Orange is the New Black: A New Life
Chapter 7
We stay in Alabama for over a week sleeping in a large open dorm that has no bars or cubicles. There must be a hundred women living in this one space. The residents wear clean near-white jumpsuits with ALABAMA DEPT. OF CORRECTIONS in bold black letters on back. We wear our DOC orange for the entire stay (They are getting ripe and causing rashes). Most of the residents are black. About a third are white. I have seen no one of any other ethnicity in our dorm. Women in their twenties or early thirties, make up about half of the residents. The next largest segment are middle aged or older. Few are elderly. Most congregate together by race and age. Like Litchfield, they spend time in the TV room watching soap operas, crocheting, and reading years-old magazines. A group of golden girls with black women kept inviting Watkins to join them when we first arrived, but she refused. "No sense joining anybody, we just leave as soon as friendships start," or so she said.
Watkins and Montgomery are assigned a bunk in the middle of the room. Without asking, Watkins takes the lower bunk. "I'm old," is the reason she gives. Montgomery shrugs and takes the top. Rollins is issued a lower bunk with a white girl from Selma. Almost immediately the two become fast friends. Montgomery and Rollins are southern. We picked them up in New York, from the facility in Brooklyn, along with the inmates from Rikers, when we were at LaGuardia. They are headed for Texas where they will serve out their sentences. Montgomery is the butt of some gentle ribbing as it seems we landed in Alabama's state capital, Montgomery. Diaz is issued a bunk in back. As the only latina, she feels isolated. She hates her bunk, her bunkmate, a large dark black woman the size of Black Cindy, who looks mean as hell, and the entire prison which speaks with a pronounced drawl. Diaz's bunkmate, Cicely (she was named for Cicely Tysen) is part of a clique of six women mostly in their thirties and forties. They spend their time together talking amiably and playing cards. Diaz spends most of the time at my bunk. I am assigned a bunk that abuts a masonry pink wall with Betsy. There is no way for her to get to the top bunk, so I take it. I help Betsy settle, sitting her on the bed. If we had any possessions, they would go in the single drawer welded to the bottom of the frame. I keep my broken glasses there when I'm not playing cards. There's not much to look at.
Most of the day, the dorm is frequently empty. The women have jobs just as they do in most penitentiaries. Besides the usual laundry, kitchen, janitorial, and maintenance positions, the prison has a large factory where the inmates sew clothing for the state prisons and municipal jails in the state. They earn meager wages, even less than the dollar an hour Whispers paid Litchfield inmates before the riot. So the five of us laying over spend time with nothing to do. Some of my time is spent helping Betsy. She has gotten into a routine of going to the bathroom (I help her find her way), which she can do for herself once she gets to the stalls, getting food from the cart during meals time, showering and ritualized ablutions (we are given towels, but like Atlanta we don't have shampoo or toothpaste. One of the inmates is kind enough to give Betsy and I some of hers every other day; she is worried about running out. Her commissary funds are running low and she is waiting for her son to add more to her account. Sometimes he forgets.), and sleeping. Most days, Betsy spends time watching television, usually at the invitation of one of the other senior women, usually the same woman who shares her precious grooming supplies. She sleeps on a bunk close to ours. These women take care of Betsy until she needs something, then they get me. Maybe this would be what my life would have been like if my mom had survived her stroke.
I miss Diane, my mom, and I still feel guilty that I spent so much time away after Fahri recruited me. I should have visited more. I am glad that she did not live to see what I had actually become, a heroin trafficker, and where I ended up, in federal prison. She sacrificed so much for me working two or three jobs so we had a place to live, food, and clothes. The shame and disappointment, sometimes I imagine the expression she would have worn if she had learned the truth about her globetrotting daughter. I could have, should have done something better with my life. What? I don't know. I still haven't the faintest clue about what I can do when I finally leave prison. I have only one skill, recruiting mules and smuggling. Yes, I am glad she never discovered my truth. I am also glad that she died. I cannot imagine mom without her faculties, needing constant watching and care. I would have definitely gone home to Jersey to take care of her. No doubt about that. I owed Diane that much. I wonder if Betsy has any family where she's going? Perhaps the BOP and Polycon have some decency and compassion.
The inmate on the bunk behind mine lets me use her cards while at work. So, I play solitaire, and sometimes Diaz, Montgomery, and Rollins join in for a poker, gin, or hearts marathon. In the evening, I give the cards back and sometimes, at their invitation, join my neighbors in play. At lunch the first day, I asked a woman I saw with a book on her bed if the prison had a library. It does, she said. She gives me directions, but when I start down the hallway to the library's location, I am ordered back to my block.
"We can't have you wandering about when the marshals arrive," says the guard.
"Is there any way to get a book?" I ask.
"Sorry."
I return to the bunks and boredom. I hate soap operas, I do not crochet, and card games can be entertaining, but after the fourth day, I want to scream. So, I sleep, or try. Luckily, my injuries have started to heal and I am hurting less. One thing does happen that lifts the spirits of everyone. A seventy-six year old woman, since her incarceration twenty-five years on drug charges, has quit her addiction to opiates and alcohol, earned her GED, and an associates degree in psychology, so she could figure out why she did what she had done. She's worked at various jobs in the prison, become a worship leader and choir member in the chapel, and mentored others in the prison, helping many overcome their own addictions. In other words, she was a model prisoner. With the help of the Alabama Justice Reform Project and its lawyers, a judge has reduced her sentence. The governor has signed her parole. The women are buzzing with joy.
"She looked after me," says one of the black women at our table that morning as she drinks the dirty water the prison calls coffee. "She was like a grandmother to me. She helped me get my shit together and stay out of trouble when I first got here."
"Yeah," adds a woman seated next to her. "She helped me get over my addiction, which was hard, because these fuckers," she lowers her voice in a conspiratorial fashion and furtivelypoints at blue uniformed guards, were bring'n it in all the time. Kept me on edge.
They keep telling us the story. As they talk, I think of Yoga Jones and Red back at Litchfield. Not grandmothers, but like moms, or aunts, definitely teachers. This woman is going home. She has survived.
"That Blakely were the worst," agrees a third woman. "Couple girls OD'd `cause of the shit he bring in."
"Thank God they fired his ass," says the first. "But not for the drugs. He made girls have sex. Three of 'm got pregnant."
"Some do-good organization wrote up a report. Was on the news and everything."
"Forced the governor to act."
"Yeah, even fired the warden and brought in a whole new regime."
"More women."
"Most of'm good, too."
"Not always nice mind'ya, they gotta be strict to keep order."
"Yeah, fair."
"Except Conway and Southern. They regular bitches. They sisters."
"Nah, lesbos."
"Nah, they related by blood. Check out their eyes. Both mean."
"I saw her beat Miller out in the yard last September. Put her in the hospital."
I listen to the new topic, but I keep thinking of the old woman getting released today. I don't ask what she was on. If it was heroin, I am not old enough to have brought her supply into the country. Looking at the women telling their stories and the other women sitting around me eating, I see others who have entered this system as addicts, especially those in their late twenties and early thirties. I think of Tricia Miller, her overdose. I never knew Vee, but I heard how she got Taystee, one of the more sensible inmates in Litchfield, to dispense that shit to others, including Nicky whose struggles with heroin are epic. Of course, the guards, especially Pornstache and Hellman, had the largest pipelines. To think I enthusiastically helped bring that poison into the country. It was no big deal. Everyone had a right to choose. I wasn't forcing it into their arms and noses. Damn! Little Tricia, though her poison of choice was Oxy. I remember Piper sinking into my arms when she saw the wrapped body brought out on a gurney from the closet where they found her hanging. At the time, I was only interested in staring down Healy, who had put Piper in SHU for dancing with me. I dared him to do anything as I held her.
Nicky said the hanging was staged. Tricia had been using. Still, I think it was the first time Pipes had ever seen a dead body, although she might have seen one of her grandparents at a viewing or funeral, but that would have been more natural and Tricia's death seemed so brutal and she had been so young, only eighteen or nineteen, a kid really. I don't know, but her death affected Pipes. She wanted to plan a memorial, but no one wanted to help. She cried then, too. We found the wake and enjoyed the company of our friends and the libations Poussey had made from kitchen scraps. She and other representatives from the Ghetto had brought it to the morning "family" and that's what we were, or what it felt like. Family. Especially Piper and I. I had my arm draped around her shoulder and she kept my dangling hand in hers. We were resuscitating our former relationship. I could feel it. She was physically and emotionally mine or so it seemed. All was good, except for Tricia's death.
But fuck! How many Tricia's have ended up on a cold slab because of Oxy, meth, cocaine, and so many other drugs. How many got hooked on what I brought in or overdosed? I don't know. I used to think that doing drugs was a choice. No one makes anyone do drugs. My addiction was my fault. After the raw emotions of mom's death and funeral and the ache of Piper leaving me alone, I gave in and chose to do drugs. Fahri never forced me. I made the choice. It was stupid. I had resisted his offers countless times, after mom's funeral, I just said, fuck it! I guess I really didn't care and then it was sort of fun. I lost myself. I was lost.
When they leave for their afternoon shifts, I dump what's left of my food into the trash and stack the tray. I make my way to the bathroom and for a short while lock myself in a stall and cry. I flush the toilet, wash my hands and face with water, scrub my teeth with the index finger of my good hand, and return to my bunk. I stare at the ceiling. I have added something else to hate myself for.
On the tenth day, just before dinner, at quarter to four, three guards enter.
"Davenport, Diaz, Montgomery, Rollins, Vause, Watkins!" I look up from my game of solitaire. "Marshals are here." The guard speaking pauses as another whispers into her ear. She speaks again. "I see only three of you. Where're the others?"
"How should I know?" says Diaz, who is filling her nails with a borrowed emoryboard.
"Check TV room," I say. "Davenport usually joins the golden crowd in the afternoon."
"Get her," the guard points to me.
I put my cards down, slip off my bed, and head for the dorm's exit to the TV room.
"Get those two up to processing," the guard says to the second.
Come on, ladies," the second guard orders Diaz and Watkins to follow her.
The lead guard follows me and speaks into the mic clipped to her shoulder. "Would someone find Montgomery and Rollins? Bring them to Processing…. Yeah. Marshal's are here."
We find Betsy with the older women. Before we can go, her new friends give her hugs and best wishes. Slowly, we make a stop. The first is the bathroom, so Betsy can relieve her bladder. While she does that, I run back to our bunk and make sure she has left nothing behind. She hasn't. She has nothing.
Diaz and Watkins stand patiently as a guard snaps iron jewelry to their wrists, ankles, and waist. Betsy and I enter. Diaz and Watkins are placed in a cell while the guard has us strip for oh so lovely inspection of our bodies for contraband. I simply follow orders. The guard who escorted us to Processing looks me over with a fine tooth comb. The only good part of this indecency is that I notice most of the bruising on my sides and legs have gone down. I am told to dress. It's chilly, so I quickly put my days' old clothing back on. They need to be washed. They stink. I can smell a funk odor without taking a whiff. Meanwhile, the other guard is taking care of Betsy. I see she takes note of her infirmities and speaks in soothing tones. For the most part Betsy complies. The guard skips the cavity search and helps Betsy redress. While my guard has walked away to speak on her mic, Betsy's guard shackles us. I'm first. Lucky me.
"We're still looking," I hear a reply.
"Fucking idiots," my guard curses. She opens the door that leads from processing to a waiting area. I see two marshals in their jackets. They are at the counter waiting, speaking with another guard. "Sorry, guys." The door closes.
We wait. Betsy shuffles and sits on a bench. Watkins takes a seat on a bench on the opposite side. I know we are going to be riding for a while, so I stand and pace just a little. Diaz leans against the bars.
"At least they could let us eat," grumbles Watkins. "We're always missing meals."
"Food is shit," replies Diaz. "Sandwich on the plane is better."
Watson glowers at Diaz. "I'm hungry now."
Diaz sighs. No argument. "Me, too."
We wait some more.
The guard sent to find Montgomery and Rollins enters. The snipe hunt has come to a successful conclusion. She has the two southern gals. The other guard pokes her head through the door. "Hey, they're here," The door closes. "Okay strip, ladies. You're holdin' everyone up." The girls comply.
"Okay, where were they?" asks the leader as she re-enters.
"They were in the yard."
"The yard."
"Yeah."
"The yard. How the hell did they get out there?"
"I don't know."
"Ladies," the lead guard steps close to the two lost lambs. She is a beast of a woman and could probably pound them to mush. "How the fuck did you get int the yard?"
"Walked," says Rollins as she kicks off her shoes. "It's cold in here."
"Didn't anyone tell you to stay in the dorm?"
"I just went out with my friends," Rollins said.
"And I guess you did, too?" the guard asks Montgomery.
"Yeah." Montgomery pulls off her jumpsuit.
"And no one stopped you?"
"No."
"Those lazy fuckers!"
"So what?" asks the guard who takes control of searching Montgomery.
"They're feds," she points at us. "Those Marshals are not happy that they have had to wait so long. That is why orange jumpsuits stay in the dorms. Orange, not khaki. How hard is it to keep track of orange. I'm going to write up the fuck-ups in this."
The guards perform quick, but thorough searches on Rollins and Montgomery. They dress and then are fitted with shackles. At that point we are released from the cage and shuffle from Processing out into the waiting area where three marshals take immediate possession of our persons. We are led outside to an awaiting bus. The marshals perform another quick check and watch as we board the bus that will take us to the airport. The bus is nearly full. Last on, I am pushed into a bench behind the marshals sitting in front. It is the end. To my right sits a hispanic girl of medium height who looks to be fourteen years old. I can see she has been crying. Her head rests against the window. I leave her alone and stretch my left leg. Feels good.
Sitting so close to the front, and on the aisle, I get to see out the large window in front. I have never been in the South. I want to take note of the scenery. I read the signs. Alabama US 231 heading north. Of course, since food is on the mind of so many, those who can see out the front window spy a nondescript tan building with a painting of a pink pig. A red sign and the delectable smell of wood fire barbecue elicits a chorus of groans.
"Barbecue," I hear a low pitched voice. "What I wouln't give for some ribs and cornbread."
"Oh, yeah. And mac and cheese, corn on the cob."
A guard stands and turns back. "Quiet back there." Voices obey, but soft snippets of conversation continue about barbecue.
For the most part, there is not much to see except for trees. Soon it is dark and the scenery is a dark facade. My eyes close. They open again when the bus slows. We are passing through a residential area with cross streets. Many of the houses are brick. Some have wooden exteriors painted white. They are difficult to see as few street lights illuminate the road though passing headlights and the cars in front allow me to see on this part of the tour. As the density of the town increases I see the glow of lights from a traffic light up ahead. Before we reach it, on the right, an enormous Baptist church comes into view. It takes up the entire block. A white octagonal dome looms above and four corinthian columns hold up a large pediment over the portico. The whole complex is impressive. It looks rich. I have seen other huge churches before. The cathedrals in Paris, Istanbul, and New York City come to mind and even fill me with a bit of awe, but these huge megachurches in the south, including this one, make a shiver run down my spine. The light turns green and the bus gets underway. We pass a coffee shop. A high school, and very quickly we veer eastward and start to pick up speed. My eyes close, but before long the bus stops and we turn left. Then left again. After a third left the bus comes to a stop. A prisoner exchange takes place as two men get off and five take their place. I sit with my eyes closed until once again the bus gets under way. I open my eyes when the bus takes the on ramp to Interstate 20. They stay open,slightly, as we pass exits for Birmingham and then Tuscaloosa. Somewhere after Tuscaloosa I fall into a light sleep. WWhen I wake we are on a narrow two lane stretch of road. The road lacks lights. The only lights come from small isolated businesses, churches, lots of churches, and an occasional home. I stretch, trying to alleviate the knot in my back. My injuries have not bothered me too much, but I have grown stiff. I feel a pop in my lower spine. It feels delicious and I sink into the relief and sleep.
I wake as the bus stops for a large gate, which rolls open. We drive in and come to another stop. The marshal directly in front of me stands and reads a list of names, "... Santiago, Acindina …" The girl next to me lifts her head from the glass. Her eyes still look red, but sleepy. "Necesito salir de aquí." She points to the aisle where other women are passing.
"Sure," I reply and wait for a break. I slide off the bench and stand, almost running into a woman who abruptly slid out from the seat directly behind me. I apologize, holding back a grimace from my protesting back.
"Yeah, watch it bitch."
My seatmate slides out. "Gracias," she says.
I give her a nod. She nods back and rounds the rail and shuffles down the stairs. I sit back down in the seat that has been mine for the last God who knows how long. Over half of the women have gotten off. Wherever we are, this must be a big facility. About twenty minutes later a dozen board the bus. I stand to let a passenger into the seat next to the window, but the marshal orders me to scoot over. A short round black woman with long braids in her forties takes my seat. Once again I have no legroom. Almost immediately, my subconscious memory and the dread of the journey ahead, my back tightens and my legs, especially my left leg, begin to spasm. Fuck! Stop it! I wish, but that doesn't happen. I grit my teeth and lay my head against the windowpane. The bus completes a U-turn. The entire bus rattles. My head bounces against the barred window. Fuck that. I sit up straighter. I take a breath. The spasm in my back is gone leaving a dull ache. I sigh. Good. The leg refuses to comply. The bus makes a couple of rights and a left. Once again we are on the road, still headed north. The seat ahead of me blocks my view of the front window. I peer between the two seats for a bit. That makes my eyes hurt so I close them. After a handful of minutes, the bus moves left and pauses. I look between the seats. A car passes. We turn left onto a new road. I see a 77 inside a white approximation of Alabama's silhouette. North. Still headed north, on a proper four lane highway. The bus has picked up speed. I make out signs for churches, campgrounds, and restaurants then the golden arches of two all beef patties, special sauce, pickles, onions, on a sesame seeded bun. Days Inn. Burger King. TA Travel Center. We move left, go over an overpass where signs blaze for a Waffle House, Dominos, and another travel center, but before we pass these we slow and move into a left-hand turn lane. Without stopping we turn left onto the onramp for Interstate 20. We are headed west. So, the magical mystery tour takes a new direction.
I am awakened when the tenor of the wheels change pitch. It has downshifted and is circling as it rises up to an overpass and stops. This lullaby created by the hum of the wheels over freeway pavement has come to end. The bus makes a left. I listen to the new strain and its accompanying rhythms. Before this number becomes too wearisome the bus merges onto another road. Again the pitch changes, as does the rhythm. The older road adds texture, like my mom's old stereo when she played a favorite LP from her youth. A grittier texture overlay adds a soothing element to this part of the song. It isn't long before we stop and the bus engine winds down and the brakes add a metallic screech. We turn left and soon lights from various businesses filter between the slats into the bus. The bus plays a refrain of engine starts and stops accompanied by the do wop of brakes catching and letting go. I think we are nearing our next destination. I keep my eyes closed. I don't care. The song continues through a few more turns–left, left, right, and so on-until the song ends with a final hiss and the driver opens the door. The lead guard reads off a list of names. No woman gets up. They're all men and I can see through the slat a contingent of correctional officers have started to scramble through the doors.
Most of the men moving forward are heavily tattooed. I see swastikas, dots tattooed over eyes, IGC, Madonnas, skulls, swords, guns and those are just on the face and neck. One of the guys bends down to the woman next to me and smiles.
"Hey, Queenie," he says.
"Get a move on, inmate!" A nearby marshal pushes him forward. "No pestering the ladies."
"She's no lady. She's a queen," he chuckles. He looks back. He has a Star of David on his neck with a G on the left and a D on the right. The number 6.
I see a similar star on the woman's upturned arm. As the younger, athletic man looks back she sits upright in a regal fashion, proud of the recognition.
I close my eyes. I hear new inmates, again men, I peek, again many sport a variety of tattoos. I close my eyes and ignore the comments they give the women as they shuffle and clink down the aisle to the back of the bus. Throughout my journey few male inmates who ride on the buses and planes with me have clear skin. Most have tattoos. Many of the women do as well. Hell, I do and so does Piper, although she left prison with more tattoos than when she went in, one not by choice. Who knew that a swastika could become a window? It can and did and Piper changed. From that point she was mine, body and soul. Looking back at the sins that had caused the hated Nazis symbol to be burned into her arm, she started to find herself, and her purpose. I felt left out at times, but I knew that she was ashamed of the actions carried out by crazy gangster Piper. She wanted to redeem herself and this new-make-prison-better-for-everyone Piper was her way of doing that. This is why she supported and helped Taystee and her coalition during the riots. It is why she helped Brooke Soso put up the new library, which was also part of her make prison campaign. SHe encouraged Daya, who painted the greenhouse. Flaca and Maritza, well, they beautified the inmates. One was me. I smile inside.
"Hey whatcha smilin' at?" asks my seatmate.
I open my eyes. The woman is not smiling as she looks at me. "Thinking about my wife," I say softly.
"Oh," she replies.
"Miss her?"
"Yeah."
"She nice?"
"Usually," I say.
"Good times? Your thoughts?"
"Yeah."
"I can tell you love her."
"I do," I say.
"Must be shit to be away from her."
"Shit is the word alright," I say.
"What about you? Married?"
"He's in Florence."
"Where?"
"Colorado. He killed an inmate at Jessup. Put a couple of guards in the hospital."
"Wow."
"Your wife in?"
"Out."
"So she was a felon. Meet her inside?"
"No"
"Who got who busted?"
"Me."
"And you still married?" She sounds in awe.
"I don't know." It's hard to keep tears from forming.
I hear the guards making their way through the bus. "Forty-seven. Okay, Mike." I guess Mike's the driver. The bus's breaks come off and we roll.
"Kids?" she asks.
"No."
"Got four. They're with my mom and brother. Where you going?"
"Cleveland?"
"And you're riding around in a bus in the middle of Mississippi. Figures. Me. Victorville. That's in California. South Central, closer to home."
"Getting out?" I ask.
"No," she chuckles. "I have twenty more years left, but my kids can come visit. Originally I went to Greenville."
"Wow," I say.
"Yeah. I guess I shouldn't have shot John, but he stole some of the product I brought over from Mexico. That money pay for my kids' food and our home, especially since Brock had already gone down for taking out the M92s leader and been caught. We own our home. Paid it off. So I did what I did. Of course the M92s tried to take our turf and routes …What you do?"
"Heroin logistics."
"From where?"
"All over, South Pacific, Java mainly, Europe …"
"Your business?"
"No, just an employee?"
"Your wife?"
"Just my girlfriend, but necessity got her involved."
"Gonna go back when you get out?"
"Hell, no!" I say almost too loudly. I bite my lip. "No. No more," I say more quietly.
"Why? My mom and brother are in charge of the operation now. My eldest daughter goin' to college and it's all paid for. She got a small scholarship `cause she's smart, but we pay for the rest."
She continues talking, telling me about herself, her kids, and how happy she will be to see them. It has already been 15 years. The quiet conversation alleviates the boredom. I sigh and the bus keeps rolling. After a while Queenie has grown quiet. Her head nods. The bus slows and stops. I open my eyes. We have stopped in front of a heavy gate. After a long pause, the gate opens. We drive up a short road that leads up a small hill. The bus groans. As we crest the hill I see we are at a smallish airport. We pass small corrugated hangars. They have no doors. I see small aircraft parked within. Our bus tour seems to finally be coming to an end. I hear rustling behind me as others have become aware of where we have arrived. We drive past the rows of hangars onto an open tarmac and stop. I don't see a plane. Maybe it is on the opposite side. I can't see out those windows, not even through the bars fastened across them. The guards are up and stretching. The driver opens the door and takes a case from the guard sitting in front of me and leaves.
"All right, inmates," the guard in front stands and addresses us, "We're going to take the women first and get them settled. Men stay put."
My seatmate rises and slides into the aisle. More women do the same. I am a tortured pretzel and my head is not just groggy from sleep, but shaky as well. My body is rebelling against the hours-long way it has been twisted and forced to remain seated. I need oil. I need a massage, a heating pad, a bath, and a pulsating hot shower. I stretch. A series of pops work down my spine like falling dominoes. I make my way into the aisle and shuffle to the steps. A marshal takes my elbow and helps me navigate the descent. I follow the woman in front of me to a line that has started to move around the front of the bus. That is when I see the plane and I continue my shuffling gait until it stops. A large black marshal has already started performing the process of inspecting us for weapons and contraband. I put my body through more stretching. Other women are doing the same. Who knows how long we'll have to sit on the plane? I hear women asking for the bathroom. I have been on the fucking bus for over nine hours and a couple in the line had been on before me. We haven't had a stop to relieve ourselves, and we haven't eaten. I am doing all I can to hold my bladder. I also need food.
"When you goin'ta feed us?"
"Yeah."
"I have to pee."
"I need to shit."
I've been on that fuckin' bus for five hours."
"Me nine."
"I've been riding for twelve hours with no access to a bathroom or food."
"This treatment ain't right." I recognize Diaz's voice.
The women around me add to the chorus.
"We'll see what we can do." The marshal searching us says. Quietly, he speaks to a young latina marshal.
"Why don't they cut these routes in half?" she nods and turns.
"Not enough planes," he answers.
She turns and heads for the plane, scampering up the stairs. Another marshal appears at the door a moment later and, moving to the right, heads back down. He stops and speaks with the marshal at the end of the boarding stairs. That marshal nods and walks to a point half-way between the marshal conducting the search and the plane. He watches as the women shuffle and clank by as they head to the plane.
The line moves swiftly and I open my mouth, stick out my tongue, move it around. The marshal checks my hair for contraband. He sees the lump in the pocket of my jumpsuit. He removes my broken glasses. He glances at them and then my naked socks.
"Break on the bus?"
"During a forced vacation in Georgia." I answer back, perhaps a bit too sarcastically.
He stares, probably thinking of a come back or reprimand. Thankfully, so far, the marshals are not as quick with a baton, fist, or the butt of their rifles. He slips the specks back into the pocket.
"Go on," he motions.
I shuffle towards the plane. Ahead, I see a backlog, a traffic jam. The women have stopped on the stairs standing on-line. What the fuck? I come to the end and pause. I decide to stretch a bit more before I return to enforced sitting for who knows how long?
I hear a loud screech. I recognize the voice, but turn back to see anyway. Beyond the woman who is approaching the stairs, I see the confirmation. Betsy is having a massive melt-down. She wiggles and flings her arms around wildly as she tries to escape the marshal trying to get her to comply with the search. I wonder if her reaction is due to something more than her Alzheimer's and dementia. The marshal seems lost. Other guards are racing over to help. Three on one, then four on one. The more they fight with her the more agitated and louder she becomes. A couple of marshals are yelling.
Line moves. I go up two steps.
Betsy has become less vocal. I cannot see her. The marshals surround her.
I move up two more steps and then two more. I turn back. All is quiet.
Two of the marshals move away. One is running to the bus yelling at the marshals there. "We need paramedics, now!" Betsy lay flat on the tarmac. The marshal who performed the searches is kneeling, fingers on her wrist. Another is giving CPR.
I stand fixated. In my mind I see Poussey prone and lifeless as a ragdoll, her life force pushed out by the knee of a clueless CO. I see Fahri on the floor with a gaping bullet wound and blood soaking the carpet of the hotel room. I see Aydin, my tissue wrapped hand covering his mouth while my fingers hold his nostrils together; Trisha in a body bag. Poussey dead. Lifeless. Betsy, mouth-to-mouth, chest compression.
"Hey," the woman behind me motions for me to move forward, up the stairs. I do so, but look back.
Betsy. Is she dead? Did they kill her or is it a heart attack, a stroke? The poor old woman.
I cannot get the image of Betsy lying on the tarmac out of my brain. The marshal continued to work on her until the EMTs arrived in their ambulance. When I heard the siren, I was inside the plane, waiting for my turn to use the restroom. By the time I finished and was shown another middle seat, luckily on the side where I could see what was happening, the EMTs had finished. Betsy is no longer on the tarmac. A uniformed woman is shutting the back door where the gurney would have been loaded. Her partner, he is speaking to the marshal who had been administering CPR, lingers. I can only draw one conclusion and though I really didn't know the old lady, I had come to like her. PolyCon and the Bureau of Prisons should have never forced her to undertake this journey. Psychologically and emotionally, I find it hard. She was old and sick and the marshals. I bite my lip and close my eyes. Does anyone even care? And what about me? I am so alone. I've pissed and fucked over anyone whose ever loved me. Would anyone care if I simply died? Maybe Piper? She's probably run to Zelda. Run to her arms. I wouldn't blame her. I told her to go. Now Betsy's dead. At least, I won't have to take care of her. Shut up, Vause! I shout in my head. The woman died! She died. Alone. No, the marshals, they don't count. Fuck! They probably caused her death. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I wipe tears from my cheek. Damn it, you didn't even know her. Not really. She never really talked to anyone, except occasional gibberish, thinking I was her daughter. I have a mother, but she's dead. I have a father. He's an ass-hole. He's probably dead, too. Drug addict. Drug addicts die. Thank goodness, Nicky didn't. Nicky didn't. At least Nicky's still my friend, and Lorna, but she's no longer herself, having lost her own battle to mental illness. Poor Nicky. She loves Lorna so much. Loves her and Red, who is her mother for all intents and purposes and now assigned to the B block because of her dementia. Sad, so sad. I wipe my face.
The men have started boarding.
"Hey, baby," one of them leans in my direction. "Don't cry. I'm here. I can take away all of your problems," he says evocatively, pointing to his penis.
"Fuck off!"
I notice a girl has taken the aisle seat next to me. She and the guy I told to fuck off look at me.
I say nothing more, but the girl can't be more than five feet tall. Pennsatucky's probably taller and she's a short girl. I want to scream. She doesn't need the aisle. I do! I do!.
"Hey," I catch a marshal watching over the guys shuffle down the aisle. "Hey," I say a couple of more times. Finally, she looks at me. "Is there any way of switching us," I wiggle my index finger indicating my seat and the aisle seat. "After the guys are seated. My legs."
"Why?"
Fuck! Is she stupid and not notice my legs and how they are cramped. "I need the aisle."
"This isn't American Airlines."
"I know, but…"
"Hey, I like my seat," says the girl next to me.
"Once we're loaded, we leave. That woman's death put us behind schedule."
"Betsy."
"Huh?"
"The woman's name. It's Betsy."
"Whatever. We're still behind."
"How much would it take? Your legs don't need as much space."
"I said," the girl squares up and looks at me. Her face is wide with a broad nose and her blonde hair is cropped short in a pixie cut. "I like this seat."
"You don't need it," I say back to her.
"It's mine."
"I need it."
"And you're not going to get it." The guard has moved and stands in front of our row. "You have the seat you got. Stop whining," She moves past and helps put the men in their seats.
"It's mine." The girl sits back, crosses her arms, and presents me with a cocky smile.
I want to knock her crooked teeth into her tonsils.
(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.