Prison Camp: Daily Life
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
The following was taken from my prison journal. This continues the prison camp theme of daily life: the underground economy, commissary rituals, and the strange currency of food, favors, and trust.
A La Carte Menu:
Slimer and the Spanish guys ran an underground take-out of sorts. The PM kitchen was dominated by the Spanish guys and Slimer, the lone Gringo. Payment was in the form of commissary trade (prison store.) So, there was a lot of trading and, over time, a lot of confrontations. Only guys who had a lot of money in their commissary account participated, or guys who provided other services could afford it. Slimer was the primary ‘hawk’ of the camp, slipping menu options on torn loose leaf. Most of the food came from the food they stole in the kitchen. One of the Spanish guys would monitor Hip-Hop (the night CO) in the guard’s office and then Slimer and others would sneak out the back door, move down the back of the camp dorm to the waste area and claim the food they had stuffed in garbage cans. Some of the food they bought at the commissary. But most of their ‘menu’ came from the kitchen. One night they stole most of the roast pork (a favored dinner at the camp) and sold sandwiches. There wasn’t enough for dinner, so they ground it up and served it as a patty. Some of the guys were irate and several confronted Slimer back at the dorm. He was one of those slippery, creepy guys who always denied everything. Eventually the other inmates decided it wasn’t worth the ‘Shot’ (rule infraction and subsequent discipline) to take him out. I never took part. My commissary account was always compromised. The Camp Counselor took half of it for restitution. Probably did me a favor. There were endless battles and conflicts. Seems the accounts rarely reconciled. Inmate trades of goods and services make you appreciate the value of a currency.
Commissary:
Lumi, one of my bunkies, used to call it Christmas. Commissary is the prison store. Every Thursday, the commissary truck arrives right after lunch. The truck pulls up. Guards from the main prison distribute the goodies: snacks, ice cream, tacos, rice, soups, tuna in bags, batteries for the radios and comfortable clothes for non-working hours: t-shirts, sweat shirts, sneakers and even underwear. The truck backs up in front of the camp, filled with paper bags with inmates’ names. Inmates stand around waiting for their name to be called. A lot of waving to get their bag first. Never seemed to help. There’s a rush in the halls and the dorm. A rare moment of energy and almost celebration. Guys paying off debts, services, trades and the like. An actual din in the dorm as guys devour their ice cream and treats. I never missed ordering the ice cream. An entire pint all by myself. When you’ve lost 30 pounds, you can eat as much as you want. And at 78, you can eat whatever you want. Maybe Lumi was right: Christmas.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): More Stories from prison
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If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
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Great story, John, of the craziness of the food network in prison.