Orange is the New Black: A New Life
Chapter 5
Alex
The van pulls off the highway and meanders along a dark road. I finally see a series of lights. We head towards them. We stop before a large metal gate. Another prison? I have no idea. It's pitch black, but the lights surrounding the facility illuminate a double row of fencing twenty feet tall topped with rolls of razor wire. The guard driving the van rolls the window down and has a brief conversation with a fellow CO, who has come out of the guard house.
"Late tonight."
"Yeah." The driver hands his clipboard to his buddy on duty. "A lot of wetbacks with today's ICE raids. The inn's full I don't know." He puts his pen on the paper and writes. "I don't know where these are going."
"Georgia's not going to get any dough from Uncle Sam if it doesn't take them."
So we're in Georgia. That's why it is warmer.
The guard hands the paperwork back. "Oh, we'll take these and ICE's bounty. We might fuckin' hate the Feds telling us what to do, but we sure love their cash." The guard speaks into a radio mic strapped to his shoulder. "Let'em through."
The gates open.
"Go on," the guard steps back and slaps the van as it passes by and through.
Ahead looms a series of two-story buildings. We drive up to what looks like the main administrative building. The van stops. The driver hops out and comes around to open the van's door.
The guard, who has been riding shotgun, unbuckles his seat belt and stands. He looks like a linebacker. "Okay, ladies, time to get off." He unlocks the chains so we can slide out.
"Where are we?" someone asks.
"New home 'til transportation to your next destination is available. Out you go." replies the linebacker..
"When will that be?" asks Diaz.
"When it's available. Let's get going." The driver with his clipboard snaps and heads inside ahead. We shuffle behind.
"We're not ready." I hear as we enter the facility's processing area, which is chaotic.
"Hey, Frank, get Mel up here. Do we have any vacant cages in Holding?" A tall dark black woman wearing a tight bun is taking the paperwork from the driver and speaks to a tall skinny black man with leathery skin.
Frank replies, "Not with this week's ICE raids."
"Damn! Has anyone heard when they're coming to pick them up?"
"I think they're still moving the detainees from Hollis to the new facility Polycon's opening out in Fairview," Frank replies.
"Okay, stick them in the least crowded cell."
"Will do."
Two more COs, one black, one caucasian, both male come in and watch.
"Come on, ladies. Let's get you settled." says the woman as she walks over to us. Nathan," she says to the driver, "you and Olly park the van and take lunch break." Another woman, an older black woman shambles in. "Mel," she ushers her over. "Let's get these women processed. Does anyone know which cell is the least crowded?"
I inspect the khaki blue uniforms worn by our masters at this facility. A black cloth Fulton County Sheriff's Office patch adorns the shirt on the sleeve and over the left breast pocket. Inside the silver six-point sheriff's badge reads, "Detention Officer. Fulton County Atlanta, Georgia."
"Seven," says Olly as he and our driver, Nathan, head back out.
"That's full of men," says Mel, who has started undoing the chains of one of the girls not from Litchfield. "We have two, no three, cells with women. One, two, and eight have women, eight, by a smudge, is the least crowded."
Betsy balks as the leathery black guard reaches out to unlock her shackles. "No, no, no Niggar man goin' to play with me. Mama," she reaches out to the black female CO who had been giving the orders. "Mama help me."
"Come on, Granny," the black woman, who seems to be in charge, takes her arm. "Mama won't let that nasty Frank touch you," she laughs and looks over at Mel, who is laughing. Frank steps back looking none to pleased.
"Fuckin' feds, playing hide and seek with their elderly again?" says the woman in charge. She bends down to remove the old woman's shackles. "I don't think it's racial. She just prefers a woman's touch. Don't you, Granny?"
Frank picks up the clipboard and looks, "Paperwork says they she's from a Polycon facility."
"Didn't know they were operating federal women's as well. Must have their hands in everything," says Mel. She is short and stocky with a battered face, like she has done some boxing. When she undoes my shackles, her smell says she is a three-pack-a-day smoker. Frank has a similar smell.
Once our shackles are off, we are led down a hall lined with eight cells and reeking of sweat, farts, urine, the latest meals, and odors most women know too well. Five are filled with men. Skin colors vary, but most are Latino, mostly young and middle aged, a few have weathered faces. The remaining cells are crowded with women. Their ethnic makeup seems to be the same. Sitting and standing women carpet the cement floors of the first two cells. I see small patches of gray floor at the one we stop in front of at the end. It sits across from a cell filled with men. The men can see everything the women do, including the use of the toilet, around which five or six women have formed a barricade protecting the privacy of another woman who is relieving herself. A guard opens the door to that cell. "Inside ladies," he says.
The toilet flushes.
"When do we eat?" asks the tall elderly black woman from B-Block, Watkins.
The wall of women moves from the toilet as the one who was using it wipes her hand on her prison blues. On the back is written, Fulton County Jail Inmate.
"Chow was couple of hours ago," says the leader of our escort.
In response, my stomach growls.
"Breakfast?" she asks politely.
"Oh-seven hundred."
All of the benches are taken. Women sit on the floor, their backs to the cement wall where there is little space. Others just sit, some in circles, chatting softly in Spanish. Those who have been standing around and using the toilet hastily reclaim the real estate that has been theirs. The dozen of us joining the neighborhood look around for a place to sit, or stand. Maybe, just maybe I can stand. Fuck, that! My soul and body are painfully fatigued. I must sit. I find a piece of hard gray cement between two small circles of women who are chatting. They stop and look up at me. They wear leery expressions.
"Por favor." I know so little Spanish. I point at the inch of gray beneath my feet.
One of them, an older woman, maybe their leader, nods. She is pretty and a little older than those around her. I see a family resemblance among the women. The one giving me permission, I don't think, looks old enough to be their mom. Perhaps they are sisters or cousins. Who knows?
"Gracias," I say and sit.
To fit in the space, I fold my legs close and hold them. The concrete is cold and hard. The air is warmer, but not much. I notice that none of the ladies have blankets. So, we won't have blankets or a place to lay down, either.
My back screams, ribs, my left leg. I stretch forward and then back. If this is where and how we're supposed to spend the night or however long we are stuck here, I don't know if I can do it. I just don't know. Damn, this is worse than the couple of days I spent in Rikers after David Crocket, my probation officer, busted me with the gun. Piper's doing. Fuck her! Fuck her, fuck her! No. I know why she did it and once again we had made up. I close my eyes and push back against the pain and depression. I miss her so much!
One of the women sitting in front of me touches my leg, "¿Pareces estar sufriendo?"
At first I am confused, but she repeats herself and scoots to the side a couple of inches and gently moves one foot forward so the joint in that knee is less acute. She taps my second foot.
Now I understand and nod. "Gracias. Muchas gracias," I move my foot.
"Better?" She says in broken English.
"Yes. Thank you."
"Welcome," she replies. The woman has a warm smile, very maternal. I wonder if she has children and if so, where they might be?
Betsy is confused and once again agitated. She is screeching and fighting the guards as they lead her into our cage. In many ways she reminds me of Crazy Eyes when she has one of her break downs. Perhaps, she should be on some sort of medication?
Diaz is also complaining, "What are we? Sardines? This is illegal. You can't do this? I need to be in New York."
I try tuning Diaz and Betsy out. I have had enough. Eventually one of the cell's resident Latinas says something to Diaz in Spanish. Diaz argues back. More get involved and the squabbling escalates until Betsy is in full blown hysterics. The short stocky CO who looks like a boxer pounds the bars with her baton. "Quiet!" she orders. "¡Silencio!"
Betsy's shrieks go up an octave. I can't take it. Grimacing, I push myself up off the floor and make my way over to where Betsy is battling the guards. I grab her arms and pull her to me. "It's okay," I say. She elbows me and a hand flies up, nearly knocking off my glasses. I move them to the top of my head and grab again. "Betsy, settle down," I try to sound soothing, the way Piper did when she helped some of the older inmates at camp. I get her in my arms and increase my grip and have her arms at her side. "It's alright, Betsy. This is where we are going to spend the night. I know it's crowded." Damn, why am I doing this? Why? I shouldn't have gotten up. I maintain my embrace and gentle words. "It's okay."
Slowly, Betsy calms down. It helps that Diaz has shut up. Everyone is watching me and Betsy. Even the men across the hall.
"Come." I release my grip. Confused eyes search the cell. "Over here. I have a place to sit." I lead her by her elbow. "It's okay. It's okay. We're just going to sit."
Finally, her eyes find mine and she gazes quizzically. "Are you Cindy?"
"I'm Alex," I answer as gently as I can.
"Cindy?"
"Alex."
A smile spreads across her lips. "Cindy."
I give up. "Okay. Yes, Cindy. Come, you can sit with me."
I lead Betsy back to where I was sitting. "She needs to sit with me," I say, hoping for an affirmative. They nod and scoot, clearing more room. "Sit," I tell Betsy and she does with the help of a couple of the women who had welcomed me. I sit next to her.
"Mother?" asks the one next to me.
"No. Inmate. Litchfield– like me."
Several nod. "Litchfield?"
"In New York."
"Alzheimer's?" asks another.
"I think so," I say.
"If not mom, why take care?"
I shrug. "The right thing to do." I know Piper would have. I have seen her do it.
"You and I look after. Like my mother," says the older woman. "In El Salvador."
"Family?" I motion to the group she is with.
"Family. La familia." She nods. "Daughters. She points at two of the young women, maybe they're teenagers, it's hard to tell, seated in her group. I nod. "We work hard. Clean."
So did I, I think to myself. "I'm sorry this country is so messed up," I say. She smiles and one of the girls she pointed to as a daughter translates, or so I think.
She looks back at me and nods. Then she says, "We good people. Very violent at home. Tears spring forth. Gang raped my Rosalie. Threaten all the women. We had to leave."
I wish I knew what to say to her and her daughters and the other women. So I nod like a stupid bobble-head with a tight spring. Both daughters reach out to comfort their mother. I give them an I-wish-I-could-make-it-all-better smile. She gives my leg a light motherly tap then she returns her focus to her daughters and the rest of her group, who chat quietly Spanish.
In the morning, I find myself curled like a fetus, except I am not lying on my side. I am still sitting, bent forward, my head resting on my arms which are on top of my feet. Betsy lays across my back. I think she tipped over. I have no idea how she ended up that way or how I fell asleep in the position I find myself in.
To sit up, I need to push Betsy off my back, but I have no way to get any leverage. I force myself to unbend. I hold back a scream. Every muscle is tight and the spinal column is locked. I am in agony. Betsy slides off awkwardly and I hear her thud. Fuck! The woman next to her reaches out to help while I try to look behind me. I grimace and see that part of Betsy's head rests on the crossed legs of the woman behind me. Her shoulder is on the concrete. Betsy is still asleep. I reach to wake her, but the woman behind me shakes her head indicating that it's fine if the old woman continues sleeping.
I gather my feet and with great effort push up off the floor. I am wobbly and my legs nearly buckle. One of the women reaches up. I take her hand until I am steady. "Gracias," I say quietly and try to stretch my back a bit.
As I do this, I see that many others are also coming around or maybe never slept. Soft Spanish chatter adds a low level of white noise. Every now and then I recognize a word, usually something simple like buono or gracias or a word that has a cognate in English, like dificultad. Piper would know what they're saying. Sometimes she translated for me, especially during the riot at the assembly where Ruiz tortured the COs.
Stretching helps, but my aches and pains continue. A small group of women from the wall closest to the toilet stand and form a human curtain. I look out through the bars across the hall. Many of the men are also awake. They elbow each other and look over at us. One of them calls out, "Isabel," and then says something I don't understand until one of the women shielding the person peeing waves and says something in return. Discussion occurs between the man Isabel is speaking with and several other men. Then more of the women join in. The conversation is warm and cordial. Occasionally, one of the men not part of the conversation says something and the men speaking with the women scold angrily.
The women switch places, taking turns. More women stand and take turns in the ring. I join them. I take my turn in the curtain until it is my turn to relieve myself. The toilet paper roll is low, so I take only four squares. At one-ply, I need more, but using more would be impolite. None of the other women have. I clean myself the best I can and flush. I wipe my hands on my pants. The sink that is part of the toilet assembly does not work and there is no soap. This is gross. I return to the ring until a fresh wave of women relieve me. I return to the place I spent the night. My back and left leg are throbbing from standing still for so long. As soon as I sit, two things happen at once. First, the women near the toilet scream, "¡Mierda!" a word I have become very familiar with since entering prison. I say it often enough, but in English. Fuck! A gush of foul water bursts from the toilet and in tsunami fashion floods the entire floor. With the screaming, Betsy wakes with a start. She pees on herself and those around her, including me. She screams hysterically and thrashes about. She smashes my nose and knocks my glasses off. They fly onto the floor where one of the women, rushing back from the erupting toilet steps on them. Meanwhile, Betsy slugs the woman whose legs have been her pillow and the one to her left. Her voice overpowers all of the yelling and swearing as I reach out for my crushed specs. I wipe off the pee and what looks like a bit of shit with my fingers and stick them in the pocket on my shirt. I scramble to stand to escape the muck soaking into my pants and shoes. I lend a hand to the women Betsy has assaulted. They are screaming at her, at me, like I'm her guardian and keeper.
"She's not my responsibility!" I yell back. "Fuck!" I grab at Betsy. She screams and takes another swing at me. I duck her right, but the left slaps my face. I grab again. I want to pin her arms against her torso. I miss them again and again she smacks me. The woman helped me last night tries to grab Betsy. Betsy swings, but the woman has her left arm. I get her left. Together, we are able to restrain her. Who would have thought this short old woman could be so strong and deadly? My cheek and nose throb.
I hear clanking and the shouts of several CO's. Women are yelling. I hear Diaz yelling. Her yell pierces through even Betsy's screams. "We got pee and shit everywhere. Get us out! We're not animals! I ain't no animal. Toilets don't work, not enough paper! You fuckin' criminals!"
In our embrace, Betsy screams and thrashes about while the chaos continues. As it subsides, so does Betsy. Finally, she stops struggling. The woman helping me smiles. "Like women at hospital where I work," she says.
"You must be very good at your job," I say.
"I clean," she says.
"Get back!" orders a huge CO. He is tall, not as tall as Pornstashe, but taller than Piscatella, except he is bald, like CO Donaldson. Like Donaldson, he appears to be all business. "Hey, we got BOP packages in here. Who in the fuck put them in here with the ICE sweep? Shit, get janitorial in here. Fuckin' night shift. They don't have brains. We need to get these women clean. … Fuck! We got a mental grandma. Did we get paperwork? Jep, check on that. Also, get us more guards. We need Sanderson and Green. And, Andrews, you and Jones, get grandma to medical."
Two COs, one white and the other black, both male, take Betsy from us.
"Betsy Davenport," I give them her name. They look at me quizzically. "Her name. Betsy Davenport."
"Yah," replies the black CO, called Andrews.
The other one, CO Jones tells Betsy, "Let's go get you taken care of. Perhaps some new clothes and diapers."
Betsy starts screaming and thrashing about again. She clings to me. "Cindy, help! Help!"
"She has problems with the male guards," I shout, as once again, I try to calm her. "It's the male guards," I say again when the Donaldson look-alike motions for me to repeat myself. "Jesus," he motions for the CO to back away. "Sanderson and Green now!" he yells into the mic attached to the shoulder of his uniform. "Instead, let's get the ConAir inmates out of there and put them in general housing."
"Where?" asks Andrews.
Two black women of medium height join the men. They are closely cropped hair, nicely fit, and toned, and in their mid-thirties. Both have don't mess with me butch dyke attitudes.
"Hell, how should I know? We're crammed everywhere," replies the one in charge.
"East Block has floor space," says the black woman. "Just came from there."
"Good, Green," The head guard nods. "You and Jones take them there. We'll need to get them cleaned up and their travel wear cleaned up. Sanderson," he points to Betsy. "Demented Grandma. Probably needs meds."
"Got it," CO Sanderson pushes through to where Betsy still clings to me.
"I'll get them in the showers first," Green says. "They'll need something to wear until their clothes and shoes come back from laundry."
"Hi, Granny," Sanderson says gently.
"We'll need to get some of those paper jumpsuits – Shit! I didn't want to use those – and enough mattresses and blankets for those who came in via ConAir last night. They're probably going to be here a few days."
A few days? My gloom takes an elevator ride south. I don't know why. Why should I care?
"Are you related?" Sanderson asks me.
I focus on the question just asked me. "No. Just helping her."
"Good of you." Sanderson touches Betsy's arm. "I bet you would like to get clean. Have breakfast and a nice bed. Would you like to come with me?"
"Cindy?"
The guard looks at the name on my ID badge. "Dementia. Alzheimers," I say. She nods.
"Ferre, you get those. Get some of our more permanent inmates to help."
"Yes, sir." A short baby-faced CO who looks no older than a high school senior steps into view. I bet he doesn't need to shave.
"Come with me," Sanderson urges Betsy.
"Go ahead," I say.
"Cindy!" Betsy grabs for me.
"Ferre, take everything over to the East Block.
"Wait!" Ferre stops. "We're going to need help sorting everything out here. … Those who came in on Conair yesterday–"
A Hispanic woman stands. She is tall and thin with jet black hair as long as mine.
"Not you mamacita," Jones says derisively.
The head CO adds, "ICE is coming for you sometime today or tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that."
"You go on with Sanderson here," I say to Betsy. She's my friend and wants to help you get cleaned up." Betsy pauses and stares. Water pools in her eyes. "It's okay." She doesn't move. "I'll be here when you get back," I say.
"Come on," Sanderson coos again.
"Fuck them. Can't wait for that new facility in Fairfield to open," say Andrews.
"Amen, Andrews."
Sanderson leads Betsy away.
"Why so long?" asks the woman.
Another ICE detainee stands. "Yeah, we be here for three days already. No way to treat a person."
Andrews steps towards them, "No one invited you to come. What'd you expect? Fucking Disney World?"
"Andrews, cool it."
"Sure Collins"
"Those of you in orange," the head CO points at Diaz's soiled jumpsuit. "Only those in orange. Out!"
"Not those of you snagged by ICE. You aren't orange. You're khaki. No khaki, only orange."
"We're not stupid," says the Latina who stood last.
"You broke our law. You know you're not welcome, yet you come."
"Pat!." Collins snaps.
"Just having fun, Pete." Gives his boss an impish grin
The woman speaks over the two men. "Who goin'ta pick your food or clean your shit? We do that. Huh?"
"Not when you go, bye bye."
Pete Collins, the head CO pushes Pat Andrews out of the cell. "Pat!. Jones, we need to get all of these women cleaned up. Jones, I'm putting you in charge of getting the ICE guests cleaned. Take them to the showers in solitary."
"There are only three nozzles in the women's section. It's goin' to take forever," groans Joans.
"What else do they have to do?" Andrews smirks.
"Ferre, we're going to need clean uniforms, but I don't want to use ours. If ICE shows up I don't want to lose them."
"Green, take our Conair guests to the East Block. Help Mendez. Ferre, we'll need those as well. In solitary for the ICE girls and a dozen in East Block for the federals."
"Do we get showers first?" I ask.
CO Pat steps into my space. He steps close to me. He is a good five inches taller. "Definitely going to clean you up, sweet cheeks. You reek."
"Andrew!" Collins snaps.
"Whatever, bro," he chuckles. "You'd be fun to know," he lowers his voice as he steps aside.
"What about us?" asks one of the ICE detainees.
"First to the showers and then paper clothes," says Collins. "You can wear those until yours are cleaned by laundry."
"What if they're picked up today?"
"Have them go to the front of the line. Surely, one washer is open. It's only seven-thirty."
The ICE detainees form up into two lines to the right of our cell; we form two lines to the left, in front of the cells holding the men. "Hueles a mierda." Some men in the adjoining cells pinch their noses and fan themselves. It's kinda funny because we do smell, well, like shit, and urine, and menses. I ignore them.
"¡Apestas hijo de puta!" Diaz yells at them. "¡Chingated!"
The men reply, "¡Apestas, perra.! ¡Aléjate de mí!"
"¡Puja! ¡Das asco, perra!" Other Latinas retaliate.
"¡Maldita perra! The guys reply.
"¡Que te jodan!" Diaz and the other women have faces that have become beet red. Diaz had been sitting just left of the toilet. Her pants and shoes are drenched and smeared in a couple places with shit.
"¡Besa mi culo, puto!"
"¡Verga!"
I have no idea what they are saying, but I can guess.
The COs move in and end the verbal battle by pushing us up the hall. The detainees go left and we go right, leave the main processing center and follow a long hallway and a sign that points to the East Wing. This wing is a two story building with cells stacked one on top of the other. Inside each cell I see two bunks. Four beds to a cell. Wow. That's crowded.
"This is the women's section," explains CO Green. She and CO Pat Andrews have escorted us to our vacation home. "We're kind'a full so we'll be bringing mattresses and adding you to cells."
"We have'ta sleep on the floor?" asks Diaz. She would.
"The inn is full." Green leads us past the cells to a large shower area. The showers are found in a large rectangular open space with eight nozzles positioned along the far back and side walls. Three long benches, starting at the opposite wall, with three more twinned three feet in front. Four toilet stalls are situated behind us.
"Strip, ladies and grab a towel over there."
"What about soap?" someone asks.
"Do what you can with water. You have no commissary with us. You have five minutes and once you dry off, we'll see what we have in the latest paper fashions. You're tall," she says to me and Watkins. She looks at a short black female CO, who has joined us. "I'll have them bring some extra large men' 'll be wide, but should fit your length. Let's get going, chop-chop." She speaks into a radio mic strapped to her shoulder. "Donaldson?"
Another Donaldson. Popular last name.
CO Pat Andrews positions himself so he can get a good look into the showers.
A male voice answers through CO Green's mic, "Here."
"Get some of your girls to come over to the East Wing showers. We have some dirty clothes that need washing pronto."
"Will do, Olive Green," he replies disparagingly before he disengages his mic.
"Idiot," Green shakes her head.
A CO, a woman of medium height and long dark hair, enters. Two women in Fulton County orange follow. They are carrying a stack of white towels. "Here," the CO gestures to the first bench.
Green looks at Andrews. "What're you still doing in here? Get out of here!"
He replies, "Oh, these gals don't mind," he lets his eyes slide among us, but they linger on me. "Ain't that so?" He steps up to me.
"No way," I say. I hold my ground.
"She's way out of your league, Pat," laughs Green. "Married or a lesbian?" she asks me, her graze appraising.
"Both," I answer.
"Told you," Green smiles. "I know my sisters."
"Perfect for you degenerates," he growls, "lesbians everywhere in here."
"Oh, you get your fill," says the other CO.
"Too many," adds Green.
Andrews sticks out his tongue and leaves.
"Okay," CO Green orders, "get out of those clothes! Put them in a pile at the end of the benches here." She points at the end without the towels.
"What about our shoes?" interrupts Diaz.
"Shoes?" The brunette CO looks at them.
"Those, too," says Green
"Towels are on the bench," adds CO brunette.
"Come on, get naked."
"Get your towels."
"Chop chop. We don't have all day."
We shower. The anemic spray is lukewarm with cold looming on the edge. There is no time to wash my hair. Besides, without any soap or shampoo what good would it do but make it wet, but still dirty. The water makes my skin cleaner, but not clean. The vaginal area, forget it though I do my best. The best part is the feel of the water on my bruised areas. For the first time, I can actually see the full extent of the damage done by McCullough's baton. Most of it is on the left side. My back, which I can't see, but deep blacks, purples, blues, and garish yellow-browns flow around and cover my side and shoulder. My left leg is black in areas and my hand is black and blue and larger than a boxing glove, especially the top near the knuckles. I look at my feet. They have been in damp, urine soaked shoes for over thirty hours. Now they are unprotected in a dingy public shower. I wonder what kind of fungus rot will take root before this trip is over? I take a moment and wash my broken glasses. Maybe I can get something to mend them with, until I get to Cleveland, or wherever I can get them fixed.
I shiver as I scurry for a towel when I turn off the spray. I dry myself as much as I can. Like all prison issued towels, they are small and not very absorbent. When I finish, the towel barely wraps around my torso. The gap leaves my pubic area totally exposed with nothing left for the imagination. I readjust the closure so it opens more on the left side.
I feel sorry for the heftier girls. One of them asks for a second towel. The COs give her one. Not bad, I think, although I have noticed them staring and discretely pointing at us, making quiet observations to one another.
We file back out to the main area of the wing. Since we were last here, the women who live in this block on a more permanent basis have had their doors opened and are congregating to get their lunch from a cart loaded with trays. This is how it was at MAX. The women get their trays without enthusiasm and take them to one of the dozen or so round tables and sit on a connected stool. They watch us. Some point. They speak softly. I wonder how often they see federal prisoners, especially those wearing towels.
"Conair, this way," the kid CO Collins sent to get paper jumpsuits, waves us over to a large laundry cart holding five boxes. Anderson, who stayed in the block, saunters over, staring hard at us.
"CO Ferre, let me give you a hand."
"Sure," replies the kid CO, equally intimidated and awed.
Anderson reaches into one of the boxes and comes out with a fistful of plastic wrapped jumpsuits. "Medium," he reads. He gives them to three of the women he judges to be of medium stature and two others who have raised their hands.
"Small," CO Ferre, imitates the older CO.
"Me," Diaz takes one.
Collins takes two and tosses them to those he deems small. Everyone else earns a large, except for Watkins and me. "Extra large," he takes pleasure in tossing one to Watkins and handing the last to me. "Get dressed," he says surveying me.
"Hey," I raise my good hand.
"Yes," the female brunette CO answers.
"Can we go back into the shower area or get Mutt and Jeff here to leave so we can get dressed?" I ask.
"Yeah," agrees Diaz and others. Of course Diaz adds her extra touches.
"Guys, get the extras back to the warehouse."
Reluctantly, Anderson bows and follows the kid who pushes the cart out of the block.
"Thanks … CO?"
"Mendez."
I almost choke. Pornstache. Mendez is a common name. "CO Mendez," I acknowledge.
She chuckles and watches me for a few moments. I don't care anymore. I am freezing. I tear open the plastic wrapper and remove the jumpsuit. The paper jumpsuits are light blue, the same as those passed out when the camp had an infestation of bed bugs. At least this time, as I receive a man's extra large, I don't need to make myself an outfit out of black plastic thirty-three gallon garbage bags, usually reserved for yard clippings, and silver duct tape.
I walk away over to a wall, set my glasses on the floor, drop the towel and, as quickly as my aching body allows, I throw the blouse over my head, shake out the pants, lean against the wall, and pull them on. Others are doing the same. The shyer girls have formed a curtain with their bodies and take turns dressing. CO Green orders us to bring her the plastic wrappers the clothing came in and crams them into one of the boxes she took from the laundry cart.
"How about lunch?" asks one of the Litchfield girls.
"Yeah, we ain't eaten since lunch yesterday."
"I'll see what we can do," CO Mendez speaks into her radio. "Ladies, make yourself comfortable. It's coming."
Paper garments are better than nothing, a wet towel, or soiled clothes, but they are not warm and our feet are bare. It is more than chilly. I shiver and pad over to a table with the least number of women. I sit and look out across the room. Most of it is blurry, but I can make out shapes and see a woman taking one of the few remaining trays from the food cart. Most of the residents sit at tables chatting with one another. A few twenty-somethings inhabit a table across from me. They laugh loudly. A table of older women opposite them are watching with shaking heads and gently laughing at their foolishness. A couple, clearly a couple, are on the floor just to my right. They love one another. I can see it by their expressions and the way they look at one another. Furtively, they touch one another and chat quietly. That used to be me and Piper. Sitting together or with our friends. Reaching out to touch a hand or an arm, smiling, eyes alighting with contented sighs.
"What happened to your glasses?" Diaz sits next to me.
I pat the pocket in my shirt. "Knocked off and stepped on during the flood."
A few more from our van join us. "This place is shit," one of them says.
"It's prison; what else is new?" Watkins replies.
"Do you think the food's better?"
"Anything should be better than PolyCon crap."
Conversation continues. I listen. I am not in the mood. Eventually, a group from the kitchen pushes in a cart. CO Green unlocks it and we are called to get on line. I take my time. I am starving, but I don't need to be first or fifth. Eleventh suits me fine. The tray has a small bowl of grits with an egg on top. Some orange juice, coffee, and half a banana. Well, prison food done southern style I guess. I return to my place and eat. The conversation continues and I listen. I have nothing to contribute. I know some of the Litchfield gossip they share, but mostly I am clueless. After Piper left, I spent most of my time reading. Nicky was in D-block, busy in the kitchen, and taking care of Red and Lorna. She had her hands full. I was alone, except for McCullough and the images I found on my smuggled phone of Piper and Zelda on Zelda's Twitter feed. Fuck Zelda! Fuck her all to hell. I go to the toilets to pee and cry again.
Before the pre-dinner count, we receive our cell assignments, mattress, pillow, which is flat and off-white, and a thin old army green blanket. A CO gives me tape and I do what I can to mend my glasses so they sit somewhat on my nose and I can mostly see. After dinner, I crash in my assigned cell. I sleep until the COs call us to get our DOJ traveling jumpsuits. Laundry has returned them fresh and clean as a daisy, even our underwear. I gladly change. I am warmer, but still have no socks.
For three days we live with and get to know some of the women we are "vacationing" with. It's like an Airbnb, but with shitty food and terrible beds. A library cart comes by the second day and to relieve the boredom, I snag something to read, The Handmaid's Tale. I read it years ago, but it was good, so I take it back to the cell I am borrowing, sit on my mattress, back to the closest bunk and read. My glasses sit a bit wonky so they tire my eyes. I take breaks to let them rest. At those times, I walk around a bit. It's good to stretch. Sometimes, I find an empty table and read. A couple of times Georgia girls come over and sit with me. They want to get to know us, find out where we came from and such. I oblige them. We are new and different and enliven what is the boring routine of prison. This goes on for three days. On the first they warn us about the head CO Anderson. Even though he has been written up multiple times for assaulting women, he still works at the jail. He is a bully, especially when he perceives his masculinity challenged. He hates all homosexuals, including Green and Mendez, who everyone knows are in a relationship and outrank him. Since the last reprimand, Anderson is only allowed to work in the East Wing when a female CO is on duty. Luckily for us, the lesbian duo are on day shift for our entire stay.
On the fourth day, just before lunch, the COs round us up and walk us back to Processing, which is emptier. ICE has moved the men and women caught up in their raids to detention facilities. Betsy has joined us from Medical. She is calm, almost zombie-like. They must have given her some heavy medication. We are searched and shackled and shuffled out to a large van by three marshals. We are returned to the airfield where we first landed and loaded onto a plane. It looks like the same plane we came in on. The plane is only filled to half capacity. I assume we will be making a number of stops and I am right.
Our first stop ends up being New York City, LaGuardia. Flying in, I immediately recognize the skyline and icons of home and my youth. My heart races when I see the new World Trade Center and the bridges crossing the East and Hudson Rivers. The Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the stadiums create a yearning I cannot describe. Brooklyn, somewhere down there, is Piper. I press my nose to the window and take it all in. As the plane circles and dips lower for landing the cars and people are like so many ants and then bigger ants. Winter is in full force. Most wear coats, scarves, hats, maybe, just maybe, as illogical as I know I'm being, I will see Piper. I can yell, "Piper. I'm here. Don't leave! I love you!" I know the entire idea is pure folly, but I look anyway.
We touch down and roll to a less used area of the sprawling facility. There is no way Piper is here. I sit back in my seat and watch as men and women file off buses. We pick up thirty men and women, who have been in residence on Rikers Island. I remember the place well from my arrests. I can't wait to get as far away from it as possible. Yet, "Let me stay in New York," my soul begs. I wipe my eyes and am happy when we are in the air again.
We fly all day making stop after stop after stop. At one point we get a sandwich, cookie, apple slices, and some water. It is late. The moon is full. The stars paint the sky where we fly above a layer of clouds. I am half dozing with one eye looking out the window when we land yet again. I hear "Davenport, Diaz, Montgomery, Rollins, Vause, Watkins."
"Huh?" I yawn.
"This is your stop."
"Cleveland?"
"You're about 700 miles off," he chuckles. "Let's get going. Vause. Watkins. Help Davenport. You don't have too long to get off. Vans waiting. You have a long ride."
"Why me?" asks Watkins.
"You're old," he answers.
I wake Betsy. She has been sitting in the middle seat next to me. Diaz has had the aisle. With no other Latinas left in our Litchfield contingent, for some reason she has latched on to me. Unsure of where she is or what is going on, Betsy wakes up upset. Diaz and I calm her; actually, I calm her, Diaz helps. Betsy still thinks I'm Cindy. Letting her believe that, I calm her. Watkins skips out and disappears out the door and down the stairs. That's okay, Betsy is shuffling nicely in front of me. As we near the front of the plane, I ask her if she needs to use the bathroom. She does and everyone waits for her to finish doing her business. Diaz holds back and helps me get her down the stairs and over to the van. We shiver. It is cold and dark with just a sprinkling of stars. The van sits near a quonset-like structure. On the building hangs a light fixture. It is on, but not bright. Still, I am able to make out the license plate. It is white, which makes reading the black sans serif font easy: Alabama State Government.
The guard there searches us and then helps Diaz and I lift Betsy into the van. Diaz glares at Watkins. "You were supposed to help! Not me!"
"Fuck you," is her only response. She is in the last seat in the back.
"Shut up!" Diaz growls back.
I don't need a war. "Diaz! Get up here with me. You take the window. I place Betsy next to her, in the middle. I sit at the end, by the door."
The door slams shut and we are off.
(This is a work of fanfiction based on the Netflix series Orange is the New Black. The story begins at the point the series ended. I do not intend to make any money from this endeavor. If you make any comments, please do so. I enjoy relevant feedback and critiques. I apologize for any mistakes in any foreign language, especially my Spanish. Please let me know of the proper usage. I hope you enjoy the story. I plan to upload updates at least every week.