I started my weekend with a visit to the federal prison in town. My aunt works there and offered to guide me on a tour around the institution. This probably comes as a shock to no one, but there are a lot of rules at prison, and you have to start thinking about the rules before you even show up. My aunt informed me that there are rules governing what prison tourists are allowed to wear, so I showed up in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, despite that it was close to a hundred degrees outside, because it was the only shirt that I felt adequately covered my boobs. That is one of the rules. I also sported Nikes, because flip-flops have recently been outlawed for people who find themselves at the institution out of their own free will, instead of due to something more along the lines of butchering a mailman. If you butcher your mailman you are allowed to wear sandals. You also don't have to worry about covering your boobs. I know this because I saw plenty of chests glistening in the yard. Nothing makes you feel dirtier than finding yourself checking out an inmate. Or a few, if I am honest.
When I arrived, my aunt met me in the security building through which anyone going in or out must pass. Let me tell you, this woman does not look like she belongs in a prison. Not even as an employee. For one thing, she is teeny-tiny. She is also probably the sweetest person you could ever meet. She got a paper from the guard that I had to fill out to be granted admittance. In the center there was a section with a humongous list, and after each item there was a yes line and a no line where I was to check whether or not I was carrying any of the listed items. I'm no genius, but I think that if you do have any of these items, you fail this part. I scanned each item and checked no quickly, with a sort of rhythm. Cell phone, still in my purse in the car, checked no. Marijuana, glove compartment, checked no. Narcotics, at home in my medicine cabinet, checked no. Weapons, tucked safely under my mattress, checked no. Then they got me, those bastards. They put something so horrifyingly ridiculous on that list that they broke my concentration. I couldn't resist. "Oh, man! I forgot my camera," I said to my aunt in mock disappointment, and none too quietly, as if I was visiting a ZOO instead of a PRISON. She immediately threw her head to the right to gauge the guard's reaction. Luckily, he was distracted, attempting to keep order with the group of eight Mexicans (three adults and five kids under six) who were in line ahead of us, unfortunately there for a sadder reason than a tour. My aunt turned back to me with wide eyes and told me another rule. Apparently, one must not crack jokes or laugh while passing through prison security. Lesson learned. I am a work in progress.
The tour was great. My aunt showed me around the whole place, and I met some of her co-workers. One suggested that I get a job out there, strike it rich and find a guy. He quickly clarified, "A worker, not an inmate." I think that's another rule. The strangest part of the whole thing is that hardly any of the criminals are locked up. They are all just everywhere. Some are working, some are taking classes or researching something in the library, some are working out in the gym or on the yard. I was clearly outnumbered, and didn't see anyone who would be able to save me if anything went horribly wrong. The razor-wire and the acute awareness that if anything happened to me it was one hundred percent my own fault for putting myself into that situation, reminded me of last summer. Some of my best days have happened in places that I probably never should have been, the exhilaration of knowing that I averted some kind of danger only adding to the greatness of the experience as a whole.
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