There has never been a prison policy in the history of the known universe motivated by compassion alone. Behind every act of apparent institutional empathy is some court-ordered mandate or class-action lawsuit involving any number of dead or disfigured inmates.
On the hottest days of the year—just to ensure no one dies of dehydration while in state custody—a loudmouthed inmate in a neon safety vest pulls a rickety steel cart from unit to unit loaded with faded orange water coolers. The plastic brutes always end up crammed in the back of the cart jockeying for position to keep themselves, as well as their contents, from spilling to the uneven asphalt below.
The water guy here at the Parnall Correctional Facility is Todd. His actual name is Tariq, but everyone calls him Todd. I guess it’s easier for the Midwestern tongue to pronounce—and the psyche to handle. Todd is a middle-aged Egyptian man with more curves than edges, an unrelenting accent, and a tuft of uproarious curls gathered at the top of his head that never entirely stops moving. Everything Todd says either starts or ends with “Bro.”
It’s 12:45 p.m. The HEAT ADVISORY sign is prominently displayed on the small brick building across from the housing unit. The building’s primary function is to shelter several disinterested nurses as they push psych pills to rows of shuffling inmates three times a day. Today, it doubles as an Early Warning system.
The sudden appearance of the bright red sign means that all physical activities are suspended until further notice—and that Todd is somewhere pulling a cart.
I can’t see him, but I can hear him, peddling his aquatic wares at the top of his lungs somewhere on the other side of the chain-link fence surrounding our housing unit. This fence inside a fence, inside another fence, is meant to designate the small square of blacktop that serves as our approved recreation area.
The sound of the approaching cart dissolves several groups of affiliated inmates into individual convicts in search of water bottles. Pavlov would be proud. Something resembling a line begins to form near the gate.
The allure of Todd and his cart has less to do with the quality of the water than the temperature it’s served. You’d be amazed at what a few ice cubes can do to make you feel almost human again.
I glance down at what was once a bottle of ice-cold Dr. Pepper in the hopes it has enough liquid to avoid the melee at the gate. Gathered in the plastic knobs at the bottom of the bottle is a solitary swig of piss-warm sink water.
Todd pushes the herd back and squeezes his cart through the gate.
When I lived in Florida, we had this neighbor who drove a lavender minivan. Every time he’d see my stepdad, he’d wave his arm and say, “Looks like it’s gonna be a real scorcher.” I always hated him for saying it like that. Today, it’s all I can think of.
I check the bottle.
Then the line.
Todd parts the crowd with a stream of obscenities before grabbing a cooler and hefting it onto the side of the cart. He adjusts his grip and swings himself against the weight of the water, heaving the massive container onto the nearest picnic table. Our very own incarcerated Moses, parting the people to let his water pass.
He spills half a gallon of the life-giving liquid in the process. Heretic.
Bottle.
Line.
Bottle.
I twist off the burgundy cap and let the remaining drops dribble across the blacktop as I drag myself towards Todd and his water.
No one ever tells you that—aside from the occasional burst of extreme violence—most of life behind bars is spent waiting in lines. There are chow lines, phone lines, and microwave lines; there are shower lines, weight-pit lines, and sometimes—if it’s a real scorcher—water lines.
The fact that every inmate within earshot is already waiting does nothing to stifle Todd’s incessant reminder on the importance of hydration. “WATER! WATER! GET YOUR WATER, BRO!”
The problem with lines in prison isn’t the waiting. It’s the people they’re made of.
UBK (otherwise known as the Under Bite King) is currently slumping his shoulders at the end of the line, knuckle-deep in his bellybutton. If I wasn’t on the verge of a heatstroke I’d wait for literally anyone else to take his place before stepping up behind him.
But I am.
So I don’t.
I guess things could be worse—at least that’s what I tell myself. After all, being last means there’s no one left to sandwich me in, or stand on my heels, or breathe down my ne—Shit! Before I can finish my thought, Miley Virus—a taller, less-attractive Woody Allen—shuffles up behind me. Even if the water sloshing around in the cooler turns out to be the sweetest, most refreshing mixture of hydrogen and oxygen ever combined, it still wouldn’t be worth standing between these two cretins on the sweatiest day of the year.
I exhale the rest of my internal pep talk into the humidity around me. With no other options, I tuck my sweaty hands behind my sweaty back and wait for the line of degenerates to deliver me to hydration.
Lucky for me, UBK and Miley know each other. Of course they do. Some level of familiarity is necessary when sharing half a brain, a pair of underwear, and a contentious sexual history. I’m just glad they decided to include me in their extremely detailed descriptions of their most recent tryst because anything else just wouldn’t be prison.
Between the heat index and the riveting conversation, I’m ready to collapse. I take a single step out of line in the hopes that UBK will switch spots with me to be closer to Miley.
The line lurches forward.
The goon in front of me continues talking but otherwise doesn’t move.
I step around him into the vacated space, which puts me behind Jonesy—an elderly inmate from the fourth gallery. Jonesy looks as if someone was tasked with making a man out of beef jerky and almost succeeded. Jonesy locks three cells down from me and has been in prison since Carter was president and Asians were called Orientals. The bottle he’s holding has gone cloudy with use. The cellophane wrap that once displayed the bottle’s logo is now in tatters. But the cap is still blue.
Pepsi.
Waves of heat rise from the blacktop as Todd barks at the lot of us, “WATER! WATER, MOTHERFUCKERS! GET YOUR WATER WHILE IT’S STILL WET!”
Jonesy peels a limp trucker hat from his head and transfers the sweat from his face to the crook of his arm.
The line slinks forward.
The inside of my mouth is partially-dried Elmer’s glue. I tilt my head back and shake the bottle over my mouth in the hopes that gravity might pull a few drops onto my tongue.
Nothing.
What little moisture I had has evaporated in the attempt. I screw the cap back on and squint against the sun’s rays. The inmates who’ve had their fill at the cooler walk by squeezing bottles beaded with sweat into their mouths. Their shirts are soaked—hair slicked wet with precious H₂O.
Prison is a cruel, cruel place.
I make my way to the cooler, one excruciating step at a time. Once I’m close enough to lay eyes on the spigot, the water has slowed to a trickle. Every bottle takes longer to fill than the last. I’m four spots away when the cooler has to be tipped forward to produce a coherent stream. If my lips wouldn’t split into bloody cracks, I’d smile at my shit luck. Todd steps in to hold the cooler at its most efficient angle.
Tradecraft.
Jonesy slowly makes his way to the table. He removes the cap and readies his bottle under the nozzle. By some miracle, gravity succeeds in filling his vessel. If I had the requisite fluids, my mouth would water. Jonesy twists the cap back on, and without so much as a sip, he slides the bottle in his back pocket. Just before he turns to leave—as if suddenly possessed by some irresistible force—he reaches past Todd and pulls the lid from the cooler. Before anyone can react, Jonesy dips his sweat-pruned hand inside and pulls out a fistful of ice water to splash over his head. It is a disgusting and inconsiderate act—a clear violation. It’s also brilliant, so long as you’re not the next man in line. Or Todd the water guy.
“WHOA, WHOA!” Todd grabs the cooler with one hand and pushes Jonesy back with the other. “You trippin’ old man.”
Jonesy shoots out his twisted stick of an arm and grabs the cooler by the handle. The last of the water jostles between them. I brace myself for the inevitable tug-of-war, but there is no war—just a single tug that sends Jonesy tumbling to the asphalt. I hold my breath as the last of the water splashes across my feet. Droplets of ice-cold mist hang in the air.
I close my eyes.
It feels like heaven on my skin.
Todd quietly returns the empty cooler to his cart—as if these things happen all the time—and pulls the rickety contraption back through the gate. I lean in and help Jonesy to his feet. He sighs, “Motherfucker”—as if these things happen all the time—and pulls his hat over his shimmering head.
What’s left of the line evaporates. The remaining water is quick to follow.
The sound of Todd and his rattling cart slowly fade as they make their way to the next unit.
I take my bottle and head inside. Jonesy follows me into the towering brick monstrosity that is the 9-block housing unit. Halfway up the second set of stairs, he pulls a glistening Pepsi bottle from his pocket and holds it in my direction. I wave off the refreshing gesture. I make my way down the fourth-gallery catwalk to my cell and spin a combination of numbers that allows the lock on my door to click open. Once inside, I peel my shirt off and wedge a plastic spork in the back of the sink to keep the water running while it cools. I prop my bottle under the nozzle and collapse onto my bunk, where I lose myself in a blur of plastic fan blades.
Prison lore has it that some level 4 inmate died of heatstroke a few years back. Apparently, it was the middle of summer, and he couldn’t get his window open. They say his bunkie found him the next morning with his belly distended and his face about twenty different shades of purple. Not long after, they started issuing these indigent fans to some of the less prosperous inmates.
I’m roused from my daze by the tinkling of water pooling in the sink.
It means the old bottle is full to the brim.
I drink as much sink water as my stomach can handle before splaying out on my bunk to stare at the ceiling.
I count six different colors of chipped paint on the ceiling above. A Rorschach sky of institutional greens, grays, and blues to fall asleep beneath. A color for every decade. Laying here with an old sheet stuck to my back, I can’t help but think that if Jonesy had broken his neck today, things might be different. With the snap of a single vertebrae, and the ensuing lawsuit, every prison yard in Michigan would have a brand-new water fountain. And by the time another coat of paint had reached the ceiling, we’d all just assume it was the most compassionate thing a state prison had ever done.
And no one but me, Jonesy, and Tariq the water guy would ever know the truth.
