602: Form of Futility

6 0 2 : Form of Futility

by Harding McRae

© 2015 Harding McRae Press

Print Edition

ISBN 978-0-9858494-4-3

e-Book Edition

ISBN 978-0-9858494-5-0

Please visit:

www.HardingMcRae.com

Other works by Harding McRae:

In The Beginning...

Always/Never

This novel is based on actual persons, places, and events.

Some character names have been changed to protect the identities of

the innocent, the guilty, and the incarcerated.

Other names, characters, places, and incidents are either products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance to

real persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

Trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book

or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

No portion of this book may be stored in an electronic retrieval system

or distributed electronically without the express permission of the author.

-

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Chapter 1: In My Heart of Hearts

Chapter 2: He Descended into Hell . . . .

Chapter 3: Reception and the Road to Redemption

Chapter 4: And In the Fourth Month, He Arose from the Dead . . .

Chapter 5: Drugs, Sex, and Rock ’n’ Roll

Chapter 6: R. E. S. P. E. C. T.—Find Out What It Means to Me

Chapter 7: Medical Misadventures, Dental Decay

Chapter 8: Bondage and Discipline

Chapter 9: Infection Detection and Other Farces

Chapter 10: Armed Babysitters with Attitudes

Chapter 11: Philosophy, Spirituality, and Robert

Chapter 12: Day by Day

Chapter 13: The Enemy /Within

Chapter 14: It’s the Little Things . . .

Chapter 15: Choices. Choices?

Chapter 16: Outrageous Outrages

Chapter 17: Indignities and Other Ramblings

Chapter 18: Back to the Future?

Harding’s Photo Album

Acknowledgments

When one writes a book anonymously, doing so makes acknowledgments difficult. It’s fair to ask why I am doing so anonymously. There were, and are, threats against me and my family, even against some of my friends. I am cautious and hesitant about putting them at any risk. It is a crazy world we live in. Throughout my prison time, my family—my wife, father, brothers and sisters, in-laws, and many other extended family members—sustained me.

I am also blessed with incredible friends. They wrote letters and cards, subscribed to magazines and newspapers on my behalf, and visited. Over sixty friends applied for and received visitation permission to trek to the prison facility where I was housed. The trip was at least an hour drive, at a minimum, for most.

My wonderful editor, friend, and confidant, Max, is a rock. He and his wife, Martha, accompanied me spiritually throughout my ordeal.

There are also many fine Correctional Officers and staff. To mention them by name would not benefit their health or mine. There are many who aren’t so fine that I’d like to mention by name, but will be charitable instead. Inmates provided me with stories to tell and lessons to relate. They also taught me how to survive in an environment I never dreamed I might one day encounter.

My final counsel is to avoid stereotypes when talking about prison and prisoners; the reality is that little difference exists between the two groups assembled on either side of the thin green line.

Foreword

What a piece of work is man!

How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties!

In form and moving, how express and admirable!

In action how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a god!

The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!

And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

—

Hamlet,

William Shakespeare

I’m not sure you’re a member of the target audience for 602: Form of Futility. More accurately, I’m not sure you’re ready to tackle this institutional insanity our society has created. But if you are ready to hear about it, will you be ready to do anything in response? I hope you will, but I’m not sure. Quite frankly, I doubt it. Most will simply want to put their heads in the sand and ignore what is one of the most cancerous series of problems our society has created. Is this really what we had in mind?

If you’re looking for another I was wronged, I got sent to prison book, that isn’t my purpose. Most of those books are educational at some level, but not uplifting or inspirational. To be that—uplifting or inspirational—is my purpose. What a piece of work is man! A man can survive many crises he might predict would cause him to crumble. He might consider suicide or other escapist options. One can be bitter about the hand dealt, even lash out against family and friends . . . and anyone else who just happens to be in the vicinity. There is so much of that in today’s world. For a time, I fell down that endless shaft into the abyss of despair and depression. There simply is more to life than that. Before being uplifted, many times we must hit rock bottom. Consider the alternative.

I survived. That is the personal element of this story. I genuinely believed at the outset I would not. Had I not been placed in custody the day of my conviction, I’m not sure I would be here to tell the story. This is a tale of positivism and the value of faith and hope. I believed in God before, but I don’t think He’d shown Himself to me prior to prison. He definitely got my attention. I would not have survived without Him and my beliefs have been deepened. Nevertheless, it is not this book’s purpose to proselytize. I believe each human being must come to those beliefs in their own personal way.

We humans are fragile. We make mistakes, we make excuses, and we make up stories—anything to avoid responsibility. It falls to an outside, independent agent to assess responsibility. Being human as well, that agent is subject to the same fragility-making mistakes, too, and, when taken as a whole, is called society. Where individual humans are capable of sympathy and other emotions—or not—society at large is not so proficient.

Societal issues are the fabric of this book. Yes, I’m a convicted felon. Society will never forget that and it isn’t interested in hearing the details, only the headline. Guilty! Throw him away and forget about it. That’s not as easy as it sounds. In part, this book is about my personal saga. However, it is also about the larger questions of responsibility, morality, and, frankly, the utter mess our judicial and penal systems have become. That also isn’t someone else’s responsibility—it’s yours, it’s mine . . . it’s ours. Each of us must take ownership of part of it—of each inmate’s actions and consequences.

In spite of society’s label, I’m different from your average inmate, though I must admit there is no average inmate. There is, however, a typical one: poorly educated, with poor communication skills, and other poor skills in general—especially people skills. He isn’t necessarily lazy, just unskilled. In fact, there are some darned smart inmates. Unfortunately, many of those who are smart don’t know where or how to channel that intelligence. Instead, they join gangs or delve into substance abuse. From a human frailty standpoint, they are not unique; they are subject to the same temptations and weaknesses as any other human. But the way inmates deal with those inducements and the boredom is what separates them from the general public. Yet, I remind you, most will soon be part of the general public again. Almost all get out at some point. Wouldn’t you like to keep them from going back? Or preventing them from even going there in the first place? The reality is this: most are salvageable.

It is their stories I will use as examples to illustrate the frustrations—systemic, general, and personal. I intend the stories to highlight the issues, but the issues are larger than the stories. Don’t even think for a moment that they don’t affect you. Are you a taxpayer, a citizen, a homeowner, a business owner? How about a parent, grandparent, or sibling? Trust me, it affects you.

I’ll call this style of book, non-fictional fiction. That is, fiction based on reality. Similar to the narrator’s introduction to the old TV series, Dragnet, the story you are about to read is true, but the names have been changed to protect the guilty. Several characters are an amalgam of real people—inmates, correctional officers and staff. This is also my story, although not in its entirety. I will not allow this episode to be the defining moment of my life. This fiction nevertheless will forever remain a small portion of my life. The rest of my life awaits another book. As Saul Bellows said, Fiction is the higher autobiography.

So if you’re looking for salaciousness, you may find a bit. If it’s drama—well—maybe some of that also. Neither are my prime purpose. I hope to celebrate the joy of life, in spite of setbacks that are inevitable in anyone’s. I encourage you to realize there is always hope. Humankind can be cruel and cruelly marvelous. How it works out for you depends on whether you choose to make lemonade out of the lemons.

If you’re going to make a statement, don’t mumble.

Harding McRae

January,

2015

This book is dedicated to the four Fs.

Chapter 1: In My Heart of Hearts

I remember the day I died.

Huh?

Play a card, old man, Pitr scolded. Dead people don’t play cards. You’re playing Hearts with us right now. Not well, but you get it, don’t ya?

"It was November 3, 2009." I threw the ten of Hearts on the table.

Trump hasn’t been broken. You can’t lead Hearts, this from a third player at our mixed table of four.

"Did no Pitr tich jew no thing?" This from our number two player, Face. I couldn’t help noticing the perturbed look on his face—the pimpled, scarred countenance of a youngster much too young to be incarcerated and much too young to be talking this way to his elders.

That’s when I died.

Pitr, tell your bunkie he’s not dead. Just a lousy card player. You can’t lead Hearts and you know it, chimed the fourth player. We’re not falling for the same trick you tried on us four years ago.

"You tell him, Stinky," the slight-in-stature Pitr Peterovich spewed forth.

"Here we go again. The I remember back in 2009 story," Stinky groaned.

Yeah, I remembered. Back to the first time—that first meeting of my card-playing group—four years ago. Card-playing therapy group really.

Stinky, Pitr, Face and I started playing Hearts whenever we found a spare moment. I didn’t know them then—I don’t really know them much better four years later. This first time we played, however, remains etched in my mind. At the time, I had no idea that I would survive four years in here. Looking back, in many ways the time actually passed quickly. I played trump in that first game of Hearts—just like today’s game—when trump hadn’t been broken. I was trying to play dumb then, to suck them into a trap. Today they didn’t go for it; Face commenting about Pitr not teaching me anything proves it.

Teach me they did. They all did. My four years was a graduate course in criminology taught by the best instructors in our state. It was also a class in life. They’d heard my stories and I’d heard theirs for four years now. Who are these guys?

Once upon a time, four years ago…

I remember the day I died.

They all stared at me.

What is he talking about? Play cards.

"It was November 3, 2009." I threw the ten of Hearts on the table.

You can’t lead trump, this from Pitr Peterovich. Oh, it’s pronounced Pītr, as in pie, like you eat, and tōr, as in I tore him a new, well . . . Pitr.

You guys asked me to play, I replied timidly. At the time, I had only been here about three months.

You said you knew how to play, Pitr countered.

"It was November 3, 2009," I repeated, tapping on the ten of Hearts.

Yeah, Pitr exhaled. You mentioned that already.

He was so named by his illegal-alien parents on the occasion of his birth in these United States of America, their attempt to give a better shot at success to their newborn son—he, a U.S. citizen by virtue of his birth in the State of Jefferson, part of this glorious country of ours. But it seems they had a few problems launching young Pitr on the road to success.

They meant to name him Peter, but didn’t know how to spell it. Hence, Pitr, this in spite of the fact they chose Peterovich as a last name. Peterovich, pronounced like Peter and ovich. Of course the long I in Pitr came later. Once his parents beamed down upon their newborn, the name Peter came immediately to their minds. Since "i" is pronounced like the English "e" in Spanish, they spelled it, Pitr. How they arrived at Peterovich remains unknown—maybe a Russian relative from the distant past, who knows? You’d think that since his last name had Peter in it, they could figure out his first name.

There were lots of things they couldn’t figure out. That’s how Jose and Maria Contreras, two Mexican immigrants from Sonora came upon the idea of naming their son Pitr Peterovich. Funny, but Pitr Peterovich’s voice had no discernible Hispanic accent. If you closed your eyes, you could actually almost make out a Brooklyn-type accent. What he did have was a chip on his shoulder—who wouldn’t with a name like Pitr.

That’s when I died.

But you’re not dead. We’re trying to teach you to play Hearts, remember?

"It was 3:37 p.m. In the afternoon."

What the hell is he saying now? No, it’s not 3:37 in the afternoon, Pitr remarked, in a condescending tone. Can’t you tell time?

You all need to listen better, I heaved a loud sigh. This is one of my more frustrating observations—no one listens. Not just in here, but everywhere. I think people hear what they want to hear, or what they hope to hear, even what they expect to hear, but not what they actually hear. No, we’re not a country of listeners. That would interfere with concentrating on ourselves. We are too busy talking to listen. I know how to tell time, sighing again. "What I said was ‘It was 3:37 p.m. In the afternoon.’ Didn’t you hear me say that?"

You didn’t say that, Pitr informed me.

Yes, I did. But you didn’t hear that, did you? I noted.

That’s not what you said, Pitr snapped.

So you know what I said better than I do?

Yes. Are you calling me a liar? ’Cuz homey, that would be disrespecting me, Pitr was agitated again.

Let me get this straight. I’m disrespecting you because you know what I said and I don’t know what I said? Is that what you’re saying? I leaned back where normally there would be a chair backrest, but not in here. A wooden backrest might be converted into a weapon.

Are you disrespecting me? A more disturbed Pitr bent forward.

So now we’re discussing whether I disrespected you, not what I said?

"Jes. Dis is what he be talkin’ ’bout," Face interjected.

You’re agreeing with him, Face?

"He es mi hermano, my brother," A proud Face pushed out his chest as Pitr sat taller in his chair with a slight smile on his face.

Let me try to understand, knowing full well what was going on. I simply enjoyed messing with their heads and forcing them into positions that were ridiculous—and dangerous to my health if I wasn’t careful. Face, you agree with Pitr because he is your brother?

"Jes."

Not because he’s right, because you know he’s wrong.

"Jes… no. I don’t know, A confused Face frowned. Jew mixes up mi words. Jew does that to me. Jew disresp . . ."

I’m sorry. I know. I disrespected you. Respect—a key prison concept. Except what is termed respect really isn’t. Respect—To feel or show deferential regard for; to avoid violation of or interference with; to relate or refer concern. That’s how the dictionary defines it. The prison definition is much simpler; it is defined in the negative—like much else in here. To disrespect means the other party didn’t do or say what you wanted them to do or say—maybe just didn’t like it is all. Clean, straightforward, easy, trouble-free. Well, not exactly. Respect in here, or the lack of it, creates more problems than it solves. It is complicated, tangled and far from being trouble-free. Very me-centric. Like many other things in prison.

That was the first time I’d ever really talked to the three Hearts players from my dorm. Part of my introduction to prison life—what’s important and what isn’t. A completely new set of rules, sort of rules, and non-rules that now governed my life. They would play a significant role in my education—and not just card games—real games. We met about four years ago—or was it an eon?

In the game today, I was growing bored. In a moment of silence, I took the break in the action to close my eyes and think back about the last four years. Soon this nonsense would be over—over for me at least, but not for those trapped in a system that’s been broken far too long. With little chance for alteration—at least not without some serious external help—the system seems doomed.

Oh, what I’d learned in those four years. I came here thinking I knew a lot—and I did . . . about my world. But I knew nothing at all about this world, this prison world. What I thought I believed had changed. What I thought had changed as well. What was important, wasn’t—what wasn’t, was. It was an upside-down world for me, or was it? Toby Keith summed it up—I wish somehow I didn’t know now, what I didn’t know then.

At sixty-four years of age, I thought I couldn’t grow anymore, that I couldn’t learn any new tricks, that I couldn’t change my mind. Wrong. So very wrong. Age is not just chronological. It is a state of mind and your mind has to be ready, willing and able. Age is also situational. As we age, we get comfortable in our station in life and seem genuinely shocked when that circumstance changes. I felt more sure after these four years about what was right and wrong, good and bad, moral and immoral, ethical and unethical. Life seemed more black-and-white in here, not colored by shades of gray. Life isn’t colored in primary tones, it is painted in shades of gray, tints of light and dark, veils of truth and deceit, hints of hope and despair, and particles of suffering and delight. I had learned much in these four years. How would they color me? Sang The Byrds in the 1960s, I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.

In that first game four years ago, Face counseled me matter-of-factly, "Jew still has no pick up the ten of Corazon. I thought jew say jew know how to play Hearts."

I do, grinning. I know the rules. I wouldn’t want to disrespect you. I’m playing the ten of Hearts.

"But that means jew only . . ."

I know what it means, smiling coyly.

"OK, Pitr. Jew has better beat the ten."

What happened to the idea of no table talk? I mocked.

Just let me out. "Jew got a problema, jew 602 it," Face stared back, moving into the table, but looking at Pitr. Face was a greasy and oily, large Paisa from somewhere in Mexico I’d never heard of. Based on his demeanor and bathing habits, it was not a place I intended to visit. The derivation of his nickname is obvious to anyone even glancing at his acne-scarred facade. Nicknames are a strange handle. How, why, and what they mean are a history unto themselves. Some nicknames are obvious, like Face because of his acne. Others, not so much, like Pretzel or Tweazey. Some commanded acknowledgment, like Criminal or Dead. They, and others like them, also communicated, I know I’m in prison and probably will be forever. Don’t mess with me. Others required some explanation, like Rabbit or Tudgy. I understood Peanut and Bad Boy, but not so much Izzy or Jingle. These were prison credentials, street references, and just plain laughable monikers. My problem was trying to recall all the nicknames. I found it easier to remember real names rather than nicknames, even though nicknames were supposed to be easier. Not for me. To me, everyone was Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith.

"Yeah. Jew go a-head and 6-0-2 it, Pitr slowly echoed, as he tossed the three of Hearts onto my ten, mimicking Face’s accent. Don’t you see what he’s doing?"

"That’s jew highest? Are jew disrespecting tú hermano? Face flushed red as he threw the eight of Hearts onto the pile. Muy mal. It’s up to jew, Stinky. Take him out."

Not me, shaking his head. Stinky, our number four player, was a fat, White man of about fifty. He continued, I got nothing, laying down the Queen of Spades to the increasing sound of a crowd in the hall outside our game room.

This day, four years later, the yard was coming back in from our two-hour exercise period—today from one-thirty until three-thirty in the afternoon. Our foursome skipped yard, choosing the comfort of our less-than-luxurious game room instead. Now passing before us was a mixed bag of mixed race, mixed age, mixed language, mixed-up specimens of men in various shades of health and disrepair, some disrepair from today’s yard, more from years of substance abuse and life’s abuse in general. The sounds and smells blended into a perfume impossible to ignore. It didn’t evoke the scents of Chanel No.5 or White Diamonds, let alone horse tack, but it did scream.

This dissonance of noise, smells and dirt is what kept me in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation twenty-four hours a day. Shouts of shower number two and save me a throne wafted through the hall adjacent to our day room. Interruptions were as common as air in prison and seventy or so men jockeying for position in an old, dilapidated bathroom of six showers and six thrones was a tough distraction on a good day.

Looking out the door into the hallway brought several flights of impressions to mind. Facial hair and what it says about a man. I smiled while speculating as to their various meanings. There were beards, mustaches, pseudo well-coiffed hair and scruffy alike. Some were making a statement; some were saying they just didn’t give a damn. Some were clean-shaven, others sported several days’ growth. My favorites were the unusual—the fully-shaved head except for the top-of-the-head, thin pony-tail hanging halfway down the back, the Fu Manchu mustache, but only on one side of the face and the four-day beard growths accompanying perfectly combed hair, even after an hour or two in the sun. There is no pogonophobia here—no fear of facial hair.

Then there are the tats—tattoos on every inch of a body, including the face. Yeah, that’ll help you get a job on the outside. Nothing says, Hire me, like a dagger tattoo in your eye. Is it coming out or going in? Many an inmate came to prison with tattoos and acquired more while here. Others started their artistry in here. Whether from boredom or defiance, there is incredible art—and incredible artists as well. Still, I don’t get defiling your body with tattoos. OK, one here or there to mark a significant event—like D-Day, or your wife. Wait, no on the wife after being in here. Listening to inmate’s phone conversations convinced me they change their women like light bulbs—perhaps more often—so tattoos of a wife’s name might require a change down the road.

Trying to change or remove a tattoo was an even larger problem—when you figured out your true love wasn’t. Coming to prison has a way of throwing cold water on a relationship. Tattooed names gave way to tattoos of your significant other’s lips placed strategically on your neck in pinkish-red. Of course, if your current squeeze knows what her lip-print looks like—and those on your neck aren’t hers—you’re in big trouble. Maybe it’s a generational thing, but I’ve never understood tattoos. For some a sign of defiance, for others a sign of hopelessness.

And shaved body hair. I simply didn’t understand the concept. Maybe it’s another generational thing, or cultural or ethnic, but since when do men shave their body hair? Not occasionally, but carefully, frequently and diligently . . . every day in the shower. Not just arms, legs, but underarms, pubic hair, and scrotum. Personally, the notion of bringing a razor anywhere near my privates makes me queasy. Not so, the younger generation—this, all without benefit of shaving cream or gel.

Inmate clothes are another marvel. Several inmates earned quite a bit of income sewing, altering and enhancing our state-mandated uniforms, or blues. Blues are blue denim pants, lighter blue shirts, styled after scrub suits from hospitals, both with PRISONER stenciled in large, yellow block letters—like no one knew who we were. You could wear other clothes in the dorm, but to meals, a.k.a. chow, or basically any activity outside the dorm, state blues are required. The state also saw fit to provide undergarments: boxers, T-shirts and socks, all white, or so I’m told they were at one time, but now various shades of gray, and all in disrepair and suffering from obvious neglect. In its infinite wisdom, the state believes only three of each item is necessary to maintain adequate hygiene in the system. Nothing helps maintain order in a dormitory of eighty men more than the group having a limited supply of clean undies. Clean, that is, if they even return from the laundry.

Laundry is sent out weekly for washing. When laundry doesn’t come back, those three pair of chones suddenly become one pair for the entire week. That’s why most did their own laundry instead of sending it out—in a small plastic bucket. Of course, in typical state fashion, we weren’t allowed to have the small plastic buckets—weapons again. So with some regularity, a Correctional Officer, or CO, would sweep through the dorm collecting buckets. Then on the next shift, inmates familiar with the CO on duty would beg for them back. And so the cycle went. A seasoned CO knew sending out laundry was like pouring water down a hole. Some were sympathetic—most weren’t.

Still, all respected the concept of a clean dorm, especially when the warden expected it and inspected. It was the CO’s butt in a sling if the dorm wasn’t clean. Then again, his butt wasn’t there for long without ours being right there with it. So each dorm had at least one CO who was grounded in reality—and gave the buckets back—along with other luxuries that kept the place half-way civil.

Yeah, a guy could make a good prison living repairing and maintaining the wardrobes of his colleagues—or even doing their laundry.

Two soups bought you a minimal repair, four soups, even better.

There’s no money in prison, but that didn’t prevent commerce and capitalism. The standard currency is soups. Soups are the packaged dry noodles and powdered flavoring sold at the canteen where we were allowed to shop once a month. Such a privilege we’re given. Every dorm transaction is measured in terms of soups, with two soups being a common unit of barter. Each soup can be purchased for about twenty-five cents, if, and it’s a big if, you have money on the books. If your family or friends, acquaintances or debtors, deposits funds in your account, after a month of holding it for clearance purposes, the prison allows inmates to draw against their accounts—with a small fee for the privilege, deducted first, of course, for the state. On one’s appointed day, the line outside the canteen forms as each dorm is called by the CO in charge of the canteen. The COs were our benevolent jailers, supervisors, confidantes, guards, and keepers. Also known as the jura, placa and various other slurs and slangs, these in Spanish, but with full equivalency in many other languages.

Like the game four years ago, today Face, and Pitr drew me back from the sensory repugnance at our doorway that first game.

"Jew play di Queen? Queen es thirteen points. Whose side are jew on?" Face sprayed spit as he shouted to the table guests.

I ain’t getting stuck with it, Stinky retorted with equal quantities of oral lather. All you two ever want to do is complain about shit and file your damn 602s. I’ll play any damn card I want—unless you’d like to take it to the bathroom?

"Jew want some . . ." Face pushed against the table as he stood, preparing for war.

Sit down, I broke in, sighing with exasperation. I was much more secure when it came to counseling my fellow prisoners four years in. It’s a card game. We’re trying to pass time and not die in the heat on the yard. Remember? It was a hot, humid, typical August day in the desert where our prison accommodations left nothing in doubt about where we were—muggy, smelly, musty, and sweaty, with an air of fungus hanging over everything. I shuddered anytime I thought about the medical conditions the atmosphere here created and quickly put those contemplations out of my consciousness. "Besides, I’m already dead. Remember? It was November 3, 2009." Apparently, no one remembered from my beginnings.

Here we go again, Pitr frowned. I guess I was wrong about their remembering.

"It was 3:37 pm. In the afternoon."

You’re damned-sure alive and trying to shoot the moon again aren’t you? Stinky had a flair for the apparent.

"¿Luna? Face shot back. ¿Otra vez? I trying to tell jew. Pero, no. Jew play the Queen. Jew piss of puke . . ."

I remind you again, interrupting while picking of the trick of three Hearts and the Queen of Spades. We’re here to pass time in the shade. Oh, and there’s no such thing as a piece of puke. Puke is a liquid, Face. I focused on the cards I held, knowing there really wasn’t a need for it. This hand was a slam-dunk. Playing Hearts with these guys would pass time—in spite of the poor competition. I