For weeks we'd been hearing scuttlebutt about the prison's plan for a massive set of house-to-house cell swaps. All of the good-conduct wings will supposedly be moved from their current unit and scattered across ERDCC, one wing per house. Although the entire population stands united in the opinion that this is a terrible idea, institutional amnesia is real. (I need to say here that administrative hubris is real too.) In any event, the plan completely ignores history.
When it was enacted five years ago, the houses had nothing but problems. When a different warden tried it a couple of years after that, it met with failure yet again. The current powers that be think things will somehow be different under their watch.
I happen to agree, just not for the reason they'd like to hear. I think this go-round could turn out worse.
ERDCC's general-population units have descended into anarchy. A person only has to overhear the radio traffic to know how many medical emergencies are called for "unresponsive" residents ("unresponsive" being the most neutral euphemism for a drug overdose) and how many physical assaults take place here on a daily basis. Putting wings of calm, well-behaved people into housing units where chaos and violence are the norm won't make the guards' jobs easier, nor will it create in-house role models for the hooligans to emulate. This plan merely puts at risk those who follow the rules.
The one bright spot is that people who have a job and live in an honor dorm will soon be moved to the same housing unit. Once all of the workers are in the same house, the Recreation Director, will push to give that house outside rec seven days a week, for as long as there's daylight. Being on the opposite side of the facility, with a yard accessible exclusively to our housing unit, would keep us relatively clear of prison's least agreeable elements.
My cellmate, Bob, works in the canteen. I work in the recreation building. We know we'll have to move to 3-House if the warden's idea becomes reality; the concern is whether or not we'll move there together. After two years, Bob's shown himself to be one of the better cellmates I've had, and neither of us want to go live with some rando. "Better the devil you know...," as they say.
Relief washes over me when the call comes over the intercom for Bob and me to pack our stuff. Having kept ears on the ground amid the past few days of swirling rumors, we're halfway prepared. Little-used things have been boxed up, pictures and other unnecessary whatnots have been taken down and stowed. All that remains is to strip our bunks and pack the few things we use every day.
Someone's wheeled a couple of canvas-sided laundry carts into the wing for us to use as transport. Bob loads twelve years worth of carelessly accumulated property—"the hoard," I call it—jammed into totes and boxes and bags. After nearly a quarter century of minimalist living, my own cart's just half full, but Bob's won't accommodate all of his crap. I let his excess hitch a ride with me and don't complain that it hinders my view as I push.
We wheel past a couple of 3-House residents on the walk, and I hear the guy mutter to his buddy, "Damn, dude's got a lot of shit!" It's tempting to tell them that a third of what I'm pushing is also Bob's.
The new cell, when we get indoors and enter our new abode, is exactly what we hoped it wouldn't be. The prior occupants apparently had the most popular spot in the wing to smoke up. Grimy, yellowed walls tell that story well enough. A search gets underway. We turn the desk upside-down a find more abandoned paraphernalia than I've ever encountered in an empty cell: a lighter kit, stripped electrical wires for sparking flames, bags of tobacco, and strips of "deuce." This is why you check everything when you first move in: possession is nine tenths of the law.
Drugs discretely disposed of, we get to work, scraping countless strata of soap of the walls with a plastic dustpan. Soap is how people without glue or tape hang shit on their walls. It's ingenious; unfortunately, no one ever cleans it up before they move out. Bob gets a piece in his eye. At some point this cell was apparently sprayed with mace that soaked into the soap. Our scrapings have pulverized and made the aggravating substance airborne. Within minutes, Bob's eye turns bruise purple. I start coughing. We keep scraping. Within an hour we're sweating. Bob offers me a can of 7-Up that I immediately drink halfway down.
Hour two is no less intense.
Once the scraping's over, it's time for wipedowns. After years of experience with moving into nasty cells, I know that three rounds of wiping usually do the trick. Fortunately, we brought a bunch of throwaway cloth rags. We start from the concrete ceiling and work our way down and around. Only after every surface has been scoured, scrubbed, and sanitized, four and a half hours after we set out from 6-House, do we start hauling our stuff inside to set it in order.
Moving is always stressful. In prison, it's no different. At least this move is over now. Bob and I have toiled and sweated to bring the room back to habitability, and now it almost feels like ours. But of course it's not. The administration could hit us at any time with another relocation order and we'd have no choice but to obey. All we can do is make the space tidy and conducive to sober living, and make the best of the time we spend here—a decent metaphor for life in general, now that I think about it.
