January 26, 2025

With so many tattoos, I get thrown in a jail pod with suspected gang members. I’m ostracized because of age and my ignorance about connecting with the outside world, not because of my sexuality. Withdrawing from meth, I drool and shake. The shadow people in my mind’s eye are still observing my every thought with disapproval. My breath smells like cow dung. I note four types of jail residents: (1) “It was all a mistake, and I don’t belong here,” (2) “I’ve spent my whole life in prison, and you will never know as much as I know,” (3) “You’re the new guy and I’m going to take advantage of you,” and (4) “Keep your distance because I’m related to ‘HA’ (Hells Angels).”

There’s nothing at all to do between waking and sleeping except to wait for meals. In the meantime, some inmates sleep; some gamble at Cribbage; some play Dungeons & Dragons; and some sit alone writing. I ask the nerdiest writer, “How can I get paper and a pen?” He responds, “Paper will cost you two ramen packs for four blank pages. Pens are issued once to you by the guard, and you can ask for a replacement every day at morning service call.” I get my pen and start haggling with inmates for paper since I have no money and no outside support.