Friday, September 15, 2023
They get us up earlier and earlier. Thursday, 3:00 a.m. wake-up in the SFRC Miami. Transfer. Let this be the last one for awhile, Lord.
Same rigmarole as before, marching, searching, ransacking, strip-searching — isn't there a law against such forcible acts? Six hours later, after nine a.m., after every prisoner donned handcuffs, leg irons and chains, struggling to their seats, the crowded prison bus headed north on the turnpike, and eventually switched to Hwy. 441 North.
Within minutes, still on prison grounds, the bus filled with acrid burning industrial fumes from the drugs half the prisoners smoked. I shudder to think how they got those drugs past the strip searches.
One old junkie lamented the younger generation's dependence on synthetic chemical drugs. What happened to all the pot in prison?
Next stop — Belle Glade — famous for sugar cane and football running backs who learned their trade of zigging and zagging from chasing down rabbits in the cane fields. I've never been there, but it didn't take long to realize that Belle Glade had the same stores and fast food joints as every other town in America.
Prison buses can't use the drive-thru windows, so the driver parked across the street from KFC and his partner took a walk. Next stop was the Winn Dixie supermarket. The deli beckoned. The fellows yelled through the window grates at local women who yelled back. Revelation — I never knew Winn Dixie had their own liquor stores.
Finally the guards stocked up on lunch and we got back on our way north. We had a "bag lunch," turkey bologna and dry bread, and a gummy peanut butter sandwich. In years past those bag lunches were sought after — ham and cheese sandwich, real peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an orange, apple or banana, and a half-pint of milk. No more. Those days are gone. The Everglades may be called the Sea of Grass, but everything north of the Everglades should be called the sugar cane ocean, miles and miles of sugar cane, along with drainage canals and the occasional cow pasture. Okeechobee C. I. sits in the middle of a miles-long cow pasture.
You can see the standard white prison water tank rising above the flat land from miles away. Same old same old. These Florida prisons are nothing if not consistent. Go back and read my accounts of what another prison did, and you can fill in the blanks of how it went at “ 'Chobee," as they call this place.
First thing off the bus, the guards delighted in telling us we were in lockdown. Two stabbings that morning had put the prison in a three-day shut down, mainly cutting off canteen access. Great. No cold Diet Cokes for me.
We finally got processed, fed and spread out to our various housing areas. I am now in A-2, an open dorm of eighty mostly young and foolish men of every ethnic background. To my right, my neighbor is a talkative black dwarf from Tampa who works in the kitchen, and to my right a 300-pound West Palm Beach native also appears starved for conversation.
Lots of Hispanics here, who I get along with fine, since I speak Spanish. Most of them call me " Abuelo," grandfather.
This is a real prison, unlike the clown factory at Lake C. I. Now that I'm out of their censorship clutches, I can write more about how the people there don't know how to run a prison.
Here, the bad news is the Wi-Fi is out, which means I can't send or receive any email, rent any movies, read the newspaper, no copies of snail mail, etc. The workmen are installing new cables, which will take about 3 weeks, then JPay will need another week to install new software. No rush, of course.
At least the phone works, for now.
So if I don't answer your email, please don't be alarmed. I'm certainly not ignoring you, just no technical capability.
You can email to Libby, who can then pass on any messages by phone to me.
More later.
Best to all. Thanks for caring.
Charlie
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