Escaping Celebrity

“Man, I was down in Paraguay visiting my relation, and I got off my beaten path due to a problem with my vehicle. I caught a lift from a guy who looked strangely like Bernie Taupin. Remember the guy who used to write music with Elton John? He was going to take me back to a public phone where I could make a call, but then his car broke down. We must have been close to his place, because we began walking in a direction that I would not have predicted. He pulled a cell phone out of his left breast pocket and punched a speed-dial button. I did not hear much more than what appeared to be slightly disguised discussion, but I could have sworn I heard him say the name “Elvis.” I dismissed it, thinking even if he did say Elvis; it was probably somebody’s nickname.

The Bernie look-a-like must have been drunk or stoned or something like that because he led me to a place back in the sticks that nobody else could have found, no way.
The man who looked like Bernie Taupin turned out to be really him, and he introduced me to a woman named Gana. She was old, and spoke no English. I am not sure she spoke much of anything. Apparently she was just the maid at this boarding house for “dead” celebrities, only she doesn’t know who they are. They collectively found her and hired her to run the show because she has no idea who they are due to her lack of conveniences like television and newspaper. I eventually met Elvis, JFK, Jim Morrison, Jimmy Hoffa, Adolph Hitler, Princess Diana, and Abe Vigoda.”

“I suppose they tell jokes too, about Elvis leaving the building, or eating fried banana and peanut butter and Quaalude sandwiches.”

If you are from Nebraska, you will recognize the name, Tommy Frazier. In fact, if you consider yourself a football fan at all, his name will instantly conjure up Big Red highlight reels. Human nature makes us think of people we know when we are exposed to a matching last name. In many cases, we ask straight out, “Hey, are you related to…,” only to hear a negative response. I was informed before I even met Melvin Frazier that he was the older brother of Tommy. Melvin was a short-term resident at the receiving facility, and would parole after a 90-day evaluation. The minor mix-up he was arrested for did not subtract from his pseudo-celebrity status. Being the brother of the President might not get you much attention, but being the brother of a Big Red God sure did.
Back in the day, at the D & E, I was assigned as a utility (gopher) one particular Saturday morning. A utility is a multi-purpose employee who gets tasked with a multitude of things ranging from relieving other staff and delivering cleaning supplies to supervising the transfer of units to the yard and escorting inmates to various locations throughout the facility. Melvin was putting on his Sunday-best, which meant his best pressed khaki inmate uniform, and making sure his shave was just right. The attention to detail made me think he was expecting a visit from family. It donned on me that his brother, Tommy, could be coming. I wanted to make sure I was assigned to be his escort to the visiting room, just so I could see Tommy Frazier. I asked Melvin who was coming, but he acted like he did not know. When the call came for a 10-14 (inmate escort) from Melvin’s housing unit, I bolted. I could hear the speedy shuffle of other footgear making their way down the hall from multiple directions. Apparently I was not the only utility who had intentions of meeting Tommy Frazier that day.

I was the fortunate first to arrive, and Melvin was ready. It was unprofessional of me, but I was prepared with my pen and notebook, hoping for an autograph. Later, I would ask for a copy of the visiting room tape, just to see if you could spot me shaking hands with Tommy. My head was on a swivel when we arrived in the visiting room, but not for long. When Melvin was spotted by his joyous, and rather immense white girlfriend, I knew my efforts went for nothing. Melvin knew it all along, and just grinned.
“Better luck next time Batiste.”

A year later, I was working in the housing unit 6, C-bay area, when a call came for a visiting pass. It was once again, a pass for inmate Frazier.
“Who is coming today, Melvin?”

“I don’t know,” he said with that same patented Frazier grin.
“Dude, you remember the last time I was involved with one of your visits? We were both at the DEC, and I bolted to your house so I could escort you? I was hoping it was your little brother, Tommy. You said you didn’t know, and it turned out it was this giant white woman.”
“Yah, that’s my wife; (awkward silence) It’s probably her again.” Melvin left smiling, so removing the foot from my mouth was performed out of his sight.

“Though they had little to do with each other, and the time frames do not match, I was Catholic for about as long as JFK was President.”

The Honor System

The Penitentiary library was like a public library in many ways. There was a librarian, there were books, the facility was open during certain hours, and people came in to check out books. That was where the similarities ended.

One of the primary differences was the accountability for the items checked out. Sure, you put your name on a card so the librarian knew who had the books, but there was no penalty for keeping the books beyond the time frame allowed. I guess the due date was more of a suggestion. The library staff was hoping that housing-unit staff would find the books in the cells or lockers, notice that they were overdue, and confiscate them. As if we did not have enough to do. Returning books became the honor system amongst those with no honor.
Do homosexuals use your local library as a meeting place where they can secretly have sex? No? Well, I guess that would be another primary difference between a typical public library and the Penitentiary library. Due to the previously mentioned return problem, the stacks are so low; you could be your own lookout. One of the best library customers was an old man who came in wearing an adult diaper everyday. In his youth, and I guess, for most of his adult life as well, he willingly took it from well-hung guys, blew out his O-ring, and no longer had the ability to hold his mud.

“Hey, can I get some of that man-pussy?”

“You and me, we’re dinosaurs, and make no mistake… the meteor’s coming.”

Bar Tricks

“I felt I was being cheated in my marriage. I felt entitled to more.”
“So you don’t go out and get more from somebody else.”
“What am I supposed to do then?”

“You fix what you have, and get more out of that. That is how a marriage works.”
“I really tried.”

“Why did you quit trying?”

“I got the feeling that she wasn’t.” “Did you talk to her about it?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I didn’t think it would help.”

“And now you will never know, will you?”

“I guess I could try again, and see if she wants to talk about it?”
“What are you going to do if she says no?” “I don’t know.”
“You’re going to keep trying, stupid. What the fuck do you think this whole conversation has been about?”
“All right, I’ll keep trying. I guess it’s worth it.” “You guess?”
“Okay, it is.”

“Who are you trying to convince? If you don’t think it’s worth it, you owe her an explanation, and an agreeable divorce.”
“I don’t want to divorce her.” “And why the hell not?”

“I guess I love her.” “Again with the guessing!”

“Do you want another drink, or are you going to keep grilling me?”
“Okay, change the subject. How’s your back?”

“My back hurts. I went home and did 10 minutes worth of snatch work last night after I got done training with the lesbian lady.”
“Snatch, as in weights?”

“How did you know my back was bothering me? I ain’t said nothing about it?”
“Uh, I…Oh I don’t know. Maybe I saw you bending over in pain or something. How did you do it?”
“I was changing a tire for an older couple on my way home. It’ll be okay, it’s just a little stiff.”
“Like your pecker, eh?” “Ha-ha, Fuck you, Batiste!”

“You know, maybe you should see a chiropractor. I’ve always had a bad back, but mine was aggravated by not having furniture.”
“I’ve been to a chiropractor before. He just told me my x-rays look like I’d been hit by a trash truck.”
“Hey, did you see the news? There has been another video released by the rug-riders.”
“We can’t find a 6’6” towel-head on dialysis, but we find the one bovine in Saskatchewan with Mad Cow disease. I say let those people look for Bin Laden.”
“Count, the cows aren’t hiding.”

A barmaid shows up with a Morgan, knowing Count’s drink.
“The woman’s prime is killing me. When I was 18, I was afraid of standing up at the wrong time, thinking I might have a spontaneous erection.”
Another barmaid checks on us. “Is everything ok gentlemen?”
“You got any caffeine-free diet orange Shasta?” “No.”

“I guess I’ll have to have a Bud.” “Why do you always ask for that?”
“Because I don’t want it to be a lie when I tell my wife that I tried to ask for a pop first.”
Our poker partners arrive in the middle of a conversation…
“Nothing sticks to him; the mother fucker is Teflon.” “He is a 14-carat chicken-shit.”
“What the fuck did you just put in your Zima?” “Jolly Rancher.”
“Dude, only pussies drink Zima, and only chicks put Jolly Ranchers in them. Can’t you just drink a beer or something?”

“This place doesn’t have any real beer. All they have on tap is the typical swill. Can’t you take me someplace that carries Heineken or St. Pauli Girl?”

“Why would you want to ruin a good beer with a goldfish?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”

As he produces a zip-loc bag from his jacket, Count proclaims, “We’re putting these in our beers. You have to drink it before the fish poops in your beer.”

“You are not putting a goldfish in my drink, and if you do, I will not drink it!”
“Oh, c’mon Heck, play nice.”

“You fuckers are crazy; I haven’t drank goldfish since I was in the Corps. What’s next, funnels? Then can we light our farts? Count, why does everything have to be a macho contest?”

“The snitching code is so rigid, that no middle ground is recognized.”

Midget Probation

Most weekends at the Nebraska State Penitentiary are slow and quiet. We like it that way. The last weekend in May of 2006 looked like a damn Oompa-Loompa convention. Every little short fucker in the joint wanted to appeal their case because a Judge out in the Western part of the state from Sidney gave 10 years probation to a chimo because he was small in stature. She was concerned that he would be a target for foul play in state prison because of his small size. He raped a 12-year-old girl for Christ’s sake. I do not care if he was only 5’1” and only 130 lbs. We already house inmates of that size. I suppose that is why they are lined up at the door to the office.

I can hear the ribbing already from our neighboring states.
“They’re getting tough on chimos in Kansas; now there is no height restriction.”
I can hear the ribbing from my non-correctional friends and relatives.
“We’ll send photos of them to the judge to see if they can get out due to their vertically challenged status.”

“Remember the day Kinney brought the dehydrated-salted prunes? I would rather give Sasquatch a rim-job than eat another one of those. Those motherfuckers could have been dehydrated duck gallbladders for all I know.”

Do-It-Yourself

We are magnificent stewards of the taxpayer’s dollar. I spent the entire day watching a truck belonging to Terminix. The state paid them to salvage a crumbling building by spraying it for termites. My entire day was spent shooing away inmates with too many questions. Some of them, however, were very entertaining.
“Why would a termite eat that piece of shit I call home?”
“Come on, don’t be silly. A termite will eat anything cellulose; paper, wood, insulation, especially if there is a gap between the brick fascia and the frame.”

“Hey Batiste, check out that termite guy’s hose! Have you ever rolled out that much hose?”
“Ha-ha, very funny mother-fucker.”

“Hey Batiste, speaking of long hoses, can you do audio-felatio?”
“What’s that, where I listen to you sucking my dick?” “No Silly, it’s where you do it yourself.”
“That would be auto-felatio, you dumbfuck.” “That sounds like you’re doing it in a car.”

“I watched my brother doggy-style a chick in the back-seat of a car once.”
“Batiste, can you do…what did you call it?” “Auto-fellatio?”
“Yah, auto-fellatio?”

“Two things: If I could, I would not tell you; and again, if I could, I would not be here.”
“Well, I’m getting close,” as he holds two fingers up within an inch of each other.
“I don’t wanna hear that shit!” “Ya know how I stretch?”

“No, but why don’t you tell YOUR caseworker.”

“I lay on my back on the floor, with my head about two or three feet from a wall, slow my breathing, pull my excess stomach out of the way, and throw my legs up to the wall behind me. Then I walk my feet down the wall until my knees touch the floor by my ears.”
“Stop.”

“Then I start spreading my knees out, watching my wiener get closer to my face.”
“STOP!”

“Didn’t you ever want to suck your own dick?”

“I could do it when I was 17 years old and weighed 130 lbs, but shortly into my military career, I had more volunteers than I knew what to do with. At that time, I could have modeled the proper method for them, but they were all performing sufficiently. No correction was necessary. I’ve since lost the desire and the flexibility.”
At home in my bedroom, I began stretching my back, just to see if I could touch my knees next to my ears.

“Dude, that’s like having your father-in-law eavesdrop the clothes-lines-conversation between you and his granddaughter’s panties.”

Jam From the Hole

The blue-flu hit hardest on home football Saturdays. After all, we live in Nebraska, and we have to support our Huskers. When those mornings came, you could pretty much count on being shuffled around the facility by the shift supervisor in order to ensure that all the posts were manned. Late October 2005, the Sooners from Oklahoma were in town, and inevitably I was shuffled to the control unit, better known as the hole, or the South 40. Working in the hole was like jail in a jail. The worst of the inmates were housed there for crimes they committed while in jail. These guys had less privilege, less yard time, less canteen, less everything. If you think prison sucks, you should try the hole.

The control unit is an easy post because extra precautions are taken to manage the most hard-core idiots known to corrections. The inmates assigned there are commonly those with the worst tempers, and those that lack the ability to get along with other inmates. They seldom get along with staff either.

These inmates really had to be creative when it came to passing time. One of the things they liked best was winning. By winning, I mean, getting the staff to do something they do not want to do. Inmates will do anything, from hold a modified magazine to shit-down a cell, just so they can “get you,” and “win.” They will do anything within their circle of influence to make you do something. They see it as a personal victory if they can somehow cause you any discomfort or make you lift an extra finger. One of the Physician’s Assistants (P.A.) on call was in the middle of his rounds in the control unit, when his duties required him to deal with a particularly hated inmate.

Magnificent Crown of Neptune (a legally changed name) was severely disliked for many reasons, but two really mattered in this setting. Correctional policy dictated that we address inmates by their names, and not their numbers. Nobody wanted to address this fool as Magnificent, or Crown of Neptune. The other reason, and more importantly was that this fool was in the control unit for assaulting staff, after they caught him having sex with a female staff member. The female staff appeared to be willing at the time they were caught, but it came out later that she was pressured after getting caught up in the con games. Apparently she was making some money on the side by selling tobacco on the inside, where it was considered illegal contraband. Magnificent Crown of Neptune was also suing the State of Nebraska, claiming that the female caseworker raped him, and that he was suffering trauma from the sexual assault on him.

The inmate assault was a huge deal, because if it stuck, Magnificent Crown of Neptune would have his incarcerated time extended. If the assault was determined to be minor or charges were not pressed, he would jam (discharge) from the hole. The visit from the P.A. was about to bring brand new meaning to the phrase “jam from the hole.”

The Magnificent one was having a problem doing a number two. Speculation was that he got bored in the hole, and decided to insert some things into his hole. His backdoor responded by clamming up tight. Donald Baraby, the P.A., gave him a choice of ointment or suppositories.

“You can either push the suppository in your bottom or use the ointment.”
“But it itches inside…up in there.”

“Use your finger to insert the ointment then.”

“One day, my poop is hard, and the next, I’m filling the bowl with chocolate malt-o-meal. I feel like a sno-cone machine gone bad. What the hell is wrong with me?”

“Call it traumatic stress disorder from the five-foot, 90-pound, caseworker that raped you.”
We are all hoping someday that he will meet a Bubba larger than him, and die of repetitive trauma to the anus.

“It isn’t worth the risk. What if you get caught?” “Man, I promise I’ll quit soon. I’m like this close to
being able to suck my own dick. As soon as I can, I’ll give up all my girlfriends.”

Moving Flu

“Me and Reese are not catable as cellies.” “How come?”
“Batiste, he wanted to suck my dick!” “Did you let him?”
“Hell no!”

“Was it the facial hair?” “No, I just ain’t queer.”


“I like to tease homos into thinking that I might be interested. Once in awhile, when I get in weird moods, I’m not sure that I’m not curious.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Batiste?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Now where do you want to move?”
“Remember that guy? He used to fight cows.” “You mean Johnson, the calf-roper?”
“Yah, that guy. Does he have a celly?”

“I think he does. How about Fitzgerald? He needs a celly.”
“No, he’s not speaking white.” “Are you prejudice, Flu?”

“My walls have gone up and my guns are drawn.” “That’s depressing.”
“I don’t need help with my depression; I need to start with my brain. Do you think I need a new brain?”
“Just fix the one you got.”

“I guess you gotta make the vest outta stuff. But my brain; I have this pressure in my head, there is attention in my eyes.”
Now I am hearing in Pflugisms. If he meant “a tension” it would make perfect sense.
“Fitz has a violent nature. I’m not sure I could move you in there anyway.”
“I believe when you hit a kid, they get violence.”

“Ya know, we don’t have to come up with the answer right this second.”


“Eventually, we’ll have to work on it later.”

“At the moment, I have to get you back to your cell.” “Can’t I go outside?”
“No. You missed doors.”

“Will that bubble bitch get pissed if you let me out anyway?”
“Flu, you know I won’t step on her…toes.”

“You wanted to say crank, didn’t you? She gets more dick than I do, and I got one! Those nipples are so hard; you could cut ice with them. I am veloping hatred towards her.”
“Why?”

“Thayer’s got a bandana against me.” “What did you do to her?” “Nothing.”
“Then why?”

“For being a paranoi? I told her, I come in piece of mind. She just doesn’t understand criminals. She thinks that people always come back to the crime of the scene. She talks about me to other staff too. She don’t know, but I got ears like a hawk.”
Flu never did get a celly. We had to move him into a completely empty cell. Not even the slobberin’ slope-heads would have him. Eventually, he transferred back to LCC for the inpatient mental health program offered at that location.

“What was the warning shot for?”

“The Orangemen were going at it again. They were playing patti-cake on the yard.”