For a moment that spring, I thought I had been forgotten.
During my prison sentence, my brother has put money on my books so I can buy items from the commissary, our prison general store. I have usually gone without buying quality ketchup from the commissary. But one day he told me he would send me a little more money, knowing I wanted some of the good stuff.
Yet after a couple days of waiting, it appeared the money wasn’t going to arrive in time for me to make the purchase (we are allowed to make commissary orders only on certain days). I would have to wait another one to two weeks to buy ketchup.
Then, at 6 a.m. on a Wednesday, I awoke groggy from a poor night’s sleep. Pre-coffee, I stumbled to a computer in a kiosk near my living area to see if there was a change in my fortune.
An email from my brother held good news: “Woke to go to the bathroom at 12:45 and remembered I’d forgotten to put money on your books. I’ve sent it. I’d get two bottles of Hunt’s. It’s the best!”
I hadn’t had good ketchup for over 10 years. The ketchup in the packets we get is usually old and brown, and not very tasty. Buying my own bottle of ketchup would be a splurge because I try to live on a minimal budget: $50 a month. I have been saving as much as I can for reentry in just over 18 months.
The prison is required to feed us, but spices are often left out of our food. I’ve learned that while the prison provides the food, it’s up to us to provide the flavor.
As I waited in anticipation for my trip to the commissary, I thought about “government burger day,” which was a day away. This stuff isn’t McDonalds by any stretch. The burgers are hockey pucks with a tomato slice (sometimes), onions and a wad of lettuce. Cheese is only supplied sporadically.
They taste like burgers once mustard and ketchup is applied, but it isn’t the best quality beef. They bake the patties, so they are often dry or overcooked.
I call the fries “floppy fries.” No crisp shell or soft middle on these babies.
And like most of our food and condiments, the packet ketchup has seen better days, although not many of them.
I had enough money to buy ketchup for the burgers and fries this time — but that still didn’t mean I’d get some. Ketchup here is a big seller. Supplies frequently run out.
At 9 a.m., our herd of stomping feet filed into a standing-room-only lobby. Stragglers from the previous unit occupied the benches.
I nervously wrapped and unwrapped my shopping bag around my hand, scanning for a hint of ketchup in each person’s bag as they left.
I wasn’t seeing any. They must be out. “Where’s my ketchup? I want my ketchup!” This thought echoed in my head.
By the time my name was called, I had waited 30 minutes and was starting to feel dejected. With trepidation, I approached the cashier window. I didn’t see the savory red condiment.
Fortunately, coffee bags and creamer bags had been piled in front of knocked-over ketchup bottles, hiding them.
Like a shaft of light from the heavens, a commissary worker unearthed my prize. Let the angels rejoice: two 20-ounce chalices of ketchup! I would’ve done a victory dance, except there were people waiting and it would have been undignified.
I carried my booty back to my four-man cage, realizing it’s hard to fast-walk in boots.
I was so eager for the taste of real ketchup that I broke the inner seal, stuck my finger in and tasted the sweet and tangy ambrosia that is “Hunt’s 100% Natural Tomato Ketchup — Thicker and Richer!” Score!
