The view from my cell window is an Amazon shipping center. At night, I watch the big rigs on the loading docks, dropping off and picking up their shipments.
Sometimes I sit at the windowsill and stare out at the white, yellow and blue flashing lights in the night. Some flash rapidly, others slowly. The trucks are lit up, too, as they crawl from one loading dock to another.
In those moments, I imagine myself as the truck driver, untethered and unchained in the 18-wheeler, driving across the country with no guards, no guns pointed at me, and no cement walls or razor-wire electric fences trapping me in.
I picture myself prepping for my next load, heading for the next town or the next state with an ice chest full of drinks, a Safeway bag full of munchies, a glove box full of cigarettes, and an MP3 player with Swedish melodic death metal band In Flames’ “Soundtrack to Your Escape.” Just me and the night, and maybe a dog with bright, innocent eyes and a flappy tongue hanging out the side of its mouth.
I don’t really remember what it feels like to be free anymore. I’m not even sure I remember what it’s like to be human. I’ve spent too long as a number, AZ8422. I have no release date. When you are sentenced to life without parole, the paperwork just says: “No,” “None,” “01/01/9999” or “N/A.”
That’s me: not applicable.
I feel connected to Amazon because I’m also a customer. The last book I got through the company was “Writer’s Market: The Most Trusted Guide to Getting Published.”
In my six-man cell, four of us are LWOPs, serving life sentences without the possibility of parole. I’m 40 years old now. In 40 years, I’ll probably be dead. Nothing’s worse than getting old in prison.
Sometimes my cellmates and I joke about wishing we could work at the Amazon shipping center in the daytime and come back to our cells at night — a version of a work-release program.
The loading docks blink and breathe and feel alive. It is the closest sight to freedom I will ever see.