FPC N.Y.E. 2012

It's not New Year's Eve, and the year is still young; this week is cold, and winter so far has been a single long blur of frozen mist and cabin fever -- like being locked down in the fog on New Year's Eve three years ago.

The FPC Duluth was cloaked in a sound-dampening fog. You could see from dorm to dorm but not much farther. I couldn't see one side of the walking track from the other. That's where I was when we were recalled without warning around 7:30 p.m. I assumed it was because of the fog and started heading toward my unit to be counted.

On my way back to the dorm I walked past the admin building, where all the lights were on. My dorm-mate Pat pointed out the cars parked alongside the building and then one of the windows, through which I could see the warden, the AW, two lieutenants and the HR officer. Given the fact that it was a holiday Saturday night, this seemed really strange. Maybe they were going to have some kind of shakedown.

Back in the dorm, after count. Everyone was on edge. We were back early on a holiday evening. People in the theater had to leave their movie. The TV rooms got crowded and loud. Throughout the evening, COs would randomly pop up and conduct breathalyzer tests, trying to flush out hooch.

Earlier that same week, a large cache of contraband -- including tobacco, a cell phone, an MP3 player and creatine supplements -- had been found above a ceiling panel in our unit. The CO who'd found it, Carlson, was known among the inmates as Jack Bauer for his doggedness in tearing apart fixtures and structures in his search for contraband. As a result, the TV rooms and microwaves locked up for several days, and our unit was placed in the last position for the dining hall.

In addition, inmates in our unit were required to write a page-long essay describing how we all played a part in letting contraband into the dorm (e.g., not ratting out people we may have known were using tobacco or simply not being observant enough to notice such things). We each had to read our essay in the theater in front of the rest of the inmates. It took us weeks to get through the 150 people in our dorm.

On New Years Eve, in the midst of all this going on, the staff-appointed inmate leadership of the dorm (the CORE) was on edge about contraband use. They were walking the halls confronting people doing things they they thought could get us into more trouble as a unit. They caught one of my roommates, Thalen -- an unusually twitchy pill-peddler from Tennessee -- smoking hand-rolled cigarettes at the top of one of the fire escapes. A couple of the CORE group members came to our room and were trying to get all thuggy with Thalen, which made for a rather tense moment for the rest of us who were just chilling in the room. I got into an argument with one of the guys when he started mouthing off to the rest of us. A weird tense evening all around.

Next day -- New Year's 2012 -- the flags at FPC Duluth were all half-mast. Info seeped in fits and spurts, but it eventually came out that CO Jack Bauer had committed suicide in staff housing the previous evening, precipitating the recall and the presence of all the brass on the compound on a holiday weekend night. The stress that incarceration creates among individuals is not just limited to the inmates. It stretches out its tentacles to their families and even to the staff who have to remain in the setting long after inmates get to go home.

I'm Going to Fall

When I was a first grader, I fell out of my bunk bed and broke my collarbone. I didn't wake up but dreamt about falling and feeling burning pain in my shoulder. Dad woke me from my screaming sleep.  The thin carpet layered onto the concrete floor of our ground level apartment had done almost nothing to cushion my fall.

Nike AIR VISI PRO 3 Shoes (Black/Black) - Men's Shoes - 10.0 M (Google Affiliate Ad)
                 



Afterward, Dad fashioned a safety rail out of a two by six pine board. I had to wear a brace to school for a few weeks. It was a neutral, creamy colored, hospital terry cloth-covered foam contraption that made me think of a parachute without the pack: just the straps...

As I regarded the gray steel bunk frame and the thin bare, stained ticking mattress laying on it, this is what I thought about. The bunk was at my adult eye level; the floor, tile covered reinforced concrete. No guard rail. At 43, a fall from such a bunk would probably do a lot more than fracture my collarbone. My two new roommates, Chris and Gary, watched me from the safety of their bottom bunk perches. - Take either one, Gary said. Both upper bunks were vacant. I was numb, wishing my nine-years-dead father would shake me out of this bunk bed nightmare.

This was the first specific fear I tripped over after arriving at prison camp: falling out of the bunk and hurting myself. To that point, everything had been a fog of robotic unreality from noon, when John (my brother) dropped me off, all the greened inmates standing along and in the street, watching; to R & D, where crazy Eddie Reed took my paperwork by mistake, and I was parked in a holding room with Martin, late of the Bahamas via Chicago; to being told by Nurse Lind that I had high blood pressure, that she was putting me on medication so I don't "stroke out" and, oh by the way, since I admitted to having drunk the night before (really? who wouldn't?) here's a breathalyzer and if you blow anything above 0.0, you'll spend the night in The Hole; to being walked across the compound to Dorm 210 by the Chris O'Donnell looking guard; to Whiskers hollering at him as we walked by a disarrayed array of feathers, seagull, dead -- eaten... raccoon? -- and saying he suspected "fowl" play, get it, "fowl"? Into the dorm and up the stairs and turning right into the hall and then right (even though it was a left-and-a-left; I turned right at the top of the stairs the whole time I lived in 210) again into the room where the fog lifted and the background blurred and the 1080 dpi hi-def vision of the bunk slammed across the flatscreen of my sight and I thought, I'm going to fall.

Motherf***ers: A Field Guide

In case the title of this post isn't enough of a clue, children and those disdainful of the vulgar should look away. I apologize in advance to grammarians, as well: I will be doing the English language no favors here (as if I ever do, anyway, but this post is particularly bad).

Do you all know what a simile is? If you go to that magic search engine dictionary that pops up definitions without telling you where they came from, you will learn that a simile is "A figure of speech involving the comparison of one thing with another thing of a different kind, (e.g., as brave as a lion). " Thanks to my time at FPC Duluth, I will never be at loss for a simile again. Because in one amazingly versatile word, I have found the only comparison I will ever need.

Motherfucker.

I've tried to track down a typical motherfucker, but they are elusive -- and seem to be ever-changing. For example, just as I would begin to detect a chill in the air (It's motherfuckin' cold in here!), a blast of warmth would head me off in another direction (It's hotter than a motherfucker up in this bitch!).  They are not easy to pin down. If anyone has any pictures of a motherfucker in the wild -- there are many in captivity, but cameras are typically not allowed where motherfuckers are kept -- please post them in the comments section.

Meanwhile, for those who wish to stalk motherfuckers in the wild, keep an eye out for these particular characteristics:

They are attractive (Sexy as a motherfucker!) but also homely (Ugly as a motherfucker!)

They may be a little zaftig (Shit! This is heavier than a motherfucker!).  I also understand that they tend to be savory (This nacho bowl is tastier than a motherfucker!)

Motherfuckers are also wet, dry, windy, tired, fast, slow and foul-smelling. In some cases, they are bad (He is one bad motherfucker!). But just as often they are not (This is gooder than a motherfucker!).

If you surprise one, use caution as you approach (Mean as a motherfucker!). However, chances are you'll be okay (Happy as a motherfucker!).

Perhaps you'll be luckier (Lucky as a motherfucker) than I've been in tracking down a wild specimen. I can only hope so. In the meantime, happy hunting Motherfuckers!

The Bunk: Your Bed Away from Home

Monster Bedroom Twin Study Loft Bunk Bed - Kids Bedroom (Google Affiliate Ad)
Whatever you call it -- bed, rack, pad, piece-of-shit green thing -- your bunk is about the closest you get to a parcel of real estate in prison camp (I guess your locker is, too, but that's more of a condo, really). Many spend a large amount of time in or on their racks. The lower-bunk guys use them as recliners, work tables, sofas and all-around go-to pieces of furniture. The upper bunk guys have a perch.

After three weeks at FPC Duluth, I moved from a 4-man to a 6-man room.

A bunk is more than just a dorm-room furnishing; it's also a form of identity. "Where's Jonas?" "Two fourteen, back wall, up." Your rack is a receptacle for mail, commissary repayments, books and anything else that someone wants to get to you but doesn't want to leave on a desk, or even your chair. Even though your chair may be right next to your rack, it's still a little bit out in the room: too public. More private -- or even clandestine -- deliveries often end up under your pillow, or the regulation-tri-folded blanket at the foot of your bunk. Really private stuff (like onions, peppers or fruit from the dining hall) goes in your pillow case. Hopefully, it's wrapped in a trash bag or disposable kitchen glove. Just as often, it won't be. And that's okay.

My first room at FPC Duluth was Room 215 in Unit 210, or E (for "Erie") Dorm. In a classic example of unnecessary bureaucratic redundancy, each building had 3 different monikers: its number (207-211); its Great Lakes Name (Huron - Superior); or the first letter of the Great Lakes name from the mnemonic H-O-M-E-S. No one knows why. However, different staff members were quite attached to their own way of referring to a building and refused to acknowledge the existence of the other names. For example, going into a visit once, I was asked by a guard what dorm I lived in. I replied with my unit number. He asked me again, and I once again gave him my unit number. Then he asked if I meant "M" Dorm -- this was after I'd moved -- and after thinking for a second, I agreed that yes, perhaps I meant M Dorm. And then he let me into the visiting center so I could see my children. I really appreciated the object lesson buried in that exercise. I learned a lot from it and will carry its meaning with me throughout my life. Really.

Anyway, when I was first led into Room 215 -- E Dorm! -- the two guys already in the room had long-since occupied the lower bunks. It was a four-man room. As I walked in one bunk was pushed back, lengthwise against the far wall, directly opposite the doorway. The other was pushed against the wall to my left, opposite the lockers. The room's windows were in the wall at the foot of the former rack; the desk was attached to the wall between the doorway and the head of the latter set of bunks. I chose the upper bunk on the latter.

I was freaked out, overweight, sad, scared -- and had literally just been diagnosed with high blood pressure. Getting into the top bunk those first few days was not fun. I had to step up onto my chair, put one foot on a peg bolted to the bunk frame and swing myself up onto the bed without falling or hitting my head on the ceiling. If I had to go to the bathroom at night, I had to do this both ways and try not to wake up Chris, my bunkie.

Those first couple weeks were not horrible from a prison-camp living perspective: three of us in a big, four-man room. After a couple weeks, a fourth guy -- Joe -- moved into the other top bunk. Although I envied the ease of use that the lower-bunk guys enjoyed, I got used to the upper bunk in Room 215. The mattress itself was about 4 inches thin... the mattresses in the room were all of varying materials, thicknesses and levels of stain. I was told that mine had been lain on for seven months or so by a 400-lb. short-timer named Country (or occasionally Big Country) who did most of his time in the bunk. I wondered if that was why it was no thicker a couple of pork chops stack on top of one another.

And then one day, at the end of my third week, the trucks came...

2/14 in the 2-1-4: V is for Valentine

Some inmates wanted more "typical" portraits for Valentines Day.

Valentines Day is a big deal at prison camp. My room -- 214, ironically -- was no exception. For guys like Mush, from L.A., but with "lady friends" from all over, it was an especially big deal. After the Super Bowl (another big event in prison camp) Mush spent almost every waking hour from the minute the Giants walked off the field, leaving the stunned Patriots and osteoporotic Madonna behind, until just hours before mail went out Valentines Day morning cranking out cards.

He had books of poetry, he had old cards and letters that he'd written to use as templates, he hired people to make cards for him. He was a card writing machine. And he wasn't just doing it for himself. There were plenty of word-weary guys in Unit 209 who came to Mush for help with their Valentines Day mojo.

One evening, about a week before Valentines Day, I was in my usual spot... My chair, pushed against the wall, under the window at the foot of my bunk -- technically, I guess, it was the foot of Fons' rack, since he had the lower bunk, but his chair was alongside his mattress; I got the end spot near my locker.  I was drawing a heart on a card for my kids.

That's when it happened. Mush looked up, stood and came over to see what I was doing. "You're good," he said. I thanked him.

"Jonas, you think you could draw a big dick inside this card?" I looked at him. I looked at the card.

"Yep. Sure." I sent Mush down the hall to borrow some colored pencils from Dent. When he came back, I sat down at the desk and half an hour later, he was the proud owner of a penciled penis. He was quite happy with the outcome.

He took it down the hall and showed a handful of the people he was writing for. I practically had a line out the door. Over the next week, I cranked out nearly a hundred cards for more than a dozen guys. They were decorated with hearts, genitals, flowers and every sexual position that my clients and I could brainstorm. Some would come up to me and ask for exactly what they'd seen on another card. Others, though, wold look at all the other cards and say they wanted something completely different: a one-off that I would promise not to repeat for anyone else.

In spite of all the cards I worked on, I myself only received one valentine while I was at FPC Duluth. But I gained something much larger than Hallmark Holiday gratification could ever give me.

By the time Mush came to me and asked me to sketch that skin flute, I'd been at FPC Duluth four months. It'd taken that long for me to find my hustle, my incarceration calling: I was a prison pornographer.

Thank You

I was numb when I arrived at FPC Duluth. The sentencing in United States of America v. Trent Christopher Jonas (how's that for an attention getter if you happen to be the named defendant?) had occurred two months to the day earlier, on July 7, 2011. Sentencing itself was a relief. I had waited seven months to find out where I was going and for how long.

The plea agreement I signed in December 2010 had a "box" of 51 to 63 months for the crime to which I admitted. This meant that my family and I waited more than half a year expecting that I could spend as many as five years in prison, all the while hoping, of course, for less. I felt detached from almost everything. I couldn't make plans more than a few weeks out because I never knew what was going to happen or when. Nothing but the most important -- my children -- mattered. I drank a lot.

Prison Issue # 23 (Google Affiliate Ad).        

Ultimately, Judge Montgomery, who was very kind throughout the process and empathetic at sentencing, determined my own stupidity was considerable punishment in itself (it probably helped that I admitted everything along the way; which makes me either a nightmare or dream client depending on my attorney's point of view) and decided that a downward departure was in order. In sentencing me to 24 months, and recommending the nearby minimums security camp in Duluth, Judge Montgomery made reference to the extraordinary letters of support she had received on my behalf. I was not given a chance to see most of them, and still don't even know who all wrote to her.

To know about such letters, though, was bittersweet. Not only did it show me the quality of friends that I have, letters or no, but exposed the level of disappointment I must have caused in those who care about me. As one friend expressed it in different correspondence, I had suffered a precipitous "fall from grace." Realizing that so many are willing to stand by me in spite of my toxicity still blurs my eyes. More importantly, it gives me an imperative to live a better next chapter in my life. To my friends and family (including ex-family) who are reading this, thank you.

I promise more interesting prison-y bits in the next post, but this one had to be written.