Stories

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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.

 Every morning at 6:40, after the headcount, Unit 2 erupted. The call for meds sent a herd of young inmates—new “residents” eager to prove themselves—charging from their dorm to the med line in the admin building, the ACO. Unit 1, full of calmer guys with community jobs, shuffled through their earlier 5:30 AM med call without fuss. But Unit 2? That was a different beast. Packed with punks and young offenders, it was a proving ground, and the med line was their arena. They raced for Suboxone, the synthetic opiate handed out like candy to “treat” their addictions. I called it the stampede of wildebeest.

I had my own routine. Before heading to the print shop, I’d do my morning walkabout—brisk laps around the ACO, down the hill past the grounds crew workshop, and back. Clockwise, always. Most days, my circuit and the stampede didn’t collide. I’d stick to the right, they’d pass on the left, maybe a shoulder brush from an aggressive one, but nothing serious. Until two days ago.

I was on my second lap, noticing the crowd outside Unit 2 swelling—thirty guys at least, antsy, jonesing, vapor snorting from their nostrils in the cold. By my third lap, as I neared the ACO’s entrance, the med call rang out. The herd surged east as I headed west. I hugged the right, refusing to be pushed into a snowbank. They didn’t care. They’d have trampled me if they could. Chest out, I forged ahead, the wildebeest bouncing off me like gnats off a windshield. “Okay,” I thought, “that was interesting.”

Yesterday, I was ready. The crowd was bigger, and a red transport van was parked in front of the ACO, splitting the path from Unit 2 into two: a narrow chokehold by the snowbank and a wider outer route. “That’ll slow them,” I figured. But as I approached the entrance, the med call hit, and the stampede began. Most of the herd jammed into the narrow path, jostling and spilling over the snowbank. I took the outer route to avoid them. Then I saw him—a bullheaded kid, head down, charging the long way, right at me. He didn’t slow. Didn’t care. Before he could bowl me over, I threw a stiff arm. He flew into the van, bouncing off the side with a thud.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” I shouted, anger flaring.

No repercussions came, at least not yet. Back at the dorm, I told Tex what happened. “Oh shit,” he said, eyes wide. “Now you’ll have to fight them.” I laughed it off, heading to work. Later, as I prepped for my workout, Tex leaned in, grinning. “Those guys are pissed, man. That kid you hit? He’s set up a fight in the gym closet.” For a second, I froze—then saw his smirk. He was messing with me. Sylvio piled on later, deadpan: “Don’t worry, I took care of that guy in the closet for you.”

I shook my head, chuckling. The stampede would come again tomorrow, but I’d be ready. Clockwise, always.

 The gym at The Farm, a minimum-security prison that felt anything but lenient, doubled as a basketball court, handball arena, and makeshift stage for corn-hole games or whatever else inmates could dream up to kill time. It was a concrete box of clashing egos, where sweat and tension hung heavy in the air. That Sunday, I was deep into the Circus Maximus, a weightlifting gauntlet named for the ancient Roman hippodrome—a grueling cycle of twelve deadlifts, twelve dumbbell squat thrusts, and twelve push-ups, no rest between sets. My workout partner, Tex, a former white supremacist turned Bible student, was beside me, his swastika-inked arms straining under heavier weights. At six feet, with chiseled features and a past he was trying to outrun, Tex could’ve stepped out of a World War II film as an SS officer. Yet here he was, my unlikely mentor in the gym and a reluctant student of my Saturday yoga sessions.

We were chasing the pinnacle—twelve sets—my 40-pound kettlebells and 10-pound dumbbells dwarfed by Tex’s load. Our shared corn-hole scoreboard ticked off our progress, a small anchor of order in the chaos. I was on my ninth set, muscles screaming, when a young inmate, pudgy and careless, sauntered in. I’d seen him before, bumming cigarettes or coffee from my junkie roommates, his orange prison watch cap a garish marker of his indifference. He started dribbling a basketball, the ball thumping closer to my face with every bounce. Then he hung his cap on our scoreboard, a small but infuriating intrusion.

The sound of that ball cracked something open inside me. I’d never told Tex why I despised basketball, how its rhythm summoned memories I’d buried deep. Growing up as an American kid in Europe, I’d been steeped in soccer and cricket, my school years untouched by hoops until I landed at an American prep school outside London in ninth grade. Small, late to puberty, and clueless about the game, I was a target. My first PE class was a humiliation—fumbling a ball I’d been taught never to touch with my hands, then enduring the van ride back, pinned to the floor by bullies who bounced a basketball off my head. The sound alone was enough to pull me back to that van, to the shame and helplessness of a boy out of place.

Maybe it was the exhaustion of the ninth set, or what Tex later called a testosterone surge from the deadlifts, but I snapped. Rising from my last push-up, I took two steps toward the kid and bellowed, “Would you please stop bouncing that ball near my head?” The “please” was a reflex, a vestige of the polished diplomat I’d once been. He froze, staring at me, as I stormed to the scoreboard—a flimsy score stick, really—and snatched his orange cap, hurling it at him. “And take your fucking hat!” I shouted, the curse foreign on my tongue. He stuffed it into his sweatpants, mumbling, “I was just shooting baskets. This is a basketball court.” Calming slightly, I shot back, “Some common courtesy would be appreciated.” He scoffed but kept shooting.

I returned to my kettlebells, dread pooling as I faced another set with that ball still bouncing. Exhausted and still seething, I muttered to Tex, “I’ve had enough.” As I stowed my weights, I said, loud enough for the kid to hear, “If I stay here any longer, I’ll put a kettlebell in his face.” I turned away, ignoring the insults he hurled at my back. But Tex didn’t. His voice cut through the gym like a blade: “You bitch! You have no idea who you’re talking to. Get the fuck out and stay in your bunk. Don’t show your face here again!”

The fallout was swift and surreal. By losing my temper, I’d unwittingly earned a place in Tex’s informal crew. He’d long known I was a man of peace, shaped by Buddhist principles I shared during our yoga sessions, insistent that my workouts weren’t about fighting but surviving. Yet my outburst shifted something. Tex sent his friend Sylvio, a hulking Albanian-Portuguese enforcer with a penchant for Mein Kampf he could barely read, to deliver a message: the kid was cut off, banned from bumming off our rooms. Sylvio, 5’11” and 210 pounds of muscle, was the kind of man you didn’t cross. When Tex half-joked I should get a “23” tattooed on my hand for “punking out” the kid, I laughed it off, but the implication stung.

I despised everything Tex’s old gang stood for—Nazis, supremacists, any stripe of violent extremism. My life before prison was one of boardrooms and embassies, of languages learned in European capitals and deals struck across continents. Yet here, in this concrete jungle, survival demanded uneasy alliances. Tex and his crew listened to me, respected me, and in a place where guards couldn’t always be trusted, their protection was a shield. Prison was the worst neighborhood imaginable, with no social contract to lean on. As long as I didn’t have to ink my skin or swear allegiance, I’d keep lifting with Tex, knowing that when I walked free, I’d leave their world behind. But for now, I was learning to navigate the razor’s edge between who I was and who I had to be to survive.

Life at The Farm was a far cry from the structured confines of the main prison, but it came with its own set of challenges and characters straight out of a gritty novel. One of the biggest pros was the work—steady, purposeful labor that kept my mind occupied and my release date inching closer with good-time credits. The cons? The relentless hours and the human filth I had to navigate daily. Nowhere was this more evident than in the kitchen, where I spent months sweating over steam kettles, dodging drama, and trying to inject a little humanity into the institutional slop we called meals. The air was always thick with the hiss of steam, the clang of metal trays, and the mingled scents of boiling starches, overcooked meats, and industrial cleaners— a far cry from the gourmet kitchens I'd known in my pre-incarceration life, but it was a place where I could channel my culinary background into something productive.

I started on the serving line, a grueling gig that had me up at 3:30 AM and clocking out at 4:30 PM, seven days a week. For $200 a month, I dished out food, scrubbed the service station, wiped down tables, and refilled napkin holders. The line was a conveyor belt of monotony: scoop, serve, repeat, all while dodging complaints from hungry inmates about portion sizes or the latest bland offering. It wasn't glamorous, but it beat idleness. To earn those extra two days of good time each month, I'd bundle wood in the afternoons—backbreaking work under the sun, stacking cords of firewood that would heat the facility through winter, but worth it for the reduced sentence. Stealing was rampant; guys would pocket raw ingredients like sugar packets or cheese slices whenever a guard looked away, forcing us to improvise menus on the fly when stocks ran low.

My first misstep came early, involving an old-timer named Roddy. As part of the line duties, I prepared feed-in trays for inmates who couldn't make it to the chow hall—quarantined folks, the sick, that sort of thing. Roddy's tray was one of them. He was a frail ghost of a man, 5'4" and barely 100 pounds, wrapping up a 30-year murder bid. His skin hung loose like parchment, and his cough echoed in the smoke shack where he spent his days chain-smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. He confided in me one day that he wasn't getting his medically prescribed high-protein diet. I checked the records; sure enough, it was there in black and white. I mentioned it to the cop on duty, but he brushed it off: "He never eats what we give him anyway. Do what I say, not what the paperwork says." The cop's tone was dismissive, his uniform stained with coffee, embodying the apathy that permeated the place.

Undeterred, I looped back to Roddy in the smoke shack and suggested he file a grievance. I even offered to help with the form, scribbling it out on a crumpled sheet under the dim fluorescent light. Unfortunately, a snitch we called The Violator overheard everything. Roddy hesitated, worried I'd catch heat, but I shrugged it off—The Violator was a known rat; the damage was done. Roddy filed, and the kitchen boss, Angie—whom I'd later christen the Wicked Witch—came down hard. She didn't fire me, but she yanked me off the line and stuck me on milk duty. Ironically, Roddy still didn't get his extra protein, like peanut butter or something substantial. I figured he wouldn't last long post-release; the system had worn him to the bone, leaving him shuffling around like a shadow.

Milk duty was a breeze by comparison, though messy in its own way. I'd reconstitute powdered milk in 25-gallon tubs: hot water first from the dish pit, steaming and scalding my arms if I wasn't careful, then whisk in five quart-sized scoops until mostly dissolved, lumps floating like stubborn icebergs. Top with cold water, and let it chill overnight in the walk-in cooler, where the hum of compressors drowned out the distant shouts from the yard. It left me more time for wood bundling and reflection, but the powder would cake on my skin, leaving a chalky residue that no amount of scrubbing fully removed.

My redemption came swiftly. Maybe Angie forgave the Roddy fiasco, or perhaps my milk-handling prowess impressed her. One morning, as I topped up the machines amid the pre-breakfast rush—the clatter of trays and the aroma of weak coffee filling the air—the cop pulled me into the office. Angie was on speakerphone. I braced for a firing, but instead, she offered me the kettle cook position. Training started the next day. The kettle room was the heart of the operation: massive steam kettles for soups and stocks, plus grills sizzling with grease, ovens belching heat, and fryers bubbling like cauldrons. It meant a pay bump and real cooking—preparing meals for 170 residents, measuring out bulk ingredients from sacks that weighed as much as a man.

I had big plans, but I knew to ease in slowly, salami tactics: one slice at a time. First up? Brining the pork chops. They always came out like shoe leather, overcooked to death in the name of food safety. An overnight soak in a one-to-20 salt-water solution would tenderize them beautifully, infusing flavor that cut through the usual dryness. If it worked, more changes would follow, like seasoning stews with smuggled herbs or sneaking in extra veggies to combat the vitamin-deficient diets that left guys lethargic and sickly.

As I climbed the ranks—from line to milk to kettles—I couldn't avoid the kitchen's underbelly. The Farm concentrated the worst types: envious, backstabbing lifers who'd do anything to cling to their scraps of power. The Violator was exhibit A—a weaselly, snaggle-toothed creep with greasy hair hidden under a green cap, his breath reeking of onions from the salads he prepped. He'd been stuck prepping salads for over a year, concocting sugary dressings that turned everything cloying and bragging about minor feats like changing a light bulb or fixing a leaky faucet. He talked shit behind backs, and soon enough, it was my turn. I ignored it until one slip-up gave him ammunition.

I was solo on hamburger stroganoff, having chewed out the other cooks for prepping too early just to slack off in the shade. The main dish was fresh and ready, the beef simmering in a creamy sauce that filled the room with a rare savory aroma; then came the egg noodles—40 pounds for 170 people, boiled in 20 gallons of salted water, just like my Roman nanny Paula taught me as a kid. I drained the al dente pasta into a clean, sanitized garbage can (used solely for that purpose, never trash), the steam rising like fog. When the noodles stuck a bit, I added some reserved pasta water to loosen them—another Paula trick.

Williams on the line spotted me dipping from the "trash can" and ratted to the cop. I explained it was clean pasta water, but they made me toss it and remake the batch. Embarrassing, but fair—especially in a place where hygiene lapses could spark outbreaks. The Violator, overhearing, twisted it into poison slop from the compost bucket. By hour's end, the rumor mill had me trying to kill everyone. Big guys in the dorm confronted me; I set them straight, but the damage spread. The chow hall was half-empty at dinner, with whispers I'd done it out of contempt, echoing the kind of paranoia that fueled fights over nothing.

The story reached Angie via the assistant director's furious calls. She knew the truth—she'd ordered the redo—but called a staff meeting to roast The Violator (without naming him) for gossiping and tarnishing the kitchen. She added a jab about showering and washing hair regularly, her voice sharp over the assembled crew's snickers. Petty, but satisfying in a world where small victories were all you got.

Drama didn't stop there. Sweaty, the baker—a paranoid psycho who'd already shiv-threatened my friend Trucker out of The Farm—turned on me after I called him out on botched pizza crusts. He'd under-par-cooked some trays, leaving bottoms raw while toppings burned, the dough sticky and underproofed from his laziness. When accused of undercooking, I pointed to the prep flaw, the oven's heat warping the air around us. Sweaty's roommate, The Mooch, warned me: Sweaty was ranting about stabbing me for "fucking up the pizza," his threats whispered in the dim dorm lights. I watched my back from then on, avoiding dark corners and keeping a makeshift tool handy.

Amid the tension, I tackled the walk-in freezer—a chaotic Fibber McGee's cupboard of frozen goods, piled high because Angie hoarded everything and refused to toss or donate. Years-old stuff lurked in the back, frostbitten and forgotten, like mystery meat from deliveries long past. The breaking point: 800 pounds of hamburger delivery caused icing and a collapse, boxes tumbling like an avalanche. I volunteered to reorganize: empty, inventory, restock—in one-hour shifts to keep it frozen, with hours between, my breath fogging as I hauled crates in the biting cold. Two days in, it looked worse, only 10% done. A long haul, but necessary to prevent waste that could lead to serving spoiled food, a common gripe in these joints.

Then came the breaking point. Rus, a foul-mouthed thuggish drug dealer, had been undermining me for months—running to Angie with lies, like claiming my properly cooked potatoes were raw, their texture firm but edible. One morning, prepping chicken quesadillas, he griped about the bone-in breasts I'd pulled (60 pounds for 3-ounce portions across 170 servings), the meat thawing with a slick sheen. They meant extra work but better flavor; I offered to help, knives flashing as we deboned. He said it wasn't enough meat. I lectured him on the math—50 pounds post-trim yields over 266 portions—and he snapped, bitch-slapping me across the face, the sting sharp amid the kettle room's humidity.

The security camera caught it; I didn't retaliate, just reported to the officer, my cheek throbbing. Prison code says don't snitch, but Rus was Angie's pet rat. The next day, in the disciplinary hearing, I testified. They asked if I felt safe; I said yes—anything else might ship me back to prison. Assurances of consequences for Rus followed, but later, the assistant director (with Angie present) "offered" me a tutoring job in education at $200 a month—the same I'd been underpaid in the kitchen (it should've been $400; Angie claimed I was "in training").

The irony burned: the victim lost the job, pay bump, and perks like custom meals and pantry access, where I'd sneak healthier options to manage my diabetes. Rus? Still flipping pancakes the next morning, no prison transfer. Maybe a 90-day work-release bar, costing him thousands. Education was easier, with better hours and supervised internet access (no outside contact). I missed the kitchen's creativity, not the drama—and I still watched for Rus's revenge, the tension lingering like the grease on my clothes.

Losing kitchen privileges hit hard as a diabetic. Evening meals (served absurdly at 2:30 PM) were sugar bombs: BBQ chicken slathered thick, sweet chili loaded with brown sugar, teriyaki beef half syrup, with baked beans as the "alternate." The sweetness clung to everything, spiking blood sugars and leaving me nauseous. I filed a grievance for sugar-free proteins. Surprisingly, Angie agreed in the sergeant's office, mandating them at every meal, her demeanor unusually courteous amid the office's stale air. Who twisted her arm? No idea, but it was a rare win against the system's indifference.

My revenge simmered. Angie was a tyrant: poor inventory, menu deviations, waste, potential fraud—like ordering excess that vanished into black-market trades. I wrote the state accountability office, detailing the chaos. Thought it vanished—until inspectors arrived with clipboards, probing shelves and questioning workers. Angie threatened inmates, shadowed them, but they pushed back. She was suspended "pending investigation," then gone for good. Munchkin dances ensued in the yard. The kitchen promised changes: new menus, protocols. Maybe the food would improve, with fresher ingredients and less rot. Ding dong, the witch was dead.

The kitchen taught me survival's raw edges—alliances fragile, improvements risky, justice skewed. But in that steam-filled chaos, I found purpose, even if fleeting—crafting meals that, for a moment, made the grind bearable. The Farm ground on, and so did I, one day closer to freedom, wiser to the undercurrents that defined life behind bars.