The principal of the school here (and mover and shaker behind the college/IT grant project) envisioned creating a college dorm to stimulate learning. The past few weeks her dreams were realized. Guys en masse head to classes or study sessions. After school and on weekends there are groups gathered around tables in the dayroom or in front of cuts reviewing math problems or discussing readings in English or American History. For a little while you can almost imagine a “real” college campus.
But, then again, this is prison. Twice this week our “dorm” was emptied, guys patted down and drug dogs brought in. The “Po Leese” (that’s prison talk for the Cos) were looking for weed, pills and tobacco. Guys were led out of the building onto the basketball court behind the dorm. After a brisk pat down, we stand and wait. Thirty minutes, forty minutes, an hour; we stand there waiting for the dogs to finish. We wait for the COs to finish with mirrors slid under bunks. We wait while they look behind lockers, in drier lint traps, under the ice machine. No drugs found, but they know they’re out there. Rumors are all over the compound, “they got a ton of weed in the college dorm”. Guys are called out for urine testing each night. No positives.
Just like a real college? Not really. The English prof, explaining his grade distribution said “I only had one bad year where I flunked all 22 students. That was at LU (a local four year university). “They couldn’t get out of bed and come to class.”
I told him he wouldn’t have that problem here. He had a “captive” student body! Here, you have one unexcused absence (med appointment is the only excuse permitted) and you are removed from the program and removed from the building.
Three guys quit, can’t handle the load. They’re gone. Three empty bunks. Guy from the kitchen pulls a charge for stealing veggies. He’s out. Last night, Opie’s caught smoking a cigarette. 2:00 am the COs show up. Opie heads to the hole. The officers pack up his stuff. Another one bites the dust. Eight-two students started (40 in the IT grant program, 42 in the Associates Degree program), seventy-seven remain.
The new Playboy and American Curves came out this week. Everyone’s focused on the girls. Another week down in prison college.
Showing posts with label American Curves. Show all posts
Showing posts with label American Curves. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
You don't get women
I was having a conversation with “L” the other day. That’s a bad way to describe it. Really, I was drug into a conversation L was having with four other guys in the college IT program.
L is a 27 year old convicted drug dealer. He’s also the highest ranking member of the “Bloods” street gang here on the compound. He doesn’t meet your normal idea of a gang banger. He’s extremely respectful and polite (“Heh, Mr. Larry, could you please review my essay?”) and is working hard in the college program (“I have two little boys that don’t need their father locked up.”). But, he is a gang leader and could, if need be, act ruthlessly.
As I do with most guys on the compound, I move easily in the gang’s circle. Four of the members were listening as L was telling them “so and so’s girl” is “nothin’ but a ‘hood rat’ (i.e. she’ll hook up with a dealer who’ll get her an apartment, drugs and a yorkie). “No”, one of the other guys said. “She’s a ‘duck’ (that’s a girl that has slept with every guy in the crew until she settled on the one dopey guy who’d take care of her).”
I chimed in and said “in my world, women aren’t like that”. They all laughed. So I had to tell them a story.
It involved a trip to Vegas. I was out there with my two closest friends. I had hit a big win one morning at the craps table (largest I ever hit - $70,000 plus). I called home and told my wife. I then spent the rest of the day drinking, eating and spending my winnings.
That night, after a huge late dinner with my two buddies and way too much alcohol, I headed back to the craps table. As I was gambling, a young lady tapped my shoulder and asked me to explain the game. I’m an extrovert. I’ll talk to anybody, plus she was beautiful. She looked like Halle Berry. I still know exactly what she was wearing and how her perfume smelled.
I spotted her a few chips and we started winning. An hour or so passed and I was ready to unwind with a drink. I wished her well. “Mind if I tag along” she asked. We headed to a well-lit bar and I ordered a few drinks. I found out she was 23; told her about my wife and kids.
A little while later, I told her good night. She placed her hand on my leg and quietly whispered “I’d love to come upstairs with you”. She then “offered” to be my girlfriend for the weekend for $1500. She was a “working girl”.
What did I do? All the guys sat there waiting to hear about my wild night. I disappointed them. I went up to my room, alone and then three hours later called home and told my wife.
I then heard a rousing chorus of “you dumb ass. You coulda had her.”
Prison warps your mind about relationships with women. Guys read and re-read pick up books. They exchange porn. A guy with a subscription to “Playboy” or “American Curves” (an amazing magazine with nothing but hot women in bikinis and lingerie) is a hero.
Now, I don’t profess to know a great deal about women. The one meaningful relationship I had I blew by lying (a no no with women). But, the vast majority, I told the guys want the same thing we do. “Sex?” they said. No, sex isn’t as important as love and commitment.
I know this: one of the best days of my life was when I looked down the aisle that November afternoon as the woman whom I loved walked toward me to become my wife. I thought that I was the luckiest guy alive. Nothing that has happened since has changed that memory.
“You don’t need money or drugs or pick-up lines, to connect with women. You just need love.”
L looked at me and smiled. Then he said “you’re the smartest man I’ve met, but you don’t get women”. All the crew laughed and agreed.
L is a 27 year old convicted drug dealer. He’s also the highest ranking member of the “Bloods” street gang here on the compound. He doesn’t meet your normal idea of a gang banger. He’s extremely respectful and polite (“Heh, Mr. Larry, could you please review my essay?”) and is working hard in the college program (“I have two little boys that don’t need their father locked up.”). But, he is a gang leader and could, if need be, act ruthlessly.
As I do with most guys on the compound, I move easily in the gang’s circle. Four of the members were listening as L was telling them “so and so’s girl” is “nothin’ but a ‘hood rat’ (i.e. she’ll hook up with a dealer who’ll get her an apartment, drugs and a yorkie). “No”, one of the other guys said. “She’s a ‘duck’ (that’s a girl that has slept with every guy in the crew until she settled on the one dopey guy who’d take care of her).”
I chimed in and said “in my world, women aren’t like that”. They all laughed. So I had to tell them a story.
It involved a trip to Vegas. I was out there with my two closest friends. I had hit a big win one morning at the craps table (largest I ever hit - $70,000 plus). I called home and told my wife. I then spent the rest of the day drinking, eating and spending my winnings.
That night, after a huge late dinner with my two buddies and way too much alcohol, I headed back to the craps table. As I was gambling, a young lady tapped my shoulder and asked me to explain the game. I’m an extrovert. I’ll talk to anybody, plus she was beautiful. She looked like Halle Berry. I still know exactly what she was wearing and how her perfume smelled.
I spotted her a few chips and we started winning. An hour or so passed and I was ready to unwind with a drink. I wished her well. “Mind if I tag along” she asked. We headed to a well-lit bar and I ordered a few drinks. I found out she was 23; told her about my wife and kids.
A little while later, I told her good night. She placed her hand on my leg and quietly whispered “I’d love to come upstairs with you”. She then “offered” to be my girlfriend for the weekend for $1500. She was a “working girl”.
What did I do? All the guys sat there waiting to hear about my wild night. I disappointed them. I went up to my room, alone and then three hours later called home and told my wife.
I then heard a rousing chorus of “you dumb ass. You coulda had her.”
Prison warps your mind about relationships with women. Guys read and re-read pick up books. They exchange porn. A guy with a subscription to “Playboy” or “American Curves” (an amazing magazine with nothing but hot women in bikinis and lingerie) is a hero.
Now, I don’t profess to know a great deal about women. The one meaningful relationship I had I blew by lying (a no no with women). But, the vast majority, I told the guys want the same thing we do. “Sex?” they said. No, sex isn’t as important as love and commitment.
I know this: one of the best days of my life was when I looked down the aisle that November afternoon as the woman whom I loved walked toward me to become my wife. I thought that I was the luckiest guy alive. Nothing that has happened since has changed that memory.
“You don’t need money or drugs or pick-up lines, to connect with women. You just need love.”
L looked at me and smiled. Then he said “you’re the smartest man I’ve met, but you don’t get women”. All the crew laughed and agreed.
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