40 plus years since being in the USAF, but it still feels funny being outside in a green uniform and NOT being required to have a hat on.
Only 3 months here, though. 18 or so to go. Again, thanks to the USAF, I’ve done this drill before. Back then, however, when I had 6 months under my belt, I hadn’t also reached Medicare age.
Speaking of age-still not old enough that a punk guard won’t threaten me with the “hole” for coming back to my cell during the midnight count. Actually, I incurred his wrath because I didn’t stop when he ordered me to.
This is how you learn things around here. Next time I wake up and decide to have mercy on my teeny bladder, which shoulders the burden of my belligerent prostate, and I see a flashlight scanning the unit, and my ever diminishing aural system detects words sent my way, then my brain (I trust) will instruct the rest of me with “Stop. Danger. Guard ahead. Possible dickhead!”
That night, my fuzzy thought process was, “That’s a BRIGHT flashlight! I wonder who it is? Shit, it’s a guard doing a midnight count! What’s he saying? OK, I think I understand now. He’s pissed. What happens next? OK, he’s mad and wants me to step over here for some reason. I see, he wants to threaten me and show me he’s mad. OK, he’s done. Let’s see if I can walk the remaining 30 ft to my cell without further aggravating this prick.”
I’m a Line Server in the Chowhall now. A Food Service worker. Looking forward to my first monthly paycheck of $5.80. Based on a rough estimate from my first two weeks, that’s 11 cents an hour. You may wonder why they would even bother paying us. I suppose the answer to be that they are obliged to by law. This being a Federal Prison “Camp”, we are here by privilege and have responsibilities, such as having an assigned job, if you are able-bodied and whether you want one or not.
This too required “training”. That training consisted of signing 8-12 papers, which pertained to—I don’t know what. One may have been my solemnly sworn certification that I had been properly trained.