My time in stir -- a cautionary tale

I went to jail once.

It wasn’t for a criminal matter, it was just for being young, foolish and irresponsible and was a long time ago. It was just one of those experiences of which I’ve had a few and am perversely happy to have under my experiential belt, but don’t ever want to court again.

I didn’t like being in jail.

Though, I do think that is the general idea. If people liked it then it would lose some of its impact as a punishment. I not only didn’t like it, I absolutely never wanted to repeat the experience.

It wasn’t that they treated me badly. They were actually remarkably civil; even courteous. But, why wouldn’t they be. They can come and go as they please. If you’re in the lockup, you can’t, no matter how much you want to.

So, what is jail like? Well, I’ll tell you what it was like when I did my ‘time’ (about 12 hours, if memory serves). But, first I’ll tell you what it wasn’t like.

It wasn’t like the quaint and homey little lockup in Mayberry in which Otis would go out of a Friday night, get a snootfull and then come and lock himself up. Andy and Barney would come in with the morning light, and say “Hey, Otis,” when the poor bugger was trying to sleep it off. Later Aunt Bea would come in with homemade muffins for the poor hungover guy.

No, mine wasn’t like that. No Aunt Bea muffins. I think I actually got a Big Mac, fries and coffee. The cop-shop had a deal with McDonald’s. I think it stems back to the days when Ronald did hard time.

Anyway, so no nice Mayberry jail. But, I was grateful that it was no Midnight Express, either. No inmates were being sodomized in darkened corners, nor were any major drug transactions going down. Probably that was because I was the only guy there. It was a slow day. Consequently, I didn’t need to run my tin-cup along the bars to catch the attention of the screws, and they didn’t need to come and turn the hoses on me. Like I said, they were polite and so was I. Hey, that was the way I was brought up.

What it was like was this. It was a Spartan, yet open room with a couple of cots with foam and plastic covered mattresses that were not comfortable at all. There was a toilet in full view in the middle of the room, so a body better be utterly comfortable with complete lack of privacy.

Mainly, there is nothing to do, and that sucks. No TV. No books or magazines, no diversions of any sort. That door clangs behind a body – and believe me, you do check, just on the offchance it hasn’t latched properly and maybe you could make a break for it. But, no. It’s in place and the first thing that strikes you is that no matter how tired you are of being there, you still can’t go until they say so.

Such a realization actually fills the soul with dread. And I thought later, I was only in for a few hours. What is it like to be in there for months – or for years – or for your entire life? I’m not so certain that capital punishment is all that “cruel and unusual.”

Anyway, I did my time and got out and was sent on my way with a stern admonition of “Now, grow up!” Believe me, I did.

Many years later, when I was first working as an addictions counsellor, I did a tour of a major maximum security prison in British Columbia. I wanted to see what the place was like because some of our clients at the rehab where I worked were ‘conditional’ clients fresh from this place.

Wow, ‘real’ prisons are just like they are in the movies – only worse. We had to go through three separate huge iron doors, which were then locked behind us. “Hey,” I wanted to protest, “We’re good guys. You don’t need to be quite so draconian with the doors and all. I mean, I tend to get a bit claustrophobic.”

Then you go to a desk. And there you give some stern-faced looking people ‘all’ your stuff: wallet, ID, extraneous bits of paper in your pockets, etc. I don’t like giving that stuff away, even temporarily. Anyway then, and only then, are you permitted to attain your destination (under escort all the while.) I mean, my destination was only the office of the prison social worker, but it made no difference. Seems to me old Jack McCoy gets to just wander down to a cell and chat his client, or an incarcerated felon up. Not so here.

In truth, I did feel claustrophobic in there and it was not a diverting experience, but something I wanted to escape at the earliest possible instant. I couldn’t conceive of working in a prison and having to go through that every day.

No, I’ve concluded it’s generally better to be law-abiding.