Literature on Lockdown: Eighty Square Feet

litOnLockdown (2)

By Alison Balaskovits

Welcome back to our many part series where we share narratives from those who teach in prison, those who write from prison, or those who previously did either. If you have taught in prison or were formerly incarcerated and are writing, or know someone who currently is and would like to be a part of the series, please send an e-mail to us at literatureonlockdown@gmail.com. A physical mailing address can also be provided.

Today’s Writer is Tim Boland.

Eighty Square Feet

This is an excerpt from a letter written on June 4, 2011, to my brother, who at the time was in the state prison at Rush City. I had just spent the previous three years of confinement in a single cell, and was scuffling with the new and extremely perverted concept of sharing eighty square feet of living space with another grown man…

I got spoiled in that single cell. All was lush, beautiful, and my business was my own. Living in a cage is strangely tolerable when you live there alone. But as soon as another breathing body is thrust into the equation, the whole thing goes up in smoke.

Here at this joint, everybody’s double-bunked, and there’s no choice in who you get as a cellie. Instead of a test drive, it’s trial-by-fire. I was hoping to get a cellie who would at least meet some basement-level criteria: One who didn’t talk; one who didn’t snore; one who didn’t steal; one who didn’t smell like a loaded diaper; one who didn’t keep lunatic hours; one who didn’t have a dangerous crush on bright lights and bad noise.

But If I’ve learned anything in prison, I’ve learned to expect the worst. And that’s what I got. The worst. Three hundred and twenty pounds of train wreck, to be exact.

You can learn a lot about a man just by his hustle. Some take the hustle to a high art, some to the depths of depravity. Either way, a man’s got to make some hay. My cellie makes his by snorting lines of hot sauce. No joke. He’ll even do a line of dirt if the price is right.

It goes down like this: He rounds up a few marks (mostly new arrivals), sells each a ticket to the circus for a buck of two with a promise to perform a feat beyond the bounds of reason, a feat unfit for public consumption, a feat declared a capital offense in 28 states and the District of Columbia. Then, with the eyes of a captivated crowd upon him, he hoovers up a giant line of hot sauce with a homemade straw. Then he crumbles to the ground and rolls around all floppy and demented, partly for theatrical effect and partly because he’s in serious pain. Then, miraculously, he bounces back to his feet like nothing ever happened. The spectators go away with their minds blown and he goes away with his nostrils blown and a few coins in the bank.

This past week, however, has brought a temporary hiatus to the snorting sideshow. He got a Ben Franklin dropped on his books. Somebody from the streets actually loves him. I’m guessing Mom.

So, predictably, this gifted hondo provoked a ballistic canteen order. The contents of the haul were your average fifth-grade staples: cookies, candy, Kool-aid, chips, Ding Dings, etc. He lugged the giant sack into the cell Monday. It was smash-and-dash till Friday. His entire diet for four days came straight from the trashfood cache. Having never seen such a gluttonous rampage, I was prompted several times to mumble F-bombs and blasphemy.

Last night at 12:33 am, I was awakened from a sound slumber and the cool, clean drift of darkness by a riot of snack-bag rustling. The cellie was hungry, so, operating strictly on an animal impulse, he went full speed ahead and trampled my sleep with a moonlight feeding orgy. Then, after a good half hour of madness, and just to put an exclamation point on his supreme idiocy, he raked all the crumbs off his bed and onto the floor.

When I climbed down from the bunk this morning, empty wrappers were strewn across the landscape like a cellophane graveyard, and the soles of my feet were greeted by a gang of chocolate chunks and Cheeto dust. The first thing that came to mind, after I chiseled the shrapnel off of my sock bottoms, was paying him five bucks to snort a line of anti-ignorance powder. Industrial strength.

But instead I chose to embrace my inner pacifist. I swallowed my tongue and swept the floor. Which turned out to be pointless, because when you live with a savage, a clean surface lives fast, dies young, and leaves a dirty corpse.

I also thought about sitting him down for a come-to-Jesus chat, but there’s really no point in delivering a how-to-live primer to a 40-year-old child. It’s impossible for such a creature to approach anything with the slightest degree of civility or moderation or outright sense, so telling him this cell isn’t his personal pigpen is like going on a picnic and telling an ant to stay the hell away from the potato salad.

Hold on, it gets even better…

Not only is my cellie a serial hot sauce snorter and epic slob, he’s also a small talker, a tidbit guy. A constant stream of jackass drivel spews from his mouth. I’ll be buried in a book or writing or maybe just thinking about how pathetic my life is, and he’ll throw some mindless chatter into my ear. A full recap on his private restroom functions. A comment on the weather, like that’s somehow relevant to something. Or he’ll let it be known that he just tried to call his ex but she didn’t answer but he never liked the bimbo anyway but they might still get back together and so on and so forth. Now you’d think after about six thousand consecutive times of getting no response, he might catch on and take the hint, but he has a sociopathic lack of regard for the fact that I don’t want to hear a word he has to say. About anything.

He’s probably a cannibal too, and I suppose I’ll find out soon enough. And if he’s a cannibal, he’s clearly a thief. And if he’s a thief, dammit, then I have to start setting booby traps. And we all know booby traps are bad business. Even if the trap goes unsprung, the atmosphere will reek of suspicion and I’ll have to subconsciously worry about my Jolly Ranchers getting finger-fucked every time I leave the cell.

Here’s the deal: I’m not trying to turn this cellie thing into some hip domestic enterprise. I’m not looking to take a new pal on-board, nor am I trying to incite a civil war. I just want to do my time and for him to do his time. If that too much to ask? I want there to be my realm and his realm. Two separate realms. Mind is red. His is blue. Whenever the two overlap, the world becomes purple. I loathe purple. Despise purple. Annihilate purple. Purple is my poison. Purple is my nemesis. Purple is my agent of imminent death.

If I sound a little frazzled, Brother, it’s because I am. With each passing moment, I shed another layer of sanity. So don’t be shocked if my next letter is from a mental asylum… or from somewhere other than my eighty square feet of Hell. I hope not, but you just never know.

Anything is possible when a man’s at the end of his rope.

tim computerTim Boland is known as Convict #232240. He is the editor of the Lino Ledger, the newspaper at the Minnesota Correctional Facility – Lino Lakes, where he writes a series of essays on prison life. He is, in his own words, “not a thug or an ice-cold menace or a career loser but a once-promising kid from the suburbs who went to State on a baseball ride and majored in creative writing and wrote for the campus paper and chased tight skirts and noble dreams but then one day drifted off and got reckless and lost in a cocaine smog and ended up arriving at a colossal achievement in idiocy.” He’s scheduled for release in 2015. 

Literature On Lockdown: Tim Boland

litOnLockdown (2)

By Alison Balaskovits

Welcome back to our many part series where we share narratives from those who teach in prison, those who write from prison, or those who previously did either. If you have taught in prison or were formerly incarcerated and are writing, or know someone who currently is and would like to be a part of the series, please send an e-mail to us at literatureonlockdown@gmail.com. A physical mailing address can also be provided.

Flossing With Razor Wire

Often I tell myself that prison won’t define who I am, won’t be my legacy, won’t be the story of me.

But prison occupies a chapter of my story. It is a chapter with infinite subplots; a chapter that winds and tumbles and burns and weaves and dives and rises from the ashes.

My prison story started as it does for every inmate newly committed to the Department of Corrections – at the St. Cloud Penitentiary, the ancient abysmal brute. And as every man in a Minnesota prison knows, the St. Cloud story begins in E-House – the teeming, brooding, screaming slum where open wounds and broken hearts collide; where days are dark and minutes feel like miles; where memory segues into complex regret; where prisoners get acquainted, or in many cases re-acquainted, with the mindless drag of incarceration.

I had grave questions when I got to E-House: who will be my enemies? What happens if I drop the soap? Where will the riot break out? When do I get shanked? Why is my cellmate nicknamed Psycho?

As a part of the orientation process, the DOC put me through a series of tests and screenings and appraisals in order to assign me a proper classification. In other words, they wanted to know how much of a pain in the ass I was going to be.

The Educational Department, after I was able to spell my name correctly on a piece of paper, deduced that I could read and write at a ninth-grade level. Health Services vampired a vile of blood from my vein and informed me that I did not have AIDS. Psych Services conducted a brief survey, during which I revealed my chronic consumption of tequila and magic mushrooms and gold spray paint and marijuana and powder cocaine and prescription painkillers and the fact that I was high as a bright blue sky when I committed every one of my crimes, and they determined I was a Low Priority for drug treatments. Those were all shrewd deductions, but I decided on my own, without the help of any experts, that I had a special gift for being out of control, not for being a criminal. If I were a gifted criminal, I’d be living in the Cayman Islands, driving an Aston Martin, wallpapering my villa with fifty dollar bills. But I wasn’t. My outlaw career was a disaster, and as a result I was ordered to spend a majority of my 30s wading through the penal cesspool, wearing elastic clown pants, flossing with razor wire.

There are the obvious personal and occupational repercussions of being a convicted felon. I’ve forfeited, among other things, my right to vote, possess a firearm, manufacture gambling devices, operate a funeral parlor, hold a liquor license, drive a school bus and/or enlist in the Navy.

But I’m okay with those sanctions. Shotguns and slot machines aren’t at the top of what I’m worried about. Nor are riots or shanks or dropping the soap or the sort of madness that stalked my thoughts back at E-House.

It’s the subtle repercussions of captivity that crush my spirit.

Deprivation.

I am a great lover of women. Whoa, did I say women? I meant food. I am a great lover of food. I become despondent when I think about deep dish pizza. Steaming hot and stacked to the heavens with roasted peppers and tangy tomatoes and silky smooth mozzarella. My mouth goes Sahara-dry when I dream about sushi. Slabs of raw, ruby-colored tuna chased with pickled ginger and flaming shots of wasabi. I weep like a sullen child when I see a grocery store ad in the newspaper. Bunches of emerald green grapes and sweet Georgia peaches and succulent strawberries and sun-kissed tangerines. I might sound like the lunatic who sits on the park bench and yells at the pigeons, but believe you me, after enduring years of greasy slop and institutional sausage, it sounds perfectly sane.

Estrangement.

The letters and phone calls and visits keep spirits afloat, but they can’t replace the real deal. Anybody doing a long stretch of time can sense the inevitable cycle of disaffection running its course, until there’s nothing left but smoky traces of places and people once known. The mailbox gets a little emptier each day. Acquaintances become strangers. Old friends fade away. Wives and girlfriends grow tired and lonely and go elsewhere for love. I know because I came to the joint married, and I will leave alone. That’s a real son of a bitch to swallow, but it’s part of the prison jackpot. No matter how much I love them or they love me, people have bills to pay, needs to meet, mouths to feed, lives to live. I can’t bribe them to care or beg them to stay or blame them for not wanting to play a fool’s game.

Evanescence.

I call it Fleeting Peon Syndrome. Life itself is fleeting, especially looking at it through the grand-scheme lens, but prison life is the pinnacle of transience. At any moment, no matter how long I’ve been on my best behavior or how many pleases and thank yous I say, no matter how many doors I hold or hands I shake, if I succumb to even the slightest imbecility, or find myself on the business end of the wrong-place-wrong-time-wrong-guy scenario, I’ll be cuffed up and trundled off on a dolly like Hannibal Lecter and disappear into a steel-and-concrete dungeon and there will be a new editor of the Lino Ledger by tomorrow morning and the sun will rise in the east and fall in the west and the pistons of progress will continue to churn and new fires will be kindled and old ones dashed and nobody will miss a beat or give a damn. That’s how prison rolls.

What seems like a lifetime ago, I was a free man. Then the great sledgehammer of fate dropped down from the clouds and I was arrested at pistolpoint and crammed into the back of a squad car and then chauffeured to the county jail and then to a segregation cell and then to a bitter courtroom and on to a maximum security prison and soon to a halfway house and then, after seven years of reaping the whirlwind, I will go back to where this mad epic unexplainable chapter began.

I will once again be a free man.

tim computerTim Boland is known as Convict #232240. He is the editor of the Lino Ledger, the newspaper at the Minnesota Correctional Facility – Lino Lakes, where he writes a series of essays on prison life. He is, in his own words, “not a thug or an ice-cold menace or a career loser but a once-promising kid from the suburbs who went to State on a baseball ride and majored in creative writing and wrote for the campus paper and chased tight skirts and noble dreams but then one day drifted off and got reckless and lost in a cocaine smog and ended up arriving at a colossal achievement in idiocy.” He’s scheduled for release in 2015.