WHERE MADNESS RESIDES

In the early hours before the sun rears its shiny head, I'm awake. My bunk was the place I occupied as my celly grunted like a wild bear, urinating his bladder into our porcelain toilet. The trickling sound it gave off as it splashed the water in the toilet was deafening as I lay there, desiring anywhere else to be--then he farted, burped, and washed his hands. He returned to his slumber as I was trapped there, wide-eyed.

I lived with many men in my decades of confinement, so what occurred was forgotten as I sat up and checked out ESPN. The bluish hue from the screen blanketed me as I waited for the TV to come alive. What I hoped to find was the San Antonio Spurs defeating the Oklahoma City Thunder--no such luck; they lost. This pissed me off because I was praying that if the New York Knicks beat the Cleveland Cavaliers, they could play the Spurs in the Finals (since they had a better record against them than OKC). Oh well, I surfed the stations for a few more minutes, then drifted off again.

An annoying whistle snatched me from my rest. It was institutional headcount, so I lay there, waiting for the correction officers to check my celly and me off their board. Once they were a few cells away, the overhead light came on, and I stood with my celly. One of the female officers said, "Good morning and thank you for standing." My celly climbed back into his bunk, me, I'm up, beginning my day.

I chugged down a large cup of water and my vitamin pill I purchased from commissary. This was followed by my stretching. My mother sent me a routine to keep me loose and flexible. They helped; then I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I climbed back atop my bunk and peered out the barred window and claimed the day would be victorious.

The cell door opened, and I was fully dressed and lotioned up as I marched into the dayroom. The overhead fans were blowing cold air as the men and I checked the early morning news. The fires in the Midwest and the local murders made me ask whether we should watch sports. As I learned that the New York Yankees lost to the Toronto Blue Jays, I tuned that crap out and commenced a discussion with RaMutu.

RaMutu and I had been friends for decades. We were now housed together, attending college, facilitating therapeutic programs, and working out. We spent a large portion of the day together, and there was never a dull moment. Our conversation led to our Who Crew highlights from Dr. Who's 10th iteration flying around in the Tardis. This was what so-called convicts weren't supposed to do, but we did, and we damn sure enjoyed it. We were occupied with our mental escape until chow call.

The rain pelted us as we marched through a gray overcast and men grumbling about peanut butter not being an actual breakfast for grown men. Even as they did, I was shoving my friends playfully, shouting hellos to the elders, and fist bumping those who rocked with me. I'm always jovial, and that's because I'm blessed to awake and have a bag of cereal stuffed in my pocket.

When I entered the chow hall, trays clattered on the stainless-steel tables, and loud voices echoed off the high ceiling as the aroma of peanut butter and jelly mixed in my nostrils. I slithered behind a line of men in a railing system that escorted us to the tray slot. Men, again acknowledged me, this time with discussions of Netflix's Daredevil that my family donated to the prison. This kept me grinning as we conversed about where the series would go. I grabbed my tray and waited in line again for the milk, since we all were being served Life cereal.

As most incarcerated men did, they showed little respect for the next man. This was because in the milk line, men arrived with bottles to fill up and sneak back to their cells for coffee and cereal from commissary. Well, as I waited patiently in line, Twin didn't. He mouthed off, "These idiots don't give a fxxk about the next man." He pointed at two men before me filling up their bottles. Well, one of them took offense and retaliated with, "Fxxk you."

The man who disrespected Twin was an old man named Tom. He was in his 60s and Twin, a military veteran, was in his mid 40s. I broke through their BS and filled my cup up with milk and surveyed the crowd of men, eyeing a table with someone I could have a great talk with over our breakfast.

I joined Mike because I learned he hated cereal. I gladly accepted it as he excused himself to chat with an associate of his. As he did, a commotion behind me had me turn, and as I did, I watched Twin spit in Tom's face.

I have been incarcerated for nearly 30 years. In my head were horror scenes that truly made me beg God for release from this madness. Men being stabbed, brutalized, robbed, and the worst of it all were the sexual assaults that made me learn how to fight. Now, in all of those misery-inducing memories, I never saw someone being spat at, let alone in the face. So for me, I just froze as I witnessed that insanity.

Twin was a physical specimen when he removed his shirt, thanks to countless hours of exercising. Tom, however, was recently released from the hospital for issues with his bladder. This wasn't a fight Tom could win, so he marched to a correction officer, but Twin stopped him and warned him what would come: a beatdown.

Well, I departed, shocked, because this occurred over men filling their bottles with milk. Milk. A man didn't like it, so he spat in somebody's grandfather's face...over milk. When I retreated to my housing unit, I realized why the world felt men like Twin were dangerous and unable to be rehabilitated.

I'll be 50 years old in December, and as I'm aging in this madness, I cringe because with my life sentences, I'll be 60 years old one day and possibly in line when someone gets upset at me over something as insane as the milk issue; then what would I do? Fxxk, I hate this place.

Someone got spit in the face over milk. God help me. God, please.