CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
2001 - Beacon
No one with any viable options would ever want to be incarcerated, but I gotta say- Beacon wasn’t really that terrible.
I mean, I would NEVER want to go back to that time in my life, but Beacon was as close to a country club as a non-federal prison could get. It had rolling lawns and greenhouses, old brick administrative buildings and low-slung facilities structures that looked like they were trucked over from Old McDonald’s farm. It was a definite change for the better after nasty-ass Rikers, that’s for sure.
Another thing was, inmates had waaaaay more freedom at Beacon than we did in jail. On days that we weren’t scheduled for work assignments or classes, the guards would let us kick it outside on the grass, under ancient oak trees.
By the time I was settled in to my new “home” it was January and I really felt like it was time to turn over a new leaf. I know it might sound strange, and I can’t even tell you why it was popping up right at this moment in time, but for some reason I was feeling hopeful. Like it wasn’t all over for me. Like maybe I still had a chance.
New Year, new me.
One thing I liked about Beacon during those two-and-a-half years, was that they rotated me through multiple work details. The most strenuous assignment was the groundskeeping crew, but I didn’t mind it because it helped me get back in shape after years of abusing my body in so many different ways. My favorite was library duty. It was one of the more peaceful postings and after endless hours trapped in the middle of a laughing, chattering, screaming, arguing and crying mass of feminine energy it was nice to be able to retreat to a space that was as close to silent as you’d ever get in prison.
I was working a shift at the check-out desk the day I met Simone. I could tell by the titles she had that we would have a lot in common. And I rarely feel that way about anyone. From that day on, I would always peep what she was checking out, but never offered a comment. Then one day I saw she was checking out a dog-eared copy of that old unauthorized biography of Jim Morrison, No One Here Gets Out Alive[1], and I made a bad joke about how we’d better hope that at least some people make it out of here alive, or else what’s the point of getting out of bed every morning. She laughed (such a kind soul), and from then on, we started talking whenever we ran across each other.
[1] Technically, prison libraries aren’t supposed to stock books with graphic sex, drug use, or violence — which made No One Here Gets Out Alive a questionable fit. But secondhand donations slipped through all the time, and sometimes the guards just didn’t bother pulling them.
