Got Milk?
September 21, 2000
The lights come on; the food trap opens; my "Plast-O-con Hot Tray" is thrust at my waiting arms. If I were not there waiting then my breakfast would continue on down the line without stopping. If I am not standing there to get my breakfast, I don’t eat. Milk, juice, sugar, butter, toast, cold cereal, and coffee‑flavored drink. Everyday, three meals a day, my food arrives in a plastic compartment tray.
Once I adjust mentally for the reality of being in S.H.U. ("Special Housing Unit" or solitary segregation) I begin the ritual of attempting to eat. I’m never very hungry first thing in the morning, after a moderately restful nights' sleep, but eat I must. Breakfast is the most edible meal of the day. Or rather, the least offensive. I have ten minutes to eat, though there is no way to judge, more or less, how much time the cops permit me to eat. Once the food trap opens again I must surrender the tray, and any unconsumed portions of my meal. There is "no saving food". Eat it or throw it away. That’s the rule.
Nonetheless, two slices of toast get wrapped up in toilet tissue, stuffed under my mattress for later, or before bed. Three sugars sprinkled over my cereal; pour the milk; stir. I don't drink the coffee. It is not really coffee anyway. It is some non-caffeine "chicory" flavored tepid drink. I ignore the butter. The juice is saved for last‑‑the best for last. I wait for the cereal to soften.
Something's not right. The cereal doesn't taste right. Could it be? Oh, no! The milk is sour. I snatch the carton. The imprint reads "APR23". What's today? I don’t know the day of the week any more than I know what today’s date is. Ugh, today is April 27th!
The meals in S.H.U. are barely edible, but I eat all I can swallow. As the months wear on, the larger issue with the food was not the quality, but rather the quantity. Sure the meals are disgusting, but on the occasion when there is something decent to eat there is rarely much to eat. The "soup" is never more than a cup of salty water with some floating leftovers. Occasionally I am lucky to pick out some vegetables. Once I found a whole tomato in the soup cup. The removal of the tomato left less than a half‑inch of liquid in the cup. Often times the eight ounce cup would be nothing more than a third filled with some kind of liquid. Sometimes I just have to laugh at the audacity to publicly display the "nutritionally sound" menu, and then to serve us nothing more than a half‑cup of tepid water. The trays sent to the S.H.U. cells are deliberately sent with barely any food in them.
I have never been the type to yell to the cops for much of anything. I just never found it worth the effort. They will either do whatever it is they are supposed to do, or they won't. My yelling will not likely change that fact. Others, however, are quick to jump at an opportunity to both make noise, and to yell at the cops. Surprisingly, even though I can sense grumbling in the air, no one is hollering. I guess they know it won't help.
The Special Housing Unit functions within a world isolated unto itself, and the gods of this universe are some GED, NRA, FBI wanna‑be, red‑neck, sadistic sub‑humans. Their idea of a good time is to come to work and abuse inmates. "That'll teach ya' to be an honest member of society," they bark. These cops are walking case‑studies of "Inferiority Complex".
Somehow calling for the cops to tell them the milk is sour does not seem like a productive undertaking. There is only a fifty‑fifty chance of the cops even answering, "What!", when any inmate calls. The notion that complaining of the milk being sour might result in all of us receiving new milk and fresh cereal (as the milk has already soiled the cereal) is clearly fatally flawed. There is just not enough spirit left in anyone which is not crushed to take up this battle. With a sigh and a curse, I abandon of one of my three meager meals for the day. For want of a milk a meal was lost.
It is another bleary morning indistinguishable from any other. Another dirty tray. A few moans. Some scuffled steps along the floor. (I do not have enough energy or motivation to lift my feet.) I wrap the bread in toilet tissue, sprinkle three sugar packets over the cereal, the milk carton gets a habitual (though unnecessary) shake, I pour it over my cold cereal, and wait for it to soften. I don’t even look at what I’m doing. What is the sense in opening one's eyes when there is nothing to look at?
Ugh! Not again! Can't be! The milk carton says, "APR30". What is today? Ugh, it’s May third! But this time others are equally upset and guys are hollering for the cops. "C.O.! C.O.! The milk's sour!"
There is a flurry of activity and after a while I hear flaps opening and closing. Someone called the mess hall. A cop is passing out new milks. I am amazed. We are certainly not going to receive fresh, unsoiled portions of cereal, but it appears we are all getting a new carton of milk to drink.
Oh, you have got to be kidding! Can't be! Oh, sure it can. Who am I kidding? I realize I have to write about this. The second carton of milk which is passed out is also dated "APR30" and is equally sour. Is there no one with functional frontal‑lobe activity running the zoo?
It comes as no surprise a week later when we were once again given past‑date milk with breakfast. This time no one bothered to holler to the cops about it.
I there's no spirit left which is not broken.
September 21, 2000
Fidjle@FreeJesse.net
Copyright (c) 2000 by Jesse Friedman