August 24, 2008

Before I get into the meat of this entry, apologies are in order. I realize it’s been well over a month since my last post and that’s totally my bad. A number of contributing factors were involved,the primary being that when I mail my entries out I no longer have copies so I often forget what I have included and what I have not included in my posts. I’ve now solved this problem and so any further lapses in the timeliness of my posts is likely because I’m a lazy shit or I’ve been sent to the hole for doing something wrong. Now that we’ve put that behind us, on with the show.

When we last left our hero he had escaped the unadulterated hell that is ‘UsP Victorville and had just rolled into FCC Lompoc. First, a bit about the penitentiary itself. USP Lompoc was built back in the 50s as a military prison. Sometime after that it was changed over into a federal prison. The prison is very creepy and old looking from the outside. If you needed a movie set for “scary, musky, people probably get sexually violated every single day, federal prison” well Lompoc has your exterior shot down pat. Luckily, I had been told by an inmate on the bus in one of the Victorville holding cells that they don’t take people directly to camp. You have to go to receiving which is in the medium security prison (the old pen) so I did not shit a brick when we passed the camp and started pulling into the big house. Let me point out that there are 4 facilities at Lompoc. The old penitentiary is now classified as a federal correctional institution (FCI) and is a medium security facility. There is also a separate low security facility, and two camps. Camp South is a general minimum security camp and Camp North is the Residential Drug Abuse Program camp. Before I get into our little adventure in the pen, allow me to introduce you to JT. I met JT on the bus. We picked him up at Atwater where he was in the camp there. He was transferring to Lompoc and he and I commiserated in Victorville. JT is a big Italian guy that looks like he played linebacker in college. He has a thick New York accent and is in on a short white collar crime bid. He’s a really nice guy and we had as much fun as possible while enduring Victorville. It must be noted, however, that JT was a bit on edge this particular morning because he almost didn’t get on the bus. If you’ll recall I mentioned that about 30 of us were lined up with shit eating grins on our face at Victorville at around 4 in the morning after they had called us to get on the bus. We had left the housing unit we were in and walked over to discharge where we were put into a holding cell. When a CO transfers a group of inmates from one unit to another (and therefore to another co’s custody) they run down the list to make sure everyone is accounted for. They run the lists in alphabetical order and JT was like 4 or 5 people behind me. They are running down the list and they call my name, I head into the cell and find a seat on the floor on the other side of the cell from the door. There are already about 20 guys in there already (folks whose last names come before Rose, obviously) and so I’m sitting there, waiting for JT and still just feeling relieved that I’m getting the fuck out of dodge. About a minute later, they close the cell door. Ummmmm. Where the fuck is JT!?!!? I can already hear outside the two CO’s talking and JT pleading his case. The lady who was taking over our custody was saying that his name is not on the list, of course JT is saying it has to be as that’s how he ended up in the line in the first place.

SIDE NOTE: While it cannot be said for all correctional officers, allow me to say
that an inordinate number of them are a dumb as a sack of hammers. As you’ll see
later in this post, I doubt many of them could hold down a job as a Starbucks
barista (nothing personal barista’s, I love the crazy monkey juice you used to feed
me each and every morning, you’re just so pervasive that using you as an example
just seemed to fit…keep up the good work). The only thing they really have to
do is walk and count…thankfully not at the same time…and they have trouble with
it. If I were an employer, I’d rather hire a deaf and blind mute to be my personal
secretary than hire a CO. I digress.

So there’s a bit of back and forth and the CO that brought us (CO1) asks the other
CO (CO2) if he can look at the list. The only reason this guy is even going to try
and help the situation is that if he can’t manage to find JT on this list, he’ll
y_ actually have to walk JT all the way back to the holdover unit. Threaten a cop with
‘““3 work and sure get resourceful. CO1 looks at the list for about 2 whole seconds and
says “here it is.” Low and behold, it is actually there…in alphabetical order
right where it should be. Let me really make this clear. This person that your
government has entrusted to keep heinous criminals away from your young children,
puppies, and kittens, cannot locate an inmates name out of 30 on an alphabetical
list. This lady (CO2) was about to send JT back to the hellish holdover tank for
another week and because JT is an inmate (and therefore stupid and evil) she could
not fathom that she was mistaken in her assessment of his custody. In actuality,
I think JT would have made a lot more progress had he not plead with her and simply
started humming the alphabet song to jog her memory. Can you fucking believe this?
Disaster 1 averted…JT is back in the band. It should be noted that JT has athsma
and in the 5 days we had been together I had maybe seen him take 7 or 8 puffs from
his inhaler. After getting into the holding cell he takes 3 hits, rapid
fire …. puff! puff! puff! JT was emotionally damaged goods as the pseudo-reality
of spending another week in Victorville quickly descended upon him. To say he was
shaken was the understatement of the year.

When we get inside the fence at Lompoc we walk single file to R&D where you get
checked in. Most of the guys get called off of the bus but a couple do not as they
are destined for the low security facility which has it’s own R&D. We had
determined that there were 4 of us on the bus that were “campersf myself, JT, Marcus
and Sup’ (pronounced “soup”). Marcus and JT were campers from Atwater, Sup was
transferring from a low security facility. While we are being walked into R&D, one
of the CHiPs bus drivers says out loud “all these guys and only two campers??” This
sends shockwaves through the line, particularly with JT who is still recovering from
· the keystone cops incident at Victorville. When we get into R&D the four of us sit
together in a holding cell and start talking about how there are only two campers.
The conversation starts with talking about how we all got here…Sup was trying to
get into a camp and I was never formally notified of my designation although my
custody rating says that I should be going to a camp. At this point the four of
us believe that if only two of us are going to camp it has to be JT and Marcus since
they are already campers to begin. with. Personally, I think, it’s all. bullshit
because those tubby bitches driving the bus don’t know shit and have a history of
trying to fuck with us. I mean really, why would the guy announce out loud to
himself that there are only two campers if it wasn’t intentionally done for us to
hear and freak out over? tWell, I was ok with camp or a low and Sup was used to a
low, no problem. Except for JT. JT is about to have a coronary. He’s going over
and over every little uwve that has been made by every CO in the complex and
everyone in R&D trying to figure out if he’s going to camp. He’s hitting that
inhaler like a crack pipe capable of giving him eternal life. He’s pretty much
losing his shit and the worst part is, it’s infecting all of us. We all start to
second guess things like logic and reason and soon it’s like none of us are going
to camp, it’s a mental clusterfuck made of rumor, conjecture, malnutrition, and lack
of sleep. Everyone is pretty much shitting the bed because if we’re not going to
camp then we’re not going to the low because we’d still be on the bus. HOLY SHIT!
ARE WE GOING TO THE MEDIUM?!?! Yeah…I’m embarrassed that I actually let my mind
wander down this road, but prison does weird shit to your head. I
After panic has set in, the R&D CO comes in and calls for me and Marcus only. I
have mixed emotions…on one hand I’m thinking “FUCK YEAH! I’M A CAMPER BITCHES!”

But on the other hand I’m thinking “What about JT? Why me and Marcus of all
people?” I also look back into the holding cell and there’s JT, about to keel over,
working that inhaler like a part·time job.

The CO takes us to a table right outside the cell to sign some shit. Our folders
each indicate that we are going to camp. There are two more folders on the desk,
one for Sup and one for JT…also going to camp. Behind the CO’s back I’m giving
JT the “thumbs up” and “okay” signs to let him know that everything is cool. He
keeps signing and lipsynching “what about me?” I keep pointing at him and giving
him the thumbs up…he keeps shrugging…this is not working. At this point the
CO takes us to get dressed out and I leave JT a bundle of nerves with a happy
trigger finger on his Flovent. Marcus and I get dressed out in these shitty tan
pants with elastic waistbands and white t-shirts. We also have blue canvas loafers
that are (barely) made in China. I’m familiar with these as they had them at
Dublin. They last about a week.

Marcus and I are moved into a separate holding cell and are given two more bag
lunches with boloney and cheese food sandwiches, cookies, and spicy potato chips.
The chips were good, everything else was ass. We can see the original holding cell
from our cell and they pull out Sup and JT. All is good. Before long they’re both
with us and we’re all laughing about how stupid we were to stress. Everyone is
munching on some aspect of their lunch, laughing. Next we see two new COS come into
R&D and they start examining these A files on a desk right outside our cell. We
are able to ascertain that these 2 COS are from the camp and the files that they
are viewing belong to us. While we’re all still basking in the afterglow of being
campers, Sup begins to get nervous because he seems to think that they are reviewing
our files to see if they want us at camp. Lompoc is known as the best camp you can
go to on the west coast and they’re pretty proud of that fact. Sup seems to think
that if they don’t like your past (he’d been down for a few years already) that they
can deny you and send you elsewhere. I don’t care. I have no BOP history. I’m
camp bound. JT, on the otherhand, whips out the inhaler…while he’s never been
in trouble at the BOP, he starts to get nervous. Before he can get too worked up,
one of the COs comes in and calls out myself and Sup. For a second, I’m like “oh
shit! Sup and I aren’t going to camp, JT and Marcus are!” just as we had originally
(and foolishly) hypothesized. Well, they run Sup and I through an interview and
they have us nmet the doctor and that. In my interview they give me the zero
tolerance speech and that there’s contraband at the camp and probably marijuana down
there, don’t get mixed up, ship you outta here in a New York minute, blah blah blah.

Anyway, we’re campers for sure now it’s just the bureaucracy to go through. When
we’re done, they seat us at a bench right outside of the cell with Jxhi and Marcus.
JT takes a minute to look up from his inhaler (I can’t believe it’s not making him
sick at this point) and gives me the universal “what’s up?” look. I respond with
a rather non-descript “aight” look. JT gives me a more specific “Dude, what the
fuck is going on here?” look. Just as I’m about to give him the “it’s Kool in the
motherfuckin’ gang” look, one of the COs says “one of your friends isn’t going to
make it into camp…we don’t have his paperwork.” WTF? WTF?!?! Of course they
neglect to tell us who is in and who is out so I just give JT the weakest looking
“it’s cool?” look ever. If JT doesn’t make the cut, I’m certain he’s going to the
hospital. I’m now living vicariously through him and that god damn inhaler and it’s
totally harshing my mellow. They move Sup and I to another cell.]

There we sit for god knows how long…I think it’s approaching around 7pm and we’re
wondering if we’re even going to make it to camp. Sup notifies me that Marcus has
‘ given him sort of “I’m not going to camp sign” as he passed by…this makes me feel
better about JT. Finally, JT and Marcus are put in our cell…the verdict? They
are both going to the SHU (special housing unit, commonly referred to as “the hole”)
because they don’t have paperwork on either of them. This is un—fucking-
believable…how does this even happen? When you leave a facility, they put your
paperwork on the bus…that shit is pretty important…they also put any medication
you need with said paperwork. It’s that important. Anyway, at least JT is off the
junk at this point…for all I know that inhaler ran out. Moments before I could
enjoy the calm that was knowing, at least, where everyone was going irrespective
of the outcome, Sup mentions that he heard some lady through the door say to let
JT and Marcus go to camp. I make the mistake of relaying this message to JT who
wasn’t paying attention. He starts asking me “what did she say?? what did she
say??” and I repeat “Sup heard her say to send you guys to camp.” He comes back
with “what?? what did she say?? did she say me??” and out comes the inhaler. I
fucking flip my lid and say “DUDE!!! Sup heard the bitch, I didn’t hear a goddamn
thing…STOP ASKING ME!!” The next 15 minutes was an exercise in futility watching
Sup and JT try to reconstruct some mystery comment made by some uwstery woman,
presumably about our two mystery campers. Finally, a CO comes in, tells us we are
all going to camp, takes our pictures, makes our IDs, gives us bedrolls and we’re
walking out of the pen headed to camp.

The camp itself looks like the set of M*A*S*H* except with green grass, trees, and
the buldings are permanent instead of tents. Everything is army green and there
are 2 barracks, a chow hall, an admin building, a medical building, commissary,
chapel, game room and a law library. There is a large slab of asphalt in the middle
which 2[ will refer to as “the quad.” Within a minute, I’m assigned to a bunk in
Alpha dorm…my compatriots are in Beta dorm. I’m tired as fuckall and just want
to go to sleep. The dorms are barracks comprised of a main hall and two smaller
rooms. The two rooms used to be TV rooms in each dorm but have been converted to
living quarters. Each dorm holds about 160 inmates with around 130 in the main hall
and in Alpha dorm a room of 16 and a room of 8. I got placed in the room of 8 which
is referred to as “the Boom Boom Room.” Had this not been a minimum security camp,
I may have been concerned as god only knows what sort of connotations that could
have. In this case it’s just known as a room where there is often a very loud
(albeit exceptionally inane) debate going on by people who, for the most part, do
not know what the fuck they are talking about. As it goes in prison, the new guy
always ends up in a top bunk. My bunkie, and I shit you not, is a guy named (I did
not make this up) “Bone Crusher.” Are you fucking serious? Am I actually supposed
to refer to this guy as Bone Crusher? What happens if I don’t? He wasn’t there
at the time so I just made my bed…whatever. Now allow me to introduce you to the
cast that makes up the Boom Boom Room.

Al — asian – late 30s - in on a drug charge – Al is intelligent and likes to
work with his hands. He works as a mechanic down at the farm and is known
around camp as the guy you talk to if you need your radio and/or headphones
fixed. The stereotypical nature of the camps resident radio fixer `being
Japanese is not lost on me. Of all of my roomies, I think Al and I have the
most in common.-

Blue – black — 50 – in on a drug charge – Blue is one of the leading
protagonists in the Boom Boom Room. He is the definition of narcissistic and
actually believes (in his heart of hearts) that if he didn’t personally witness
something that it probably didn’t happen. A And I’m not _just talking about
whether or not someone in the yard benched 300 pounds…I’m talking about
things like, say, the Battle of Hastings.

Jerry – white – late 50s – in on a drug charge — Jerry is a low key average
white guy. He’s in on a long bid and did a lot of time down in Texas. He’s
kinda gristled and set in his ways and often gets into it with Blue because
Blue thinks whitey is the problem with this world and before I arrived, Jerry
was whitey. To get a picture of Jerry imagine an older white guy with mostly
white hair who drives a tractor on the farm here. That’s Jerry and you just
imagined what he looks like.

Dre — black — late 30s – in on a drug charge — When I say Dre is black, I mean
Dre is black. Wesley Snipes black. He’s also really big like over 6′ in the
high 200s if I had to guess. Dre is intelligent and pretty well spoken…he
doesn’t often get into the mix in the Boom Boom Room but when he does he’s
usually right on point with what he says. He’s also funny as hell and is one
of my favorite people. We often make each other laugh and will often expend
most of our energy trying to keep the arguments in the Boom Boom Room going
but not to the point to where they become a fight. Dre is also the laziest
person I have ever met and revels in it. He’s a clerk at the Law Library about
10 minutes a day. _

Miguel — hispanic — 30s — in on a drug charge — Miguel is just a super nice
guy. He’s soft spoken and never really gets into any of the fray unless it’sj
about religion. He’s a family man and a hell of an athlete. He’s easily the
best looking guy in the room. Miguel works at the dairy.

Clyde – black – 50s – white collar crime – Clyde is a lot like Miguel in that
he doesn’t often get into the fray unless it’s about sports. At one time Clyde
was a professional basketball player. He’s really nice, really smart, and
always the voice of reason in the room. Clyde works at Vandenberg Air Force
Base.

Bone Crusher – black — late 50s — in on a drug charge — Bone Crusher’s name
was actually Bone Collector describing his prowess at dominos. I just call
him Crusher for short. He’s a really nice guy and pretty funny and is the star
attraction of the Boom Boom Room. If there is a debate, you can rest assured
Crusher is at the center of it. While he knows his shit, he (like Blue)
doesn’t admit he’s wrong that often and also believes that volume does, in
fact, have something to do with how correct your statements are. If I didn’t
know better, I would think that his job is eating, but I know that can’t be
the case. If Crusher is not eating, he’s fixing something to
eat…seriously…it is a known and accepted fact that any food item placed
on his chair will be eaten in short order. No ifs, no ands, no buts. The man
is a machine. This sort of ad hoc diet also comes with ad hoc farting in his
sleep. Unfortunately, I sleep above him. Luckily we have a fan.
The interesting thing about the Boom Boom Room is it’s predictability and it’s
overall juvenile nature. While many of the participants believe that a well thought
out debate is going on (which does draw outsiders in to join the fray) the fact is
that you generally come out less intelligent than when you came in and you wonder
where the last 20 minutes of your life went. Debates in the Boom Boom Room are not,
in any way, about being right or correct…they are about winning and attempting
at every turn to punish and/or humiliate your opponent by over—analyzing their every
word and allowing no room for the slightest semantic that even the most tight ass
judge would yield to.
Here is an example …. 5

Jerry: I hear Barack Obama jumped 10% in the polls today.
Blue: Bullshit. McCain has the lead by 2.
Jerry: Not anymore, Obama jumped 10 points.
Blue: Who told you that? I just read the paper.
Bone Crusher (BC): Did you hear Obama’s speech?
Jerry: Yeah. That paper was from yesterday, I just saw this on CNN.
Blue: I never saw that and I seriously doubt he could jump 12 points in one day.
BC: You should have heard the speech.
Jerry: I didn’t say 12 points…I said 10.
Blue: Oh, so now it’s only 10? You always change the facts as you go.
BC: How would you know Blue? You didn’t even hear the speech!
Blue: The only reason I’d vote for Obama is because he’s black. He doesn’t have
one ioona of the experience of McClain.
Jerry: I said 10 points from the beginning! You said 12. And it’s McCain you
idiot.
Sparky: What the fuck is an ioona?
Blue: I don’t need to hear the speech, Bone Crusher and I’ll bet Jerry a case
of soda he didn’t jump 12 points…it doesn’t matter, though…he’ll lose the
election…whites won’t vote for him. You know what I mean, Sparky…io0na…or
idona…
Jerry: I said 10 points!!! And whites are how he got the nomination in the
first place!
BC: How can you know if you didn’t hear the speech?
Sparky: You mean iota?
Blue: Yeah..iooda…the whites say they want him but they won’t vote for him
cause he’s black and his islamism.
Jerry: What? He’s a christian!
BC: You can’t know if you didn’t hear the speech…did you hear it?
Blue: That ain’t the point Bone Crusher…
Dre: Islamism?
BC: Blue…did you or did you not hear the speech?
Sparky: It’s iota, Blue…and islamism isn’t a word.
Blue: Yeah it is.
BC: Did you hear the man’s speech? You can’t know if you didn’t.
Sparky: No…it’s not…
Blue: Why? doesn’t ism mean to do with?
BC: Now he won’t even answer my question!
Sparky: You can’t just go on adding suffixes to any old word…
Blue: Bone Crusher, your question isn’t…isn’t…what’s the word?
Dre: Fuck it, Blue…just make one up…you’re already on a roll…
BC: All I’m asking is did you hear the speech…the man won’t answer!
Blue: Your question is inrevelent..but I didn’t…
BC: That’s all I want to know…this man didn’t hear the speech but won’t admit
Obama is up by 12 points!
Jerry: I said 10 points!

This is not a verbatim transcript, obviously. Otherwise every other word would
have been fuck, motherfucker, or bitch. I also took some lines fron; other
arguments and lumped them all here in order to demonstrate each person’s role,
style, and level of intelligence. What I can tell you, however, is that every
one of these lines was, in fact, spoken in the Boom Boom Room at some point and
that this arguement actually occurred, and that no one really knows what was
being argued by whom and why. This, my friends, happens every single day without
fail. Welcome to my little slice of home. I

After meeting everyone in the room I gave everyone a brief history of my case
and my travels to get here and then promptly crashed out. The next morning we were
instructed to go to laundry to get our actual clothing. They gave us each a set of
boxers, socks, a tee shirt, an olive green short sleeved shirt, a matching set of
pants, a tan woven belt, and a set of black steel toed boots. All of the clothes were
well used and didn’t fit properly as they shove you in whatever they have available.
They also take your measurements and tell you to come back the next day to pick up
the rest of your clothing. Oh…they also give you a jacket and a beanie because it
gets pretty chilly at night. Noticeably absent from any and all the shit they give
you are the basics. I got a toothbrush. No soap, no toothpaste, no towel, nothing.
Remember that the day before we had just come in from Victorville and our last shower
was the Friday before the weekend. I had taken a quick birdbath prior to getting on
the bus and we did at least change clothes but the fact of the matter was that we
we’re pretty ripe. It was really strange because the feds usually have a much better
facility than, say, county, but at least we got basic toiletries at Santa Rita.

Thankfully, Miguel gave me an extra towel we had and loaned me some shampoo which I
used as a body wash (needless to say, people don’t like loaning out their bar soap
and quite frankly, I don’t want to borrow it). This day, we had nothing to do but
wander around to check out the camp and continually check the phones to see if our
inmate trust fund accounts (read: commissary account and phone account) had
transferred yet. During the day came the moment of truth…the meals. Actually, the
food was better than Dublin and I was happy. It was not, however, that stuff of
legend that everyone talks about…steaks, shrimp, and the like. Noticeably absent
are fresh vegetables of any sort and as you would expect you have your really good
meals and every now and then meals you wouldn’t feed to one of the local raccoons.
I’ve heard that in the past (specifically before passage of the Zimmerman bill) that
food was much much better but that d0esn’t really do me any good, does it? That
afternoon I checked the call out sheet. Call outs are appointments that the
institution sets for you either at your own request or theirs. If you need medical
attention, you sign up and they will put you on the call out list the next day to see
the physicians assistant. If you sign up for a class, they put you on the call out.
If they want to put your DNA in the database required for all federal felons, you’ll
get a call out. You are required to check the call out sheet every day and failure
to make a call out can result in you getting written. up. They also put job
assignments and job changes on the call out list. It was this afternoon that I found
my job assignment. It said “FARM3.”

The Lompoc FCC is situated amongst 1700 acres of BOP owned farmland and there
are 3 farms that operate out of the camp. There is a dairy farm with around 600 head
of dairy cows, a beef farm with around 400 Black Angus cattle, and a crop farm that
produces feed corn (for said cows) and vegetables for the FCC. FARM3 is the
designation for the crop farm so I became a farmhand.

The bit of poetic justice in all of this was not lost on me. When I got to the
farm I was told that my job was going to be weeding. The COs seemed to enjoy the fact
that I was in for growing weed and now I’d be pulling weeds for the Fed. I did not
share their elation at the prospect. The upshot of the farm, however, was that you
were working away from the actual camp, you were outdoors all day, at one with nature,
and all that jazz. Also, they have a bunch of Border Collies down there and I’m a
sucker for dogs, especially in light of the fact that my big guy was in a foster home.
All of that is about as high a polish you can put on that turd because farming is
really hard work and the fact that they are paying you l2¢ per hour doesn’t really
go far to quell the repeated jabbing pain in your anus at the hands of the BOP. And
I’m absolutely serious when I say l2¢…my first paycheck was for 62 hours of work
for a whopping $7.44. While I’ve not checked, the sad part is that I’m pretty sure
that’s preetax. Fuck me.

With that, I’m going to end this entry and start on the next installment which
should bring us current. I don’t want to keep this from getting posted any longer
and I have a feeling the next episode will take me at least a week or so to get down
for you all. Thank you very much for reading my blog and for those of you who have
written or sent me books or even visited, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all
of your support. I hope you enjoy all the stories from the big house and I hope to
get this baby current and keep it current in the near future. Be Well. Be Safe. Go
Redskins!