Prison Pete

Monday, March 26, 2007
  Cubicle invasion.
I am not really sure what to blame for the lack of letters. I was sort of waiting of something good to happen, and that was a really dumb idea.

With the exception of one pen pal letter, the only mail I have received in the last month or so was one letter from Mom and Dad, your post card, and a letter from the guy that runs the prison justice web site. I will write to him soon, but I have not heard from anyone else.

Life here is getting to me. Even my usual self lifting tricks are not working. Last Monday I was awakened by the pounding of someone's fist on my head. Think home invasion, but in my case cubicle invasion.

I am not sure what type of macho message is carried by the fact you can attack the least physically aggressive inmate in the dorm while he sleeps, but there you have it. Luckily it was somewhat ineffective in that it did not leave any outside marks, and the officer was not in the dorm when it happened.

I spent the next two nights sitting up in bed keeping myself awake, waiting till everyone else was asleep. I had my trusty lock in sock loaded and at the ready, and also was armed with some jalapeno juice if I got the chance to toss it at a trespasser. I figured the next attack would be more efficient and I would have the bruises to prove it.

By Thursday, one of the older inmates came to me at 11:30 PM and told me that he knew what happened and had put the word out to stop harassing me. The next morning another inmate mentioned that the inmate in the cube next to me also put the word out to leave me alone. The one reason was hey, he has already been attacked twice and neither time has gone to the officer.


I have been here over one year and until now never had a problem with anyone stealing from me. Today I came back to find someone had helped themselves to my ice bucket under my bunk and taken all my cheese and fresh green pepper.

Unfortunately I had left my smaller locker unlocked and they also took a bunch of stamps. Now I have to clean out a space in my large locker to keep the ice bucket under lock and key.

At this point I am really missing the peaceful existence of good old Collins. I need to write more. The attempt to ignore everything and just read books and the New York Times has left me emotionally empty.

I am tired. I need to pick myself up and get back on some sort of track, but at this point I am feeling very much like a rudderless sailboat in the middle of a storm tossed sea.
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