Crime Report: How Crappy Prison Is

Me and some of my fellow Skids gang members were sitting around shooting the breeze. It's pretty cool. Just a couple weeks into my new life of crime and they've accepted me as an actual criminal. And of course that's what I am. Fie to normal society and its life! Fie, I say!

A few of the guys have already been in prison in their life, which gives them something to talk about. I always thought if I'd spent time in prison I wouldn't want to be blabbing it around. But that's one of the dictates of life on the outside, like if you're trying to get a job. If you're with other criminals, it's a plus.

One of the guys started talking about his experiences in the slammer, how crappy he said it was. I hope I didn't look too shocked, but at one point I felt my mouth drop open. Because some of the conditions indeed sound shocking.

According to him, and this is bad, meal time really sucks. He said they have spinach every meal. Not the leafy kind that tastes fairly good on salad, but the canned vinegar spinach that looks like pond moss. Spinach really sucks. To me this is stupid, serving it to these guys. It rubs them the wrong way, leads to mess hall riots, and tastes terrible.

As for the comfort of the cells, he didn't have much good to say either. The bars on the cells are unheated, so they're cold all the time. They have color TVs, but the tint is 100% pure green, and it's restricted to only religious channels. He spent a lot of time reading up on the law in the prison library, and says watching Pat Robertson an hour a day is unconstitutional, cruel and unusual punishment. Of course I agree with that.

Then there's the other prisoners. It's just like driving. It wouldn't be half bad if there were no other drivers on the road. The same goes for prison. All the coughing, farting, snoring, and clanging of tin cups against the unheated bars -- it's enough to drive you insane. If you weren't already a killer, it about pushes you over the edge.

He said the biggest thing people ask him about is the sex. Is prison sex as bad as everyone makes it out to be? My teeth were chattering 100 mph, because I've always heard it was pretty bad. But he said no, actually sex is one of the best things. As long as you're discreet, you're always getting plenty, and everyone expects it. They're cool with it. Even the guards are cool if you don't make a nuisance of yourself.

According to him, you can pair off, which is good for your personal security. Or you can join in swinging group sessions, with your mate's permission, and it can even include some of the wilder guards, too, if you want. He says it's all very kinky and very hot. Which is good, because you don't want to be denied, especially if you have nothing else to live for.

I've been thinking it over. Do I really want to pursue a life of crime? I could quit right now. I haven't done anything so bad yet. Certainly I haven't been caught, let alone charged with anything. Listening to this guy, the thought definitely came to me, I could walk away right now and go back to my normal life. It was almost enough to scare me straight.

That just about happened, but not quite. Yes, eating spinach at every meal is a complete turn-off. And the unheated bars, that's bad, but it's not a deal-breaker. It's hard to imagine, but you have to expect some inconvenience. Then there's the green tinted TVs and only religious channels. For me, I don't watch much TV anyway. And I could probably plug my ears when Pat Robertson was on. It's bad but I could probably work around it.

Big Brute -- Criminals Get Tough Love

You remember, Big Brute beat the crap out of me and left me locked in a dark room, no light and nothing but a ratty couch. I figured I was in there for the whole night so I decided to make the best of it. But one of the gang, maybe meaning to rough me up, unlocked the door and came in. He put a flashlight on my face and saw I was looking bad, with the dried blood and all. So he stood aside and I left.

I roamed the streets most of the night, thinking it over, Do I really want to be a criminal? For a while I felt sorry for myself. I passed a window and saw my bruises and cuts. But then I came to a new resolve. The bastard jumped me, I took his worst, and I was still able to walk. There was no more doubt: The life of crime is the life for me. And really, getting beat up like that isn't so bad. It's all in the dues a newbie pays.

As for Big Brute, honestly I felt like I actually like him. After all, he did choose me to sit next to, so there must have been something about me that turned him on. Sure, the beating hurt like hell, but, you know, maybe he did pull his punches. As a former professional wrestler, surely he could've done so much worse. Maybe he beat me just enough to let the other guys know I was tough and could take it. Which could've had something to do with the guy who opened the door letting me go. Maybe Brute himself even sent the guy down there!

With my new resolve for the criminal life, then, I did more than brood over my situation. I did a few things wrong. Nothing terrible. Just enough to keep my interest level up. I cut a big hole in someone's screen door. And I saw some rabbit cages in someone's backyard and opened them. That was funny, because the rabbits were in more of a hurry to get away than me!

The next day I went back to Skidrow. The whole gang was sitting there and seemed surprised to see me, especially Big Brute, who looked up and appeared a little sheepish. I told him hi, trying to keep a meek, almost fearful look, which was a ploy. I wasn't making eye contact. One of the other guys asked me where I'd been. I told them about the screen door and rabbits, earning me about five thumbs-up. Conspicuous by its absence was a thumbs-up from Brute.

I went over and asked if I could talk to him, very meek and nice as pie. We went down the alley a bit, within plain sight of the others but far enough that we could speak privately, had that been my real motive. I hung my head, as though submitting to him in fear. Then he told me, "I did all that to toughen you up, so you'd make it..." He looked a little proud of that, but his pride was suddenly removed with a swift kick to the nuts and me behind him in a close approximation of a bear hug with my blade up to his throat.

I screamed out he was going to die! He knew I didn't have anything to live for and of my need for revenge. So he was totally convinced I was going to slit his throat and gut his sorry ass right then and there. "Down on your knees, you worthless scumbag!" I yelled, going down with him with the blade still in place. After he'd dropped, I kicked him full force in the center of his back and he crumpled head first. "Is that tough enough for you?" I screamed, my foot grinding his face in the gravel.

With a new understanding between us, we returned to the group. Of course they had a new respect for me. But for all my anger, things seemed very even with me and Brute. We were cordial, and now the best of buds.

Big Brute -- A Meeting Of Criminals

Well, I've been a professional criminal now for a few days. In case you missed the "extreme makeover," and maybe can't quite believe it, let me assure you, it's true! I've been reading the biography of Jean Genet and he was my inspiration...

I've pretty well fit in with the guys in the alleys in the Skidrow district of town. Socially, that is. I haven't carved out my own criminal niche as of yet, but they assure me I can look forward to various forms of mischief, each with its own distinctive thrills. I can hardly wait!

As it turns out, and this is surprising, they've got a kind of pecking order, just like we're in prison even though we're completely free. They trade cigarettes like currency, that sort of thing. Which might ultimately make me a millionaire since I don't smoke. And I'm not about to start, with the health risks and the fact that my current life insurance policies are all predicated on the fact that I'm a non-smoker.

I don't know the complete pecking order, but clearly the knives are out for anyone who screws with it. Around the fire last night, we were just shooting the breeze, and I said, "What happens if someone crosses the line vis-a-vis the pecking order, whether intentionally or unintentionally, if you indeed allow that distinction?" From each hand, as if synchronized, flashed an opening switchblade. From which I was given to infer that there would be some danger to the person who foolishly made that error. But they were nice about it, even to the point of issuing me my own "blade," as they called it, seeing I had none.

There was another interesting little piece of synchronization that occurred. (They seem to move in sync like birds, although it's more likely they're simply creatures of habit.) They moved and shuffled and were in a circle around the fire. I just kept my place, and noticed that one particular guy made a special move to be on my right. I learned he goes by the name "Brute," having been a pro wrestler at one time known as "Big Brute." We exchanged pleasantries.

Then I saw the nature of the gathering, which probably should be more innocently described in terms of a Society for Mutual Relief. Our dates for the evening were already present and ready to hand, so to speak. A scrawny guy was on my left, with Brute on my right, who moved with some authority to dominate my attention. Clearly, he wanted to get better acquainted, which was very nice. I'm sure Scrawny was happy with his activities, but if truth be known, my eyes were strictly on Brute.

Later, and this is where the story turns a little more unpleasant, we paired off, with me and Brute going down to some little room he knew of, mostly bare except for a ratty couch and an unshaded light bulb strung from the ceiling. Honestly, I figured we'd sit on the couch and talk of our interests, hobbies, and such. But when I looked up, he was all fists and kicks. He beat the crap out of me. So there I was, sprawled on the couch, bleeding everywhere. The guy had power. He reached up and squashed the bulb with his hand. Then he left the room and I heard the door lock.

I lay there in the dark, feeling kind of blah -- is that the right word? Crappy? Cold? Afraid? Dejected? But I still had my thoughts, and so my hopes looked ahead to a brighter future, to even bigger thrills in my new life of crime...

Even Criminals Need Shoes

In case you missed my big announcement, I'm now a criminal, so far with latent derelict tendencies. I still feel the nagging (and unwelcome) scruples of my past normal life, but, believe me, I'm trying my level best to shuck them. I haven't made my first dishonest million yet, but I'm sure I'll feel better when I do.

Anyway, after breaking the big plate glass window on the square, I wandered the streets most of the night, looking for whatever mischief I could get into. I hate to admit it, but being new at this, most of it would probably be classified as trivial stuff to the seasoned crook. I went down one street and switched the garbage cans from one side of the street to the other. It's not much, but my philosophy is, Anything's better than nothing.

Next thing I knew then, it got late. And my body hadn't yet adjusted to the criminal's desire to stay up all night. I've been used to going to bed about 9:30, so anything after midnight and I'm dead. Plus, maybe you've been outside after dark. If so, you know it gets colder when the sun goes down. This night was no exception, and being winter it was that much worse. And yet... I'm either committed to this new life or I'm not. And I want to think I am...

So I wandered down one particularly dark street and tripped over a big rock in some guy's yard. It pissed me off quite a bit. It took everything I had, but I managed to pick the rock up. Then I took it over to his driveway and set it on the hood of his car. Just putting it there did some damage. Then I gave it a shove, and with the early dew, it slid all the way across, leaving massive scratches before falling with a thud off the other side. I'm hoping they can't get prints from a rock, because I left my gloves at home.

After a while I was back downtown and approached the Skidrow district. This is where some very tough hombres hang out, they say. I've always avoided this sleazy part of town, but now I'm claiming it as home base. Here I am, like it or not!

I turned down one bleak-looking alley, defying my better judgment. I saw what looked like four or five wide-awake ruffians looking at me. The sons of bitches were on me in a flash and I felt a series of withering speed-noogies on my quickly bruising pate. It hurt like hell, of course, but I thought of it as a rite of passage. You have to pay your dues.

When I woke up I felt an unpleasant breeze whistling through my toes. That's weird, I thought, paying no attention to the cold blood all over my face, I don't have any shoes! True enough! Some bastard (or bastards) unknown had filched my shoes. Real neighborly stuff...

Naturally I thought, Good grief, what am I going to do? Then it hit me. Even though my feet were cold, I made about as much noise as a cat. So I went to another alley and listened for a good long while. No noise. Then I crept silently down the alley, saw a guy about my size sleeping, and carefully untied and removed his shoes. Then of course I got the hell out of there!

A Criminal Wanders The Streets

Now that I've turned to a life of crime, it's crazy time. Which can be a very good feeling. I'm carving out a whole new life, looking for the thrills that criminals alone enjoy.

After they let me out of "the can" (jail), being released on my own recognizance, which is tough to admit, I went back home. I'm sitting there thinking, Criminals don't hang around home, do they? It brought such a feeling of disdain to my spirit for everything normal that I had a brainchild: I arranged a bunch of my most prized possessions in the middle of the room, peed on them, and left the house.

I made my way uptown and wandered the alleys for a while, then a few side streets, then the square. It was when I got to the square, with all the businesses closed, yet with my reflection in every passing window, that I saw the weirdest transformation of myself.

I'm all alone at this point, of course. There's no other criminal worth his salt who'd throw in his lot with me, because I haven't yet been tested and tempered. And I saw a few other hoodlums, standing over by the war memorial. One little squirt they called Johnny had climbed the memorial and was sticking chewing gum up the nostrils of the soldier statue. I definitely approved of his rebellious gesture, but figured I better walk on.

The square was alive with the usual noise, cars going by. But after a while I put it out of my awareness and was focused solely on my own hideous descent. As I passed windows, at first I looked like my usual old boring self. But as I dwelt on the hardening of my attitudes and the coarseness of my thoughts -- I never would've approved of defacing war memorials before -- I felt myself becoming ... whatever. If you have to explain it, then you're not with it.

One window I passed, I noticed I was slumped over a little more, like a real outcast. As I kept going, I saw a sneer on my face a mile wide. I messed up my hair and saw it sticking out like a real crook. I hunched my hands down and arched up my fingers like claws. I took big confident strides, a real devil-may-care nonchalance guiding my movements. I went by one place, stood and looked at myself, then put a hard elbow to the glass, shattering it in a million pieces. Then I ran down the alley as every siren in the county went off.

A crowd gathered over on the north side, watching the police action. I went in amongst them and noticed they were avoiding me. A few of the guys were guarding their wallet pocket. I kept going, determined never to return home. Those days -- those damned days -- are behind me forever...

The truth is, now I'm completely into crime and a bad attitude. I tested out my voice and even it seemed huskier and meaner. As of right now -- I have nothing to live for. That is, nothing but crime and thrills. A final word of warning to every "normal" person: WATCH OUT FOR ME!

Criminality Actually Compliments The System

A few of you wrote in after my post yesterday on "My Upcoming Life of Crime" expressing concern about my plans. You had basically two objections:

1) The "bad example" I was setting for young people.
2) Concerns for my reputation.

Of course, I'm thankful for your concerns, and I understand what you're getting at. But with my new-found burgeoning criminal mindset, I must say, "Mind your own stinking damned business!" Nervous Nelly types aren't wanted here, even if you've been faithful readers all these years! My advice to you is keep your mouth shut before I come over and mess up your face...

But let's say I were to take your objections into consideration, just for laughs. First, I'm setting a bad example for young people. I seriously doubt I have that many young readers. But if I turn to a life of crime, I could argue I will finally get some. Because they're more excited by dudes living on the edge, much more so than by normal average old fuddy-duddies. I might get a younger demographic and finally get back to making Google Ads profits, maybe three figures. And as to my reputation, I gladly trample it underfoot! There's nothing more overrated than a reputation. The only people who care are spineless wimps also concerned about their reputation!

There is, however, another way of looking at things, something to note. Maybe your objections aren't taking in the full picture and all its angles. This takes some thought. Because maybe -- think about it -- going for a life of crime actually pays a compliment to the great system of law and order we have in America. As I said yesterday, my turning to crime (and it is after all only a fictionalized thing), was inspired by the writer Jean Genet's criminal choices. So I'm looking at it the way I perceive he looked at it. And therein is an interesting reversal...

In Genet's travels from France around Central Europe (cf. p. 124f of Edmund White's biography of Genet), he made his way into Nazi Germany. When there, he wrote, "I'd wanted to steal. A strange force held me back." What was the strange force? The weird revelation that Germany was "already outside the law," that is, that in Germany crime was institutionalized, the very spirit of Nazism. "It's a nation of thieves,"  Genet said. "If I steal here I will not be performing a singular action that can better realize my nature: I'll be obeying the normal order of things. I won't be destroying it. I'll commit no evil, I'll disturb nothing. Scandal is impossible. I'll steal in a void."

See that? Because the system there was so corrupt, it made little sense, if Genet wanted to stand out, to be a criminal. But in my case, because I am in America, where decency and justice reign supreme, to commit evil and to create scandal, will be a meaningful act, albeit fictionally. All that to suggest that the American system is actually complimented by thieves, who recognize in it a good environment in which to be bad.

Were I to be in the Ukraine or somewhere where corrupt officials and a general lack of civic virtue prevails, like Genet with the Nazis I'd probably find greater fulfillment in continuing to follow my normal lawful ways or even establish them myself as a reaction. But because the United States is so darned good, I have no recourse, if I want a scandal to result from my choices, but to be evil. And I plan to disturb a lot of people!

Admittedly, I am limited by the efficiency of today's police, as Genet was limited in his criminal enterprise in Central Europe, driving him back to France where the police were crap. And they're no doubt a lot more efficient today than they were in the '30s, with all the greater law enforcement technology they have. It's going to be a bastard, me trying to get away with anything, but I'm going to give it my best shot!

My Upcoming Life Of Crime

I wanted to give everyone a heads-up on something, a fairly serious issue involving me so no one gets the wrong impression.

I've always tried to keep my reputation pristine, on the blog and in real life. I've never been known to admit to any wrongdoing. If there's ever anything that ever happens, it's always someone else's fault. But that might change -- mostly concerning my reputation -- if people don't understand beforehand what's going on.

Basically what I'm going to do is turn away from blogging my real life (for a while) to blog a pretend, fantasy, fictionalized life. And it might be a few weeks or even a month, I don't know yet. I've sketched out 16 or 17 scenarios, but it's in the actual writing of the thing that it might stretch out a little longer.

In this fictionalized account of my life, I'm going to turn away from decent society, from my reputation, etc., to a life of crime. And, friends, I might be a real scumbag, if that's not too strong a word for it. Certainly the things I'm planning for myself are pretty scandalous to me and my normal social setting. But of course if you're in some country where corruption, deceit, murder, and underhandedness are a way of life -- and I do seem to have a number of readers from the Ukraine -- then it might seem even mild to you.

Did I say murder? Yes, I guess I did. But remember -- and every good fiction writer likes to state these disclaimers right up front -- it's all pretend. In real life I'm not planning on killing anyone. Only in this fictionalized account of my life as a criminal. The one promise I will make is this, that I will strive to justify each killing, to make it clear to you the reader that my various victims deserve what they get. I'm just looking at my scenario (number 9), as an example, and I see the possibility that I will kill off an entire mob from the fly-by-night carpet store racket, and it looks like I will then take money from their wallets and piss on their dead bodies. The justification will probably be something like this, that they sold me crappy carpet and left town.

A lot of my criminal activity will take place in the Skidrow section of town, the most notorious set of bars, restaurants, bail bondsmen, and shady carpet stores in town here. In real life, I was warned about Skidrow so many times, I've only really ever been there in my imagination! And actually that's the way it's going to stay, since this is fiction. I don't know what the real thing is like; it's probably not as bad as I imagine it; I haven't heard of too many murders down there lately; I just know ... the body count will be going up.

Do I actually want to be a criminal? No, not really. I'd rather die of old age in my own bed without an enemy in the world. Not in prison with a tin can for my cup and a bunch of toilets without walls. (I toured a prison once and it scared me straight, even though I had no temptation to deviate.) My real inspiration for this fantasy series is that I'm reading the Edmund White biography of Jean Genet, who thought it was cooler to be a criminal than a normal guy.

So look for that ... right here on my blog. It won't be long before I have "NOTHING TO LIVE FOR," which is the overall name of the project.

Until then, be nice, respect others, do not steal, do not kill, etc., and you'll have a better life!