Self Surrender, PART II

So, there I was standing in the middle of the courtyard with no idea where to go next. After surveying the grounds I began to realize that there were about fifty or more guys meandering around. Some were on the sports courts, some on the track, some walking to unknown places, but many were simply sitting in groups at picnic tables and other spots enjoying the weather and talking.

I mustered the courage to ask the next person that walked by where I was supposed to go. I don’t remember who helped me, but I handed him my little yellow slip of paper. He quickly deciphered the mysterious numbers and said, “That’s your bunk number. It’s over there.” He pointed toward the first low-rise dorm building. “You’re on the second floor.” Then he said, “Actually, let me show you.” Then he walked me toward the building and into the lobby, down the hall to my bunk.

For all the bucolic scenery of the grounds, the inside of the dorm (called “units”) was a little worse for wear. Each unit has a few TV rooms where guys wear headsets tuned to any number of TVs on the wall, a lounging area that isn’t very comfortable, and then the actual dorm rooms, which are really cubicles.

I wound my way up the stairs, following my newly found Sherpa to my cubicle. The rooms are basically partitioned bunk areas. My bunk was a top bunk, of course, as bunk assignments are based on seniority and I was as green as you can be. The cube was empty, but someone else clearly was living there. The room is basically the same size as a small stateroom on a Navy destroyer — about 10 x 15. The bunk is a double deck steel affair, there is a small desk and a noisy steel locker to store your gear. The top floor has about 25 rooms or fifty people. There is a locker room with a few shower stalls, toilettes, and sinks — pretty much what you’d find in any high school gym.

Not sure what I was supposed to do next, I tossed my duffle on the top rack and decided to walk around.

Outside again, I sat at a picnic table and began to read the small manual I was issued during check in.

Then an amazing thing happened — people started talking to me.

“Hey did you just self surrender?”

“Where are you from?”

“You find everything OK?”

“Need any help just ask anybody.”

It went on like that for several hours. Everywhere I went — the gym, the library, the track, people came up to me and introduced themselves. By the end of the day I had probably me over 100 people.

“I’m from Chappaqua. Tax evasion.” was a common introduction.

At about 3:50 PM people started moving en mass toward their units for the 4PM “count.” You see, at camp there is nothing really keeping you here except for your own discipline. About twice a day (and two more times while you’re sleeping) the correctional officers, known as “COs,” walk around to each unit and count the inmates to make sure no one has called an Uber car to take them home. Other than those first few moments during check in and the “counts” I have yet to speak to, really to even come in contact with, any COs. The camp is largely “self-managed.”

At the count I met my roommate. After some introductions he said, “Here, you’ll need this stuff until you can get to the commissary.” He handed me some basic toiletries–deodorant, shower shoes, and running shorts.

Sensing my apprehension to accept his offer he followed up with, “Don’t worry, I don’t expect anything.”

Everyone who finds oneself indicted spends at least a few late nights surfing the Internet trying to figure out how bad prison really is. You end up on websites with names like “prisonchatter.com” or “therealdopeontheslamma.com.” These bulletin boards are populated by people with dubious credentials. Somewhere you’re bound to read, “Never, and I mean NEVER, accept any favors from other inmates.” The implication being that you’ll find yourself in some sort of indentured servitude to your cell mate and you’ll spend the next three years living out some hideous scene from a Quentin Tarantino movie.

He went on, “If you get a chance, feel free to restock when you can make it to the commissary. No hurry.”

Now, I had been adequately prepared and knew that most of this was nonsense but you still have that little voice in the back of your head saying, “Is this it? Am I about to cross into never-never land?.” I calculated the odds and figured it was all innocent enough and I thanked him for the gear.

After the count I had my first prison dinner. The ever-popular “breakfast for dinner” happened to be on the menu that evening — always a staple for churches and Boy Scouts jamborees when you have to feed 100+ people on a budget. Everyone was very excited about this. Of course, I had only eaten one other meal for the day and it, too, was eggs and potatoes. Not sure which was better, Perkins or Lewisburg?

After dinner I found myself in the library looking for something to read until some of my books arrived in the mail. I found “A Walk in the Woods” by Bill Bryson of all books. This had been on my “I should read that some day” list for about a dozen years. So, I figured there was no time like the present and started turning pages. I’m not sure why I had always pushed this book to the back of the list–I love hiking and have done parts of the Appalachian Trail myself so it should have been a natural. I think I saw my mother-in-law reading it years ago and figured it was a book club book. Sort of like The Red Tent or watching Downton Abbey–just can’t do it. But, to my surprise, the book is hilarious and quite enjoyable (and manly enough for prison reading).

Later in the evening, after knocking out a few chapters, I made my way to the movie room where there’s a big flat screen and about 10 guys watching some movie I’d seen before. But, before I could settle in I had one more surprise for the day.

Out of darkness of the theater room a well-groomed, forty-something, guy with round glasses that made him look very smart came up to me.

“Hey, are you David Bryson?”

A bit taken aback, I answered hesitantly “Yes?”

“I’m George. I’m supposed to find you.”

“OK?”

George was from New Canaan, Connecticut and had used a lawyer that was retained on our case as well. He had been alerted to my arrival through the lawyer. (The lawyers seem to have a lot more clients in prison than out.) We stepped out and made introductions. George was a former trader on Wall Street and we had a lot in common. He had arrived only a few months prior to me, but in prison time he was a virtual ol’ timer and knew all the ropes.

After a while I noticed he was gripping a small duffle bag. “Oh, yah, I have some stuff for you.” He had assembled a welcome package of workout gear, more toiletries, food, pen, paper and other stuff that I wouldn’t be able to get my hands on for a while.

We spent the rest of the evening deep in conversation about our kids (5 between us from age 6 to 14) and wives, business, politics, and of course how much prison sucks. It was great to meet someone I had so much in common with on the first day.

Later that night I collapsed onto my very think mattress, pulled up the itchy, gray wool government-issue blanket and began to recount the day. But, before I could get a minute in my thoughts I fell asleep, more tired than I had been in years.

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