Sam Paul - Why I Committed Suicide

There’s a commissary form we can fill out to buy things if someone on the outside deposits money into an account, it’s called “having money on your books”, but I’m not sure why it’s called that since all the funds are encoded into a security chip on a bracelet that’s permanently attached to every prisoner’s left arm, unless they are missing their left arm, then I assume it goes on the other one. Once a week or so they bring by the items from the form and people with money get things like ‘real’ soap or ‘real’ toothpaste or even deodorant for God’s sake! You can also get candy bars and chips which you can either eat, trade or bet like cash. No one I know is willing to put any money on my books so I’ve had to learn how to roll tobacco and other things to get by.

The stuff they give out when you get booked into jail is sort of racially biased. And I say this from a white boy perspective with absolutely nothing to gain. You get booked in and the guards give you a plastic baggy with a mini-bar of soap. It’s actually called Bob Barker soap and its buddies are the Bob Barker toothpaste and the Bob Barker toothbrush. I’m guessing Bob Barker’s got himself a sweatshop someplace that makes cheap-ass-spike-bristled toothbrushes and soap that crumbles and falls apart in water. I bet that the kickbacks for even the smallest things in this jailhouse must be a lucrative side endeavor for some official way up the ladder. Follow the money.

As far as taking care of my hair goes, there’s a tiny black plastic comb with broken teeth that comes in the bag with everything else, although this doesn’t do the black guys any good because of their short curly hair. What I’ve noticed they’ll do instead is melt 3-4 Bob Barker toothbrushes together into a sort of miniature ‘brush.” It’s really a rather ingenious way to adapt, except whenever there is a “shakedown”, the guards confiscate all the contraband and makeshift hairbrushes qualify as contraband since melting down a toothbrush is also the easiest way to make a crude “shank” to defend yourself.

Surprisingly, it’s mostly white guys out here with me and I’ve got a bunk next to this old skinny guy named Eddie who’s pretty cool. Eddie’s so old he owes Jesus a quarter. He’s let me use some soap and toothpaste until my next indigent care package comes in so he’s alright. Eddie’s got a wife who is in the portable building next door to us and they write each other one letter every day but since you can’t send mail from an inmate to another inmate they have to mail their love letters to a friend who mails them back to the jail. Stupid huh? Once a day he presses up against the screen and watches for his wife to walk by and deliver meal trays to the other female prisoners and every day they deliver us mail he has at least one letter in there from her. I didn’t ask him what they were both in for—it’s considered very rude to say the least—but I know it’s for two separate charges. It trips me out that an entire family is in jail though. If I ever get married I would hope one of us is morally fortuitous to keep me in line or at last manage to keep her own ass out of jail. Sheeesh.

I actually feel reasonably safe in here. I’m not in an aggravated cell and I think I could kick about anybody’s ass that’s in my little place if I had to. It’s basically like a big summer camp for the most part. Towards the front there are two picnic tables and a TV (with cable!) mounted on the wall. I’ve learned some good card games and then I learned how to cheat at the card games. I’ve also heard some of the funniest convict stories that I’ll have to try and jot down at some point, no matter where I am there’s always somebody who’ll try to convince me their situation is a hell of a lot worse, and then give me detailed reasons why. It passes the time and the hardest part of being here is just finding something to occupy my brain. I’m enjoying having time to write long letters of salutation and atonement and I do enjoy detailed debates about the merits of Mariah Carey’s ass-shaking in her new songs, but I’m only writing in this when I’m feeling pretty good. Jail is a lot like hanging out with my Delta Lodge buddies except nobody is drunk, and half of them are just stupid.

Since I’m totally sober now, the darkness and ghosts get bad at night. There are a lot of nightmares and sadness creeps in around everything, but I guess it is better that I’ve got time to cool off and deal with it on my own since it looks like I’m the only person who’s going to help me. You definitely find out who your real friends are when you get tossed in jail.

To get a visit, the guards call your number out loud, guide you through the real jail and then put you in a long glass hallway with phones along each side. The walls along the hall are made of bulletproof glass and you can see through to the waiting area on the “free” side where there are always children playing and screaming, or families huddled in close to one phone trying to talk about everything to the person inside with me in the allotted 15 minutes they have. There are usually hot wives or girlfriends waiting against a far wall dressed sexily to either infuriate the guy inside when she tells him the bad news that she’s leaving him for Billy Jack or they’re dressed to put on a little show for their man. Either way about half the visits are psychological torture for any prisoner, a brief glimpse of a former life through scratched glass and scratches of audio. It gives some people hope and it tortures others. I’ve learned to stay away from anyone after visitation, whether it went good or bad, they are all fucked in the head for a while afterwards.

Jenifer’s been up to visit once and it wasn’t very easy to have to talk to her through the thick glass. To be so close and then not be able to reach out and soothe her hurting body is torture for me. She said it wasn’t very easy to get in and she mentioned a couple of things that let me know she’s been scoring lately. I can’t really fucking blame her for that since it’s exactly what I did.

I definitely think that when we get punished by society and have to do menial labor for a bunch of fat pigs, pigs who could easily be in any one of our shoes given different circumstances, it just doesn’t motivate anyone to do anything remotely close to the same thing when they get released. If you’re not being punished any longer why the hell would you want to continue doing the same things you’re doing when you were being punished? A minimum wage paycheck? Please. All I’m saying is that doing crappy labor for the man has an opposite rehabilitative effect. Do they really expect us to get out and say “Excuse me sir, I just got out of jail and I was wondering if you would hire me to mop your floor, or maybe you have some shoes that need shining?” Fuck that, when I get out of here I’m going to feel like the world owes me a vacation or at least some therapy.

My request to be a trustee finally came through after about a month and even though I felt really settled and comfortable in Unit 3B, you’ve gotta go when the guards say you go whether you’ve changed your mind or not. I gathered my mattress, Ramen noodles and notes and moved to the building right next door, Unit 2A, where I got put on the Auto Repair crew with four other guys already in there. The rest of the people in that Unit deliver food from the kitchen a few times a day and they all seemed fairly straight-laced, milder than the bunch I just left because they’re scared to lose their trustee status. If you’ve only got a misdemeanor offense, trustee time credits you 3 days for every 1, and you want to be really damn submissive and careful not to screw up or else you could end up having to spend 2 extra months on a 90 day sentence. The guards know this and treat the other guys like shit but the Auto Repair crew is usually made up of people like me with felonies who are not getting 3-1, so they don’t fuck with us too bad. Their main reasoning is that it takes too long to have to retrain people for the auto yard, so in a sense we’re allowed to be the bad apples in the bunch.