A guy named Forbes fell asleep at his control station during third shift. When his head hit the control panel, he inadvertently hit a section of buttons that opened cell doors for about eight inmates in segregation. Only three inmates came out, danced around a little, just because they could, but went back in their cells on their own accord. Where were they going to go from there anyway? Since that day, the important buttons have covers, not terribly unlike the one you would imagine covering the nuclear missile buttons in the Pentagon. Forbes was not the only old man employed at the penitentiary. In fact, many of our most senior employees are approaching or are past the retirement age. It has become somewhat of a semi-retirement for that group, with nothing better to do, and because they do not want to sit at home all day. They sit in control stations, and collect a paycheck. Do not misunderstand that statement. I do not want this to sound like they do not take their jobs seriously. In fact, they are probably the most effective at de-escalating situations, and are very valuable counselors for inmates as well as staff. I am glad they are around. That said, they also come with a little baggage.
Truss pisses in the sink. He can not help it. He does it because he can not see the toilet, and he does not want to make a mess. The man has a thyroid issue, and weighs in excess of 500 lbs. If he was not such a sweet old man, his nasty habits would make it easy to loathe him.
On a day in the middle of the week, shortly after 1300 hours, I was checking the boxes just to make sure everything was finished and we could leave for the day. Inmate Pflugradt called to me from the common area day room. “Uh, hey, Batiste, you need to check on your bubble-guy.” I walked out of the office and headed for the control station that his direction indicated.
Officer Robert Truss was posted there today, and most days, as it was his current assigned location. I did not understand what Flu was talking about at first, but then Truss turned to walk toward the control panel. It was then that I noticed a large green-net laundry bag swinging from the waist band at the back of his uniform trousers. He looked like a cow with a frozen glob of shit stuck to the end of his tail. I almost ran back into the office where my co-workers were vegging out, waiting for the end of our shift. The look in their eyes indicated blank confusion at my appearance. The laughter was incapacitating me, and the cramps in my cheeks and the twitch below my left eye made me look like I was just hit with nerve-gas. Truss must have inadvertently tucked the laundry bag in the back of his trousers after pooping. We debated letting the situation continue, just to see where it would go. It even crossed our minds to allow him to walk across the yard with it at 2 p.m. after his relief arrived. Cooler heads prevailed, and the unit manager, Louis Vogel, called him on his control station telephone.
“3AC, Officer Truss, How may I help you?” “Truss, this is Vogel.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“You have something hanging from the back of your waistband.”
“What’s that?”
“You have something hanging; look behind you.” Truss turned to his left, and the bag of laundry rags
swung to the right. He had to hear us cackling through the phone line.
Vogel must have thought it would be helpful to try the other direction.
“No, look the other way.”
Following orders, Truss turned to his right, swinging the bag even higher to the left. The bag almost landed on the counter, where it would have stayed. The open end of the bag had somehow been released from his waistband and fell to the floor. Truss turned around and saw the net bag lying on the floor.
“Now how did that get there?”
The worst day I ever had with Truss was the day we had to get really personal. Since I had discovered it, I had the awful task of informing him that he had shit himself. That is right. Somehow, it happened, and he was not aware of it. The only reason I knew was because he could not get his shirt tucked in at the back, and the substance was plain as day, hanging off the tail of his shirt. Unfortunately, he had leaned on the counter, the file cabinet, the control panel, and probably every lean-able surface in the control station. You can not imagine the foul odor. Gas is funny, and has a funny smell, but straight-up, open, man-ass shit, does not. It was really bad.
I did not know what to do at first, so I called Vogel, the unit manager, on his cell phone.
“Well, what am I supposed to do, I’m not there.”
“I was hoping you would have some advice, or that you could tell me what to do.”
“You’re just going to have to tell him Batiste.” “What do I say?”
“Walk in there with a rag and a bottle of Tec-Cide, hand it to him, and tell him he shit himself, and then rubbed it on every surface in the station. Politely, ask him to go and clean himself up, and then clean up the control station.
He’ll probably be indebted to you for telling him, and more respectful to you in the future if you keep it quiet.”
“Okay.”
I went into the chemical closet and acquired the appropriate materials for the job. Then I walked into Truss’s control station.
“Truss…”
“Yah.”
“I need to professionally bring something to your attention,” I didn’t like the way he looked at me, as if he was trying to find something wrong. He had his nose sideways like he sees better out of one eye than the other.
“What’s that?”
“I think you may have had an accident. There seems to be some poo on the end of your shirt at the back. I think you may have contaminated your control station a bit too. I’ll leave these cleaning supplies here. You should go into the restroom and get yourself cleaned up a bit, and then clean your control station before your relief gets here.”
I left it at that, and walked out of the control station. A speechless Truss was left behind. I watched him through the window as he went into the bathroom; I imagine attempting putting his shirt away. He surfaced shortly after, and began cleaning his control station.
I assumed that would be the end of it, but upon seeing him the following day, he had this to say, “Furniture polish.”
“Furniture polish…the back of my shirt. It was furniture polish. I forgot, I was staining some furniture when I got home from work the other day, and I must have gotten some on it.”
I am thinking to myself, “You stain furniture in your spare time, in uniform?” But I was not going to outright call him a liar.
“Okay, Truss, furniture polish. I wasn’t gonna tell anybody anyway.”
TSCI frequently runs short on staff, and begs people from other facilities to come down on their days off to work overtime. In my dreams, I am volunteering to work at the women’s facility in York. I can not work with women in reality. I always get in trouble with the sexual harassment policy. The more time I spend with them, the more redeeming qualities I discover, and the more I want to point them out. In Dreamland, I work in York, and I love my job! I drive to work with a hard-on and a smile every day. I wear a condom on the way into the facility so they can not fi nd it in my pocket during the shake down. Who wants to work over time? ME!
“I refuse to believe in a God who wants to be worshipped all the time.”
-- Bertrand Russell
Truss pisses in the sink. He can not help it. He does it because he can not see the toilet, and he does not want to make a mess. The man has a thyroid issue, and weighs in excess of 500 lbs. If he was not such a sweet old man, his nasty habits would make it easy to loathe him.
On a day in the middle of the week, shortly after 1300 hours, I was checking the boxes just to make sure everything was finished and we could leave for the day. Inmate Pflugradt called to me from the common area day room. “Uh, hey, Batiste, you need to check on your bubble-guy.” I walked out of the office and headed for the control station that his direction indicated.
Officer Robert Truss was posted there today, and most days, as it was his current assigned location. I did not understand what Flu was talking about at first, but then Truss turned to walk toward the control panel. It was then that I noticed a large green-net laundry bag swinging from the waist band at the back of his uniform trousers. He looked like a cow with a frozen glob of shit stuck to the end of his tail. I almost ran back into the office where my co-workers were vegging out, waiting for the end of our shift. The look in their eyes indicated blank confusion at my appearance. The laughter was incapacitating me, and the cramps in my cheeks and the twitch below my left eye made me look like I was just hit with nerve-gas. Truss must have inadvertently tucked the laundry bag in the back of his trousers after pooping. We debated letting the situation continue, just to see where it would go. It even crossed our minds to allow him to walk across the yard with it at 2 p.m. after his relief arrived. Cooler heads prevailed, and the unit manager, Louis Vogel, called him on his control station telephone.
“3AC, Officer Truss, How may I help you?” “Truss, this is Vogel.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“You have something hanging from the back of your waistband.”
“What’s that?”
“You have something hanging; look behind you.” Truss turned to his left, and the bag of laundry rags
swung to the right. He had to hear us cackling through the phone line.
Vogel must have thought it would be helpful to try the other direction.
“No, look the other way.”
Following orders, Truss turned to his right, swinging the bag even higher to the left. The bag almost landed on the counter, where it would have stayed. The open end of the bag had somehow been released from his waistband and fell to the floor. Truss turned around and saw the net bag lying on the floor.
“Now how did that get there?”
The worst day I ever had with Truss was the day we had to get really personal. Since I had discovered it, I had the awful task of informing him that he had shit himself. That is right. Somehow, it happened, and he was not aware of it. The only reason I knew was because he could not get his shirt tucked in at the back, and the substance was plain as day, hanging off the tail of his shirt. Unfortunately, he had leaned on the counter, the file cabinet, the control panel, and probably every lean-able surface in the control station. You can not imagine the foul odor. Gas is funny, and has a funny smell, but straight-up, open, man-ass shit, does not. It was really bad.
I did not know what to do at first, so I called Vogel, the unit manager, on his cell phone.
“Well, what am I supposed to do, I’m not there.”
“I was hoping you would have some advice, or that you could tell me what to do.”
“You’re just going to have to tell him Batiste.” “What do I say?”
“Walk in there with a rag and a bottle of Tec-Cide, hand it to him, and tell him he shit himself, and then rubbed it on every surface in the station. Politely, ask him to go and clean himself up, and then clean up the control station.
He’ll probably be indebted to you for telling him, and more respectful to you in the future if you keep it quiet.”
“Okay.”
I went into the chemical closet and acquired the appropriate materials for the job. Then I walked into Truss’s control station.
“Truss…”
“Yah.”
“I need to professionally bring something to your attention,” I didn’t like the way he looked at me, as if he was trying to find something wrong. He had his nose sideways like he sees better out of one eye than the other.
“What’s that?”
“I think you may have had an accident. There seems to be some poo on the end of your shirt at the back. I think you may have contaminated your control station a bit too. I’ll leave these cleaning supplies here. You should go into the restroom and get yourself cleaned up a bit, and then clean your control station before your relief gets here.”
I left it at that, and walked out of the control station. A speechless Truss was left behind. I watched him through the window as he went into the bathroom; I imagine attempting putting his shirt away. He surfaced shortly after, and began cleaning his control station.
I assumed that would be the end of it, but upon seeing him the following day, he had this to say, “Furniture polish.”
“Furniture polish…the back of my shirt. It was furniture polish. I forgot, I was staining some furniture when I got home from work the other day, and I must have gotten some on it.”
I am thinking to myself, “You stain furniture in your spare time, in uniform?” But I was not going to outright call him a liar.
“Okay, Truss, furniture polish. I wasn’t gonna tell anybody anyway.”
TSCI frequently runs short on staff, and begs people from other facilities to come down on their days off to work overtime. In my dreams, I am volunteering to work at the women’s facility in York. I can not work with women in reality. I always get in trouble with the sexual harassment policy. The more time I spend with them, the more redeeming qualities I discover, and the more I want to point them out. In Dreamland, I work in York, and I love my job! I drive to work with a hard-on and a smile every day. I wear a condom on the way into the facility so they can not fi nd it in my pocket during the shake down. Who wants to work over time? ME!
“I refuse to believe in a God who wants to be worshipped all the time.”
-- Bertrand Russell
No comments:
Post a Comment