If it wasn't for the height of the fences and the coils of razor-wire that top them, this place would look like any of a dozen primary schools I attended in Miami-Dade County. In my mind they have all taken on aspects of each other, become one conglomerate institution, as I attended more than a few of them in my time as a prisoner of that county's school system. The vagabond nature of my early education was thanks to my mother's two hobbies, finance and psychology. In her role as financier, she made a killing calling the movers every time her divorce lawyer, paid for by my father, managed to squeeze a few more dollars out of him. Thus we moved from school zone to school zone and from townhouse to townhouse with respectable regularity. As well suited as she was to business, however, those talents paled in comparison to her skill as a shrink. Not three months into my fifth grade year she had given enough expert testimony to convince all interested parties that there was something dreadfully wrong with me. I was quickly convicted of being "emotionally handicapped" and sentenced, appropriately enough, to serve a life sentence in a program called "EH."

The EH program, like any other prison system, claims to remove its participants from the rest of society so as to protect those on the outside and rehabilitate those on the inside. In reality, it serves the same three purposes all prison systems do: to provide a few jobs to the otherwise unemployable (no one would be a prison guard or EH teacher if they had they a choice, though it must be noted that guards' lack of choice is due to cognitive deficiencies, while that of the teachers is usually an emotional obligation), to earn some tax money from the state and national governments, and to provide one convenient place for all the troublemakers to meet, network, and educate each other on the finer points of larceny and lawlessness. This last purpose is the most important, because without fertile breeding grounds for delinquents to commingle, be fruitful, and multiply, the prisons, the police, the insurance companies, the schools, the courts, the lawyers, the counselors, the commissary supply companies, and the sprawling bureaucracies that support, connect, and regulate these many institutions would have nothing to do, no one to employ, and no money to circulate. I am told that in economics this is known as multiplication and in politics as infrastructure. I believe theology refers to it as sin.

Built by the same people and for the same purpose, it is no real surprise to me how similar this prison is in appearance to the schools. If you ignore the obvious trappings of confinement, this place could easily be a Bent Tree or a Jane S. Roberts, though the attendees here don't get to travel between joints as much as I did in my time. The buildings are cinderblock and square, none bigger than a large classroom, all painted the same neutral, calming beige. The roofs are shingled with tar paper, the doors are all metal. Everywhere one looks, enclosure, economics, and utility stare back.

Connecting the building's metal doors to one another is a network of poured concrete walkways. These are occasionally flanked by poured concrete benches, which in turn are often accompanied by a small planting of attractive little greens. As the only people who ever sit on these benches are guards or prisoners, I can't help but be amused that some sweet and enterprising soul made the effort in this otherwise pale environment to locate benches that seem like they should have a view. From where I stand, none of these benches have much of a view besides down, at the greens, unless you like fences and razor-wire, in which case I guess you could look straight ahead. I've been here twice now and have never seen anyone, not even visiting children, look up. It is as though taking in the expanse of clear sky above, the open space penned in only by invisible horizons, will act as a foil for the prison fences and machinegun turret towers, highlighting the captivity of the men within.

Perhaps, in considering the benches this way, I betray myself, confess that I smuggled in some of the outside's aesthetic predilections, which I'm sure would be considered contraband by the guards. But as I stand here I can't help but wonder why in the world someone would construct a sitting spot in a place without something there for the sitter to rightfully look at. From what I have heard, the one time there was something to look at--the morning an inmate decided it was time for a brisk run outside and was machine-gunned down just a few meters away from the fence he somehow managed to hurdle--it was not viewable from any of the benches--a clear case of insult added to injury. But I have digressed unnecessarily, and possibly at great personal risk. Digression, by definition, is the act of moving outside one's bounds and that, in this place, would require a negotiation of razor-wire and machinegun fire which I admit I am not fully prepared to mediate.

Even the guards and visitors are prisoners here. Every time I visit, I have to make sure I follow The Rules, which are posted often and in three languages--English, Spanish, and Haitian--so that any transgression I commit is entirely my own fault with no recourse to language barriers. I may bring in one (1) unopened pack of cigarettes, which the guards invariably tear open with a practiced violence of movement, to ensure that I haven't tampered with the contents. To light my cigarettes with I am allowed one (1) lighter, which must be of clear plastic, so that they may likewise ensure that I snuck no drugs in with my butane. I realize now that the angry enthusiasm revealed during the pack-opening ceremony is not directed at Philip Morris USA or at the tobacco itself, or even at me--it is directed at the weather. When we go outside to smoke, one of the guards must accompany us, which means stepping out into Madison County's air. Madison County is always either hot and moist or cold and moist--this place knows no mildness and loves humidity. Sitting uncomfortably as it does between northern Floridian population centers and the southern Georgian forests, Madison gets the best of Florida sweat and Georgia breath--an ungodly copulation which has resulted in an infertile mule of a county full of likewise mulish residents.

But inside this close hallway which my father and I must pass to enter the visiting area there is only a hint of the exterior coolness. Questions must be asked, checkpoints passed, a full inventory of our watches, rings, necklaces, bracelets, medicines, keys, glasses, money, and other accessories dutifully taken. My shoes must be removed and thoroughly checked by a guard wearing bright purple gloves. I always apologize to the poor person assigned this task--the only pair of shoes I own is a pair of heavy steel-toe work boots, which quickly infuse even freshly cleaned socks with the musky reminder of long days past and long walks taken.

Food or drink of any kind is not allowed. Should we become hungry or thirsty, we may purchase (at slightly inflated prices) orange juice (canned, from concentrate) or hamburgers (frozen in cellophane and topped, of course, with American cheese product) from the prison commissary, which maintains a little window for such purchases in the visiting room. All red-blooded American capitalists will be proud to know that the commissary company is owned by none other than the leader of the free world himself, Mister President George W. Bush. His outfit is itself supplied, thanks to some happy coincidence of free enterprise, by a company owned by Missus First Lady Laura Bush. Though these prisoners have lost their freedom, the free market for which America stands is not held down in here. Rest assured that the American dream of the First Family, the one against which all others are measured, unfolds itself upon a pillow stuffed with money spent on $16 undershirts and $6 packs of generic cigarettes by prisoners right here in Madison County--at a rate of twice per purchase.

Occasionally, those of us with friends or family in prison send money by wire, so that they may buy themselves a $3 ice cream cone on a hot day, or, on the two times a year that a catalog of such things is made available, a $30 pair of slippers. There is no school in this particular prison, but the inmates are taught each day how to be good consumers--they may buy stamps for mailing letters, new socks, paper and implements with which to write or draw, and even individually wrapped servings of apple pie. Wanting our blood to have the best of possible times in the pen, we happily send him money when we can. My brother informed me that the Bush family is once again blessed by the prison economy--Florida Governor Jeb Bush has recently acquired the company that handles, for a small processing fee, all transactions of outside-money to inside-money (there are no transactions of inside-money to outside-money). Needless to say, I think it is a wonderful thing that the Bush family, despite their wealth and power, have taken such a keen interest in the lives and wellbeing of inmates here in Florida. It makes me worry for the Bush family at times, however, as it would be financially disastrous for them should all these inmates be rehabilitated. My brother reassures me that my concerns are ill-founded, that the Bush family is unlikely to lose this opportunity to see returns on their generosity--the Floridian prison business is alive and well, out-selling both citrus and tourism, and with a return rate, for every 600,000 inmates released per year, of 200,000 within the first month of release and another 200,000 within the first year, not counting new arrivals.

***

My brother and I stand in the outside section of the visiting area, smoking cigarettes and shivering. The picnic tables and the roof that covers them are painted the same beige as the buildings, the floor is the same poured concrete as the walkways. Beyond this fenced-in area, but within the taller, razor-topped fences of the perimeter and between the squat, neutral buildings and their metal doors, are fields for stretching, sunning, and as my brother tells me, sleeping. "The bastards kick us out of the dorms at seven in the morning, and a bunch of these guys throw their jackets on the ground and go right back to sleep. It's like the beach." From what I gather, there are several defined populations in the ecology of the Madison Correctional Institution, otherwise known as MCI, which always makes me wonder if the phone company has sued for negative association yet, or at least for exclusive rights. Every guard belongs to two populations. If within earshot and depending on their gender, he or she is a "sir" or a "ma'am." If not within earshot, and regardless of gender, he or she is a "bastard." Unlike the guards, prisoners belong only to one of two populations, regardless of whose earshot one is in. There are the nameless "Chesters," pedophiles which make up seventy percent of the camp and which, though larger in number than other offenders, are deserving of none of the respect that subscribes individuality to a person. Then there is the remainder--the greedy, the violent, and the stupid--who, though they may be stripped of their freedom, have been allowed, by mutual consent, to keep their names and thus their individuality. In casual reference, however, the prisoners are always "these guys." So, when my brother speaks in terms of "bastards" and "these guys," one always knows to whom he is referring.

For the most part, even my innocent eye can pick out a Chester from an Individual almost automatically. Chesters stare often but never make eye contact and certainly never look in the direction of a family visiting with small children. They tend to be flaccid physically, presumably too preoccupied to exercise the way Individuals do. Individual inmates walk, talk, and sit comfortably--they are who they are and they are here, make no bones about it. They have dreams and families to return to if and when they get out, their crimes will be safely tucked away in the past, forgiven if not forgotten. Chesters, on the other hand, do not sit well with themselves. They fidget, but in a manner more psychic than physical. It is as if they have learned that twitching calls attention to themselves and their tendencies, and in making an effort not to fret they instead vibrate on a molecular level. They have nothing to look forward to when they get out, for their crimes are within them, as intrinsic to their beings as hunger and the need to rest, and thus will never escape their personal prisons, even if they manage to get out of this physical one. Chesters tend to be white and middle aged, and unlike Individual inmates of European decent who care not for such distinctions (in here, at least), they noticeably avoid Blacks and Latinos.

These signs are not surefire means of detection and discrimination, however, so the Individual inmates have devised a system of identification more reliable than fingerprints or Social Security Numbers. Every inmate's most prized possession is his papers, documents that detail his conviction and his sentence, his past accomplishments and his future projections. When in doubt of a fellow inmate's status, as often comes up when a new inmate requests a small favor such as "borrowing" a cigarette, the questioner simply has to ask to see the new guy's papers. Individuals will always happily provide their documentation for public scrutiny. Chesters, invariably, will not.

There is hardly ever violence here, but the antagonism between these two groups is palatable. It is one thing to be known as a Chester--such a one will be the subject of derision and ridicule, perhaps even threatened with violence if he breaks any mores, but little else. This place is thick with guards, and the consequences of unauthorized misadventure high--even lifers have a lot to lose when all they have in this world is letters and individually wrapped servings of apple pie. It is a entirely different matter for the Chester whose specific perversions are revealed. Such a revelation brings him out of the remote realm of the nameless pervert and into the immediate reality of the child molester, the living embodiment of anathema in the hearts and minds of the other prisoners, many of whom place at least part of the blame for their past mistakes on their own childhood encounters with such playful misanthropes. Individual inmates can tolerate indistinct reminders that their neighbor is a molester, but to be exposed to exact counts and numbers makes the crimes too concrete to stomach. In prison as anywhere else, the Devil is in the details, especially when the details involve crimes against children.

***

It is terribly cold out here, so Victor and I are doubly satisfied when we finish our smokes. We enter the building attached to the visiting area, passing a few of "those guys," their visitors, and a couple sirs and ma'ams on our way back to our table. Here my father sits with the same blissful meditative look he has whenever he sits waiting for us to get back from whatever delinquency we were up to. Dad has made an art of ignoring delinquency, having decided long ago that relatively consistent health interspersed with moments of interactive family happiness is much more important than considering or discussing vice or violence in any but the most tangential manner. As we sit down he picks up exactly where he left off, as if he were a tape machine on pause while we were away, and resumes discussing his current real estate ventures, forced upon him by early retirement, with the calm, speculative tone of a man who doesn't really know if this last gamble, this late in his life, will pay off. My brother practices his art, developed over many such discussions, of nodding at appropriate moments. If my father has his way, innocent and well-intentioned as it is, my brother's life will be even more regimented outside of prison than it is inside of it. Having slept but five and a half hours the night before, I practice my own art--that of ignoring the conversation under the guise of being threatened by unconsciousness. My stomach is sour with too little sleep and too much caffeine.

Victor's been in this place for a year now, serving three, after the judge gave him an ultimatum: plead guilty to the charges against him, or not only will his Honor give him the maximum sentence if found guilty, but also gift him with the full penalty of violating his probation, regardless of the trial's outcome. A tidy forty years, twenty for each violation, all told. After spending 24 months in county jail waiting for this moment, Victor decided forty years was a bit too much time to spend incarcerated. It was made clear that even if my brother's hack lawyer could beat the case, Victor had committed enough acts of sabotage in and out of jail to be considered in violation of his probation. So he plead guilty, consenting to live out the next three years of his life in prison, while I, outside and innocent of any criminal activity, have been engaged in making a prison out of my life.

I feel guilt for not visiting him more often. My woman and I were supposed to come up some time ago, but she's not my woman anymore--I spent too much time worrying about her being my woman and not enough time simply enjoying the fact that she was--and any time that I don't spend working now I spend in the cold retrospection that old men are too foolish but to wallow in and old women are too wise to waste time on. I waited for my father's visit, knowing I could tag along with him. So here we sit, in this bleak mockery of the institutions of my youth, somewhere on the backside of Florida's nowhere, surrounded by pedophiles and listening to my dad's dreams of turnarounds, reinvestments, and capitalization.

Back at home, my life waits for me in the perverse imitation of a properly solid winter freeze that is the fluid, humid chill of Gainesville Christmastime. My dog waits. Chores wait. Bills wait. My application to graduate school and my request for student loan deferments wait. My evening's grand social decision, whether to go to a music show or to a dinner gathering, paired in time but not place, wait. The whole house has been living the Night Before Christmas since early October--frozen mid-breath, wet with Gainesville winter and as empty inside as its resident.

On my way to the prison, I thought I'd like to go to the music show. I was tired then, but the thought of rambunctious company, easy drinks, and energetic music appealed to me. When I woke up in the car, on the way home from the visit, I didn't feel quite the same anymore. I am not in the mood to cook or eat, but sitting and chatting in a friend's warm and quiet home is much more appealing than the vulgarities of an evening out and about in this clime. It's been raining since I got here, and the thought of spending any more time than necessary exposed to this lamenting weather chills me even more than the fat falling droplets.

***

Update: I chose not to attend my friend's dinner party after all. The amount of rain falling from the sky had increased, the amount of money in my wallet had not, and the amount of people confirming their attendance dropped down to three--the couple hosting the function and myself. I had tried to nap beforehand, to add to my five and a half, but the dreams that came to me while I lay half-submerged in sleep were distinctly unpleasant, over the course of the hour serving only to make me quit the idea of getting any rest at all. I considered a bath or a shower, but it seemed wholly inappropriate to run water over myself indoors when there is such a vast quantity of the stuff falling freely outside. By the time my friend called to see if I was still coming, my mood was worse than the weather, and though I was loath to disappoint him, especially being the last of his possible guests, I felt I had no choice. I also hated the idea of leaving the dog alone in the gale.

Since getting out of bed I have watched several of my absent roommate's movies (our cable service lingered for two weeks after we closed the account but it was finally cut, dashing our hopes of free distraction the way a young boy might dash a frog against a brick wall). I have read a half a dozen of E.B. White's essays, done a load of laundry, ate two Cuban sandwiches my father left with me, read up on the state of urban legends on the world wide web, avoided several phone calls out of depression, urinated three times, and spent several hours with my dog, on the couch, under the covers, failing utterly to convince her that there is no way that the storm is going to enter the house without our approval. What I have not done is dishes (the over-saturation issue again). Nor have I cleaned the patio, worked on my deferment letter, or spent any amount of time considering my nagging impression that things in my life are not the way they should be. That kind of thinking, whether political, financial, or emotional in germ, only ever gives sprout to action, which is the one thing I am absolutely not inclined to do. There are times when a man has to do what a man has to do, and sometimes what a man has to do is shut up, put up, shrug it off, and hope for the best. At midnight on a cold and rainy Saturday in lonely mid-December, hope is a wicked mistress.

So for the last few hours, and for the next few, I have been living in a strange hermetic, hermitic daze, a grown man of 26 years sitting on his couch with his dog, in a dark house and underneath a dark comforter. The comforter reminds me of the criminal juices that tie me to my brother, hijacked as it was from the empty bedroom and the ended relationship. I have drunk endless glasses of ice water on this cold night, and taken more than occasional smoke-break forays into the cinderblock utility room, so reminiscent the squat, apathetic buildings that preoccupied my mind as they occupied my morning.

Tomorrow and the day after I work. Tuesday I am supposed to find the will and the way to meet an independent tattoo artist on whose business I propose to write about. Wednesday is an empty, future blur, Thursday and Friday promise more work, and Saturday, the true Night Before Christmas, I get to drive down to Miami, to endure the endless questions posed by family, the endless picture-taking of holiday time, and the endlessly infuriating traffic patterns of a city populated by folks who learned how to drive on the bench seats of wagons drawn by mules, most of whom have never even heard of Madison County.

04/30/2006

Posted on 04/30/2006
Copyright © 2025 Richard Paez