The seventy-two hours following my panic attack absolutely sucked. I thought living in the section was cold before, but the "padded" cell I had to endure was an absolute ice box.

I did not think it was possible, but I found myself missing the hot trays and craving that damn biscuits and gravy. While on suicide watch, I was given a sack lunch (paper bag filled with cold food like "baloney" "cheese," and bread) for every meal.

After the first day, I assured the nurses and coppers I was fine, but they kept me in there for another couple days just to make sure. They're a large county jail, and they’ve seen it all. The system knows exactly how to break a man.

The jail was nice enough to put me in a different section when I got off suicide watch. By nice, I mean they could not keep an open cell for three days in such an overcrowded county jail. It feels like I am starting over, but this time I am much more mentally and physically prepared.

Mentally, because during that seventy-two hours, I came to accept my situation. There are worse places to be than minimum security general population.

Physically, because after my little episode, they fast-tracked two prescriptions for me. An antidepressant and an antipsychotic. One of them makes me feel much calmer (some would use the term numb) and one of them keeps me asleep. Incredible what a difference I instantly feel.

“So, you got any money on your books yet?” my new celly, JJ, asks.

JJ's drug of choice is meth. He has been in and out of jail his whole forty or so years of life. He has a slight twitch, with the characteristic ADHD-like movements and speech that mark almost all tweakers. He also has a permanent smile filled with fake teeth and seems like a genuinely nice guy. When asking if I have money on my books, he is referring to money on my jail account used for phone calls and to order the all-important commissary.

Every Monday we turn in our orders for items like shampoo, ramen noodles, plastic bowls, candy bars, instant coffee, envelopes with a prepaid stamp, other super unhealthy snacks, and the most basic of items.

Every Thursday is commissary day when the orders arrive, and it's like a Black Friday frenzy. Debts are paid, trades are made, and spreads are organized. Candy and instant coffee are consumed with vigor, pumping sixty-four bodies full of processed sugar and caffeine. The whole pod comes alive like electricity is flowing through it.

It's Monday afternoon, and no, I don't have any money on my books yet.

“No, I don’t have any money on my books yet,”

_ - - -

$( - ) ( - )$ “(. ) (. )”

— O

“Need some phone time then? You got anyone on the outs?” JJ probes.

“I don’t really know yet. I doubt my family knows how this whole thing works; no one has been to jail before.”

“Well, you’re gonna be here a long time, so you better get it figured out. Closed mouths don’t get fed, you know.”

He sees the look on my face and shrugs.

“Hey man, no offense. I’m just sayin', you killed a dude. I know it was an accident, but still. I’ve seen people get hemmed up for a long time on charges like yours. But you stayed around to try and help him, so I bet the judge will like that and you won’t do the full twenty years.”

The silence hangs heavy in the cell as the impact of what JJ just said sinks in.

“Don’t think about it dude. Here, want a bag of chips?” JJ says awkwardly.

“I’m not hungry,” I say, feeling a knot in my stomach.

“Well, put 'em in your box, at least you’ll have something for later,” he says as he tosses the bag to me.

I catch them in my lap. “Thanks.”

I go to put the chips away in a medium-sized plastic box that has a lock and slides under my top bunk. My "box" is what they call it and it's the only storage we have. I open my box to throw the chips in and see everything I own: one state-issued bar of soap, one travel-sized state-issued toothbrush, one travel-sized state-issued toothpaste, one small pencil, two packages of medication, and now one bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos with lime. Wow.

“Yeah, man, if I could get some phone time, that would be really helpful,” I say, realizing he may be right about the whole commissary thing.

“K, after rack-in I’ll show you how it works and you can use my account for a fifteen-minute call.”

“Thanks. Can we order sweatshirts or sweatpants here? I don’t see anyone wearing anything but these uniforms and I’ve been wondering why,” I feel colder just talking about it.

“Bro. This is a hateful place, you can’t get anything in here. Not even an extra pair of socks. The only reason you see me with an extra pair is 'cause when we do clothing changeout, I hide a pair under my sheet. Pretty easy to do — I’ll show you tomorrow night,” he seems excited for a chance to show off his criminal prowess.

“Dude, thank you. I don’t know this world at all and it’s overwhelming at times. But I really appreciate your help. When I get money on my account I’ll pay you back, I swear.” I mean every word.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, bro, I know what it’s like. But hey, if you want, you can give me one of those pink houses you got. They gave you the good stuff. You can crush those up and snort 'em. Kind of feels like clear, but lasts longer. They don’t give those out very often anymore, so don’t let other people know you have 'em or everyone will be asking you for some,” reflexively he looks out of the cell window and into the section.

I'm noticing there is a constant state of subtle paranoia most everyone shares in here.

“Sure, man, no problem. Here.” I reach into my box to pull out my package of pills.

“You good on the count?”

I have no clue what he’s talking about. “Ummm, probably?”

“K, dude, this is very important. They date your packs, and if the pigs come in when they do clothing exchange and find your count is off what it's supposed to be, they’ll take away the pack and make you go stand in line everyday for the nurse to give you one. Here, let me see.”

He holds out his hand waiting for me to give him the pack. I'm very curious to know what he’s talking about, so I hand them over without a second thought. After showing me the starting date on the pack, he starts counting.

“Ah, see here, you’ve had one already today, huh?” he asks, and I shake my head yes.

“Okay, well you can still give me one today but just make sure not to take any more out before tomorrow night, because, like I said before, that’s clothing exchange and they search our cells, and you don’t want to be off. You mind?” He's gesturing toward the pack.

“Yeah, go ahead, no problem,” I say, actually feeling like I have no real choice. I'm not going to deny him a little thing like that after he offered me phone time and all these other little nuggets of information.

I also realize at this moment there is no such thing as free kindness in this place. Kindness, sure; helpfulness, sure, but there’s always going to be a price.

My perspective is already starting to shift about this new world I'm in. Learning all these new intricacies of a strange new world started out feeling like a burden; now it’s turning into a new game to be played. And if there’s one thing I’m a sucker for in this life, it’s games.

I can even force myself to see different parallels between these games and the game of life.

Instead of a boss demanding those TPU reports on his desk by the end of the day, I've got a guard demanding I go to my cell for rack-ins. Instead of hearing Debby in the cubicle next to me munch on an endless supply of hard candy, I hear tweakers suck on their missing teeth and chew air. Instead of an hour lunch break to get away from my desk, I've got an hour of rack-in time after lunch to lay on my bunk and stare at the ceiling while my mind drifts... I'm walking in the forest; I stop and take a big breath in through my nose, I can smell the green life all around me, I can feel a gentle breeze on my face and neck. My eyes are closed, and I can see clearly. My body is floating on a lake, I can feel...

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

My eyes shoot open. Forty minutes have gone by since giving JJ one of the pink houses, and the section is open again. I lose all the zen I was collecting living in my imagination as I realize I am about to make the phone call I've been dreading. I'm going to call my father.

“Hi, Dad.” I say, not able to keep the shame out of my voice.

“Howdy-ho, buccaneer! Finally you decide to call, I’ve been waiting to hear from you. How are you holding up? You didn’t drop the soap yet, did you?”

I can’t help but genuinely chuckle. “No, not yet. It’s not like that here we have single-unit showers. But I did get jumped into a gang, so there’s that,” I respond as seriously as I can.

“Oh no, buddy, are you okay? What does that mean for you now? Did you shave your head?” he sounds very concerned.

“Nah, I’m just messin', got you though!” I feel a tinge of joy getting back at him for his soap joke.

“Oh my goodness, you said it so matter-of-factly that I thought you were serious! You about gave me a heart attack!”

I notice there's someone a couple phones over, so I start talking in a hushed tone. “Nope, to be honest there’s not much gang stuff going on here that I can tell. But I don’t like asking a lot of questions. I once heard in a show or something that cops ask questions, and people thinking I'm a cop is the last thing I need.”

“Ahh yes, very smart. You’ve got to keep your head down. I can’t even imagine what you're going through in there. What’s jail actually like?” That's my Dad, always the inquisitive mind. I tell him everything I’ve been experiencing so far: the panic attack, the suicide watch, the turtle suit, the inmates, the coppers, and the terrible food. Before I know it, an automated voice comes through the phone informing us we have one minute remaining on the phone call.

“Okay, quick, I’ve only got one minute left and I’m using my celly's phone time. I’m so sorry I got caught up in time, but we order commissary tonight. I need some decent soap, shampoo and a bowl, oh and some ramen noodles ’cause I’m starving at night, oh yeah and of course some phone time. Jeez, when I say it out loud it sounds like a lot. I don’t know how it works on your end but it would help me so much to get some of the basics. I’m so sorry to have to ask.” The desperation I feel inside is definitely seeping into my voice.

“They don’t give you soap in there?” he asks skeptically.

“No, they do, but it’s terrible and makes me smell worse, I swear,” I tell him quickly.

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Just remember that I love you. We all make mistakes but one thing you need to know is that I love you. Do you know wh—”

His voice cuts off before I hear the rest of what he's saying and instead I hear the automated voice say, “Your phone call has ended. Goodbye.”

Talking on the phone was like a temporary portal away from the cold cement walls, but now I'm one hundred percent transported back.

Stuck sitting with my thoughts swirling around with the phone to my ear still, I suddenly hear that damn automated voice say, “If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”

I hang up the phone and go straight to my bunk. A minute later my celly comes into the house.

“Yo, how’d it go?”

“Damn, it was nice hearing his voice but so bittersweet. It’s like talking to him I was able to escape this place, but when it ended — BAM, here I am again.” I feel a perceived sign of weakness forming in my eyes.

“Yeah man, phone calls will do that to some people. Visits can be even worse. He gonna put money on your books?”

“I think so, but he’s gotta figure it out. He’s smart, I just don’t know if he’ll make it in time for when we turn our orders in.”

“It’s super easy, remember all the jail cares about is money. Plus, they won’t run the orders until tomorrow morning anyways. We just turn them in tonight, you’ll be fine.” His assurance does not comfort me one bit.

Filling out the commissary order for the first time feels kind of exciting. After a week of nothing but what the jail provided and a bag of chips from JJ, having anything extra seems luxurious. I assume my pops will put at least twenty bucks on my books and as I add up the items I want, I quickly find out how expensive things are in here.

There are three main units of measurement for trading: envelopes with a stamp (lopes), ramen (noodles), and coffee (a shot of coffee measured with the standard flimsy white plastic spork). I spend at least an hour going over everything on the commissary list and crunching the numbers to maximize the twenty bucks. In the end I order a bag of instant coffee, five noodles, a bowl, a flimsy white spork, a bag of hard candy, shampoo, and a bar of soap.

After turning in my order I look around the section. My celly is on the phone, there are a couple of groups at the tables playing cards, a couple dozen people walking around the tables doing “laps,” and a handful are watching TV.

I don’t want to just go back to my cell, so I pull up a chair and start watching the 27-inch TV where the Chicago Cubs are facing the Cleveland Indians in game five of the World Series. I don’t care whatsoever for baseball, but since it’s the World Series I’ll at least give it a watch. I’m half in my head, half trying to figure out what's going on in the game when a balding ginger with missing teeth takes a seat next to me.

“Yo,” he turns to say to me, “U jus gid in?”

I assume he’s talking about jail.

“Yeah, just a little bit ago.”

“Gawd any?” he asks, raising his eyebrows knowingly.

“What do you mean?”

“You kno…” he looks around suspiciously then looks at me, then looks around suspiciously again, then looks at me with desperation in his eyes.

A desperation that looks a lot like the story with that one fellow who just absolutely lost his shit when Cortez burned the boats to get back home upon arrival in South America. Fred, we can call that guy. Poor Fred is just losing his shit yelling at his comrades like, wtf are you guys all crazy!?!? Can you imagine being Fred, watching everyone around just let the leader burn everyone’s passage back to good food, loved ones, and comfy bed?

I mean it had to feel like if Elon Musk went to Mars with his astronaut homies, dropped some acid, and was like, “We’re not leaving until we find the aliens!” then blows up the rocket to get home.

That kind of desperation Cortez had in his eye though, when telling his crew what was to be done, was the same glean in this once-shell of a man I find myself talking to.

“You actually get that stuff in here?” I say without thinking, my eyes widening in surprise.

I’m pretty sure only one thing can evoke that desperation: Hard drugs. But I’ve got no clue how that would even work. Would they shove the drugs up their butt before coming in? I don't see how you could swallow them and get them back after going through processing either. I want to ask so many questions, but I hold my tongue.

“Yeh, neva mind,” he sighs and turns his head. “Wha’cha in fo?” he asks automatically, then starts staring right through the TV.

I pause for a few moments, watching him chew air, and I wonder if he would even care if I didn't respond. “Well, they charged me with murder because the guy I hit with my car ended up dying.”

“Oh shid!” he says lighting up and turning to give me his full attention again. “Ywa high?”

Oops, I did not mean to cause him to reengage with interest. I’m really not in the mood to get into the whole thing so I give him a short answer. “I was drunk leaving a party and this homeless guy was in the middle of the freeway.”

“Dooooood, shid sucks, mane. Dees judges mane, dey have id oud fo us drinkin 'n drivin DUI shid, so hippo uhhhhh hippoaaaaa hippofidical! Yeah. Hippofidical. Dey always be dwinkin and dwivin too."

“You mean hypocritical?” I can't follow his rambling because not only can I hardly understand him, but I keep smelling his rotting dragon breath.

“Yeh, das whad I said. Hippofifical..”

“Hip. A. Critical,” I say slowly.

“Hippa crifaful Hippa... Yeh. N. E. Ways.. Yeh.” He just starts cackling out of nowhere. “I play shpades. You play shpades?”

God, I cannot stand this guy. How can I make him go away. “Nope, never played,” I say, turning my attention back to the TV hoping he will get the point.

He doesn’t. “All gud, lez go play, yull lurn,” he immediately gets up and shouts across the section, “Hey Los, god one fer shpades.”

“Hey, keep it down, Johnson,” the copper at his desk says to the balding ginger trying to get me to play cards.

“Yeh yeh yeh,” he responds and dismisses the cop with a shooing motion of his hand.

A heavyset guy from the tables walks over to us. “Sup fool, you tryin' to play some cards?”

“I mean, I don’t know how to play, but I’m down.” Like I said, I’m a sucker for games. Plus, what else am I doing with my time?

“No worries, I got you,” he says, before turning to walk back to the tables.

I follow and as I sit down, then Los calls out to the people doing laps, “We need a fourth.”

No one responds. Los keeps shuffling the cards and without looking up he says, “Bones, let’s go, hop in.”

A very tall and very skinny Black dude who just passed us doing laps comes over. “And what are we playin' for?” he asks smoothly. “I know Straggle Tooth over here ain’t got shit on his books and he still owes Trigger a milk.”

“Nah, nah, nah,” Straggle Tooth says skittishly. “I jus won 'em back.”

“Dude's new over here. What’s your name, homie?” Los asks me.

“Knight. Good to meet you... Bones, is it? And Los?” We each punch each other’s knuckles.

“Gonna teach Knight the game,” Los replies to Bones. The way he says it though makes me think there is more going on.

“Alright, I'll shuffle first,” Bones says and sits down kitty-corner from Los.

Los teaches me the game and it seems simple enough.

SPADES:

I’m on a team with Straggle Tooth and we bid our hand accordingly to have as many points (books) we think we can get that round. Then we play out the hand and try to get as close to what we bid as possible. We start the game with the 2 of clubs, so whoever has that will play it, then in clockwise order we will all play a card of that suit. If you don’t have any cards of that suit, you can play a spade which is the trump suit and will win the book. Aces are highest, kings second highest, queens third, etc., etc. By the time Los and Bones win the game getting to 35 points, I think I've picked up the game pretty well.

“Nice, you picked that up quick,” Bones says to me. “Wanna play again?”

“Sure.” I'm actually having fun.

“K, let’s say a shot of coffee?” Bones wants to make the game worth his while.

“Sorry, man, I just got here, I don’t have anything.”

“All good, brotha. What about tomorrow's milk?” he says in that smooth buttery voice.

“Sure, let’s do it.” We lock it in with another fist bump.

“Haha, dude, don’t worry about it. Bones has been hustlin' niggas on the block since he could shuffle a deck of cards,” JJ says with a knowing smile that's been painted too high on his face since he heard I lost my next three days of milks and two desserts.

“Sure, but I swear to God that Straggle Tooth idiot threw so many hands. There’s no way he can be that bad.”

“I know he owed Trigger a milk and that’s Bones' celly. He probably doesn't owe a milk anymore. Hey, you’re learnin' though. I’ll be your partner tomorrow and we’ll get your milks back,” He says, like it's a sure thing.

“K, let’s do it. You have to tell me what this 6-4 strategy is though — somehow, we lost the game because we bid four but got eight? So, we lost?” The rule seemed made up on the spot, but I could not challenge it because I'm just too new.

“Oh yeah, six-four hands can be annoying. You can’t get double the score you bid or that’s literally game over. Not just the round, the game. Also, you can’t get all 13 books or that’s game over too. Here, let’s go over some strategies. Get the cards out of my box. Yeah, right there in the front.”

It's one in the morning; we've been going over strategy, playing two-person spades, and choppin' it up (chatting) for hours. Time as I know it is starting to bend and warp. Every day is the same color, every hour just a different shade of grey. I feel my cell phone vibrate on my leg from a text coming in, but when I instinctively reach down to grab it, I just feel my scratchy dark blue uniform with no pockets. Oh, that’s right — I don’t have a cell phone.

Another strange sensation occurs at night when we are racked in our cells for the evening and the main lights are off, leaving a dimly lit empty space. In each cell, the lights remain permanently on, illuminating the interior and leaving almost no action unseen. As I peer out into the section, I can partially glimpse into several cells. In a few of them, someone is standing at their door looking out, just like me. How’s that one song go again? All in all, we're all just bricks in the wall? I can hear the tune in my head, reminding me of how much I miss music.

From my cell door I watch the guard in the section is walk the rounds, making sure sleeping inmates are not too comfortable. Some follow the strict rule of no blankets over our heads at night, even though it’s freezing. They bang on the window and flash a light as bright as the sun on us until we acknowledge them and uncover our head.

My bedroom is my living room, is my office, is my kitchen, is my bathroom. My house is the standard 8x10 cell, with a metal table and stool in one corner and a toilet-sink in the other. A metal bunk bed holding a flimsy half inch mattress is built into the wall from the front of the cell to about a foot away from the toilet. That leaves a six-foot walking space to pace back and forth from the metal stool to the cell door.

It’s day and night, back and forth, pacing the same space. Foot after foot, minute after minute, mile after mile, day after day after day after MOTHER FUCKING GOD DAMN DAY.

I’ve started playing around with different types of postures to adopt while pacing, and I’ve got my favorite now. Hands clasped behind me, straight back, and a slow, deliberate step. Like I’m a gentleman just going for a stroll. The character I imagine myself to be comes easily, interjecting a British accent into the conversation out of nowhere and say something like, “Ah, I see good sir,” with a pretentious and fake gaudy tone.

I'm surrounded by a bunch of characters you read about in books or see on the news, and that’s where I realize I’m just like everyone else here.

I’m just another character in a story I don't understand.

End of Chapter 2

The Scalpel is The Knife of knowledge.

Sewing the The Knife, write into my back,

I’m using The Knife to dissect syllables.