One Hellified Week That Ended On A Good Note

 

August 19, 2023

I may have to continue using "hellified" in my messages, since that best describes recent weeks' events.

On Monday, the 14th, it began like a typical day. The heavy steel cell doors banged open and the cell lights came on at 5 a.m., after the guards counted, shining flashlights in our eyes and blasting orders over the loud intercom speakers.

Most men marched to breakfast, while others drank cups of canteen coffee and watched the TV news. At seven a.m. they began blaring, "Inspection ready, class A uniforms, inspection team is on its way."

Yeah, right. Do you remember the children's story of the little boy who cried wolf? He made so many false calls that when a real wolf showed up, nobody believed him. That's the situation here. They call inspection ready so often, when the administration actually shows up, many are caught by surprise and find themselves in trouble.

This was a real inspection, though. A group led by the warden did a walkthrough, passed our dorm, and cleared us. At 8:30 a.m. they announced "evacuate the dorm."

Uh oh! Everyone knew what that meant. Mondays are favorite shakedown times for the K-9's, searching for dope.

Sure enough, before long three young Belgian shepherds showed up with their handlers. Almost 200 men stewing on the treeless recreation field watched the gung ho sniffers strain at their leashes, entering our building.

Did I mention that this past week was the hottest one in history, at least since Fahrenheit invented the thermometer?

No way could this old man swelter on that merciless rec yard. I went to a guard who appeared to be in charge and explained that at almost 74 years old and a multiple skin cancer survivor, I couldn't stay out in the sun more than 15 minutes. She told me to sit in the shade of the canteen awning. Thanks. I did. In the next five minutes several old timers and a few younger ones drifted over and joined me. Follow the leader.

The dogs took a couple of hours to discover no dope in the building, and after peeing and sniffing, left the compound. I once proposed posting signs after negative shakedowns: THIS BUILDING IS CERTIFIED DRUG-FREE BY FDOC CANINES. The authorities didn't go for it.

Tuesday seemed like déja vu all over again. Evacuate the dorm. Everybody out. What could this be? Pest control. The spray man. Back to my shady spot under the canteen awning.

I don't know why they bother. Whatever watered-down chemical they spray has no effect on the super-roach colonies infesting our cells and lockers. No one smelled anything either.

Wednesday came. I had a ten a.m. callout to the law library to research my pending parole hearing. I had just sat down when the radio announced, "Level 2 lockdown. All inmates return to their housing area. Prepare for master roster count."

Another day dead, wasted. Nothing happened. No one surreptitiously exited the prison.

They did it over and over again, for hours, counting and recounting. Only a drill. If this had been a real crisis, it would have been even more screwed up.

Thursday, 1:14 a.m., I am awakened by a flashlight shining in my eyes. A guard standing in my doorway asks me if I wanted to go on my medical trip to the RMC prison hospital at Lake Butler in North Florida. Yes, of course. I have to go. I am scheduled to see the cardiologist, Dr. Wallah Salman, for my test results.

They come for me at 4:00 a.m. I sit in a cage in the mental health building for an hour. The transport guard chains me up like Houdini, handcuffs, black box, waist chain, leg irons. This guard and I have a history that goes back a couple of years. Certain staff members have an attitude toward elderly, intelligent white men who know the rules and don't kowtow. It goes with the prison territory.

He clicked the handcuffs several clicks tighter, cutting off circulation. Both my wrists are bruised still.

Next negative, I was the only person riding in the notorious torture device known as the dog box van, a metal box built for sensory deprivation. Every pothole bruised my spine.

I was the first one called by the cardiologist. Despite the abnormal ECG, the cardiologist cleared me to go. "You're old," he said. "Get used to it."

Eventually we made it back to Lake C. I. I took two Tylenols and laid down on my bunk, to recover.

Friday was remarkably quiet. I attended the Toastmasters International Gavel Club meeting in the chapel. We are dealing with members transferring to other prisons, the losses hopefully offset by recruiting new arrivals. We have two outside sponsors, very nice lady volunteers, members of the outside Clermont club, who have had a positive impact on this group. Because of their efforts, our Club has been able to participate in many activities that are not only enjoyable, but also have resulted in personal improvement for our members.

Finally, Saturday arrived, what I had anxiously been awaiting for weeks, a visit from my brother, Dan Norman, niece Tammy Norman, and aunt, Alice Walker, from Tampa. They were the first ones there. We had a good time together, talking about the past and future, although our time was cut short due to the overcrowding in the mini-visiting area. We took a photo together, which accompanies this message. Getting old. Hanging in there. Still a special treasured time to visit together.

So I am back in the dorm, after showering and calling my dear wife, Libby, on the sole working pay phone for over fifty men. The fellows are watching preseason NFL football, and I am joyfully thinking about my visit with Libby tomorrow.

When I have more hellified news, I will share it.

All the best.

Charlie