better than to say it. Instead I said "Sorry boss" and started down the line of four other now naked inmates. Each handed me their boxers, and I realized that I now had stacked on my hands all of their most private clothing. I knew that I was being made the lowest of our little group by serving them. I took my stack of boxers to the crate, and looked at the officer. "Smooth out all those boxers and jumpsuits. I want the box to be neat looking when you're done. I'm watching you, Funny Boy." I went onto my knees and smoothed out the boxers. Most of them were like mine had been – a bit damp from the fear sweat that was coming out of us. I went about my task, well aware that my butt and tackle was on full view of all as I wiggled around straightening and placing the clothing into the plastic box. My hands were shaking, and it was even worse when I had to fold something twice. I'd never been trained to fold convict suits. Finally my box was stuffed to the top with folded orange. "Now take both those boxes and place them neatly beside the door you came in through." "SIR yes SIR." I replied. I first took over the uniform box. It was heavier than I expected. Then that second box . . . I knew I was going to have to really kneel down, exposing my ass to everyone, in order to pick up that heavy box of chains. I tried to put out of my mind that I was going to be exposing myself to at least six other men as I wiggled my hands under the box, then tried to pick it up to move it. I tried to accomplish this task as I had been taught to do back in gym class -- by lifting from my legs and not my back. I didn't really do so, but I was happy that by this method I reduced my crack exposure to a minimum. The second box was heavy, but I was not a weakling. I did water aerobics and followed a weight training program at the university health club, so I had some lifting ability. I resumed my position in line. I got no thank-you for performing my task. The officers inspected us. They stood with their hands on their hips. Clubs and straps and cuffs hung from their belts. Badges decorated their chests. Lined up in front of them were five naked bodies, five basic pieces of convict shit. You could tell by their expressions, that's what they saw. "DOOR!" one of them yelled toward the window. The next door opened. For some reason my mind wandered to the "Let's Make Deal" TV show, with all of us inductees looking in anticipation for what was behind Door 2. I was last in line because I had been moving the baskets next to the outer door. As soon as I went through Door 2, it closed behind us, and we realized our jail officers had not come into the room with us. They were gone, and we were no longer in jail. We were in the State Department of Corrections. We were shocked to see what awaited us in this new room. Behind Door 2 was the barber shop. It was not like any free person barber shop. Instead of leather chairs, there was a series of six stools. Behind each stool stood two inmates. One had an electric clipper in hand; the other was just standing there. With six stools available, there was no waiting. Each of us was ordered onto one of the stools. As we sat on our stools, we saw four new officers, each one standing behind the inmates, against the back wall of this unusual barber facility. They were big, powerful looking men, and they were wearing a different kind of uniform. These seemed more black than blue, and for some reason seemed a bit less pressed and ready for inspection than other officers' uniforms we had seen. These weren't jail guys. These were officers of the State Department of Corrections. As soon as our naked butts hit those cold steel stools, one of the four looked down at us and started in. "Normally," he barked, "I wouldn't need to explain what happens here. You're all getting your institutional buzz cut. But today you're also getting something special. Allow me to explain. Lice has recently been detected on incoming offenders." When he said the word "lice," he growled, like "I know YOU'VE got those bugs." He paused for a moment to let his disgust with lice sink in. "Therefore," he continued, "This operation is gonna be a little more detailed. You will do exactly as ordered, and wait until ordered to move away from the stool." He glared at each of us individually, and then commanded, "BEGIN!" The clippers sprang to life. I did not have much hair on my head, but what I had was buzzed off. It took about 60 seconds. My barber then moved in front of me, and my moustache was gone. He circled back, and behind my ear I heard him say, "Lift your arms." Huh? What does that have to do with cutting hair? But I was used to following orders by this point, so I lifted my arms. Swiftly my armpit hair was buzzed away! The clippers fell silent, but I remembered that I was not to move until ordered, and soon was surprised to hear the sound of a shaving cream dispenser – just like in a real barber shop. However in this case, I did not get hot towel and facial shave. What I got was lather smoothed over my scalp, and I was shaved bald. "Stand" was my barber's direction, and so I stood. "Face me. Hands on your head." I complied. I'd never felt my scalp all bald and bare and empty before. Touching it was like touching the skin on something else, some animal I had never encountered. But now I felt the shaving cream being applied to my armpits, and soon they also were denuded. I was surprised at the pit hair going, but the next order really amazed me. "Keep your hands on your head, and spread your legs--shoulder length apart." I took the ordered position, and heard the clippers spring to life again. "It couldn't be," I thought. It was. The barber went onto his knees, and buzzed off my pubic hair. I heard the shaving cream dispenser again, and yup, my groin was soon shaved clean. There is something deeply psychological that I immediately felt, and appreciated how completely it was now clear to me that when I was remanded to the custody of the state department of corrections, the custody was complete control. What could not even be imagined could be done to an adult male in society or even in the military, could be done to you as an offender in state custody--or perhaps the better word was state ownership. I felt that only if I was the equivalent of a slave could another have this much control over me. After this experience, I was ordered back on the stool so my arms and legs could also be denuded. Finally I was instructed off the stool one last time, and the order was "Bend over and spread your cheeks." I was a bit shocked that I complied without any protest, while a convict barber shaved my crack. "All right, stand up," the convict said, while the other convict took a broom and brushed my pile of hair away, head hair and pubes together, going to the trash. I was so occupied with what was happening to me that I barely noticed all the activity going on around me. The same thing was happening to the other four, but I didn't really see it until I was finished and all of us newly hairless inmates were told to "Line up!" The officers stood in their own line, examining us to make sure that the job was done. After one look at the other creatures in my line, I knew what I myself must look like—naked and shaved, a bald, featureless, generic inmate. We had no differentiating characteristics except our race, but all of us had the same gray, discolored dome and the same gray, scalped- looking crotch. The officer said into the air, "Open Door 5." A door opened at the end of the barber shop. "Hands on your head! Through the door! March!" I wondered what more could happen. I was honestly shocked. I noticed that none of us had the nerve to protest. I truly now felt like a prisoner. I felt helplessness, and anger, and also the despair that comes from having to allow yourself to be altered in ways that only persons who truly owned you could order done. I thought to myself, "I entered this room as a man who was in custody. I'm leaving this room as a prisoner." I understood that I now was a powerless body that the state truly did OWN in every sense of the word. As I left the room I mentally said to myself, "You have now been reduced and been forced to accept the greatest degradation possible in this country and under its laws." The next room proved that I should have waited until my processing was done to make such rash statements. As we entered this room, we saw tile walls and a tile floor, and several more inmate workers. These workers had on the kind of rubber suits I had seen on fishermen. They also wore long rubber gloves, and beside each inmate was a little bucket, sitting on a stool. There were officers in this room too. "Listen up," one of them said. "Each of you offenders stand by the attendant and follow instructions." I do not know about the others, but at this point, I was robot-like in my actions. I had just experienced an almost total destruction of my self concept. "Now that we have removed the places where the lice live, we're gonna kill off any eggs and larvae that may remain on your bodies. Stand still and allow these inmates to do their job." I got what I expected at this point. My "attendant" started putting his rubber protected hand into his bucket and coming out with a handful of greenish gump, which was spread all over my body. After they did everything else, they made me put up each foot so that the bottom of the feet also got a dose of gump. When my head was being covered, I was told to close my eyes tight, and I did so with such determination as I could ever imagine. I did not want that stuff in my eyes. The slime stayed on my bald head for a while. Then I was rinsed off from head to toe. In this case that trite statement was literal truth. Still naked, and now all rather pinkish from our chemical cleansing, we were taken through yet another door controlled by some outside source to yet another room, where we were told to stand on some painted yellow footprints until called. "And keep your faces SHUT!" We did. We kept our faces shut. Finally another officer came into the room. In his hand was a sort of heavy plastic envelope, with a long flap over its top. I guess that my brain was phasing out. Or maybe I wanted to forget that I'd ever heard of COX "This is your Department of Corrections file," the officer informed us. "As you can see it has a cord which we will put over your head. You will NOT handle this envelope. It is for officials to keep track of you. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, OFFENDERS?!" "Yes SIR," we responded. We had been reduced to the bottom rung of human beings. That we each would have a personal envelope now seemed a very positive thing. Others' names were called, and I must admit that I paid no attention. When "COX" was called I did not immediately respond.. "PAY ATTETION COX!" was the response, accompanied by a swat with that little leather strap we had seen in the jail. I cannot say in words how much pain I felt from that swat. My bare skin had been made very sensitive by the assaults on it in the barbershop. I bowed my head and my plastic file was placed around my neck. Not a lot needs to be said about the next few trips to see various officials. One was a doctor who asked if I had any illnesses he needed to know about. I replied "No SIR." Then he gave me a physical of sorts, checking heart, lungs, temperature, and even blood pressure. I can tell you that the blood pressure cuff was almost like torture. The doctor even gave me a few questions that I realized were elementary psychological probes. They were so basic as to really be useless, but I am sure they were just sufficient to allow the state to get federal money to help pay for this "humane" induction process I was experiencing. I do not know how my fellow victims were coping, but in my head I was writing some scathing academic articles, and trying to find some brave inmates to let me sue the state for this frontal (and I guess rear) assault on our bodies and our rights. The fact that we were still naked through all this of course only continued to emphasize that we were nothing and our owner, the state, was everything. As I sat there automatically answering the health questions, I realized that we did not actually have one owner, the state. We had many substitute owners--every prison guard (or, as we were instructed to refer to them by our guards, not guards but C.O.'s, correctional officers). Even that silliness was a part of the plan. The public was to be led to believe that the state was trying to help us "offenders," which is what we were now called generically, to "correct" ourselves. Another clichéd way of putting it was that we were going to "pay" for our crimes--and that cliché was the truth. We were going to pay. A big payment had just been made as we were "received," "diagnosed," and "processed." But the debt hadn't been reduced, and the payments were not going to stop. Finally we were given clothing. We were handed a set of "tans"—tan pull-over shirt; tan pants, held up by elastic; tan boxer shorts and one deviation a white "t" shirt. "Here's your tans," we were told. We were also issued white socks, and thick, ugly black shoes. On the backs of the shoes I saw RDC stamped in white letters. Down the right trouser leg I saw INMATE stamped in black letters. Across the back of the shirt I saw RDC INMATE, stamped in even bigger letters. However, before we were allowed to dress we had a final experience to endure. We were photographed ALL OVER. We had mug shots from all angles, but also overall, with close ups of every section of our bodies. We were told that this porno photo session was to show what we looked like at our entrance into state custody. Several of the others in my little group of fish (new inmates) had tattoos, which were documented by an even more thorough photo shoot. The arms, backs, and legs were photographed in close ups of the area, and then each tattoo was given a close up individual photo. I had no tattoos, of course, but the scars from two surgeries were given the up-close and personal photographic approach. Now we were permitted—ordered—to get into our new set of clothes. As I pulled my white "T" and new tan shirt over my chest, I looked down the line and saw that I was now like all the rest: bald head, brown suit, black institutional shoes. In case there was any doubt, I had signs lettered all over me to show what I was: RDC Inmate. Then, to finish our birth into new beings--"offenders"—we were issued our official new offender name. The name was a number. My number was 117213. I have no idea where the number came from, but that was now me: Inmate No. 117213. The man behind me became No. 117214, so we were in proper numerical order. It had all gone smoothly. We had all been shaved, mugged, uniformed, and numbered, and we were all the same except for that one last digit. We were then issued a paper bag of hygiene products, and told that the state had generously given us a credit of $10 to purchase other items from the prison. We were also given a sheet of paper instructing us how to tell free people how to contribute to our account, if anybody wanted to. I couldn't think of any free people to tell. My net worth was now $10. Finally we each received a booklet entitled DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS RULES AND GUIDELINES. Carrying our paper bags and our booklet, we were led in single file through another series of doors to our destination--a huge, three-story warehouse for newly minted offender inmates. I don't know what I expected, but I was surprised. This place was actually like the prison movies: very long, very high, a wall of cells behind an endless range of bars, vertical and horizontal. We were to be caged, just like animals. I stared at the wall of cages, knowing that one of them was waiting for me. But what most overwhelmed me was the chaos of noise. It sounded as if every cell already had an inmate, and every inmate was yelling at the top of his lungs at every other inmate. The cement and the steel just magnified the noise. I was actually frightened. In all the time I had worked with inmates, I had been in a quiet, neutral, individual conference room, or a small visitors' room. Nothing prepared me for this initiation into sound chaos. I momentarily thought, did Jim know what this place was like? If he did, why didn't he warn me of this debasement of my person, about my coming descent into as close to a ring of Dante's hell as I ever wanted to visit—much less live in? The answer to my question was irrelevant. I was now an offender, numbered and registered. I was owned by the state, and the state intended to punish me. Even though I had not done the crime, I knew that I would have to do the time. In this case the crime was, first, ignorance, and second, libido domination of cognition. Now I would be "corrected."