CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
2001- Don’t Test Me
Fall rolled around again. I’d been in prison for almost a year. So many things had taken place during that time.
September 11th happened and a lot of my friends on the outside lost family that day. It was terrible being caged up, watching that horror on television, knowing I wasn’t even able to call everyone to make sure people were okay.
I’d turned 24 years old and still felt all over the place, emotionally. Some days I felt like a pre-teen. Some days I felt a hundred years old.
I’d lost my freedom, my apartment and my understanding of the word “loyalty.” I’d learned my lesson the hard way- all alliances were temporary.
These facts were always in the back of my mind but life at Beacon kept me so busy, I barely had time to feel sorry for myself.
Word got around that I was there for guns, as opposed to the usual credit card scams and other classic white girl crimes. It gave me a certain cachet amongst the majority of the other ladies, but it also raised the hackles of some of the guards, who preferred to deal in stereotypes. And the irony was that no matter how much of a bad-ass lawbreaker I’d been on the streets, the second I hit lock-up I turned into a mild-mannered rule follower. This worked out in my favor at Beacon- my can do, toe the line demeanor was rewarded with a much-coveted spot in the honor dorm.
The best thing about the honor dorm was that it had a really nice 3 burner hot plate. We were allowed to cook anything we wanted as long as we were only using items purchased from commissary. Considering we were incarcerated, the selection was pretty decent.
As time went by, word got out that I was a really good cook and tons of girls started asking me to whip up some of my specialties for them. They’d pay me in commissary credit, which was a big help to me since I was still having a hard time finding people to put money on my books.
One afternoon this girl, Liza, came over and told me she’d had her hot plate privileges revoked over some stupid infraction. “I have a box of hamburger patties, a big bag of Fritos, three dill pickles and three hot dog buns,” she said. “If you cook two for me, you can have one for yourself and I’ll slip some change on your books.” She’d seen me struggling to come up with money to go shopping on many occasions.
The deal was struck and I hit the hot plate. Liza sat down at the table next to me and watched in interest.
“Damn, girl,” she told me, “you do know how to burn for a white girl.”
I laughed and told her she was hysterical.
Within 15 minutes I had three paper plates on the table near me and was just about to start loading up Liza’s meals for her, when this big, linebacker guard with a reputation for being a bully came barreling into the dorm.
“Shut it down,” the C.O. started bellowing, all red faced. “Shut. It. Down. IMMEDIATELY!”
“What’s the problem officer?” I asked, sounding like a teenager with a learner’s permit getting pulled over for speeding.
“This one over here,” she said, jerking a thumb at Liza, “had her hot plate privileges revoked.”
“AND???” Liza jumped in, all heated. “I’m not cooking, AM I???”
“You’re forbidden to have any access to the hot plate and here you are, standing next to someone who’s cooking a big old meal for you. That’s access.”
The C.O. then turned back to me and repeated her order to turn off the hot plate and throw away the food.
“All of it,” she said in a theatrically menacing tone.
Fuck that shit- I said no.
She said if I didn’t she’d write me up for as many infractions as she could come up with.
I told her I didn’t give a fuck and that she needed to go harass people who were breaking actual rules.
It just went back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until it escalated and the guard dared me to hit her.
“You think you’re such a touch bitch, bad-ass gun-runner, I dare you to hit me,” she said, sounding super crazy.
“Look,” I told her, purposely keeping my voice quiet but strong, “I’m not gonna scrap with a C.O., even if you’re the one who’s in the wrong. I like the tiny bit of freedom y’all give me. And unlike most of these other chicks up in this piece, I just wanna get the fuck out of here. So, if you hit me, I’m hitting the floor and raising an alarm.
I paused for a beat, to let that sink in.
By now, our little altercation had drawn a big crowd of rubbernecking girls.
“It’s up to you how you want to play it,” I finished up.
She gave me a classic screw face grimace and walked away.
I turned back to my cooking. The girls all stood there in shocked silence and then everyone burst out into crazy loud laughter.
Afterwards, the C.O. went out of her way to treat me with courtesy. She saw that I meant it when I said I wasn’t trying to get into any drama. I just wanted to do my time and ghost.
And in Beacon, that attitude carried weight.
