The Current Happy Horseshit about homelessness, people living in the woods, and alleged racism.

“If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.” 

— Joseph Goebbels

Recently, a spate of articles has been published describing the amazing fact that there are sightings of homeless, migrant workers living on the streets and in the woods in ultra-conservative white communities like Hampton Baiys, East Quogue, Southampton Village and North Sea — in the Hamptons. Relax Elitists!

The claim, which has been spread by the Grey Lady and Newsday, that there is some sort of Economic Racism afoot especially in the Town of Southampton near Town Hall or in Westhampton Beach Villege where truth is doled out impartially, is misleading. How could people who clean toilets and landscape by day wind up in the woods at night because the Southampton Housing Authority panders only to local residents or their kids instead of Blacks and workers — which they have been accused of for the last few decades?

After all, they are only sitting on $2 Billion dollars, collected from Liberals and Conservatives alike in order to reward political favors. A slush fund almost as big as Jared Kushner’s.

Landlords who have rented NEW housing to homeless workers have been prosecuted and imprisoned for less! Believe me, I know. I spent four years in prison for providing Affordable Housing to people who now have tents, like Mr. Cruz and his family, according to Newsday. Alas, and alack, the Town of Southampton’s Town Board tells us that there are 50 units ON THE DRAWING BOARDS. They fucked me for this 15 years ago! So, what’s the rush?

The now imprisoned, D.A. Thomas Spota, worked hand in hand with the Southampton Town Supervisor dating back to the early aughts when Patrck “Skip” Heaney introduced a rental law that was a thinly disguised eviction plan. The Code Enforcement Police were the Brown Shirts who stll operate with impunity and who told those “undesirables” to not pay rent. Which thereby put landlords out of business and also evntually evicted immigrants once the banks stepped in.

The Town Investigator, who moved this along, and instigated illegal raids on the poor workers and landlords now runs the local Republican Party in Southampton. A former cop, no less.

So don’t expect a solution from Maria Moore, who recently raced from Westhampton Beach to Southmpton Town Hall, folks.

In keeping with this rosy view of Freedom of Speech, below is an outtake from my wonderful four years in prison at the wrong end of a Vindictive Prosecution — my reward for solving the Southampton Affordable Housing crisis — only temporarily. After the Town destroyed me financially the UNDESIRABLES were sent back to live in the woods.

Note: According to Newsday (April 23, 2024) the Southampton Supervisor and the Town Board have delayed the current vote on a 50 unit Affordable Housing plan which has been planned forever. But, she pointed out “It’s really not about the population for me. We have a bad situation in terms of traffic at this particular location, so let’s not add to it.”

Fuck ’em boys. Leave ’em in the woods. We don’t want to upset the traffic flow.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Here’s a scene from my memorable four years. This was as a member of the ASAT drug treatment program which I volunteered to take for 6 months.

“What matters most in life is how well you walk through the fire.”

     – Charles Bukowski

February  27th, 2015

This was my prison anniversary. Locked up for three years.

I started the celebration at the hot pot talking with an inmate named Pinckney,

The overnight C.O., an annoying guy who popped a handful of chewing tobacco into his mouth every morning at precisely 6:10, after a night of sleeping in the bubble and giving out at least one ticket from having snuck up on some guy in the bathroom who was smoking. One of the inmates had complained that he got up to piss and walked into the bright white bathroom lights with at least 5 guys standing around smoking. Naturally, I believed him. Why shouldn’t I since I fought my way along the walkway during the day, convinced that I was going to die from second-hand smoke OUTSIDE. There was no escaping the lunacy of these guys. Drugs were GOOD for you by comparison. It was the smoking that was going to kill them. That plus the food.

“That was quite a performance,” I said to Pinckney as he was preparing his food at 5:45 at the microwave. “You really got to Roddy with that,” I said. I was referring to one of the women running the ASAT drug program. An alcoholic who enjoyed having inmates make fools of themselves.

“Think so?” he said, smiling.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “she was practically in tears. I think you went a long way towards repairing your relationship with her on that one.”

“I hope so.”

“Listen,” I said, “we have that basketball  game later today. Why don’t you join me in a routine at the game?” 

“Okay,”  he said, “I’m in.”

Every Friday at the end of the month, ASAT played a basketball game. The two segments, meaning the morning group and the afternoon group, played against each other. 

The guys joined one or the other team, depending upon which segment they were in. The rest of the guys sat in the bleachers. Except for the Cheerleaders.

Naturally, I wound up being one of the Cheerleaders. How else could I completely make a fool of myself. And, Hernandez HAD been a willing Cheerleader. Until he passed his final review and didn’t really have to do anything else. He was done. And, he really was DONE. he had no interest in Qigong, Cheerleading, or anything else that he didn’t have to do to get through all of this. He was going home in a couple of weeks.

I’d spent the most of the last couple of days fretting about having to check my blood pressure — which itself was giving me high blood pressure. I had to get to Commissary with my measly $23.94 for food since my wife had been juggling finances and we were having trouble, and she had trouble sending me 50 bucks. And, I had to go to  Infirmary to pick up my medication. I was being torn in several different directions — worrying about getting tickets, getting meds, getting food, having no money, worrying about finances at home and now I had to worry about being a 72 year old Cheerleader to make Roddy’s day. The man-hating elements of her personality were not well submerged.  Unfortunately, I was feeling the full force of it.

So we all went to the Gym.

I had thought of a routine that emulated  the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. Kick, drop, kick, drop, swing left, drop, kick, swing right. I figured that if it looked sufficiently ridiculous, stupid and emasculating, it would have to be a hit with Roddy. But, who to have play it with me?

“That’s too gay for me,” laughed Cuba, “I don’ think so,” he said with his Tony Montana dance and smirk.

“Hernandez,” I said, “you wanna do a dance routine with me for cheerleading today at the game?”

“Pardonne,” he said, pretending to not understanding my English. 

“You want to cheerlead with me today?”

“Oh, no,” he shook his head, “I finish. I don’ theen so.” 

“Too  bad,” I said.

We got to the Gym, changed from our boots to sneakers and arrived on the floor of the basketball court. The entire Gym was reserved for the ASAT guys. And, as soon as we got there, the two teams started throwing baskets. The rest of the 60-odd guys planted themselves in the bleachers to watch. Why I had gotten myself roped into this role was beyond me. Although, I realized that the whole bag of shit was about getting through ASAT with as good a recommendation as possible for Parole. So, here I was, about to make an idiot of myself. Again. For good reason: getting released.

So, I looked for Roddy.

The fun began and there was very little real interest in this game. It’s only real allure was that there was no ASAT class for today and they could just sit around and Roddy could sit in her cushioned chair across the court and assess the game and our behavior. I treated it as an opportunity to make myself look foolish, in order to augment my position in the program. 

The game began and it consisted of the guys playing basketball and running up and down the court. Little  noise, no cheering, zero interest. And, for the first half of the game, my section was trailing. And, at halftime  I saw Cuba over talking to Roddy and another woman whom I did not   know. A few minutes later, Cuba came back over and said, “Roddy says there’s no cheering goin’ on.”

My first reaction was, “Well go fuck yourself  you fat fuck.”

I thought that might have been a mistake. So, I said, “Did she send you over here to tell me that?”

“No, I jes heard her sayin’ it.”

“I’m waiting til the second half. I have to pace myself.” I said. 

“Whateva, bro’ I’m jes lettin  you know.”

The second half started  and I grabbed Pinckney.

“Listen, we talked about this. Roddy’s watching. Now’s the time to do a couple of things to get her attention. It doesn’t matter what we do as long as we make fools out of ourselves, that’s what Recovery is about here in prison.”

He looked at me, confused  for a second. 

Here was this 50 year old drug dealer, gray beard about 6 inches long surrounding his face who was going  to be going back to selling crack, coke, heroin as soon as he got out, and I was giving him advice. NOT about how to do business, but how to improve his chances of getting through this program and OUT of prison. By being a Cheerleader.

Now, I’d seen the Christmas show when the first run of White Christmas came to Rockefeller Center, at Radio City Music Hall when I was a kid. The star was Bing Crosby and  it was a gala show, replete with families, men dressed in suits and  fedoras in those days, and kids towing  behind  in little outfits, obeying  their  parents. I lined up to get in  because I was with my favorite aunt from New Jersey. She was my father’s sister and her husband Jack was with us as well. They were  both avid Christian Scientists and occasionally fought like cats and dogs. But, she was domineering and he was her supplicant despite the fact that he’d had part of his stomach shot out in the first World War and then went on to become an undercover Pinkerton. He was a tough Scot and had a pronounced Scottish accent.

So they took me to see the Christmas Show at Radio City Music Hall and I was introduced to the stage show at 8 years of age, featuring the Rockettes.

Little did I know then, more than 50 years later, that I would be emulating those girls.

I’d seen drag queens since then, but it wasn’t quite the same thing. The girls would line up, place their arms on each others shoulders and kick. 

Kick to the right, kick to the left, bounce and skip and with the beat from the orchestra.

“Pinckney,” I said, “this is what we have to do. The  two of us will join arms and kick, first to the left, down, then kick to the right, and we keep doing it. Soon as the second  half starts we begin after doing some loud cheerleading.  Ready?”

He laughed. “Yeah, what’rewegonna cheer?”

“Doesn’t matter what we cheer. This is about looking like idiots in front of Roddy. This is going to clear up your problems with  her. Guaranteed.”

“Okay, so whatta we say inna cheer?” 

“We’re in Mod 2, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, how about ‘Mod 2, Mod 2, Rah, Rah, Rah. Then, Mod  2, Mod 2, Sis Boom Bah?”

“That’s good, That’s good. Mod 2, Mod 2, Rah, Rah, Rah, Mod 2, Mod 2, Sis Boom Bah.

Right?”

“That’s it, you got it.”

So, Pinckney, the Pakistani/Indian/Irish drug dealer with a 75 I.Q. who was all psyched about showing off his stuff first starts doing the knee moves from the Charleston, and wiggling his ass while he moves his palms from left to right on his knees while he’s bent down to simulate the dance move. And, as the game started again I said to him, “Okay, let’s start over.”

I tapped Pinckney on the shoulder and we turned around and started yelling, “MOD 2, MOD 2, RAH, RAH, RAH,” and I’m waving my arms looking like Mick Jagger with his lips pursed and pointing my palms with index finger stuck up in the air and wiggling my body like a hooker.

“MOD 2, MOD 2, SIS BOOM BAH,” I continued as Pinckney joined in with me and then I motioned to him to start our dance routine.

We put our arms on each other’s shoulders and I say “GO,” and we both start doing kicks, to the left, stop, to the right, stop, and, again, to the left, stop, to the right, stop, and on an on, and on, kicking high in the air in unison.

The guys in the bleachers were going wild and there was cheering and laughing and pointing at us, the two oldest guys in ASAT. 

I’m a 72 year old white guy, never committed a real crime but was convicted for housing immigrants in the Town of Southampton. 

Here was the face of a drug program — Recovery. 

And, here we were, performing like Ru Paul’s crossdressers without the dress, without the music, and with a basketball game going on behind us — in prison.

As the yelling and screaming and laughing reached a crescendo, I turned to look to make sure that Roddy was watching.

I knew she was. Because, she’d stood briefly to emulate our dance steps and listened to the cheering going on as Pinckney and I continued our RuPaul Rockettes steps.

As the cheering died down, we turned and started screaming at the players, egging them on and yelling and whistling for them to sink baskets.

Finally, after the din died down, things slowed a bit and the game came to an end.

We’d won the game. 

I didn’t even know who our team was. But I knew I was Recovering.

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit

“Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups.”
― George Carlin

One of the pleasures of calling home when you’re stuck a few miles from the Canadian border in a New York State prison — especially being there for providing new housing for immigrants that the Hamptons politicians would have preferred live in the woods — is making a phone call. Not only was there a line but it was complicated by being operated by gang members. NOT waiting your turn could get you killed or badly beaten. Here’s an outake from my memoirs about waiting to call home while in a Residential Treatment program in prison which I took to be able to write about.

______________________________________________________________

February  17th, 2015

I’d gotten in last night from the Law Library where games were on the rise. One of the phones was apparently available but currently, Sha, was the Maitre D’ of the phone list. I came  in and asked him who was on the list. Phone etiquette in prison is, basically, fucked. While there IS a protocol, it just depends upon who’s on the list. For the most part, everyone in ASAT is looking to finish the program so the usual, possible problems are subdued. The Bloods had tried  to take over the phones in my last dorm but most of them went to the Box and I’d had an easy time making a call. 

The ASAT dorm was full of guys who never shut the fuck up. One of them was Moussa, the fat guy from Guinea who was in the next cube to me. But, he’d just gotten a ticket and was going to be moved out of his cube and was also cube-confined and was not permitted to use the phone.

When I came in, Sha said there were three guys ahead of me and then, suddenly, he said, “Listen, ahm gonna’ be two clicks, gahead an’ take it if’ya only gonna beonit fa’a click.” I said I’d only be on it for about 15 minutes and he pointed to the phone booth where one guy was talking but said the empty one was okay. So, I thanked him and walked quickly over to the empty phone booth.

There was a white sock covering the receiver and it was hung up. 

There was also a  chair in the booth and a towel hanging over it. It was the booth that Brown used, one of the assistant-coordinators, a job title that elevated people with a 5th grade education to a level of importance that was equal to a porter in a Mall that closed a year ago. In this case, Brown was a 20’s-something black kid with 3 front teeth, a smile that Napoleon’s girlfriend learned to subdue to cover her rotted teeth that he should have been urged to emulate, and an I.Q. that even George H.W. Bush would look down upon. In fact, he was dangerously stupid. I’m on the phone talking to my son, who is 10 years old and this 5’5” tall mental midget comes up to the booth, opens the door and says, “Dincha see the sock ona phone?”

“Well, no, I just thought the receiver was growing spores from the ignorant, dirty, hepatitis-riddled clowns like you who just push into the middle of conversations.”

But, I didn’t say that. He was a Blood.

Fortunately. I hung up the phone on my child and turned to him and said, simply, “Sha told me this phone was free. Here, take it.” And, got up from the chair and walked out. He then took the phone and cleansed the receiver, you know, the phone piece that had been handled by 30 or 40 others after scratching their balls, their asses, spit on it, wiped urine from their hands after taking a piss, and slobbered on it with numerous other unknown diseases. 

I mean, if they’d blow their noses into the sink next to you while you were brushing your teeth, as they did, what would they do to a phone receiver?

All things, however, have consequences in prison. Brown routinely stayed on the phone for 1, 2, or 3 clicks, a click being the amount of time before the company that raped the consumers but were the only monopoly in town allowed, before disconnecting you. It was usually about 25 minutes before you were disconnected and had to call again to continue the conversation.

In this case, the consequences could have been severe for someone who, unlike myself, would take umbrage that a little ignorant shit threw me off the phone.

“He’s a Blood,” said Sal, who, himself was essentially hiding out from having run over and killed a MS-13 gang member, “the last thing you want is one of them coming down on you. It’s like killing a bee.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Well, even if you DID get rid of one of them, like punch him out, you’d have twenty of them descend upon you. They’re like killer flies. And, you’re the shit.”

“I see.” I said, seeing the elegantly described wisdom of NOT getting into an argument with a cretin.

I decided to make the call later.

Then Danger came up to me after my mini-education about the current phone etiquette and remaining alive in the process.

I’m leavin’ in two weeks,” said Danger, my future Foreign Legion contact.

“No shit?” I said, where’re you going?”

“Well, see, immigration cain’ pick me up, so’s I’m gonna’ get ma fadda to pick me up. An’ den we gonna skip ta Boston and fro’ der to Mexico.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “what about Parole?” 

“Fuck Parole, I’m gettin’ outta town.”

“How you going to do that?”

“I’m gonna hire private security an’ gota Mexico.”

“Private security? What do you mean? Someone to drive you to Mexico?”

“Yeah,” he said, wearing his Rasta hat over his dreds and corn rows, depending upon the day, and stroking his goatee. “dey cost aboud $3000.”

“You’re gonna’ pay someone to drive you to Mexico from Boston for $3000?” I looked at him with more than a little disbelief.

“Yeah,” he said, “dey doit alla time. An’ ‘en I’m jus’ gonna hop a plane ta France.”

“You ever think about just finishing Parole or moving to the Dominican Republic before joining the Foreign Legion?” I said, figuring he was going to be picked up long before  he got anywhere near Mexico. All of this, of course, was part of the grade B movie that turns out bad – which I was living in.

“Nah,” he said, “dis’s more fun,” he laughed. 

Danger would be back.

Copyright 2024: The Snake Pit

“Forgive your enemies….”

–John F. Kennedy

For Christians it is a day of reflection as we contemplate The Resurrection of Christ. It is a relevant concept for all of us, especially those for whom — like investigative journalists — Truth is our ultimate religion. Like Stephen Donziger, the attorney who sued Chievron and won a $9 Billion judgment only to be pursued by that company and destroyed for his success.

Like other journalists such as Anna Politkovskaya who, in Russia, was murdered in her apartment building by assassins for writing about Putin and the Chechen war; Jamal Khashoggi, the nephew of arms-dealer Adnan who was dismembered; writer, activist and speaker Alexei Navalny; not to mention the recent search warrant executed against a newspaper here in America in Marion, Kansas.

Of course, I know about these things and how a corrupt legal and criminal justice system, such as exists in the Hamptons can permit such things — even in America today. As has been widely attributed to Sinclair Lewis, the quote is “When fascism comes to America it will come wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.”

It is well known that the hallmark of good Nazi rhetoric, like Goebbels wrote: “A lie told once remains a lie but a lie told a thousand times becomes the truth.” And, I learned this first-hand. I was forced to do four years in prison for writing the Truth. Providing affordable housing, criticizing corrupt politicians like D.A. Thomas Spota and henchmen like A.D.A. McPartland, police chief James Burke, prosecutors like Constant and Stavrides, Town of Southampton politicians like Skip Heaney, David Betts, Joseph Lombardo — supply the lies that keep the system corrupt and profitable. They dip into the $2 Billion dollar Community Preservation Fund supplied by New York property buyers for anything they want.

I experienced a search warrant like the journalists in Kansas and had to take a false plea to save my family. Lies are the fodder of the current political and legal wave attempting to destroy Democracy and Truth. Even the Church and Pastors preaching forgiveness and Easter Resurrection have been enlisted to poison Christ’s message of forgiveness, humanity and love.

Resurrection is to be viewed with understanding. As a journalist I no longer place faith in our legal system since it is clear that many judges have been bought and steered by politicians with their hands out like those with a long history in the Hamptons. From the Supreme Court with appointments that should disgust any first year law student, to the Suffolk County Supreme Court where judges appointed by now incarcerated former D.A. Spota — like Thomas Whelan — still practice. And to Southmpton Town Justice Court which is the busiest Small Claims Court in the nation — presided over by Judges like Barbara Wilson — the level of obvious corruption should be offensive to all. But, we have all become numbed by the rejection of Truth and Democracy., inconvenient values to fascists.

So, remember JFKs quote:

“Forgive your enemies — but never forget their names.”

“There is Freedom of Speech. But, I cannot guarantee Freedom after Speech”

— Idi Amin

In keeping with the spirit of St. Patrick’s and looking forward to a future of hope and reconciliation I’ve given us all yet another glimpse of New York State’s valiant effort to cure drug addicts and dealers in our society. At the same time it’s hopeful to view just how the professionals are curing those less fortunate attempting to feed their families. No, they’re not making six figure incomes, nor are they receiving seven figure bonuses like Jamie Dimon during the meltdown called the Great Recession — in which all of us watched the destruction of our economy. But, even though some of us wrote about the “inequities” of having to do time for exposing the truth as journalists, it all works out. Doesn’t it? Here’s a day in society’s plan — in a drug rehab program — to solve the imbalance between the Haves and the Have-Nots: Prison.

__________________________________________

“I approached the guy in the bathroom at 5:30 a.m. I’d thought it was safe to assume that when I got up that early I would not have to deal with anyone else. But, of course, I was wrong. After blowing his nose in the sink for what seemed like 20 minutes, he finally stopped and I began to walk in to  do my own personal chores. Like brush my hair. But, before I could do that he started spraying down all of the sinks with “Cleaner 128,” my favorite prison concoction. Even the label warned of not using it without adequate ventilation. So, I stopped when I saw him spraying all of the sinks and he looked at me.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he said to me. He was about 50, had a full graying beard with a balding  head and was about 5’7″ tall. He had an Indian and black look to him. I didn’t know his name.

“Oh, No,” I said, barely containing my annoyance, “I just don’t want to go in there and  breathe in that shit.”

He looked at me like there was something wrong with ME, not that he was creating a toxic cloud for our early morning health treatment. Breathing that shit in was reminiscent of taking in a deep breath while living in downtown Manhattan right after the buildings collapsed on 9-11.

“Well, whadaya wan’ me tado, stop cleanin’ the sinks?” he said, with a sarcastic edge to his voice.

How absurd, I thought. And, miss the chance for some really good old-fashioned genetic nerve damage?

“No,” I said, controlling myself and backing away, “I’ll just wait until you’re finished.”

He had no comeback for that since I was not challenging him.

I’d gone to the dentist after the morning’s frivolities. And, despite the fact that the dentist and her assistant had negative reputations, they’d always treated me well. The hygienist loved animals, just like my wife. So, I arrived on time and she cleaned my teeth adequately. It was the prison staff that were the problem. The doctor walked by and waved, as did the female nurse so I thought I’d take a chance and ask if I could speak with them.

“Listen, I wanted to know if the doctor thought I should change my medication. My blood pressure was high the last time I was here.” It turned out to be the nurse who’d been in the room with him when I saw him last.

“Well, what did he say?” she said to me. 

“He didn’t say anything,”

“Well, then you don’t need to change  it.” she said, feigning a logical response.

“Oh,” I said as if I hadn’t thought of that, myself, “I see. Well, then, I guess I’ll have it checked in a month and a  half.”

“Well, you might want to check it in, say, a month,” she offered smiling. “You just put in a sick call slip and get here in the morning.”

Yeah, I knew that. Hoping I didn’t stroke out before I could get an appointment to see him next. That was at 6 a.m. You get up in the dark, all relaxed and shit from lack of sleep and  bundle up in the frigid temperature and head out with the poor shits in the rest of the prison, and sit on wooden benches, waiting for someone to call your name. IF, in fact, they actually were to call you at all. The last time I did that, they didn’t call me and I talked the C.O. into letting me go after the Count, and the male nurse gave me shit.

“Okay, it’s just that when I get it checked, it usually goes up in anticipation of having it checked.”

“They call that the White Coat Syndrome,” she said smiling.

“Oh, really?” I said, “that’s interesting.” But of course, getting your blood pressure checked HERE, was causing a DIFFERENT White Coat Syndrome. More like Jack Nicholson’s in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest where the white coats worked in the morgue..

I left. Despite the fact that I could wave at the doctor, I couldn’t talk to him or see him, whether he was busy or not as he carried his 7-11 coffee cup.

I would have to be having a stroke for a quicker appointment.

I headed back to ASAT. I’d spent from 7:30 a.m. to 9 a.m. sitting in my cube, unable to sit on the bed or lay down. The “discipline” of ASAT was that you could not nap or even close your eyes, even if you didn’t have anything else that you had to be doing. And, since I’d had a call-out at the Dentist, an appointment to see the hygienist, I’d had to NOT go to mand­atory Rec and since I was in the afternoon group, there was nothing for me to do but sit. And, stare.

But Group today was worth the wait.

After listening to the latest round of serial murders in the local newspaper during “Education,” we moved on to “Creative Energy.”

I spied the blackboard on wheels with writing facing into the T.V. room. But, I could see what was on it. Typically, this is how the next segment, Creative Energy, was hidden from view and then wheeled out for everyone  to look at, if it were a surprise, a game. I tried to figure out what it was and I recognized the various odd symbols. Eventually, I  realized that they were analogies. Forms, shapes, positions that tested the viewer’s ability to compare and associate. It  was Logic. And, I remembered them from I.Q. tests and, more specifically, the Miller Analogies, the test 

I’d taken the test to gain entrance to the Columbia University Ph.D. program to which I’d been accepted and now would never be able to regain entrance due to my conviction. In fact, although I’d written to Columbia and requested readmission, when they saw where the letter came from, they never even bothered replying to my request to regaining my candidacy. So much for their desire to further social policy. NYU was no better. They were both full of shit and only pandered to foreign students now.

From what I could see, from where I was sitting, I figured out a few of the analogies.

“Okay,” called Green, who was today’s leader.

“Who got Creative Energy?”

A few guys got up and rolled the blackboard over and I sat in anticipation. I wondered  how these guys were going to fare on those relatively difficult logic puzzles. They weren’t a piece of cake even for me.

As they wheeled  over the blackboard with the analogies facing us, a couple of guys walked  behind the board and were writing on it from behind.

Then, as the segment started, suddenly, the board was turned around. On the board, with the analogies facing the bathroom, what faced us was the outline of a horse.

No, actually, it was a donkey. We were here to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

“Jeus Christ,” I said to the guy sitting next to me. This was Creative Energy for today.

A few guys lined up with blindfolds on and were spun around and headed towards the  board. Some managed to “Pin the tail” on, by drawing a tail with a piece of chalk they’d been given. Others did things like hit Myers in the back of the head and then move on to writing on their friends by the board.

Black made it to the board, acting as if he had kept his eyes shut but, when he got to the board, proceeded to draw a penis on the donkey, rather than a tail. That brought wild laughter from which none soon recovered. 

Roddy, sitting at her desk was unable to control the penis placement and head-smacking that was done in error. Clearly, she was enjoying the chaos in her program.

I’d still been hoping for a few Miller Analogies up until this point. This was ASAT Recovery. Recovering from sanity. When it was over, I’d lost hope and merely shook my head. 

This was followed up by a pole being held across the front of the room and, without music, about half a dozen guys parading under as it continuously was lowered. 

We were doing the Limbo for Creative Energy. I could just imagine Greene or Henry refusing to sell a few bags because there was a Limbo contest going on.

A few guys fell on the floor as their wild, uncontrolled laughter ensued. 

Group was even more inspiring.

The conversational compliment was “Criminals taking responsibility for doing criminal acts.”

Smash and Green, along with Black, were very active because what was most controversial was the concept of protecting yourself and your family from being “dissed.” What you did to protect your mother or girlfriend from someone calling her a bitch. Not that this actually happened, of course. But, how should or would stand their ground and confront any attack on the integrity of family, or, of yourselves. This was to induce learning in ASAT. — handling that threat and how to avoid coming back here.

“Niga disses my mudda, or call ‘er a bitch,” said Green, “I gotta gid ’em.”

“Yeah,” said Black, “ya cain’ jes ledim dis ya momma.” 

“But, then  you come back here,” said Roddy.

“Don’ mada,” said Green, “ya gotta’ pratec’ ya’ famly.”

“Even if it means that you’re coming back to prison?” said Roddy. 

“Don’ mada,” said Green again.

“Well, if you’re back in prison,” I offered, “what about your kids or the rest of your family?”

“Whaddya mean?” he said, looking at me.

“Look,” I said, “some guy gives you or your mother a problem. It’s like the times that I’ve been in a car and was cut off while driving with someone else.” 

“I remember a friend of mine driving and I was with him, and some guy cuts us off and he chased after him and then cut HIM off and gets out and goes into the trunk and gets a tire iron. It was a tense, dangerous situation. And, you know, we were never going to see this guy ever again. Once it was over, it was over. So, walk away, cross the street, remove your family from a confrontation. Get the fuck out of there. And, then, DON’T come back here.”

“What year you livin’ in;” he said to me. “You never been inna place like we is from,” said Green.

“Well,” I smiled, “I worked in the South Bronx, near Fort Apache, on 163rd and River Avenue, when it looked like Berlin right after the second World War.”

A couple of guys looked at each other and nodded and then looked back at me. They knew I wasn’t bullshitting them.

Green nodded. “Well, I ain’ leddin no niga diss ma momma.”

This was followed by a LONG, loud, fart. All of the chairs moved away. “Jesus Christ,” said Roddy. Did you just shit your pants?” 

I declined to point out that they couldn’t use the toilet while ASAT was in session. 

That was one of the rules of the program.

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit

For those of you who have been following my writing and enjoy the descriptions (without having to be there) of life in prison and learn from so-called criminal behavior and views — perhaps gettng a leg up on our politicians — here’s another slice of True Crime. During my four year investigation of the prison system from the inside and programs whch touted recovery I had the pleasure of understanding how others lived and how they thought. It also gave me an opportunity to witness first hand how taxpayer money was being spent on residential drug treatment in New York State prisons.

“Life all comes down to a few moments. This is one of them.”

— Wall Street

It’s cold. And, getting colder. Again.

My third winter in the archipelago. It’s minus eleven this morning. It’s going UP to 5 degrees for lunch. And, the air hurts to breathe.Tonight, it will be 20 below zero. Hundreds of  miles away from my family, part of a system that claims to want to keep families together, and shut away in a camp for the least likely people to create problems in society.

Since ASAT had mandatory Rec, of course, I went to the Gym in this weather. I carried  my running shoes as I wore my boots to wend my way through the ice and snow, take my watch off til I got through the metal detector after taking my hat off, to show that I wasn’t hiding anything under it, and then flashed my I.D. after getting in through the Gym door.

I avoided talking to Al for the most part. With McCoy, the Gang Intelligence C.O. on duty I did not want to have any seed planted in his dimly lit brain, that when Al decided to do his “Godfatha'” routine, he was missing some important Mob-affiliated connection in front of his eyes.

But, after Al left , Johnny “Hollywood” who was in for beating someone with a pipe, said  Hello and we spoke briefly. He brought up the subject of when he had a “Board”  coming  up and  asked  me when I  had  one. After  Al’s seriously depressing monologue the previous day I was thrilled to hear a different view that “You should  be outta here this summer.”

When I got back to the dorm I was greeted with yet another cube slip. This time it was from Massey, the program operator. And, this time, it was for having a “Dirty Radiator.” There was apparently no end to the number of things that they could find wrong with the way your cube was kept. I happened to have a section of radiator, which was along the entire dorm wall, in my cube. Who knew that I also had to clean radiators? But, of course, don’t I have to clean everything? Like the walls, the ceiling, Massey’s asshole?

I’d forgotten that Massey was a snake. She looked like Elvira. She was a dead ringer for Anjelica Huston. In fact, it was Bear, the nearly 500 pound guy in our dorm, who called himself Huggy Bear, that warned me about her.

“She put me inna Box. This’s ma secon’ time here,” said Bear, who ambled along  pushing the lint broom. The broom was about 4 feet wide and was just pushed around the entire dorm to keep the aisles clean. 

It amounted to no more than leaning on a stick and moving forward. When I asked him how long he had to do that sweeping he said “I love it, it’s my cardio.” I looked at him. All 500 pounds. This was his cardio?

“Why’d she put you in the Box, Bear?” I asked. 

“She came inta my cube an’ saw my family photo.” 

“Yeah, and so?”

“Well, in the photo, my son was flashing a V for victory, y’know?”

“Yeah, and … ?”

“Well, dey decided that this was a gang sign. So, she took the family photo an’ she reported it an’ a Sergeant came an’ took me tada Box fa dat.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“Yeah, gamme 90 days fa my son flashing a V.” Bear shook his head, “Dat’s why I’m inna program again.” He waddled  on down the aisle.

Massey didn’t come back after handing out a bunch of cube slips. But, the damage had been done. I got so pissed off that I asked Cuba how to handle this. It was my opinion that after fucking off for 4 days, they compensated for this by making life more difficult. Ergo, more cube slips.

So, what makes sense in order to avoid future problems?

Well, let’s wash the walls, wash the radiator, wash the floors, wash the walls, line up the  shoes, wash the tops of the lockers that were painted gray and had thousands of scratches, chipped paint, missing pieces and looked like shit. It’s necessary to wash these scratched, dented, damaged, horrendous surfaces? Especially the ones that had coffee stains on them. Why not wash everything? Why not?

As we moved into group, Roddy took Myers, the white crack addict, in and dragged him with her around the stalls in the bathroom and into the showers. He was being hassled for not doing his job. His detail for this week was washing  down the walls and floor in the showers. He was a pig, so assigning him to that detail was a cleaning job to a crack addict.

He was an idiot, as well as annoying. Constantly, with his crew cut, head scars, missing front teeth, sores on his nose, he would ask me, “Hey, howya doin’ Bub?”

Who the fuck was Bub?” 

But, I didn’t say that to him. Instead, I looked at him, and said nothing, and walked  away. I had to be careful talking to lunatics. Always.

You could hear Roddy screaming at him, for all the good that it did. He was a depressed, upstate crack addict.

Then group started. Today’s subject in Group was Cognitive Distortion.

Few ASAT guys could pronounce the two words. None knew what they meant. Even after they were told what it was — described in a State tear sheet written in 1977. Basically, in a roundabout way, it involved not taking responsibility for committing crimes and blaming it on the victim.

“Well, somea dese women, day go oud wid fishnets on, dey goin’  oud by ’emselves, whattadey ‘spect?” said Q, the short black kid. One of the four Q’s in the dorm.

“Don’ mean dey wanna get raped,” said another.

“Yeah, maybe dey don’ wanna ged raped. But, whattadey doin’ ‘ere den?” said Q. He was genuinely curious, spurred on by laughs from others.

“Maybe dey goin’ ta a club,” said another.

“Suppose ya motha’ was goin’ out an’ got raped. You sayin’ she lookin’ to ged it?”

“She gone. I dunno where she at. So’s it don’ matta,” said Q.

“Look, if your mother or girlfriend, or whatever, is out at night, she has a right to be. That’s her choice.

“Yeah,” said Q, but, maybe she choosin’ ta get raped too.” 

Roddy threw up her hands

“Look, it’s a cognitive distortion for someone to commit a rape and blame it on the victim. That’s the point of all of this. So, we’re talking about you guys and how you view the victims  of your crimes. If a woman is raped, SHE is the victim, not the rapist,” said Roddy.

All I could think about was, “You think they give a shit?”

“Suppose she wan’s it, doe,” said Black, “do dat mean, da dude’s a rapist? An’ suppose she sleepin’ an’ ah do her?”

“We’ve talked about this. Having sex with a woman when she’s asleep is rape. She can’t consent. And, if the woman WANTS to have sex AND CONSENTS, then it’s not rape. Got it?”

A few heads shaking accompanied this.

“So, Cognitive Distortion is you guys thinking that if you have sex with a woman who doesn’t consent, that she’s asking for it and it’s okay. You’ll just wind up back in here if you do.”

Mike the dealer started reading again from the sheets that Roddy had given out. 

The claims by criminals were read off as reasons why perpetrators distorted the crime so as not to be thought of as responsible.

“She said she’d rather be raped than killed,” said Mike. 

“WHAT?” said Black.

“Yeah,” said Worthy, “I could see that.” 

“You could see what?” said Roddy.

“I could see she ratha ged killed. Geddin’ raped ain’t good.”

The subject was getting away from them. What was being used as an example of what some said in blaming their victims, was being taken as serious comments about the guilt of victims.

“He didn’t say that,” said Roddy. “And, that was an example of Cognitive Distortion, not fact.”

“So, she wanned ta get raped?” said Q.

I shook my head. Roddy threw up her hands. Part of the group thought Mike was reading either fact or interpretation, the others thought, correctly, that the statements were the distortions attributed to perpetrators about their criminal acts.

“S’betta fa da woman if’she deyad. Who wans’a be raped. She bedda deyad.” 

“EEAAHH,” came a loud yawn.

*****

The highlight of today didn’t arrive until ASAT started at a little after noon. Roddy had been late and, as a result, the group moved on with some difficulty. There was no order to the usual reading of A.A. books, no “information” section with the paper being read. Only a few jokes were being thrown back and forth. I sat thinking about how this scene was light years away from what anyone would think prison was like. Here were a group of drug dealers, addicts, robbers, con men, wife beaters, assaulters and a journalist, telling jokes and yelling and screaming after having had lunch.

“Yo, ya mother’s such a slut she’s gotta hardware store an’ sells nails fer a nickel 10 cents a screw,” said Myers to Q, sitting across the Rec room. Uproarious laughter erupts.

“Hey, she onna walkway?” yelled someone. 

“Nah, she late.” said another.

Q pipes up to Myers, “ya motha’s so fat she can’ fiddin da Gran’ Canyon,” followed by laughter  from the others as well as Myers who it was directed at.

“Yeah,” says Myers, “Your motha’s so fat she’s like a fridgerator, she jes’ takes alla meat she kin get,” followed by wild gusts of laughter.

“An, ya motha’s so stupid, she puts quartas inna parkin’ meter, waitin’ fa the gum ta come out.” says Q to Myers.

“Roddy’s on the Walkway,” came an announcement from the C.O., a decent guy who’s made a couple of “Big Money” comments about me when I’d first come in, but afterwards was actually very pleasant.

Scurrying occurred in the Rec room and Regan, or Dan, or Trauma, depending upon what you wanted to call the young meth producer who’d been caught WITH IT but not MAKING IT — which now carried a life sentence for manufacturing the drug — began reading for “Information,” basically, reading the paper to us. That lasted until Roddy came in the door and we all started to clap.

Roddy put her bag down and started listening to what was going on and the next segment was coming up, Creative Energy.

The black/Indian guy stood up. He was pleasant, about 50, not too bright, and definitely minimally non compos mentis. So, I wondered what game he might have developed. Or, perhaps what series of interesting questions he might have come up with for today.

“Okay,” he said, standing  up, “we gonna play Duck, Duck, Goose.”

I looked at Sal, a white guy sitting next to me. He had a confused look on his face.

“What the fuck is this?” I said.

Henry, the Spanish dealer, was two seats from me, looked over and said, “We havin’ fun yet?”

“Okay, so we all ged inna circle an’ one guy walks aroun’ and taps each guy and says, ‘Duck’ an’ ‘en, weneysays ‘Goose’ dey odda guy geds up an hits ‘im afta he chases ‘im aroun’ da group a guys inna circle.”

There was no doubt. I was paying for my crimes. Even though I was innocent.

*****

Today’s ASAT was even more creative than usual. Instead of any pretense, Creative Energy ruled the day. Roddy had come late and the usual writings from the various A.A. group handbooks were read, followed by various facts, such as Hugh Hefner had a blanket with bunnies on it to inspire him in the creation of Playboy. Creative Energy was turning into the loss leader for the group’s inability to do or say anything challenging or meaningful – considering that we were in a drug rehab program in prison. 

So, the afternoon was spent in a round-robin in which everyone had to take a turn.

“We gonna name liquors,” said Darnell. “Okay, let’s start,” he said as he pointed  to the first guy in the group.

“Johnny Walker Blue,” said Henry.

“Johnny Walker Red,” I said, creatively. Having owned a bar in Westhampton Beach that was put out of business by the liquor authority as part of the D.A.s plan to destroy me helped in this game.

“Champagne,” said the next guy.

“I ain’t gotta name for it,” said Myers.

“AAHHH, ha, ha, ha, ha,” came laughter from the rest, “now you gotta dance, dance, dance…”

So, the game was, you answered right way and it went on to the next guy. You gave a wrong answer or didn’t answer and you were OUT of the game but had to do a dance as consolation.

Myers, for some reason was bummed out and also refused to do a dance.

We moved to more challenging efforts.

“Okay,” said Darnell, “name an animal, le’s start.”

The group went around and various animals were named. From horses to tigers, it became a potpourri of grade school comments and it came around to me and I had not heard it was my turn.

“Na, na na, na na, na,” and Green, the comical black guy stood in front of me, dancing a little, prancing a little, saying, “you gotta dance, muthafucka” laughing along with the  rest of the group as they stared at me.

Finally, I stood up and with Massey and Roddy, the two counselors who held my freedom in their hands, looking on as I did a version of “Walk like an Egyptian” replete with extended arms. I felt like an idiot. Like standing in front of the Hamptons court parroting the A.D.A. as I spat out the lies of what I’d had to admit to.

The guys all loved my dance almost as much as the two women running ASAT. A seventy year old rock and roller performing like Keith Richards after he fell out of the tree.

“Awright, awright,” said Darnell, his dreads pinned up on top of his head, drawing attention away from his broken and flattened nose. Q was going around as well as Green as the enforcers, watching for guys who had missed the question. Q, of course, a 6 foot tall black guy who had a sense of humor rivaling Green’s but more or less always had a straight face. And, normally, his pants were down below his ass with his bright red underwear showing about 8 inches from his waist to where the pants were located.

“Pull up your pants,” cried Roddy, pissed-off at the interruption in the game.

“Okay, okay,” said Darnell, “next subject fa the game is Porno Stars.” The round-robin started again.

I hadn’t seen a porn film in 10 years and probably not seen any so-called stars, dressed or undressed, whose names I actually knew.

Myers was still disgruntled and refused to participate OR do a dance since he was eliminated and clearly was sulking like a child.

I listened to the names of various young women who’d I’d never heard of or seen and when it came around to me the only names I could  think of were Linda Lovelace or Paul Thomas, from the old days of porn. Like Behind the Green Door and Deep Throat.

I was happy to see that round go by the wayside. And, the same was for the subject of Rap stars. The only one I could think of was RunDMC, but it got me by. I’d only know them because they were friends with a tenant in my building.

As the ASAT session wore down, Roddy started to loosen up and share some personal information about her daughter, who it seemed, was intrigued by the fact that her mother dealt with “cool” black guys in the ASAT program. I felt dissed.

“She texts all the time and you guys know the things she’s into and I don’t,” said Roddy.

“Whaddyamean?” said Green, wanting to know more about her daughter. 

“Well, like, the other day she  says to me that one of the girls in her class was a ‘Thot’ and I had no idea what she was talking about.”

All of the guys laughed, not quite in unison.

“S’a slut, Roddy,” said one guy in the group.

“What do you mean?” said Roddy, laughing nervously.

“A Thot’s a hooker, s’a ‘Pop’ or’a slut. Dey all prositudes,” he continued to laugh.

“Oh, so a Thot’s a prostitute?” she said, grinning, “well, you guys would know, I guess. Even  my daughter knows, apparently.”

“You eva do a Thot?” said one of them, directing, his question to me.

I shook my head and said, “I’ve been married for 20 years and I’ve never once cheated  on my wife,” I said seriously.

They all burst into a round of applause at hearing this. I was amazed. Even Roddy was smiling and clapping. I couldn’t figure it out. Was this prison morality?

“Look,” I said, “I love my wife and wouldn’t want to lose her. I’ve had a lot of girls.

“Whaddayamean?” said Lopez, the Spanish guy. 

“What?” I said.

“Whaddayamean?” he said again.

“Sorry,” I said, cupping my ear, “too much sex affects your hearing.

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit

“Now I don’t have to tell you good folks what’s been  happening in our beloved little town. Sheriff murdered, crops burned,stores looted, people stampeded, and cattle raped. The time has  come to act, and act fast. I’m leaving.”

                                                                        — Blazing Saddles

In my zeal to describe the wondrous, even unbelievable efforts to lead drug addicts and dealers through the hot coals of recovery, here is another True Crime description of my time in prison. Not only was I paying for the Vindictive Prosecution at the hands of the D.A. and the Town of Southampton for providing affordable housing but I was writing about corruption. So, I wound up in prison, writing, of course. Here’s a snippet from my memoirs about treatment for my non-existent addictions at the hands of a system run amok. In a program called ASAT.

January 7th, 2015

Black skies, fluorescent lights. All at 6:30, after being awake from 5:30, making my coffee in the dark and tiptoeing around in the dorm. Only the microwave ding makes any noise since the hot pot for coffee is broken.

Domo, the 20’s-something black kid who has the cube just across the aisle from me is still missing. He’d suddenly disappeared after one night he just seemed to look “pale.” Although he rarely said anything more than “got bread?” which is why I started to call him Wonderbread. He was kind of a pleasant cipher. But, when people go missing it’s usually because they left the program or went to the Box. Neither was the case with him.

“Bigs,” I said, Domo’s next door neighbor, “where’s Domo?” 

“Infirmary,” he said.

“Why? Whats wrong with him?”

“He got asthma, real bad.” said Bigs. “You feel whaddI’msayin’?” 

“I hear you.”

No surprise. Having a breathing problem in prison is serious. Between the prolific amounts of methane produced by virtue of the shit and shit food, the incessant smoking in the bathrooms that permeate the dorms and, not the least of which, the dorm-filling snowmobile event of the night before. The entire dorm had been filled with carbon monoxide for hours since the windows were left open and the farmers were having a party on the land adjacent to the prison.

Imagine putting a pipe up your nose and attaching the other end to a snowmobile  exhaust and, well, there  you have  it.

Good luck to Domo.

And, then, there was the cold.

It had finally hit. It was minus 15 without the wind. And, it WAS windy. The combined effect brought the wind chill factor down to minus 25 degrees. Terrific for asthma.

I’d spent my time in the Gym in the morning and came back for the ASAT program, which started as usual at 12:15 in the afternoon. My second cup of Starbucks which came from a recent package from my wife warmed me up and I had a can of sardines for lunch with some Triscuits.

After changing my Gym clothes, dipping my boots in the slop sink water to clear off the salt that was now everywhere you walked, I carried my chair and ASAT folder into the Rec room.

Roddy was there on time, unfortunately, and Green was leading the class. He was about 5’10” tall, black, slim, constantly  had his hands in his pants arranging his shirt and had a comedic streak. He was someone who not only had a sense of humor but liked to test the limits of it with Roddy and everyone else. He had a quixotic manner and expressive face with full lips, short hair, and smiled a lot. He reminded me of Denzel Washington and Dave Chappelle. He’d start the class with the A.A. readings, duck back and forth into and out of the bathroom which we were not supposed to use, fixing his pants from time to time, and was not  above blowing a couple of methane bombs on his audience with a completely straight face.

Today we got through the readings and “Information” which consisted mainly of Green reading from the Daily News about the Gilgo Beach serial murders. This went on for half an hour before we had “Creative Energy.”  Keef,  the mentally adolescent white guy who seemed to want to go on and on about his alcohol-fueled personal life with his wife and two kids — who had placed an Order of Protection against him which was why he was now in  jail for violating it — was leading the group.

“Okay,” said Keef, with an eager-beaver, bushy-tailed look, “let’s play Musical Chairs.”

I looked at him as if he had 3 heads thinking that he was joking. Wasn’t this a drug program?

“Nah,” came a response from the group.

 “How about a word game?” said one of the black guys.

But, Keef hadn’t prepared anything and he was counting on not having to do anything. He was a child. He was an idiot. He constantly talked about how his parents had bailed him out in his 30’s.

“C’mon you guys, just line-up eight chairs, two rows, and let’s start the music.”

Roddy was enjoying this. She’d told the guys the day before that there’d been too much Sudoku for Creative Energy, whatever the fuck THAT meant. So, now, no games that would allow you to use your mind. Now we had to do something really creative. 

Musical Chairs. Now, in principle I don’t have anything  against musical chairs. My 9 year old would probably tell me that he was a little old for that and I remember playing that at one of his birthday parties when he was 6. And, there was no doubt that in a drug and alcohol program there could conceivably be a genuine reason to play that game.

Especially, if the point of it was to make the participants look or feel infantilized. Or, perhaps, Roddy was acting out her sadistic aggression against men, which, from the dribs and drabs leaking out of her personal life certainly confirmed — with a pending divorce from a man wanting to move on to a younger woman without a “pouch”  — and, with a body that drew comparisons to farmland animals among the guys, her motives were suspect. My experience in psychotherapy involved supporting egos not destroying them.

No, my objection  was not that it was stupid or demeaning, or even beneath me. Though, all of that occurred  to me. What I objected to was the fact that I wasn’t going to learn anything. I wasn’t going to hear about lives and drugs and supposed treatment for self­ abuse and Recovery  not to mention Recidivism. 

How would these guys cope and not have to return through help in a $30,000 a man Federal gift to the State?

But, of course, I was bullshitting myself. We were going to play Musical Chairs.

Since there was NO music anywhere in the prison, Danger, now the laundry guy, hummed  a song and a bunch of us lined up around 8 chairs.  I walked around the chairs and when the humming stopped I took my time and sat down. Unfortunately, no one ever tried to take MY chair. 

And, the stupidity went on. And, it went on for so long, with Roddy shrieking with laughter and the rest of the guys clapping and laughing as this went on, that I just took my time and sat down as the humming stopped. Nothing that I did seemed to prevent me from SLOWLY sitting down.

And, it went on so long that I became the center of attention because I was doing so well at not  being bumped out of the game.

Finally, after much finger  pointing, laughter, derision, shrieking and laughing from an elated and mentally disturbed Roddy that she’d enabled this exemplary abuse — without the guys even realizing what she was doing, perhaps not even aware that they too were objects of her condescending and bizarre laughter  — the game ended. 

Lopez, the effeminate-looking Peurto Rican, sat on the last chair and was thrown off by another guy. But, I’d been the fun for Roddy and the group. A serious, 72 year old guy with a straight face and multiple degrees who was unable to lose at Musical Chairs. 

I’d finally arrived at the pinnacle of my game.

“You a smooth dude,” Bigs said later. 

“What?” I said.

“Yeah, you a smooth dude.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I said looking at Bigs in the bathroom where he was smoking with a couple of the others.

“I seen how you jes sat wenna music stopped. Nothin’ stoppin’ ya, cool an’ controlled. Yeah, I seen ‘at.”

I was bizarrely flattered by a black guy saying that to me and said – getting a comment like that from a niga, is a real compliment. I was stepping outside a bit from my comfort zone saying it that way but he smiled and nodded his head.

Of course, I’d thought he meant what had happened AFTER the musical chairs. Here, I was thinking that he was truly insightful and he was just complimenting me for winning  Musical Chairs.

What happened AFTER Musical Chairs was that the Group, in which we were all gathered to discuss another of Roddy’s concepts — Gambling. As in ‘We are all gamblers.”‘

One guy started by using the usual line about how he sold drugs and gambled with his family’s happiness. Intense. Okay, but, so what? We were all gambling that we were going to wake up tomorrow. The round-robin came to Keef, the 30’s white guy who seemed to have verbal diarrhea and could not  stop spilling out his horrible acts once he got started. Once he began I just wanted  to kick him in the head. And, apparently I was not alone.

“So, I hit my wife and she fell on the floor an’ I jes’, y’know, I jes’ rolled her head in the dog pee and dog shit on the floor. It was terrible to do that an’ I’m not proud of myself. But, I did it an’ that’s why there was a Order of Protection. An’ ‘en, I wenta see her anyway, y’know we were fighin’ again an’ she hit me inna head with a windshield scraper. I hadda get 28 stitches.  But, she jes’ lef’ me onna floor and said she hadda pick up our daughters at school. She jes’ left me there bleeding. She coulda’ called the school and told ’em she was gonna be late, but, she jes’ left me there.”

Seemed reasonable to me.

I made no face. I said nothing. But, I just looked at this guy. Green, the comic, and Worthy were looking at ME, not Keef. I actually wanted to laugh at this asshole but, I kept a straight face, kept looking at Keef, looked at Green, who was suppressing  a laugh, as was Worthy, and Roddy was looking directly at Green and, also me. 

I couldn’t help myself and said, “He’s an embarrassment to white men.” ·

This comment, accompanied by my totally straight face, unleashed a torrent of guffaws on the part of Green and Worthy. They lost it. Roddy was staring straight at the three of us. I was totally straight-faced with no sign of emotion whatsoever, and the two black guys were losing their composure looking at me. They totally lost control. 

It was Pandemonium.

“And, I remember my mother and father having to bail me out. Cause, y’know they were hippies and did a lot of drugs when I was growing up. But, we had a good time. We’d swim in the lake an’ jump inna water from the old tire hangin’ from the old tree,” Keef went on, oblivious to anyone thinking anything other than ‘How interesting his story is,’ and “What an idyllic existence,” but, in fact, he was surrounded by drug dealers, addicts and alcoholics who thought he was just another white asshole.

At this point, even Roddy was beginning to question this monologue and said, after shaking her head and displaying a ‘What the fuck?’ expression while saying, “What does this have to do with gambling?”

Green and Worthy, as well as a few others, took the opportunity to use her comments as an excuse to vent their pent-up hilarity and explosive laughter literally blew out of them. I kept a straight face. I did not want Roddy attributing ANYTHING of a ”negative” nature to my words or actions.

Even though Keef truly WAS an asshole. A spoiled child.

At that moment, I heard the loudest fart I’d ever heard in my life. It stopped Roddy in mid-sentence and she looked around and said,

“Really?” as the sound tapered off after a few seconds, 

“Really? guys?” she said again. 

Of course, since no one could use the bathroom, there was nothing to be done. All of the guys pulled their T-shirts up over their noses and hid their noses. There was the sound of muffled  laughter.

This finally stopped Keef in his tracks. It enabled Green and Worthy to blow out the final remnants of their pent-up, suppressed laughter. It gave me a break. Until the group came around to me.

“Well,” I said, “I was involved with writing about political corruption, I had real estate investments and it was funded by Wall Street. It was the biggest casino in the world. I gambled and I lost. And, my  family has had to suffer as a result of  my actions.”

It was a serious, mea culpa, in line with the ASAT program, I was showing remorse. On my way to recovery.

“Any questions?” said Roddy.

“Yeah,” said one  black kid, “was ‘at like Wall Street?” _•

“What do you mean?” I asked the kid, looking at him and trying to figure out if he wanted a movie review. There was no connection between what I was talking about and the Michael Douglas film.

“Y’know Wall Street?” he said again.

“You want to know if what I was describing in my situation was like that movie?”

“Yeah?” he said.

I looked at Roddy and now I’d discussed casino gambling, Real Estate and the source of all of the money coming from the investment banks to basically fuck everyone, Wall Street, and before I started trying to explain to them how small time they were as opposed crimes were in comparison to the billions that the bankers ran away with I wanted to check to see where she  was at. Was I going to go into the political corruption, the lawyers who’d duped me, the criminal D.A. who I’d written about who sent me here in retaliation.

“You want me to go into this?” I said to Roddy, sensing that with the little she  probably knew about the longest and biggest con in history, I’d best see if even she had a taste for the truth. I’d already started off by letting the cat out of the bag. She knew I was a  journalist but she didn’t know I wrote about political corruption. If she paid atten­tion.

“No,” said Roddy, obviously agitated apparently at the interest these guys had in what I had to say. Which, is precisely why I wanted to find out if she were going to feel challenged by my knowledge or, perhaps, even popularity among the guys. They, of course, sensed that their petty  crimes – those in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, paled by comparison to what the boys on Broad and Wall had managed to pull off.” IBY, YBG. I’ll be gone, You’ll be gone.” Their crimes were in the hundreds of billions and for some like Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley, reaching towards the Trillions.

“Thank you. Let’s move on in the Group.”

Danger came to me later and said, “Dis is what dey was talkin’ about,” and then he showed  me an article about Wall Street. It was a commentary about “The Wolf of Wall Street.” It was a magazine piece that was about Leonardo DiCaprio, the actor who starred as Jordan Belfort, known euphemistically as the Wolf of Wall  Street.

And, what Roddy just pushed away was the film about intense greed, gambling with people’s money and drug and alcohol addiction. Some­thing I could describe, explain and interpret for these guys in a way that would make sense to them. Not only was it appropriate. But, it held  their interest.

It was a real entree, a way to connect with these guys. Like sex, drugs and rock’n’roll. It was about big money, drugs and alcohol and BIG theft and how gambling could ruin your  life.

And, how pervasive it was in our society. But, Roddy didn’t  want a real connection. No real examples of the foundations  of a gambling society. There was too much at risk for her to grasp and discuss. And, with my obvious expertise she was going to lose control of the discussion.

Which is why I asked her about continuing before it got out of hand. I mean what was I going to say, ‘Hey Roddy, this is  about gambling, this is about drugs, booze, criminal  behavior. This is what Wall Street did to America. See me!

Isn’t this what we’re here to talk about?’

So the group moved on. Mike started to talk when I passed. “Well, I was gamblin’ wid  ma famly’s lives.” said Mike, the heavy-set 25 year old black kid with the afro-styled hair. “What’d  you do?” I asked.

“Ah, wuz sellin’ drugs an’ I got caught.” Others shook their heads. “But, I’m still not sure why I’m heeah in ‘is  program.”

“What do you mean?” said Ms. Roddy, curiously. A look on her face. 

“Well, I don’t do drugs. I mean what’s dis for, anyways?”

There was some nervousness in Roddy’s face, like the Emperor’s New Clothes question had come out again.

“Well, you WERE gambling with your family’s welfare, and you were selling drugs to other people’s kids, so, weren’t you involved  with drugs?” she said with satisfaction on her face. 

A look of relief when he nodded his head. 

Here was a 20-somthing black kid with street smarts, having been in prison for nearly a year, asking a very honest question. What the fuck am I doing here in a drug program when I don’t do drugs?

Yeah, well, I unnerstan’ that. So, I was gamblin’ and I got that. But, whats’at gotta do wit my recoverin’  from drugs an’ alcohol?”

Now, this was a problem. I had taken the program to “understand about alcohol” and I my family history of abuse. But, in order to go through this program, my education gradually turned into my “need” to take this program. It was the gradual fuck you. And, Mike was calling Roddy on it.

“Well,” said Roddy, trying to use the tried and true flim-flam principles that kept people in line. After all, once you’re in it’s important to keep you to make sure that $30,000 isn’t  pulled back. 

“You were selling drugs, right? You had  drugs around all the time, right?”

“Yeah, I unnerstan’  but y’know I wanna ged outta sellin’ drugs an’ at whole lifestyle, but I need a job. Is’is program gonna’ help me gedda job?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Roddy, happy to have found a connection that worked and a hook to shut him up.

But, of course, she was lying through her teeth. ASAT did nothing for these guys in trying to get them jobs. It was a funnel to direct people through to collect upfront fees.

The tragedy for her lie was that here was at least one guy who  clearly was receptive to going straight. You could see it in his eyes and you could feel it by virtue of the questions he was asking. Yet, he WOULD be back. Because they were bullshitting him.

And, guess what? They wanted him to come back. They’d get him and another entire fee all over again by making sure that the revolving door was functioning properly.

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit

“I believe my first duty is to survive.”

— George Carlin

In a tribute to the unsung heroes operating the mental health programs for alcoholics, drug addicts and drug dealers in New York prisons — here’s a further snapshot of actual treatment and planning that goes into their recovery. I was fortunate in that I was a trained professional who was not allowed to take part in running the program but could benefit from its brilliance. Since I was more of a political prisoner than anything else, compliments of a Vindictive Prosecution for my writing, I was there to observe. And write. When I wasn’t worried about being killed it was interesting

(Ms. Roddy was the social worker hired to run the program and this was the ASAT residential treatment program IN prison).

“Do you worry? Often? Sometimes? Never?”

Asking someone in prison to answer an emotional quiz, is like asking a person about to be shot in the head whether  he’d like there to be 5 or 6 bullets in the gun when Russian Roulette started. How could any rational human be claiming to be in or even near the mental health field ask such a question? Yet, here it was.

I’m sitting in a group of 5 guys, since we’d  broken down from the larger group, as little clusters in the Rec room. Roddy is off bullshitting with the C.O. about her latest date, and, to kill time for the afternoon group she ran we were given a 3 page print-out to answer. Each of us was given the questionnaire to check off our answers,  put in our folders and  discuss amongst ourselves. We all looked  at each other.

“So, do you worry? Often. Sometimes. Never,” said Dierburger the self-professed alcoholic with a few missing teeth, an outbreak of some kind of skin disease on his face, unkempt hair, sallow complexion and  a head-held sideways, near-drawl in his voice.

“I dunno ’bout you guys,” he says, “but the only think I’m worried about is when I’m gettin’ outta here.” He laughed with some conviction but with little energy. Anyone who breaks into a store and comes out with $10 in change and one beer, hasn’t even made it as a decent criminal.

I thought about my wife paying the rent. Yeah, I was worried. But, it was unlikely  to do me any good. I was also worried about when the fuck I was going to get out — alive. 

But, of course, I’d had to check “Never.”

Prison was about masking your feelings, not sharing them. The Administration was concerned about lawsuits so any hint of mental instability, even though we were all surrounded by crazy people, had to be denied. There was zero percentage in “sharing” anything of real emotional value. You could wind up in a psychiatric ward, shot up with drugs for your trouble.

And, my days were filled with strategic lying about what the two women wanted to hear. Too much talking and you were trying to upstage THEM and too little talking and you were not participating.

“Okay,” said Black,”what’re  you guys called?”

“Enigma,” I said.

“So, ‘Mental/emotional assessment’ this says,” Dierburger continued, “let’s see, ‘I am moody’ well fuck that, ‘I trust others’ oh, here, ‘I feel depressed’ that’s good. How the fuck do you wind  up in prison and not feel depressed?”

“Yeah,” said Al, the white, 50 year old guy who’d wound up in prison  for having a fight with some guy, “this one’s good, ‘I feel guilty’  so, how the fuck do you get into prison if you don’t act fucking guilty?” He goes down the list. “This is good, ‘I feel adequate’ adequate to what, to get through this bullshit, and ‘I have difficulty sleepin’ — yeah that’s good. The asshole next  to me is farting and coughing all night and his radio is on full blast with his earphones on and I can hear the fucking song  blasting from my cube.”

“I like this one,” said Domo, the quiet black kid. “My diet includes fiber, I eat fat foods, I balance nutrients.”

Dierburger laughs and pipes up, “where the fuck do they think we are at the Four Seasons, this is a shithole that only offers Soy. There’s no fat here. There’s no nutrients here. And, there’s definitely no fiber here. It’s all soy bullshit disguised  as food.”

“Okay,” I said,  watching Roddy through the bubble window that allowed her  to fuck  off  with  the C.O. and  continue  to watch  what we were doing.

“Look at page three,” said Al, “‘I am happy with my life’, now can they seriously expect us to answer that question. ‘Oh, sure, I’m fucking deliriously happy. I’m in a fucking prison with  a bunch of shitheads in a program with a fucking kangaroo running it.”

Dierburger laughed, as did Domo. Yeah, ‘I feel worthy’ isn’t that from that old T.V. show Wayne’s World, I feel worthy, I feel worthy. What was that?

“No,” I said, “I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy. That was the line.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said. “lissen, dis is bullshit. Jus’ fill it out the way ya think she wans ta see it. The whole fuckin’ thing is a crock a shit.”

The small groups were told to pull their chairs in a circle. It was to be group time again. We circled our chairs and all faced each other in a circle of about 30 guys. Roddy said  to continue and then went back to the bubble to talk about her latest  boyfriend.

They all looked at each other and a few said, “We gotta talk.” 

Another  guy said, “fuck dis.”

Another said, “we do dis stupid shit, les’ just do a story,” and a few looked at·each other.

There were glances at Roddy through the bubble glass window so  that the C.O. could see into the Rec room and there was also a large convex mirror, as there was in the dorm so that the officer on duty could see all areas from his desk.

“You start Albina,” said Black. He was referring to Tuki, whose last name was Albino, but was often mispronounced.

“So I was goin’ outta da door,” said Tuki, “an’ I see Roddy waitin’ fa me inna bus.” He was leaving  in a couple of days and this was  his great creative leap. “Ta you Q.”

“Okay, so I see Roddy an’ she say in’ she wantsa blow me,” and everyone starts laughing and slapping their knees as Q is trying to keep it moving, “onta you Mr. Worthy.”

Worthy was an intense  black guy who was built solidly and seemed  as if he was perpetually angry and a predator on the prowl, but  who would suddenly evince a big grin and then say something funny. “Nah, on ta you Dee,” he said.

Dee, a 6’4″ black guy started, “so, Roddy tells me ta gedon the bus an’ we godda go to da bar but pulls me onta the bus and we get  in back an’ she’s goin’ down on me and lickin’ my Johnson,” onta you.”

It was my turn so I looked through the bubble window to see if Roddy was paying any attention to us and did NOT want to be caught saying ANYTHING of a  sexual nature, no matter what. So I said, “I was driving my Rolls and told her to get off the bus and join me and saw Bigs,” who was sitting next to me “and I asked Bigs if he wanted to drive us around.”

This was ASAT. 

This was Recovery. 

This was a drug and alcohol treatment program.

I needed a drink.

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit

“That’s why they call it the American Dream, because you have to be asleep to believe it.”
                                  ― George Carlin

For those of you who are confused about Congestion Pricing, relax. No matter what is done, it won’t be to our benefit. Especially if you are a Senior in SoHo or if you have business on Long Island. To prove that I’m a sport and could use public transportation like anyone else — even though my balance is off and was concerned about being pushed off the station edge after having chemo — I took the subway. I made it onto the subway car but was then accosted by a lunatic screaming about how racist New York is. Naturally, he had to stop and stand next to ME. So, instead of confronting him I moved to another car and sat down in the only free seat. It was safe since the guy next to me was slumped over in a drug stupor and didn’t give a shit about racism at that moment.

Not a cop was in sight.

Since I won’t be able to drive I think I’ll continue taking a Lyft. Social Security won’t go as far but maybe I won’t get killed — just attacked. After all, who gives a shit about Seniors. SoHo and Manhattan have become the object of every special interest. From Canal Street traffic, to Holland Tunnel drivers heading at slow pedestrians, to bikers who now have an organization that aims to silence critics — take your pick. Rather than the envy of, SoHo has become the target of all outlying boros, the City Council, the Community Board, useless politicians, and tourists.

However, for those who believe public transpotation will get better for us here’s some news:

The MTA Congestion Pricing program, a toll for vehicles entering Manhattan below 60th Street, is set to go into effect later this year. 

Its goal is to reduce traffic congestion and air pollution, as well as raising funds for the MTA. 

Considering the inordinate number of vehicles traversing SoHo going to the Holland Tunnel, the program could have a significant effect on our neighborhood.

However, it could present financial difficulties for local residents who require their vehicles for, say, medical appointments or work outside Manhattan. More information on the toll rate schedule here.

Senator Brian Kavanagh is seeking to hear from his constituents on this subject and is hosting a meeting on it Thursday, February 15 from 6:00 to 8:30 pm at BMCC TriBeCa Performing Arts Center, 199 Chambers Street near West Street. 

MTA officials will present their plan and there will be a Q&A with the public. Registration is required via https://bit.ly/mtainfosession

The MTA will also be holding its own public hearings and comment sessions on Thursday, February 29 at 6pm, Friday, March 1 at 10am, Monday, March 4 at 10 am, and Monday March 4 at pm. Click here to register to attend in person or via Zoom at https://mta.zoom.us/j/82624594335

PLEASE FORWARD THIS EMAIL TO FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS.

Sincerely,

Sean Sweeney, Director

_____________________________________________________________________________

Reader comments:

2/16/24

Hey Don,

I read your piece on congestion pricing. Agreed.  I was going to go to the meeting tonight, but realized I could go to free night at ICP.  They really didn’t want our opinion.    I love to see the statistics, but my theory is that electric bikes have actually added to congestion and co2 emissions.  The batteries need to be disposed of and subway ridership is probably down because of them.  No licensing, no insurance, REALLY.    Of course crime is down because if it goes unreported there is no crime,  sort of like a tree falling in the woods.

Oh well, another time.

John

“Laws are spider webs through which the big flies pass and the little ones get caught.”
                                ― Honore de Balzac

Here’s a clip from my experiences in a drug and alcohol treatment program which was where all the acton was during my sojourn in a New York State prison. As a result of what is known among prosecutors as a Vindictive Prosecution — which I experienced courtesy of the now imprisoned D.A. Thomas Spota — for having written about corruption in the Hamptons. The real Hamptons which I wrote about is a darker place than its sunny beaches and the politicians could teach Donald Trump a thing or two about retaliation and revenge.

The following is a scene from the so-called ASAT program meant to prepare inmates for society. Our society.

(Massy and Roddy are the two program group coordinators)

The subject of the day was anger and the criminal lifestyle. Bigs slept, sitting upright, snoring on his chair.

“Do we buy beer now?” yelled one guy.

“Buy Croc,” said another tall, slim Spanish kid who liked to call crack and pronounce it CROCK with a German accent. 

Whatever, I thought.

“Lissen’, somea you guys gotta’ blame othas. Mufucka’s allays blamin’ uddas,” said Ingram, who was also known as Elevator. He was prolific. 

This was partly due to the fact that he was the Senior Coordinator who needed to be visible. One who would be getting great recommendations to aid his case going forward. 

“We gotta’ keep ah shit straight. Don’ say shit you know, dat could come back. You got rats an’ snitches allaroun’ ya. Keep allya shit ta yaself, niga. She ineyudda room, let’s do dis,” he confided when Roddy wasn’t watching.

“Okay,” said Dan the alcoholic, “so, whattawe talkin’ about. Anger, right?” 

“Yeah,” said Elevator, “so keep ya shit ta yo’self, cops read lips, guy nextaya’s lissenin’ so jes’ do what ya suppos’ta do.”

“Anger can come out in a lotta ways. I know I drank a lot cause I wanned  ta dull the pain,” said Dan.

“Gottany beer?” one guy yelled. “Anybody gotta joint?”

Bigs snorted in his chair and nearly slid off in a narcoleptic trance. He farted loudly.

“I don’ get angry,” said one black kid who called himself Jester. “I just make jokes.”

He was a drug dealer who’d been taken down by the cops after he beat the shit out of someone and put him in a coma for stiffing him on a sale. I was trying to figure out the joke.

At this point Massey entered the dorm and came into the room and decided to sit right next to me and took part in the group. She listened in at first.

Bigs woke up when Massey came in and decided to participate.

“I got anga issues,” said Bigs. “But anga’sfa’ dummies.” 

“I don’ wanna stress ma feelins,” he said. “I keeps it ta maself,” as he fought the urge to nod off.

And, I agreed with him, especially with 182 over 102 blood pressure. At over 300 pounds, he looked like he was about to explode. Medical care in the Infirmary was overrated.

“Anger is Good,” pipes in another guy.

Like greed, I presumed. He was no Michael Douglas.

Massey, the less verbal counselor, made a few comments which, of course, everyone agreed with and we were then rewarded with a video. It meant that no one had to come up with answers, fake confessions, pretend recovery speeches, and, above all, no one had  to talk to anyone else. 

Group Therapy was a video called Turning Point. There was a Barbara Walters segment about heroin use entitled “Hooked: Heroin – Hollywood  to Main Street.” Apparently, Barbara Walters led a second, undercover life and her expertise was heroin. She got a lot of cred.

A few guys slept, a few watched the video, and many watched it gladly. It meant that they didn’t have to pay attention to any “teacher” or confess on cue, or create for Massey or Roddy without being kicked out of the program.

THEN, Massey called  me into the glass-encased office. 

She handed me two sheets that basically told me that I’d been denied Presumptive Release AND Merit Board. But, the new date for my Merit Board was now in May. But, instead of getting Merit Board in May, for a certainty, there was the possibility of reconsideration.

In other words, because I took ASAT, my Merit Board was being delayed until I finished the program successfully. The program which I did not need but took to earn early release.

I then walked into the dorm where I got my mail and picked up another denial for Work Release. 

It wasn’t  my day.

Copyright 2022

__________________________________________________________________

For those of you who wonder what prison is like — especially what mental health in so-called residential treatment programs in prison is like, here’s an outtake from a True Crime recitation of an actual group meeting.

“December  17th, 2014

Group had been about domestic violence and violence against women. It was very popular. It was not the kind of conversation and verbal expiation that would have been popular at the Knights of the Round Table. Chivalry had never existed on the mean streets where these guys came from.

“Ma gran’ma  tol’ me  dat someone  hits you, you hittem  back.” said one 22 year old black kid.

“Does that include a woman?” asked Ms. Roddy, in the circular group setting. 

“Don’ matta. Da bitch hits me an’ I beat her.”

“Yeah,” said another  guy, “some bitches like ta get hit. Dey aggragate  a niga ’til she gotta’ be punched.” 

“So, what you’re saying is that if a woman gets you angry, it’s okay to beat her?”

“Yeah, she lookin’ ta get beat,” he said looking around at the mostly black other guys in the group who were shaking their heads in agreement.

“Does everyone agree with that?” said Ms. Roddy, chewing viciously on her gum. “Is it okay to beat a woman if she started to annoy you?” 

“Yeah!” said one guy.

“Definitely,” said another.

“Does anyone here have any idea what the numbers are for the reported cases of domestic violence?”

“Fifty pacen’,” said one. 

“Ninety pacen’,” said another.

“Okay, but it’s less than one percent in this country.” They all looked at each other and smiled.

“And, that includes rape,” she said. 

More smiles.

“I hadda a girlfren’ an’ she was sleepin’ an’ I  gets on’er. She gets up an’ she mad a’me.”

“Yeah,” said Roddy, “well, let me tell you, that’s rape.” 

“Wha?” said the black kid,

“Yes, you have sex with a woman while she’s sleeping and that’s rape.”

“C’mon, man, she ma girlfren’, we fuck allatime. She jus’ woke up onna wrong side.”

“Yeah, well, she woke up on the wrong side because you’d raped her.” Roddy was insistent. “And, let me tell you, you would wind up right back here if you did that and she reported  it.”

“How ’bout if you drinkin’ an’ she pass out an’ you have sex. Y’know f’you fuck ‘er?”

“That’s rape too.” said Roddy.

The guys were looking around at each other, laughing at Roddy, who was frustrated and chewing her gum anxiously. Now, she was preaching consequences not advocating for women.

“You guys have to understand, that if you have sex with anyone, EVEN IF IT’S WITH ANOTHER MAN, you need to have their agreement. Not while they’re asleep or passed out.”

“Anotha’ man,” laughed one black kid, “you kiddin’?”

“Listen, someone calls the cops and YOU get arrested. They ask the questions later down at the  precinct.”

I raised  my hand. And, the person talking called me.

“So, what if I said that you shouldn’t hit a woman under any circumstances?”

A few guys laughed. “What?” said one guy. 

“Under ANY circumstances?” said another.

“Yeah,” I said, “under ANY circumstances.”

“Bitch comes at me wid a knife, I’m supposta’ not puncha? Fuck dat, she lookin’ fa’a beatin’, she gonna’ gedit.”

“S’about rispec’, man. What niga gonna’ walk away from some bitch who lookin’ ta get beat?”

Roddy was shaking her head and viciously chewing her gum and I simply looked at them. We had moved on to Drama’s Family Sculpture.

The 5’5” tall black kid from upstate New York, a town near Buffalo, brought about 5 of his friends up in front of the group to introduce the “members of his family” to  us all.

His mother had been a crack addict, one of his brothers had been shot and killed at the age of 10, another died in prison and he was here for a gun charge. He was the family success story.

“Ma feelin’ is that I wan’ respec’ from nigas.” he said with a very serious face.

Roddy, watching his performance now, said, “You’re here for a gun charge and you’ve been here before, is it Respect you want or do you want people to fear you?”

“I wan’ ’em to fear me an rispec’ me.” he said, very straight-facedly, looking around the room at the reaction of the others. 

“But, you’re not getting respect. You’re getting fear. Your friends fear you but it’s likely that they don’t respect you. And, what are they doing for you here?” 

“S’okay that they fear me.”

“So, you really just want people to fear you? When you wave a gun in their face?” Roddy was insistent. No response from the kid. Then he smiled.

I thought better of commenting. I had no idea how volatile these guys were. I mean, we were in a Medium A prison, a Medium B prison  was essentially a Minimum.

There were no longer any Minimums in the New York State system. All of them were closed  for  budgetary reasons. Instead of opening MORE minimums and taking all of the non-violent inmates out of much higher, labor-intensive facilities, the phony move away from “punishment’ and towards “reform” which would have cost less, had been perverted.

So, we still had actual, violent inmates in this and all Mediums and I did not want to find out that Drama was a kid who would benefit, in his mind, from showing some white guy that he WAS to be feared. I had no interest in being a test case and wind  up with a fucking shank sticking out of my side as he gets hauled off to the Box. What did I know? I mean, really, what DID I really know?  I could drop that line of commentary and go without hearing any answer. 

Often, a wise decision in prison. 

NOT getting an answer.

Copyright 2022