Jail Tale
So sad it’s funny
From court lockup, I waved bye to my family. The officers gave me a white tee, blue shorts. Blue shorts are for the sentenced; brown are for those waiting to be sentenced. Then, they shackled my wrists to ankles. They drove a bus to jail. The bus ride was bumpy; the cuffs scratched badly against my skin.
After blood test, thumbprinting, we stood in a line. There’s a dog that sniffed us one by one. I was nervous. The first three days was just waiting. Every few hours, we’d be moved around.
We got our “IC”s: a piece of paper with our pictures, entry date, expected release date. Everyone said, “Don’t lose it!”
Inmates are called “cookies.”
Steel walls, off-white. Blue doors. I was in a cell with 3 people. No beds. Floor mats. The floor feels like a basketball court. We’d walk around our cell the whole day.
5 times a day, we’d have “muster check.” We had to sit in an orderly fashion; the warden would open a little eyehole in the door, check, leave.
The last few days were the hardest. I’d wait by minute. Others would make fun of me, “He’s going crazy!”
I get PTSD from bright lights, hot places. I sweat easily. Inside, there are only 5 holes in the door for ventilation. There’s a slot in the middle where they throw food in.
And McDonalds, anywhere people shout numbers. Inside, I was identified by a number. I shiver, feel like I’m inside again.
Inside, people don’t encourage you to do better. Most of what they say they’ll do outside is illegal. How are you supposed to get better? Some have resigned they can only live illegally.
Ass search?
I guess they would if they suspected I was smuggling drugs.
Food?
It’s like cheap economical rice, temple food. There are options for diabetics, vegetarians, non-spicy eaters. Breakfast sucks. Two boiled eggs, four pieces of bread. I love hot tea, milo.
Did you have to act tough?
No one gives a fuck. Wardens will ask if you’re in a gang, and which. To avoid putting you with other gangs.
Trade?
They’d ask me to draw, write poems for their girlfriends, wives. Those who’d been in there longer do programmes, earn money. They bought me milk, biscuits, Dettol.
Child rapists get tortured?
Joshua Robinson was convicted of child rape; his wife filmed him. He’s buff, MMA-trained. Who’d confront him? When we showered in the courtyard, I saw his dick. It’s scary. To imagine he rapes children is crazy.
Fights?
I’d hear bones breaking; like a muffled tree branch snap. Metal clanging. It’s culture not to press the emergency bell; you fight until you knock out, or officers come.
Drop soap?
There’s a block for declared homosexuals, sex criminals. Just because everyone’s gay doesn’t mean they’re horny; some get raped.
Entertainment?
They tattoo, split tongue. They’ll tie a staple to string, stick it into someone’s tongue, use friction to split the tongue. It drips for days, usually doesn’t heal clean.
“Goli” is marbles in Malay. They’d flatten asthma pump cartridges as shivs, break off plastic from the toilet; sand it into an acrylic ball, Jesus Christ, a sun, diamond, some shape. Then, they’d use the shiv to slice off a part of the dick skin, and implant the plastic shape into the dick. When it heals, supposedly it hits the clit every time. Some put nine of those things in their dicks; they looked like cauliflowers.
Masturbation?
In the mornings, some people keep their breads, spread margarine on them. Fuck the bread.
Fears?
Being alone with my thoughts. Reading outdated newspapers made me feel like time travelling. Not knowing time.
Lessons?
I’m easily trusting. That’s what landed me in jail.
