The mailroom is where we went to mail letters that needed extra postage amongst other things. We also picked up packages sent to us by family and friends.

“Good morning, Monihan,” said Mr. O’Neal the mailroom supervisor. “How are you today?”

“I’m fine — thank you.”

“Looks like you have a food box,” he said, hoisting the box in two arms onto the counter. “The addressee is in Virginia. From home?”

“Yessir. That’s my mom and dad.”

Mr. O’Neal was always cheerful and respectful toward me. For years this is how it was. He was liked by the inmates, but his coworkers often ridiculed him for showing kindness to us.

“How’s your mom and dad?” Mr. O’Neal asked, opening the box. He had seen them years ago visiting me. Since that day he always asked about them.

“They’re good. Dad’s finally retired and he seems to be quite happy with that. Mom’s doing well too.”

He began inspecting and handing me the contents of the box one item at a time.

“They come all the way to Ohio from Virginia to see you?”

“Yessir.”

“How often do you see them?”

“Once, maybe twice a year.”

He nodded as if to say, Wow that must be tough.
“Oh!” Mr. O’Neal exclaimed. “What have we here?” In his hand he clutched what looked like a tinfoil wrapped brick.

My heart sped up. I knew what the tinfoil was. After the package was mailed, my father had surprised me. He had cooked two pounds of sausage links, froze them, wrapped them in tinfoil and FedEx’d the box to me. We weren’t permitted home cooked food (the image of cakes with hacksaw centers flashed through my mind) it was grounds for denial. I loved my father. It broke my heart to tell him I probably wouldn’t be allowed the box.

“Um,” I said, “it’s sausage links. My dad cooked them, but he didn’t know–”

“Sausages, huh?”

“Well, yeah they’re–”

“So you’re telling me this heavy tinfoil wrapped thing is cooked sausages? Is that correct?”

“Yessir.”

He suspiciously eyed me. “You must really like sausages.”

The guard working behind him organizing the mountain of awaiting boxes suddenly perked up. He came to the counter. Sniffing the possibility that he had stumbled into a drug bust he smirked at me.

“Monihan claims this is wrapped sausages,” Mr. O’Neal said to the guard. He offered out the tinfoil brick as evidence.

“Well that’s a first,” the guard snickered.

“It really is,” I pleaded. The words barely came out of my dry throat.

Mr. O’Neal gave me a Gotcha! Had you going! grin. He handed me the cold tinfoil lump. “Well then you enjoy those sausages.”

The guard’s mouth fell open in disbelief.
I smirked at him.
——————–
There isn’t a lot of kindness behind these walls at the hands of the guards. At least, that’s how it was many years ago. Time has changed attitudes somewhat, but by and large the guards tend to be cordial at best. There are some very bad apples though.
———————
For those unfortunate souls who dwell in this purgatory behind chain link and razor wire there is a learning curve. If you survive the first 90 days then there’s a good probability you’ll survive the next six months, but beyond that I’m not betting on anything.

Prison is a savage land. Just as prairie dogs on the Serengeti make wonderful lion chews so do men failing to realize this for predators abound.

Family has no concept of prison life. Like the new inmate or the “New Fish” who are initially prison’s prairie dogs, family learns too.

On a warm summer day in a year I’ve long forgotten, one of the guys had told his mother we were allowed ‘boom boxes’. The double cassette type where equalizers and twist knobs were the rage. So what did she do? She shipped a complete Pioneer home stereo system with double cassette play deck, equalizer deck, tall triple 10″ bass speakers to the prison. We all got a great laugh out of it.

Unlike my sausages, he wasn’t allowed the stereo system.
——————–
November 1999 I am called to the mailroom. I wasn’t expecting a package so it could have meant only one thing “contraband.” Someone had sent a mailed item containing contraband.

What was contraband? A letter card or package that violated the rules in some way. What violated the rules? Hell, that depended on who you were dealing with. “Rules” in prison are like apparitions, sometimes they materialize out of thin air.

By policy nude photos, packages from an “unauthorized” source; letter exceeding the “maximum” page limit; mail containing “too many photos”; food or clothes boxes when ineligible — the list was insanely long.

Contraband mail was “disposed” of at your expense. Pay to mail it back to sender of have it “destroyed”. Count yourself lucky to have received notice in the first place. Most of the time the mailroom trashed your letters rather than fill out time-consuming paperwork.

Got a case against children or weren’t liked by staff? Best believe your mail was trashed, and by trashed, I mean fed to the shredder.

The mailroom door snicked shut behind me. I walked up to the counter and a guard I had never seen was waiting.

“I was told the mailroom had called for me?” I said.

The guard smirked at me — burly fellow, thick reddish beard — while making a show of stroking his beard. He left the counter returning with a red envelope, the kind that clogs mailboxes in December.

I noticed it had been opened.

“Tell me what’s wrong with this,” the guard said.

I pulled the beautiful card from the envelope. The cover glittered and sparkled in the light.

The moment the folds parted open melody chimed out. It was the Carol of the Bells my favorite Christmas melody.

Instantly memories flooded back from a day when I was a boy in Catholic school. Our all-boys choir learned to play the Carol of the Bells and I shook the bell in rhythm with a dozen other boys. It was one of the most magical moments of my life.

“Have it destroyed or I remove the mechanism. Those are your choices,” the guard said. My stomach wrenched at the thought of either option. I wanted the card so badly because it was from family.

“Well,” I said, “I guess you can remove the mechanism.”

The guard frowned as if he knew this was the decision I would make. His thick fingers tore through the inside center of the card as if gutting a deer. They ripped the tiny battery powered chime from the folds and I couldn’t help but think he had ripped the card’s heart out.

He flicked the mechanism into a hidden wastebasket beneath the counter. I heard it land with a sad, muffled puh!

“Merry Christmas,” the guard grunted. He tossed the remains of the card onto the counter in front of me.

The pounding of my heart surged into my throat. Shock and bewilderment squeezed my chest. I closed my eyes and mentally counted backward from three…

I then scooped up the pieces and left.
——————–
There is a culture in prison amongst the guards encouraging confrontation and oppression toward us. While walking back across the prison yard to the cellblock a study by major university came to mind. The study had enrolled free world volunteers, half of whom would participate as “inmates” and half as “guards.” With little guidance, both groups were instructed to play their “roles.”

Within days the faux guards engaged in crimes against the acting inmates (who, remember, weren’t real inmates), including verbal, physical and sexual assault. The outcome of the study was so egregious that no other university since has replicated the experiment.

How is it that good free world people without criminal backgrounds or correctional experience should devolve into the exact same type of conduct ‘professional’ correctional officers engage in?

By the time I had tugged open the heavy iron front door of the cellblock I had calmed down.
——————–
There comes a point where we who are condemned to long sentences stop paying attention to time. At least, that is how it is for me. Minutes, hours, days are fleeting and melt into months without travail like scenery out the side window of a moving car.

There is a truth that is timeless behind these walls and all who dwell within discover it. We even have a saying for it, as we do for many truisms in this hell of ours — and it is this: “You either do the time or time does you.” Men allowing the latter live short lives. Literally.

I am ever aware of this and never lose sight of it.
——————-
I looked down at my two card poker hand. Pocket Aces.

In Texas Hold Em this is the best possible starting hand. With hands like this the only thing that comes to my mind is, Which player at the table can I extract the most money from?

The trick of course is to isolate one player into a situation of raises and re-raises until the opposing player has committed all his money — along with his soul — to the pot for Aces wins an insanely high percentage of the time when heads up.

I eyed Cincinnati. Young and arrogant, but most important to me was that he had gobs of money.  I, on the other hand, had more Texas Hold Em playing experience than he had alive in this world.

“I raise!” Cincinnati announced, chucking two packs of smokes into the pot. Like lawn chairs the other players folded around me.

“I call,” I said. I peeked at my two cards again for his benefit.

The three-card flop came Ace of clubs, Nine of diamonds, King of hearts — rainbow.

That gave me three aces on a non-threatening board and I knew he had hit the king for top pair. Flops like that made my soul dance.

Cincinnati splashed four packs of Marlboros into the pile. They slid across the table and almost off the other side. “Four packs!”

I had just gone to raise him when from out of nowhere a guard blew down on Cincinnati from behind.

“All right — break it up!” the small height challenged guard belted. “Whose cards are these?

“They’re mine,” I lied. All five decks were Cincinnati’s. Cincinnati was new to the joint and I wasn’t about to let the Golden Goose scare off because of some guard with a Napoleon Complex.

“Where do you lock at?” Napoleon said.

I pointed to cell #202 on the second tier.

Two minutes later the guard was in my cell trashing everything. When I was finally allowed to enter all my belongings were strewn about as if a bomb had detonated.

Two photos of my family had been yanked from my small photo album, crumpled and left balled up on the concrete floor.

I gingerly picked them up and tried to smooth the images. The more I tried the worse they fared.

I sat on my cold steel bunk for a long time. At some point the sun went down.

Eventually I cleaned up the cell.
——————–
“Hi, Monihan,” Mr. Neal said, as we passed on the walkway.

“Hey Mr. Neal.”

“Ah, still working with the dogs I see.”

“Yessir.”

“You’ve been doing that for a long time haven’t you?”

“Yessir. About seven years now. It’s a blessing.”

“Does it help pass the time?”

“Yes — honestly, the dogs are my therapy. I am grateful for them.”

“Well,” Mr. Neal said, “You’re doing a fine job. Keep up the good work.” He smiled and continued on his way.
———————
Being far from family is difficult. I am in a state where I have no family and visits are far and few.

For years my main contact with loved ones was through monitored and recorded phone calls. Then came 30 minute JPay video visits. Today was one of those days.

I folded the old white T-shirt, placing it on the short 12-inch-long rectangular bench. My JPay video call was about to start. The hard wood of the kiosk seat and my thin, soft ass cheeks didn’t get along.

I clicked the “Join Call” box and waited. The hourglass spun before my father’s serious face appeared on screen.

“Hey there!” I said, into the telephone handset.

My father mouthed something, but I couldn’t hear him. I could tell by his exasperated expression that something was wrong.

“I can’t hear you,” I said.

He held up a finger indicating to wait a moment. He leaned in close and his face filled the entire screen like a cartoon character. His eyes darted about as he examined options on his screen.

“You don’t have the ‘mute’ on do you?” I prodded.

He shook his head.

His lips mouthed the words, Can you hear me now? and absurdly I thought of those Verizon commercials. “Uh, no,” I said.

My father threw his hands up in defeat. He slumped back into the deep leather of his office chair.

“Well at least you can hear me,” I said lamely. I tried to make the best of what had become common occurrence with JPay video visits.

My dad mouthed the words ‘Call me’ and then the screen went dark on his end.
———————
Time on the inside is a personal experience. How you experience it is solely up to you.

I recently celebrated my 30th Christmas in prison. I say celebrated because that’s exactly what I do. Where I am does not define who I am. I’ve witnessed men check out of life and quit with far less time on the inside.

I’ve long since struggled down the uneven path of soul searching. “When we are no longer able to change our situation, we are challenged to change ourselves” said Viktor Frankl, in Man’s Search for Meaning. Prison is all about that. Rene Descartes once said “If you would be a real seeker of truth, it is necessary that once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, everything” words that have impacted me profoundly. You will doubt everything you thought you knew once behind these walls and discover the truth or die clinging to illusions.

I live life to the fullest every day.

I am at peace.
———————
I navigated my way down the sharp turns of the iron cellblock staircase, and to the guard’s station on the ground floor.  The ‘guard station’ was an oversized wooden desk on a foot high raised platform. Behind it sat the block officer.

I needed a ‘kite’ which was a paper form that allowed us to communicate with departments throughout the prison.

“Excuse me, sir?” I said. “May I have a kite please?”

“There aren’t any,” the guard grunted.

That was a lie. I could see the pile of kites on the desk beside his hand.

“You have them right there.” I pointed at the pile.

He eyed the stack then frowned at me.

“Get away from my desk.”

“You’re just going to pretend there aren’t–”

“Get the fuck away from my desk!”

The guard launched a volley of profanities at me but his voice seemed far away. I counted backward in my mind from three…two…one–

“Are you fucking deaf!?” the guard screamed, spittle landed dangerously close to my being.

I looked at the man and felt pity for him. “You know,” I said, “you’re gonna have a stroke before you are 40.”

I then walked away.
——————–
Dewy grass glittered beneath my footsteps as I walked across the prison yard. What a beautiful morning. Orange and yellow clouds spattered the sky from the sunrise horizon.

Minutes earlier the phone rang at the cellblock officer’s desk. “Monihan!” The first shift officer hollered. “Go to the mailroom!”

After a brief wait in the short line it was my turn at the mailroom counter. Mr. O’Neal was nowhere to be found, which was unusual.

“You’ve got contraband,” said the mailroom guard. I had never seem him before. “A photo from another inmate.”

“Why is it being denied? We’re allowed photos from other inmates.”

“It’s being denied because I said it is.”

“Okay. Well can I at least see it?”

“No.” The letter containing the photo was in his hand.

“Is Mr. O’Neal here?”

“Mr. O’Neal is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Dead. He had a heart attack–”

Text #12

“Yeah,” another guard chimed in from somewhere around the nearby corner, “no more Mr. O’Neal to help the poor widdle inmates!”

I felt my body go numb. I vaguely recall filling out the contraband form to return the letter, before leaving the mailroom.

Confusion gripped my thoughts as I hurried back across the yard. My head began to pound. What was happening?

The cell door thudded shut behind me.

I stood alone in dusty slant of morning light in my tiny concrete tomb. Tears welled up in my eyes and I fought the emotions before surrendering.

I doubled over cradling my head and sobbed.
———————
Later in the evening I sat at one of the steel tables in the cellblock dayroom, which is a community area.

Dominoes smacked tables, toilets in cells behind me whooshed and the community television blared nearby on a TV stand with castors.

The guard at the desk was yelling at one of the guys. The vein on his forehead snaked down to his beat red face.

I wondered about the world.
I wondered what my purpose was.

*Christopher Monihan is a Society of Professional Journalists Stillwater Award winner. His work has appeared in Prison Journalism Project, Inside, Minutes Before Six and Prison writers. He is incarcerated in Ohio.