Stories
The Shifting Tides of Foxtrot Pod
The prison was a maze of steel and concrete, a place where time dragged and tempers flared. I’d been bounced around enough to know the drill—new pod, new cellmate, new headaches. By July 2019, I’d landed in Foxtrot pod, medium custody, after a stint in Charlie pod went sour. The official excuse for the move was my busted wrist and shoulder—doctor’s orders for a bottom bunk—but the real reason was Buzzy, my old cellmate. That guy was a walking disaster. Slept all day, griped when I made my bed after count, and broke every rule just for kicks. He’d turned a six-month jail stint into three years here for drug trafficking, dodging worse only because he hadn’t been caught yet. Living with him was like bunking with a ticking bomb; his mess was bound to splatter on me eventually.
Charlie pod wasn’t all bad at first. I’d sling dominoes with Oreo, Cyclops, and the Duke after chow—until I started winning. The Duke didn’t take kindly to losing, and soon I was on my own, stuck in the cell while Buzzy pulled his stunts. The night before I left, some dirtbag—Gap-tooth—poked his head in, eyeing Buzzy’s fudge stash. “That his fudge?” he barked, pointing at the gooey mess on the desk. “Ask him,” I said, twice, keeping my cool. He cursed, slammed the door, and locked me in. I could’ve retaliated—risked a lugging back to close custody—but I let it slide. Staying in Charlie would’ve branded me weak, an easy mark. So, Foxtrot it was.
Foxtrot was quieter, older inmates mostly, a mix of lifers and sex offenders. My new cellmate, Pacman, was a skinny kid pulling fifteen years for something grim with his stepsister. He kept to himself, lost in Dungeons and Dragons, rap, and anime. Decent enough guy, all things considered. The pod had its perks—universal weights, a solid caseworker I’d yet to meet—but the peace never lasted long in a place like this.
By July 16, I’d seen the undercurrent of violence bubble up again. Two Beards and Leprechaun had been at it for months, sniping in the red cards line where us diabetics got our checks. That day, Two Beards shoulder-checked Leprechaun, who went for his throat. COs broke it up fast, but chow got locked down, and we all lined the fence like scolded kids. Handcuffs came out, and life rolled on. Fights were clockwork here—codes and lockdowns, same old song.
The pods kept shuffling, a game the sergeants played to keep us off balance. By January 2020, Trucker was in Charlie with Oreo, Cyclops bounced back to Foxtrot after “D” time for stealing from the kitchen, and John the Baby Baker swapped pods too. But the worst move was the Duke landing in Foxtrot. He’d been a thorn in Charlie, a loudmouth bully who ratted to the COs and got away with murder—figuratively, so far. Here, he planted himself by the desk, holding court, stirring trouble, and somehow charming the cops. I figured some lifer would snap and pound him flat one day, but the COs leaned on his intel too much to care.
Then, May 2021 rolled around, and the Duke was back—this time from close custody. He’d been lugged for threatening a nurse, and word was the close unit boys wanted him dead. Yet here he was, pushing a wheelchair on the mile like nothing happened, already wheedling the sergeant for favors. C pod housed him now, but I dreaded him slinking back to Foxtrot. He’d turn it into his personal fiefdom again—threats, strong-arming, chaos—until he screwed up and got hauled off. Again.
A week later, I caught Pacman dealing with him on the mile, renting out girly mags. The Duke had been Pacman’s cellie once, back when I’d first moved out and the Wookie took my spot. Someone had to agree to bunk with the Duke for him to worm into Foxtrot before, and Pacman had been that fool. I dragged him to the rec yard—cameras on, voices off—and laid it out. “I don’t like you doing business with that shit-stain,” I said, voice low. “What’s it to you?” he shot back. I stepped closer. “I don’t want him back in our pod. Neither does anyone else. There’s lifers here who’d take him out—and you—if he slithers in again.” Pacman’s eyes widened, hands up. “Woah, dude, I don’t want him here either!” “Good,” I said. “Let’s keep it that way.”
Foxtrot wasn’t paradise, but it was mine to protect. The Duke could rot in C pod for all I cared—just as long as he stayed the hell away.