Life in our jail dorm wasn’t always Scrabble and coffee balls (singly-wrapped doses of instant coffee, creamer and sugar twin, available to “buy” for one ramen soup, or two the night before commissary.) As incarcerated individuals we did our best to stay active and upbeat, but there was always a lingering air of discontent, especially for those frustrated at the length, severity or perceived injustice of their charges. Combine that with 50+ raised testosterone levels and occasional outbursts became inevitable: these tempests were usually no harsher than a shouting match that quickly blew over without uniformed intervention. But when that universal powder-keg phrase of “Suck My D**K!” was flung with fury, chaos ensued and all bets were off. The radio call “Code Blue!” brought running a half-dozen C.O.s, and the two wannabe pugilists were handcuffed and sent off to “seg” (solitary) for up 10 days with no privileges, and never to be seen again in our block.

During lock-up I witnessed six or seven such blow-ups, and none with permanent consequence nor injury. But sadly, one tragic incident did occur; the victim was a new arrival, and the culprit was that drug-from-hell, fentanyl.

“Newbies” usually arrived in the dorm on Mondays (after weekend arrests) or on Thursdays, the second weekday for arraignments. One of those afternoons a young Hispanic man came in, looking tired from whatever his recent ordeal (as we all do upon arrival) but not incoherent. Right away after evening chow, he began bartering (on future credit, which is the norm) for more food, which he quickly ate and prepared. No one thought anymore of it, as he likely hadn’t eaten since the day before. But around midnight, his bunky heard this new neighbor moaning in pain, and called over the C.O. on duty, who found the man writhing in pain, holding his stomach, and moaning incoherently. The guard called for others, and eventually came the LT ( shift lieutenant), until the new inmate was surrounded by six uniforms, all asking him “Are you OK?” in English. (There wasn’t one bi-lingual officer in the group.)

Literally 30 minutes later (I was watching the clock), after this young man’s clamors had grown progressively louder, a nurse finally arrived. She questioned (still in English) and examined him until the C.O.s finally lifted him out of bed and into a wheelchair. Then, 45 minutes after the first alert, the young man went silent and breathless. His head fell back, eyes closed, as they wheeled him out to the elevator. We watched out the window for an ambulance, but one never showed.

Next morning around 5am, the dorm lights blazed on and we were shaken awake by a dozen guards wearing haz-mat suits, who herded us into the showers for strip-search, then down to the chow hall en masse while they tore apart our entire block. (A usual “shake down,” when lockers and mattresses are casually tossed around, in case we’re hoarding extra linens or t-shirts, rarely includes strip search.)

But with hard drugs involved (this confirmed the fentanyl dose) the haz-mat suits were deemed necessary, and every inch of every bunk, down to the smallest books and containers, were opened, emptied and left to us to put back in place when, an hour later, we were finally permitted to return.

Needless to say this was disturbing; unfortunately, for a handful of other inmates, seeing an overdose was nothing new (some had themselves OD’d and lived) but for this old alcoholic, it was a lot to process. To capture my mood, I immediately jotted down this dark passage:

Quiet as Death

The only sound, in a room of 50,

Wait, 49,

Was the snap of a two-way

Now and then.

Overnight, “man down,”

Not cried, but spoken.

First one, then two, then six.

His card was pulled,

perhaps, before he came.

Down, and up,

Then out.

A life outside, blew

Inside.

Like a fog.

12 short hours, and then,

Not seen again.

November 19, 2022

This post, not a poetry showcase, is a skull-and-bones flag raised as a warning against ruthless, merciless fentanyl. The drug, synthetically-manufactured as an opiod/pain-killer, and considered 50 times more powerful than true heroin, has found its way into other narcotics like crack and even pot. In our house and in the dorm, I’ve met more than one probationer who was violated because he unknowingly smoked fetty-laced weed (now that it’s legal, some P.O.s allow it.) This week, during a group session on recognizing overdose, our house supervisor informed us that now anyone with an insurance card can request a free Narcan kit from any pharmacy. Even one of our counselors revealed that last year he lost his own brother to the drug. So please, please, whatever risk you may still take, know what’s in it. To learn more about the dangers of fentanyl, please click here.