One cold morning when I was housed in solitary confinement, an officer opened my tray slot to ask me if I wanted a shower but forewarned that there was no hot water.
I told him that I absolutely wanted my shower, and puffed my chest out. The officer paused and said, “You are one brave man.”
I turned around so he could fasten the cold, hard handcuffs on my wrists through the tray slot. Then he motioned with his hand to the officer in the control room to have the door opened.
In plain white boxers and shower shoes I was escorted to a single-head shower. Then the officer closed and locked the door. There I was in the nippy shower with my hand on the silvery knob, hesitating to turn it on because I was already cold.
It took me a few minutes to regain my fortitude. Once I reminded myself that I was being detained in a maximum security prison, my valor reemerged. My trembling hand turned the shower knob.
I was hit with a blast of frigid water. Maybe it was real or just my imagination, but I believe there were some ice cubes that forcibly struck the hard tile floor. I yelped and leaped and scattered as far away as I could from the freezing water.
For a moment, I lamented my stubborn decision to shower. I looked around for an officer so I could be quickly escorted back to the cell. But, with my shivering chest I decided once again to not back down.
I jolted and shrieked as the ice water sprayed my back. My mouth quivered. My hands cringed then clasped and my fingernails dug into my palms. The Irish Spring soap did not lather. The bones in my body rattled. My boxers felt frozen stiff.
Thankfully, the tormenting shower was brief. I heard plodding and keys clattering from the officer as he returned to let me out. I puffed up my chest as if I had a pleasant time in the shower.