“Everybody out. Everybody out. Time for rec.”

Our doors buzz with the same loud, obnoxious, overzealous buzz that they always do when it’s time for us to come out of our cells, if only briefly.

The guard begins his routine count in order to be assured that none of us aborigines have escaped since the last count 45 minutes ago, as if . . .

“Close you doors behind ya.” This, too, is routine so as not to arouse any suspicions. Then, and only then, does the door unlock for ODR (outdoor recreation). Don’t let the acronym fool you, there is nothing remotely outdoor about it.

“Everybody to ODR. Everybody to ODR,” the guard announces over the call box. Here at 940, everything is said a minimum of two times. I’d like to tell you this is necessary only because of the reverb and echo that makes it difficult to hear; that would be partially true, but somewhat misleading. Moreso, I believe it is safe to say that we are all inmates here because we have a predilection for not doing as we are told the first couple of times.

“Damn man, they’re going to get my extra pillow.”

“They better not touch my shit.”

The moment of realization has set in; the po-pos are doing a raid.

The raid is a Tony Danza moment for the guards. This is when (if it wasn’t obvious already) they make sure we know “who’s the boss.”

Separated from our cells, we sit and wait as a platoon of Crocketts and Tubbs, Roscoes and Enoses, the CHiPs biker cop guys, or whatever other kind of jocular jejune jeer that can be thought of go through our cells one by tedious one. They throw away extra cups, bags, food, poker chips, strings, tape and water bags that are used for working out. They take extra pillows, blankets, sheets, towels, washcloths, mattresses, books, toilet paper, jumpsuits, sandals, spoons, pens that are taped up . . . they take it all, and they love doing it to us. I only know this, because if the glove were on the other foot, I’d love doing it to them. Ha! I can’t even write about it without laughing about it.

An hour later . . . the deed has been done and the door to ODR unlocks. Our captors greet us at the door dressed in full uniform and in full force. One gold badge followed by a cluster of silver badges. The group represents a hodgepodge of society’s do-gooders (and honestly, I appreciate them all, but for the sake of this story . . .). We’re informed formally of the goings-on that just took place in our cells. The news wasn’t really news, but secretly they want one of us to get cocky and start talking at them so they can practice their overkill technique, which ultimately ends with the guard who still wears his letterman jacket from 1995 on top of the inmate applying a move similar to the Camel Clutch that the Iron Sheik used during his tenure in the WWF.

The pod and our cells look like Hurricane Katrina just came through, less the water. Seriously, this place looks like a trailer park garage sale, like a compost heap from a petting zoo. It’s so disheveled and littered with EVERYTHING that PETA would file a lawsuit if the guards brought in the K-9 unit. On my way back to my cell, I nearly trip on a toilapillablankasandabag.

Now, back in our cells and sifting through what remains of our casas, I kick at my mattress that looks somewhat reminiscent of a corpse left behind from a brutal home invasion. The haphazard way it lies twisted on the floor makes me laugh. My bleached white sheet tied in knots at both ends dangles from the top bunk, my books all askew, pornographic letters from my grandmother lie disturbingly opened on my steel cot. The “just in case” roll of toilet paper that I keep openly “stashed” beside my door had been taken. All of a sudden, the scene seems all too familiar. That’s when, without wasting any unnecessary movement, I turn to my mirror . . . nope, no lipstick letter this time. No Dear John. Just the heartache and tears of being robbed by the po-pos.

P.S. No officers were hurt or injured during the raid or the author’s recollection thereof.