Prisoners wait in line for everything from meals to mail.
Of course, the thing we wait most desperately for is the end of our incarceration. There are lines for this, too.
People convicted of small-time crimes like petty theft are usually in the shortest line. They are doing time by killing time. Their mission is to get to the head of their line and back to the streets with as little pain and introspection as possible.
They do this with distraction: hanging out with friends, sitting around in the dayrooms in flip-flops, playing cards and watching TV. They are either young first-timers or oldheads who have done numerous short stints (life on the installment plan).
Next comes the mid-length line: men serving for crimes like robbery or serious assault, doing a decade or more. These guys often see prison as a rite of passage. They are like good actors taking on a role. They identify with prison and focus on enduring their long line without “breaking” before they get to the end. Though they have to squint, they can see the end from where they stand.
Finally there is the lifer line. For men in this line, the end of life and the end of prison are the same. These men aren’t “doing” or “killing” time. When your life is used to punish you, you either want your punishment to last as long as possible or you lose your will to live and hope it will end. I’ve seen it go both ways.
People in this line are the most likely to try to address what brought them here. They don’t care about being tough guys and they’re not trying to have fun and kill time. What would be the point? They spend a lot of time watching the other two lines, wondering what it would be like to be in one of them.
Recently, a friend of mine who has been in the lifer’s line for decades with me walked into the bathroom and found himself next in line: People said he died of a heart attack.
I wonder if he had anyone outside to pick up his property, which might consist of a half-century of letters and legal papers from failed appeals; personal clothing he was no longer allowed to wear but couldn’t bring himself to get rid of; Polaroids taken in various visiting rooms with his mother, sister, friends and girlfriends; a few books, maybe a Bible or Koran; maybe a collection of poetry he wrote or a novel he tried to finish — all attempts to cross to one of the other lines.
If he doesn’t have anyone to pick these items up, they will be taken to the incinerator. The prisoners who take out the garbage might be able to rescue and recycle some: a pair of still-wearable shoes, some paper and pens or packaged food. It’s no disrespect to him.
Once, an officer gave me a full can of tobacco out of another dead friend’s property.
“He died of a heart attack,” he said. “His family doesn’t need to know he was still smoking.”
I agreed and took the tobacco and all my friend’s matches. He couldn’t smoke if he was in heaven; and if he went the other way, he definitely wouldn’t be needing matches.
This time, there was a little pop in the fabric of the line when my friend stepped through. I’m getting close enough to the head of the line that I felt the reverberation. It was subtle, like someone snapping the side of a tent or a bubble bursting on still water. It rippled back to me in the form of several guys asking if I knew him, if I’d heard.
I keep an eye on the people in line ahead of me. How many canes, walkers and illnesses? How many have given up hope? How many are just waiting their turn? When will mine come?
Still looking ahead from my spot in the line, I notice a bustle up ahead. People shuffle forward. Directly ahead of me, there’s a gap in the line between the next guy and me that wasn’t there a moment ago. I stare at it for a moment, then do the only thing I can do: step into the gap and tighten the line.
As I readjust to my new spot, I can’t help taking a few quick glances at the other lines and counting the guys still ahead of me one more time.