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This post contains language, blood, and poo. Prison is not a pretty place
Another fun-filled week in the Department of Corrections. I'm not even being sarcastic, I love my job. Well, mostly. Some of the inmates that are really nuts do some things that are pretty icky, but it's still morbidly amusing to watch. I'm really settling into things pretty well, I think. I relax a little and even joke with some of the inmates, but they know where I stand and that I won't hesitate to beat their asses if need be.
I/M: Inmate
CMA: Corrections Medical Aide (Nurse)
SST: Special Security Team Member
CW: Coworker
ME: Enforcer of Awesome
I Couldn't Help But Smile
This occurred as I was leading a line of Inmates from my cellhouse back from the Chow Hall
I/M1: Man, sometimes this place is like Boot Camp or some shit.
I/M2: True, true.
I/M1: Why can't it be more like, uh, Summer Camp?
I/M2: Yeah, that was fun.
I/M1: Camp Anawanna...
I/M2: We hold you in our hearts.
I/M1: And when we think about you...
BOTH: It makes me wanna FART!
ME: If I could get you guys some extra Good Time, I would.
Good Time is kind of like points they get for being, well, good. You know how you always hear that they get out early for "good behaviour?" It's like that. The inmates, by the way, were awestruck that I made a joke. As always, I still maintained a perfectly blank expression, so it took them a moment to realize I wasn't serious.
Ooh, scary
I/M1 (screaming from his cell): I'M GONNA KILL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!
I/M2: What's his problem?
ME: I don't know. I'm going to find out, though.
I/M1: YEAH, YOU GOIN' FIND OUT? YOU GOIN FIND OUT IMA KICK THIS FUCKIN DOOR DOWN AND KILL YOU, BITCH!
ME (calmly walking to his cell and staring him right in the eye): Alright, Mr. (Asshat). What's the problem?
I/M1 (looking down): *mumble mumble* Ain't got no problem *mumble*
ME: I'm sorry? What?
I/M1: *mumble mumble*
ME: I thought so.
I could have written him up for Threating or Intimidating Any Person, but I felt neither threatened nor intimidated. Most of these guys talk pretty big when there's a big heavy door between us and them, and putting them in their place never ceases being fun.
You're in Officer Kara's House Now, Bi-atch
A particular I/M had been pestering me all shift about coming out of his cell to clean, to make a phone call, to get a different jumpsuit, anything he could think of to come out of his cell when it wasn't time for him to be. He did come out for Dayroom, and went back in his cell when it was over. The other half of the Cellhouse had Dayroom, and I saw his cell door opening, so I called up to the Cellhouse Control Officer.
CW: Control.
ME: Yeah, why is this asshole's door opening?
CW: Because he was throwing paper airplanes out of his cell, so I told him to pick that shit up and don't do it again.
ME: Alright.
The I/M proceeded to go downstairs to the ground floor and pick up the paper airplanes. He then strolled (slowly) with 2 other Inmates who had Dayroom at the time and walked right past the Officer's Station, and the trash can. He kept walking until he looked back and saw me staring at him. He then came up to the desk and leaned on the counter.
I/M: What's up, CO?
ME: Did you pick up all the paper?
I/M: Oh, yeah.
ME: Drop it in the trash.
I/M: So, uh, can I stay out for Dayroom?
ME: You already had Dayroom.
I/M: Yeah, but, walking around in my cell hurts my feet.
ME: Then you should lay down. In your cell.
I/M: Aw, for real?
ME: Yes. For real.
I/M: Come on, don't be like that.
ME: Go to your cell and lock down.
I/M: Please?
ME: Go lock down NOW, or you'll get a $10 fine for disobeying a direct order, and I'll take your Dayroom privilege for a week.
Thus the assbeast tucked his tail between his legs and retreated to his musty domicile. And across the land the bards sang of his defeat by the maiden's glare of death. For he had been wholly PWND.
Fishing, Prison Style
I was making my rounds the other night and saw an inmate sitting on his bed making a "fishing line." Inmates will tear threads out of their blankets, tie something like a ketchup packet or something to one end to weight it down, then toss the line out from the bottom of their cell door. They'll either snag something another inmate has slid out under their door, or toss it under another inmate's door and they will put whatever the item is they want to pass, then the first inmate will pull it back to their cell. Inmates aren't allowed to pass things, so they do it when we aren't looking.
I went back to the desk and just sat there, watching out of the corner of my eye. The inmates didn't seem to understand peripheral vision, and sure enough, I saw the line fly out and land just under the second inmate's door. I got up and walked over to them, and the first inmate was pulling the line back like crazy, but I slammed my boot down on the line before he got it halfway back to his cell. I grabbed the line and pulled it away from him, and saw he had poked a hole in a bar of soap to weigh the line down.
I/M1: Aw, man! All that hard work, down the drain.
ME: This is your one warning. Passing is a Class II offense, and next time you will be written and receive a fine. You might have to spend some time in Segregation, too.
I/M1: But I was just trying to give my buddy some soap.
ME: Then he can ask us for more soap. You are not allowed to pass ANYTHING.
I/M1: Okay....
I knew he was lying. The soap was obviously a weight.
But it gets better. Not an hour later, near the end of my shift, he's sitting on his bed making another line. And just like the first time, he didn't see me go by. So I went upstairs and stood far enough back from the edge of the walkway that they couldn't see me, but I'd be able to see the line fly out. A few minutes later...
I/M2: Okay, throw it.
I/M1: Alright, here goes.
I/M2: Wait! Where's the CO?
I/M1: Um... I don't see her.
I/M2: What if she's up there?
I/M1: I don't see her up there.
I/M2: But what if she is?
I/M1: Shit! Okay, I'm going to toss it quick.
I/M2: No, no, no! Not now!
I had finished all my reports and everything, so I just stood there for the last 15 minutes of my shift until I was relieved by the next shift. I wasn't even going to take the line the second time, because I don't need to take it to write them.
Holy Crap (Warning: Blood and Gore)
I was on Response a couple of days ago. Response team is usually 2 Sargents and 2 Officers from either side (the facility is divided into East and West side for response), plus the SST guys. Normally, when I'm on Response, nothing happens. But this was my first time. I was shaking down an empty cell (we're required to shake down every cell once a month), and a call came on the radio for West Side Response units to one of the Segregation cellhouses for a Signal Medical. Signal Medical means that (usually) and inmate is having a medical problem or is injured. So I bolted out of the cellhouse and as I'm tearing ass across the Yard (and see other Response units flying out of their houses, plus SST swarming out of the Main Compound building), a call comes on the radio "Attention Response Units: Glove up, blood is present." I carry a CPR mask in a pouch on my utility belt, and keep a pair of surgical gloves in there. So I'm running and putting my gloves on, and we go in the cellhouse.
The Control Officer opens the door to one side of the building and I see two of the house officers escorting an I/M out of his cell. It's our most infamous cutter, he's got all kinds of mental health problems and his body is covered with scars from self-inflicted wounds. I saw that his right leg was bleeding heavily and his sock was soaked in it. They took him into the medical exam room to await the nurse, and the Response Commander told me to shake down the cell. I went in there, and it was like a murder scene. There were pools of blood everywhere. Splatters all over the walls, the sink, the bed, even the ceiling. One wall had blood smeared all over it, and he had also smeared it all over the window in his cell door. I didn't even know where to start. It was impossible to tell where he had cut himself or how the hell he did it. Then one of the SST officers came in and told me that the I/M had admitted that he cut his leg with a staple on his sink. I found the staple, and took 3 more staples from his mail. The mailroom reads all mail that comes in and goes out, and they staple the envelope shut before getting it to the inmates. I didn't find any others, so I left his cell (thankfully, cleanup isn't one of our duties).
I gave the staples to the Response Commander to take photographs for evidence, and went in the exam room. The inmate was covered in blood, but the nurse had cleaned up his leg. He had a cut about the 4 inches long, and 3 inches wide. It was deep, too. He kept playing with it and making it bleed, but once they got the bleeding pretty much stopped, I could see white in the center. It wasn't deep enough to have exposed the bone so I don't really know what it was. Still, it had to be about a half-inch deep in his leg. And he had done this with a fucking staple.
Then the nurse talked to him.
CMA: Why'd you do that to yourself?
I/M: Because I'm trying to kill myself.
CMA: Why are you trying to do that?
I/M: Because I want to.
CMA: I thought you were going to do better.
I/M: I was, but now I have a different plan.
CMA: What's that?
I/M: I'm going to cut myself once a week. Once a week is mandatory. Until I bleed to death.
SST: Oh, really? Where are you going to cut yourself next week, so we'll know?
I/M: The back of my arm. I haven't cut myself there yet. That's why I did my leg, cause I haven't done much there. Next week, I'm going to use a razor.
SST: That is, if you get a razor.
I/M: Oh, I will. Just wait, I will get one. You can cut a lot deeper with a razor. I couldn't get it as deep with the staple, or I'd have done more. I wanted to cut it all the way down to my ankle.
In the end, he refused treatment. He wanted to get stitches, because he likes to rip them out. The nurse was going to put some kind of wrap on instead, and he refused. So we put him in a holding cell so the Mental Health director could come talk to him, and left him there with a big hole in his leg. I didn't get sick, but there was just so much damn blood that it shook me a little after I got back to my post and the adrenaline started to wear off. The most disturbing thing was him just sitting there playing with the wound. He didn't even act hurt. It was like he didn't feel pain at all.
Barnyard Shenanigans
Remember the guy I saved from hanging himself a couple weeks ago? Yeah, he's still making me regret that. He's been off his meds for like 3 weeks now. He mainly makes animal noises instead of talking. He hisses when I do my first count at the start of my shift and look in his cell. He barks, meows, clucks, moos, quacks, and growls. A couple of days ago, he was jumping around naked and howling. But yesterday took the cake. The nurse came by to see how he was doing.
CMA: Mr (crazy man)? How are you doing today?
I/M: Meow!
CMA: Can you tell me how you're doing?
I/M: I ate my turd. It made me sick.
CMA: Why did you do that?
I/M: It gives me power.
CMA: Oh. I see.
I/M: I made a sandwich.
I had to fight hard to not drop on the floor and start laughing hysterically at that. I like to maintain a fairly serious demeanor, but I couldn't prevent myself from cracking a smile and snickering just a little.
Another fun-filled week in the Department of Corrections. I'm not even being sarcastic, I love my job. Well, mostly. Some of the inmates that are really nuts do some things that are pretty icky, but it's still morbidly amusing to watch. I'm really settling into things pretty well, I think. I relax a little and even joke with some of the inmates, but they know where I stand and that I won't hesitate to beat their asses if need be.
I/M: Inmate
CMA: Corrections Medical Aide (Nurse)
SST: Special Security Team Member
CW: Coworker
ME: Enforcer of Awesome
I Couldn't Help But Smile
This occurred as I was leading a line of Inmates from my cellhouse back from the Chow Hall
I/M1: Man, sometimes this place is like Boot Camp or some shit.
I/M2: True, true.
I/M1: Why can't it be more like, uh, Summer Camp?
I/M2: Yeah, that was fun.
I/M1: Camp Anawanna...
I/M2: We hold you in our hearts.
I/M1: And when we think about you...
BOTH: It makes me wanna FART!
ME: If I could get you guys some extra Good Time, I would.
Good Time is kind of like points they get for being, well, good. You know how you always hear that they get out early for "good behaviour?" It's like that. The inmates, by the way, were awestruck that I made a joke. As always, I still maintained a perfectly blank expression, so it took them a moment to realize I wasn't serious.
Ooh, scary
I/M1 (screaming from his cell): I'M GONNA KILL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!
I/M2: What's his problem?
ME: I don't know. I'm going to find out, though.
I/M1: YEAH, YOU GOIN' FIND OUT? YOU GOIN FIND OUT IMA KICK THIS FUCKIN DOOR DOWN AND KILL YOU, BITCH!
ME (calmly walking to his cell and staring him right in the eye): Alright, Mr. (Asshat). What's the problem?
I/M1 (looking down): *mumble mumble* Ain't got no problem *mumble*
ME: I'm sorry? What?
I/M1: *mumble mumble*
ME: I thought so.
I could have written him up for Threating or Intimidating Any Person, but I felt neither threatened nor intimidated. Most of these guys talk pretty big when there's a big heavy door between us and them, and putting them in their place never ceases being fun.
You're in Officer Kara's House Now, Bi-atch
A particular I/M had been pestering me all shift about coming out of his cell to clean, to make a phone call, to get a different jumpsuit, anything he could think of to come out of his cell when it wasn't time for him to be. He did come out for Dayroom, and went back in his cell when it was over. The other half of the Cellhouse had Dayroom, and I saw his cell door opening, so I called up to the Cellhouse Control Officer.
CW: Control.
ME: Yeah, why is this asshole's door opening?
CW: Because he was throwing paper airplanes out of his cell, so I told him to pick that shit up and don't do it again.
ME: Alright.
The I/M proceeded to go downstairs to the ground floor and pick up the paper airplanes. He then strolled (slowly) with 2 other Inmates who had Dayroom at the time and walked right past the Officer's Station, and the trash can. He kept walking until he looked back and saw me staring at him. He then came up to the desk and leaned on the counter.
I/M: What's up, CO?
ME: Did you pick up all the paper?
I/M: Oh, yeah.
ME: Drop it in the trash.
I/M: So, uh, can I stay out for Dayroom?
ME: You already had Dayroom.
I/M: Yeah, but, walking around in my cell hurts my feet.
ME: Then you should lay down. In your cell.
I/M: Aw, for real?
ME: Yes. For real.
I/M: Come on, don't be like that.
ME: Go to your cell and lock down.
I/M: Please?
ME: Go lock down NOW, or you'll get a $10 fine for disobeying a direct order, and I'll take your Dayroom privilege for a week.
Thus the assbeast tucked his tail between his legs and retreated to his musty domicile. And across the land the bards sang of his defeat by the maiden's glare of death. For he had been wholly PWND.
Fishing, Prison Style
I was making my rounds the other night and saw an inmate sitting on his bed making a "fishing line." Inmates will tear threads out of their blankets, tie something like a ketchup packet or something to one end to weight it down, then toss the line out from the bottom of their cell door. They'll either snag something another inmate has slid out under their door, or toss it under another inmate's door and they will put whatever the item is they want to pass, then the first inmate will pull it back to their cell. Inmates aren't allowed to pass things, so they do it when we aren't looking.
I went back to the desk and just sat there, watching out of the corner of my eye. The inmates didn't seem to understand peripheral vision, and sure enough, I saw the line fly out and land just under the second inmate's door. I got up and walked over to them, and the first inmate was pulling the line back like crazy, but I slammed my boot down on the line before he got it halfway back to his cell. I grabbed the line and pulled it away from him, and saw he had poked a hole in a bar of soap to weigh the line down.
I/M1: Aw, man! All that hard work, down the drain.
ME: This is your one warning. Passing is a Class II offense, and next time you will be written and receive a fine. You might have to spend some time in Segregation, too.
I/M1: But I was just trying to give my buddy some soap.
ME: Then he can ask us for more soap. You are not allowed to pass ANYTHING.
I/M1: Okay....
I knew he was lying. The soap was obviously a weight.
But it gets better. Not an hour later, near the end of my shift, he's sitting on his bed making another line. And just like the first time, he didn't see me go by. So I went upstairs and stood far enough back from the edge of the walkway that they couldn't see me, but I'd be able to see the line fly out. A few minutes later...
I/M2: Okay, throw it.
I/M1: Alright, here goes.
I/M2: Wait! Where's the CO?
I/M1: Um... I don't see her.
I/M2: What if she's up there?
I/M1: I don't see her up there.
I/M2: But what if she is?
I/M1: Shit! Okay, I'm going to toss it quick.
I/M2: No, no, no! Not now!
I had finished all my reports and everything, so I just stood there for the last 15 minutes of my shift until I was relieved by the next shift. I wasn't even going to take the line the second time, because I don't need to take it to write them.
Holy Crap (Warning: Blood and Gore)
I was on Response a couple of days ago. Response team is usually 2 Sargents and 2 Officers from either side (the facility is divided into East and West side for response), plus the SST guys. Normally, when I'm on Response, nothing happens. But this was my first time. I was shaking down an empty cell (we're required to shake down every cell once a month), and a call came on the radio for West Side Response units to one of the Segregation cellhouses for a Signal Medical. Signal Medical means that (usually) and inmate is having a medical problem or is injured. So I bolted out of the cellhouse and as I'm tearing ass across the Yard (and see other Response units flying out of their houses, plus SST swarming out of the Main Compound building), a call comes on the radio "Attention Response Units: Glove up, blood is present." I carry a CPR mask in a pouch on my utility belt, and keep a pair of surgical gloves in there. So I'm running and putting my gloves on, and we go in the cellhouse.
The Control Officer opens the door to one side of the building and I see two of the house officers escorting an I/M out of his cell. It's our most infamous cutter, he's got all kinds of mental health problems and his body is covered with scars from self-inflicted wounds. I saw that his right leg was bleeding heavily and his sock was soaked in it. They took him into the medical exam room to await the nurse, and the Response Commander told me to shake down the cell. I went in there, and it was like a murder scene. There were pools of blood everywhere. Splatters all over the walls, the sink, the bed, even the ceiling. One wall had blood smeared all over it, and he had also smeared it all over the window in his cell door. I didn't even know where to start. It was impossible to tell where he had cut himself or how the hell he did it. Then one of the SST officers came in and told me that the I/M had admitted that he cut his leg with a staple on his sink. I found the staple, and took 3 more staples from his mail. The mailroom reads all mail that comes in and goes out, and they staple the envelope shut before getting it to the inmates. I didn't find any others, so I left his cell (thankfully, cleanup isn't one of our duties).
I gave the staples to the Response Commander to take photographs for evidence, and went in the exam room. The inmate was covered in blood, but the nurse had cleaned up his leg. He had a cut about the 4 inches long, and 3 inches wide. It was deep, too. He kept playing with it and making it bleed, but once they got the bleeding pretty much stopped, I could see white in the center. It wasn't deep enough to have exposed the bone so I don't really know what it was. Still, it had to be about a half-inch deep in his leg. And he had done this with a fucking staple.
Then the nurse talked to him.
CMA: Why'd you do that to yourself?
I/M: Because I'm trying to kill myself.
CMA: Why are you trying to do that?
I/M: Because I want to.
CMA: I thought you were going to do better.
I/M: I was, but now I have a different plan.
CMA: What's that?
I/M: I'm going to cut myself once a week. Once a week is mandatory. Until I bleed to death.
SST: Oh, really? Where are you going to cut yourself next week, so we'll know?
I/M: The back of my arm. I haven't cut myself there yet. That's why I did my leg, cause I haven't done much there. Next week, I'm going to use a razor.
SST: That is, if you get a razor.
I/M: Oh, I will. Just wait, I will get one. You can cut a lot deeper with a razor. I couldn't get it as deep with the staple, or I'd have done more. I wanted to cut it all the way down to my ankle.
In the end, he refused treatment. He wanted to get stitches, because he likes to rip them out. The nurse was going to put some kind of wrap on instead, and he refused. So we put him in a holding cell so the Mental Health director could come talk to him, and left him there with a big hole in his leg. I didn't get sick, but there was just so much damn blood that it shook me a little after I got back to my post and the adrenaline started to wear off. The most disturbing thing was him just sitting there playing with the wound. He didn't even act hurt. It was like he didn't feel pain at all.
Barnyard Shenanigans
Remember the guy I saved from hanging himself a couple weeks ago? Yeah, he's still making me regret that. He's been off his meds for like 3 weeks now. He mainly makes animal noises instead of talking. He hisses when I do my first count at the start of my shift and look in his cell. He barks, meows, clucks, moos, quacks, and growls. A couple of days ago, he was jumping around naked and howling. But yesterday took the cake. The nurse came by to see how he was doing.
CMA: Mr (crazy man)? How are you doing today?
I/M: Meow!
CMA: Can you tell me how you're doing?
I/M: I ate my turd. It made me sick.
CMA: Why did you do that?
I/M: It gives me power.
CMA: Oh. I see.
I/M: I made a sandwich.
I had to fight hard to not drop on the floor and start laughing hysterically at that. I like to maintain a fairly serious demeanor, but I couldn't prevent myself from cracking a smile and snickering just a little.
I always said that police officers and the like must have the best stories, and that I'd love to be one just for that. But the whole getting shot at thing, kinda puts me off of it.
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