MyTimeToBlog
I was told I needed to be up at 3 AM to shovel snow. I closed down shop at 10 PM, then drifted off to slumber land. When I awoke, it wasn't 3 AM, instead it was 8 AM. Nobody called for me, so I remained in bed, watching TV.
As I lay there, my cell's door opened. My celly hopped and climbed off his bunk, peering out into the day room, looking at the booth. The booth officer informed him I had to work. My celly chuckled, because he expected that he was being called out (he did HVAC work around the facility), instead it would be me.
Off my bunk, I dressed for the cold. I stepped out of my cell, marched to the booth. I told the booth officer I was ready to go. The front door to my housing unit opened, and out I went. A correction officer (CO) stopped me from going downstairs; he wanted me to wait for him, so I could be escorted outside. While I waited, two men strolled out of N Building (I lived on the opposite end of the corridor in O Building) with food carts from breakfast. The CO opened the elevator so that they could place the carts on it, then we headed downstairs.
The cold met us in the vestibule. I jammed my hands into my pockets, then headed out into the frigid weather. I'm alone, because I pulled away from the CO, wanting to know what job I had to do. The boulevard was cleared of snow, so my crew had to be working since last night.
I saw my crew with the boulevard officer. They had bags of rock salt on a pushcart, heading to medical. I met them there, learning we had more snow to shovel...with a freaking squeegee. I'm being told that they wanted N and O Building cleared of snow.
I'm with one of my work buddies, in the snow, sliding a freaking squeegee on concrete. The work soured my mood until we began joking about what we were doing. The laughter attracted a female supervisor who complained that we needed to talk less and work more--and clear the ice from in front of laundry. We did as she asked, then tossed rock salt everywhere. The job done, we headed back to our housing unit.
I'm in the shower, laughing at how quickly the work was done. As I dried off, I heard they wanted me back outside. I shook my head, then tossed back on my damp clothing.
My crew followed me down the boulevard, wondering what we had to do now. The boulevard officer met us, explaining we had to completely remove the snow from the boulevard; there were snow piles on the boulevard. We had shovels this time. So, we got to work, taking our frustrations out on the snow for another hour. We had more rock salt to litter the icy ground with, then dumped the trash around the facility.
Back in my cell, I'm on my bunk, crossed leg, watching Sons of Anarchy, wondering if Gemma would perish now that her son Jack knew that she killed his wife. The crazy part was that I couldn't find out, because, for a third time, I was being called back outside.
My crew and I dressed again in our damp clothing, then headed back out into the elements. We're wondering again what we had to do. This time we learned that a caged-off enclosure needed to be cleared of ice, and rock salt spread around the area.
Since it was lunchtime, my crew informed the boulevard officer we were going to eat. He said we should, then he would make sure we ate again--we had chicken nuggets. My crew and I sat at a table, munching on our meal, and drinking milk. We ate the food quickly, then headed for our third job of the day.
There were four of us. We each had a shovel or squeegee. Nobody complained or gripped about the cold. We just cleared a path of snow and ice for our incarcerated brethren to get back and forth safely to their housing units.
While we worked, one of the incarcerated men working in the area we cleared, started joking about how bad of a job we did. He was a friend of mine, and I flipped the script by declaring that there were four of us, and only him. His tone shifted, as did ours because one of the men in my crew sounded off about making a snow angel with him. It got us all laughing.
As we headed back to the boulevard officer, we tossed bags of rock salt on the ground. We even scrapped the patches of ice we found going back towards the chow hall. When I emptied the bag of rock salt, my crew and I corralled around the boulevard officer's shack, waiting for him.
Men emptied out of the chow hall, some approached me, shaking hands, talking crap to me, and others just saying hello. I enjoyed the love but wanted to get back. I'm tired. Cold. And wanting to get out of those damp clothes. Well, as I did, the boulevard officer said we were done, thanked us, then offered us another tray of chicken nuggets.
I escaped my clothes, showered, then went to microwave my tray. I tossed the tray in the microwave, only to discover that it broke last night. I shook my head, then handed the tray off to a friend who ate the food cold.
I made my calls for the day, sharing my tall tale of dealing with the snow. I was told I should get in bed because I constantly yawned throughout the twenty-minute phone call. I said I would, then ended the call.
Now here's the crazy part: we were called out for a fourth time. My crew saw me on the phone, so they handled the job of dumping trash again. They came back and showered, as tired as me, we laughed at how hard work was today.
Prison jobs were a unique enterprise, but for the pay (¢45.) it never added up. Even so, I did my job, and now I'm going to sleep at 9:45 PM. I'm tired.
Now this was wild, but they opened my cell at 2 AM, wanting me to put more rock salt on the ground. Before I could get up and head out to work, the booth officer closed the cell's door. I never went back to sleep, I lay there, expecting to be called back out. They never called for me. When I headed to breakfast, I found out they opened the cells of my crew, but nobody got up.
The fact was that we were all tired.