High-Speed, Low-Drag

“Seven, Batiste.”

“Inmate Brown’s my husband...”

I was so startled that the phone call actually patched through to the unit. I misspoke, “You’re who’s husband?” She did not catch the Freudian slip, “Brown, I need to
know something about his classification.”

“Ma’am, I’m just a caseworker, you’ll need to speak to his case manager when he comes in tomorrow.”
“So you can’t help me then?” “No, Ma’am.”
“What the fuck good are you then?”

I was taking an inmate on a travel order that morning, and we were short of corporals. The inmate got punched on the yard because his hat was turned the wrong way, signifying affiliation with another gang. To make the day even stranger, we were heavy on sergeants. The inmate that had to see the dental specialist on the outside was a flight risk, so it was appropriate to send a sergeant with me anyway. Today, I got lucky. My TO partner would be Sgt Conrad. Not only was Sgt Conrad an outstanding correctional sergeant, he was a fine veteran Marine Corps Master Sergeant in the Omaha Marine Reserve unit.

For those times when you run into co-workers at the local Wal-Mart with your family in tow, Sgt Conrad is the guy you want to run into. He is the guy you are proud to claim, “He works with me in The Nebraska State Penitentiary.” Conrad just looks like a poster-child for high-speed, low-drag. Strangers watch him for about two minutes and they know his dope is dialed tight.

“This is gonna be a blast Batiste. It’ll be better than a whole Humvee full of free pogey-bait! I’ll strip search the dumbshit; you go and check out the car.”
Down in the lobby, I checked out the keys to one of the state vehicles, and headed outside to perform the shakedown. Upon opening the door, I found a nice pair of Oakley sunglasses.
“Gear left adrift, must be a gift.”

I quickly scraped the windows as I warmed up the vehicle. Conrad and the shift supervisor, Lt. Andrzejewsky were waiting on me to return. Inmate Sewell was in full restraints, waiting to be taken to the car.
“Great, escorted by two fuckin’ Jarheads. My little brother is a Jarhead. He says boot camp is tougher now.”
“How would he know, has he been twice?” “No, that’s just what his DIs tell him.”

“Maybe it’s so tough they’ll go back and take it off my DD-214.”
The drive was uneventful, and we entered the rear entrance of the office to avoid startling the paying customers.

“And for what are you seeing the dentist today?” “Well, you see,” Conrad said to a busy assistant, buried

in paper work, “I have a red cunt-hair stuck in my back teeth.”
“What…?”

“Can I just talk to the dentist?” “Sir, is it a personal issue?” “Why yes, it is.”

“Fine, take a seat in the waiting room.”

“But Ma’am, I’m here with an inmate. I just wanted a minute of the Dentist’s time to ask a question.”
“One minute please.”

The Dentist never came. Before long, Sewell’s name was called, and we were escorted down a hallway, to a room at the end, next to the emergency exit door.

“The nurse said something about a red cunt-hair. Oh I love this story.” Pointing at Conrad, Dr. Sweeney laughs, “Your next visit will be free of charge.”

“Pull your pants up, play your banjo, and kick your fucking ball! I can’t believe I’m being out-bowled by Deliverance.”