valuum
Well-known Member
NOTE: This is really long and didn't format exactly correct from MS word. I don't expect a ton of people to read this all. That said I really appreciate feedback. I don't glorify or glamorize drugs, it's just something I've struggled with my whole life. Please don't judge me by the content of this story, which occurred when I was about 22.
You can take a criminal out of his neighborhood, but you can’t take his neighborhood out of him. People bring their bad habits with them to prison whether it be drug use or drug dealing the same way gangs from the streets make their way into the corrections system and vice versa. When I went to prison at age 22 I had no desire or thought of reforming my drug habit. I arrived in real prison in early January and got high for my first time while their was still winter.
I remember my nerves blaring as I sat on a picnic bench with Stump, watching him huddled up into his coat hood with his arms pulled back through the sleeve holes trying to manipulate the homemade lighter inside his jacket, and thought it looked comical but couldn’t laugh. This was the first time I had ever had the nerve to smoke anything in prison, I smelled tobacco and marijuana almost every day and could not believe it. Every time I smelled the sweet sickly aroma I would giggle with delight because I’m still a highschool boy at heart that loves smoking weed where you’re not supposed to. Such a flagrant breach of the rules inside a corrections institute blew my mind… but within 6 months I would be smoking joints behind the softball fence with Gay Mike like it wasn’t against the rules. Things becomes easier like that in addiction.
Drug use in prison eventually got as normal to me as drug use in the streets. Drugs are a major factor in prison, they produce an unbelievable amount of profit but with drama and violence to match. Drugs are usually ten times the price they would be worth on the street and they still sell out quicker than they can be smuggled in.
People don’t really get raped in prison anymore but drug debts often lead to a sort of gray area rape. One of the biggest and most powerful subcultures in prison are the Black Muslims. These guys range from Louis Farrakhan like political beliefs to just normal gang bangers that don’t even know the first thing about Islam. In many joints they control the heroin trade through sheer numbers. In MDOC over half the inmates are black and it seems like damn near all the black guys over 35 were in some sort of Muslim group. Every one of the muslim groups does not condone homosexualty but Black Muslim men are notorious for gay sex in the joint. It’s just a known thing that they are “on the down low” more than any other group or subculture. It’s a common prison move, since they often control the heroin, to lure young white guys into heavy drug debts in an attempt to turn them out (“press them for sex”). Basically the alternative offered is either violence or being forced to leave The Yard (Locking Up) and potentially face problems at the next prison.
For the most part though I didn’t have a bad time in the drug trade. I got into typical shouting matches with friends, argued with black men over my line of credit, was threatened over said line of credit, used dirty needles, and all the same antics I did on the street but never had a violent incident. I did have one close call though, a call so close I almost earned myself a few more years in prison.
I was fiending hard after watching a re-run of “Drugs Inc” on NattyG in the middle of the afternoon. It was only 2pm and I was already fiending for drugs, it wasn’t looking like today was gonna be one of those “good days”. Someone more experienced with recovery might have noticed the trend of watching “Drugs Inc” then getting high and cut out that specific show out of the schedule, but it was one of my favorites. It doesn’t take much to set off my addiction. Getting a brand new, fresh syringe would set me off like no other… as if a only having a dirty one would stop me!
I remember it was the Portland episode of Drugs Inc. I remember thinking Portland seemed like junky heaven. I wanted to live in Portland for this. I dreamed of a culture that accepted me for what I was. A burden on society, sure, a stain on the napkin of an otherwise beautiful cityscape, me nodded out on a bench. Not a menace, not a villain, just a guy with problems but no nefarious intent. All my life I dreamed of a place where they would just let a junky be a junky. I can take being dopesick, I can take spending all my money, I can take being alone, I just can’t take getting locked up. Portland and those pacific northwest cities seem like they don’t put you down just for being a fiend. I came down with 2 years for failing a drug test in Michigan. But I wasn’t in Portland, I was in Jackson, MI, but I could get heroin on credit.
Jackson, MI is known for the MDOC with multiple prisons in the city along with quarantine. It’s also a city with a hood that doesn’t get the publicity of Saginaw or Flint but still bangs hard as fuck. Some of the craziest white guys I’ve met in my life were meth cooks from Jackson County. Some of the hardest GD’s (Gangster Disciples) I ever met were from Jackson City. Jackson also produced a strange amount of white GD’s which is something I can’t much comment on. In the parole violator camp the Jackson boys always clique up heavy. It wasn’t much of a surprise that the Jackson clique in prison were major players in the drug game due to their geographic proximity.
Tank was a black kid in his mid 20’s. It’s easy to describe him as a kid because of his smaller build compared to all the other black guys in prison but he commanded as much respect as anyone. I thought that even without the drug connection he might have held just as much power in some way or another. I had many dealers in prison I got friendly with who would give me long grace periods before I had to pay my debts and never gave me terse words over big debts. Tank wasn’t like that. With him you paid your debt when it was expected and he never warmed up to me even after multiple successful deals. He had the least problems with debt collection of any dealer I ever saw because of this stone demeanor though.
The fact that Tank and his crew were operating this criminal organization from the fuckin’ honor dorm tells you all you need to know about how “on the ball” MDOC is. I swear that more dope came out of the “Change for Life” (aka “Cons for life”) honor dorm. Not to mention the guy that got caught with 34 knives there. I spent many hours of my life sitting on the picnic tables outside the honor unit waiting for Pooky to get the drugs from Ray Ray and have Junebug run them out to me. You would think since we are fenced inside a small area a prison drug deal would be at least fast but leave it to black ingenuity to find a way to make the white man suffer even more in his chemical and physical bondage.
My sewn-up dirty New Balances pitter pattered across the basketball courts as I made my way towards C-Unit. “Makin’ my way downtown…” my body bounced and swayed ipsy-pipsy as my enthusiasm for life bloomed and my outlook rose more and more positive. In the back of my mind the rotten idea bloomed, “What if I can’t get the drugs?”, I blocked the negative vibes out and focused on the positive, the syringe is always half full. The drugs were on The Yard the day before yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. But they weren’t here so long that the stash would have been ran through. The dealers never fucking let you know when the stash is getting low though.
I side stepped a few pick up basketball games and walked by Faggot Beach (the volleyball court) and C unit came into my view. I made a quick scan of the crowd in front of the unit trying to spot someone I knew or Tank himself. I needed someone from C unit to go in and get Tank for me. I saw Bike Chain Mike Augastinus but that would be my last resort, I didn’t need Bike Chain knowing I had money or dope. I slowed down my step and considered asking a stranger to go inside and get Tank.
Just when the chips were down Kyle Brewer emerged from the door with his thick black jazz musician MDOC sunglasses scanning the compound. Luck! Nothing better than a friend to shoot a move with. Kyle walked towards me muscles pushing out of his mint fresh white tank top. His arms and neck were covered in crude tattoos with “FUCK” running down one bicep and “OFF” down the other. He was often referred to as a “Solid Honkey” because of his adherence to his word and speed of paying debts. Kyle wasn’t my closest friend but I liked him more than just about anybody on The Yard. I asked Kyle to run back into his unit and give Tank a doorcall (This is sending someone into a housing unit you do not lock in to get someone). As soon as he heard my question his face turned to frustration, right away I could see he’d been getting sent in and out for people.
“Good luck, mothafucka we’ve been door callin’ this nigga for half an hour,” a voice called from a picnic table.
It was Trenton Palmer and Pooh-Bear, the rest of the Jackson drug ring. They had three homemade prison calzones made with dough stolen from the chow hall. One was in front of each of them with the other in front of the empty seat, obviously waiting for Tank.My heart sank with the realization there was obviously a difficulty in locating Tank.
“Is he in the unit? Is he in a class or something? Or someone else on The Yard?”
“He’s gotta be in there. He don’t have class today and we checked everywhere else,” answered Pooh Bear. I didn’t know Pooh as well and it was clear he was taking some pleasure in my obvious fiending.
“I called fucking everywhere, his cube, both bathrooms, the day room. He’s not in there,” said Kyle
Just then Tank emerged through the double doors in button down MDOC blues. Why anyone wears state blues (“I’m here now! In state blues. Tub of chow hall butter and some sewn-up shoes!”) when you can just wear a white t-shirt or tank top is beyond me. I suppose Tank was probably institutionalized having been in prison half a decade but appearing to be only in his mid 20s. He was doing a 7 year sentenced for Armed Robbery after hitting a 7-11 for 70 dollars. It was an odd contrast that a guy running such a lucrative drug ring in prison was committing such desperate and petty crimes in the streets. I tried to flag down Tank first but Trent and Pooh Bear were louder and more boisterous than me and gained his attention first. Before they could finish asking where he had been Tank roared over both of them.
“I was beatin’ my fuckin’ meat, nigga!”
Tank had been jacking off in the bathroom to porn, which he was returning to Trent (who had a serious collection), and had ignored Kyle’s calls for him (understandable). Trent glanced at me and locked eyes for a minute with a look that told me he was still holding. I instantly felt relieved but glanced at the calzone laid out on cardboard and knew he would most likely want to eat before getting the dope out of hiding. “The first thing that you learn is that you always gotta wait”. The Dopeman always has a way of hassling you around, even the good ones turn like this. Even in a place where we are literally confirmed they found ways to make me anxiously wait. Prison, home of the 2 hour drug deal.
Calzones were eaten, steps were paced, watches were glanced at, prices were talked and we settled on 8 packs for $400 to be paid no later than a week. Tank went in for the dope, came back out, and things felt really right for the first time since the last time I knew I was about to get dope. Tank motioned for me to follow him away from C unit, showing respect for the unit’s “Honor Dorm” status. Kyle followed with me to make sure everything went OK. He was a solid guy like that and was one of the few people that wouldn’t just stick around in hopes of getting free dope. His tolerance was nothing and I considered giving him a shot. The day had darkened and the sun looked like shaded colored pencil. It was beautiful and a great time of day to get high but I wished it was earlier in the day so I could fully experience my high outside. I would most likely stay up all night reading, writing, and compulsively doing push ups. People knew there was dope on the compound when I was frantically running sprint/pushup circuits.
For some reason that to this day baffles me Tank led us all to the Big Weight Pit. This was nearly in the center of the yard and not obfuscated from view in any way. To make things worse it was 8:30pm, which meant The Pit was closing, which meant there was a CO present to lock up the weights. Before I could voice my concerns Tank shoved an egg sized ball into my hand.
I interlude to tell you that $400 worth of heroin prison is NOT an egg-sized chunk. $400 worth of heroin in the world isn’t even close to being that big. Tank in true black-drug-dealer fashion had managed to inconvience everyone involved in the transport of said narcotics by packaging a small amount of drugs in a large amount of paper. This egg sized bundle contained about half a marble worth of heroin all together. There were 8 separate $50 folds of magazine paper with dope all packaged inside an entire sandwich baggie. “What a fucking waste of time and space,” this is what was on my mind when I heard CO Fuqua shout at me.
“You two! Shakedown, right now,” CO Fuqua was tall, black, muscular, and striding towards us at an authoritarian pace. The dope was in my fist, he was maybe 15-20 feet away and approaching quick. I’ve never been a good criminal, I freeze up way too easy but prison had conditioned me to act without thinking. I brought my fist to my face and put the package into my mouth. I’ll let him tackle me and take whatever ticket that is, plus the Substance Abuse ticket I get when they inevitably drug test me later. I will not just allow myself to catch a possession from inside the joint.
The package passed my lips and felt large in my mouth. I braced for impact but nothing happened. Maybe it was God, maybe CO Fuqua had just glanced away, but as he closed in at about 5 feet he didn’t let on that he saw anything. Now I had to do something with this egg in my mouth. I prepared to choke and swallowed hard. The packaging compacted a lot, thankfully it was a thin sandwich baggie. I felt the packaging slide down my throat and felt sad knowing it wasn’t sealed so there’d be no point in trying to puke it up. Before it reached the bottom of my throat movement stopped. I checked if I could breathe and only a tiny wisp of air came through.
Suddenly I panicked and became very away of my surroundings. Fuqua hadn’t saw me shoot the move, but every other person around The Pit did. The white noise of voices quieted down slightly as conversations cut off to watch and others became hushed. I could see everyone’s eyes were on me and you could even see the groups movement slowed a little bit and body language tensed up. Fuck! Why are they making it hot like this!
“IDs, now,” Fuqua’s voice demanded respect and he was more aggressive than most black COs. I only now realized that Tank was nowhere to be seen and Fuqua was not also demanding Tank’s prison ID but rather Kyle’s. I was struck with hope that maybe he hadn’t witnessed the actual drug deal after all. I reached into my pocket and handed him my ID. Time slowed down and I tried to keep my breathing normal as I struggled to get air through the miniscule opening. A paranoid daydream played in my head of me holding my breath for as long as I can before breathing in deeply through the small opening, causing a sharp whistling that pierces the silent nightmare and alerts Fuqua to my contraband. Maria, Full of Grace, Johnboy, Full of Dope.
“What’s your name?” Fuck!
“Kyle Brewer,” Kyle answered first giving me a minute to think. Why the fuck does he need me to speak? My name is on the fuckin’ card! Fuqua handed Kyle back his ID and his gaze shifted to me. I waited for him to speak hoping for another miracle.
“What about you, son?” He spoke in such an alpha confident way my hopes of getting one over on this man diminished. I did the only thing I could do and tried to speak my name.
“uhOhn, uHoonEe…,” someone the lack of confidence in my answer was somehow clear in what came out as gibberish. It sounded like I either had marbles in my mouth… or something in my throat.
“What? What the fuck did you say?” Fuqua was terse before but now he was bonafide upset.
“uhOhn...uHoonEe!” I tried to form words but it came out the same as before just louder.
“Open your fuckin’ mouth. Right now,” these words were actually said quieter than any previous exchange but they bit way harder. Now I was really fucked, and after making it this far. I opened wide and didn’t try any tongue tricks lest he examine even closer. Once again, I braced for impact.
Nothing came. I guess the package was actually lodged too far down my throat for him to see. One more bullet dodged, the only problem was Fuqua wasn’t letting up about my suspicious dialect.
“Why the fuck do you sound like that?” He demanded. I tried to think of answer and realized I wouldn’t be able to vocalize it anyways. I didn’t get a miracle, I didn’t have a guardian angel or God either. You don’t need those when you have a Sold Honkey watching your back.
“Hey, man! Leave him alone! He’s got a fuckin’ speech impediment!” Kyle shouted back, matching Fuquas previous intensity. He said it with righteousness, he said it with confidence that assured everyone -he- was in the right. A hail mary play by the Master of Improv! Fuqua’s body language relaxed and he shrank back, it was working!
“Oh, yeah, sorry…” Fuqua muttered. A few black faces watching from the crowd snickered but for the most part played it cool. He had actually fucking apologized on top of everything. He didn’t stay meek for long and proceeded to search the both of us with another CO coming to assist him. I hadn’t had a decent breath in over a minute and the tiny wisps I was getting weren’t enough. I could feel the shortness of breath gaining quicker and quicker.
I moved my feet apart widening my stance as the large black man’s hand reached up my inner thigh. I had already resigned that a GI Joe motherfucker like this was most definitely a ball-grabber and for a third time I braced for impact. Thankfully black homophobia prevailed and his hand stopped only slightly above the back of my knee. He reached into my front pocket and pulled out the bottle cap I used to mix my dope in. I prayed that he wasn’t that street smart and that there wasn’t a dried up cotton filter stuck to the inside of it. Less breath than ever now as I tried to keep my breathing slow with a post-speedball heartrate.
“The fuck is this?”
I looked at him with eyes that pleaded not to be embarrassed again by speaking in my retard accent and it worked. He handed me back my ID and walked away. I didn’t feel a rush of relief yet. The entire situation had given me a rush of adrenaline from the fight or flight response. My vision was starting to cave in at the edges as the lack of oxygen really got to me. I turned the opposite way as Fuqua and made sure no CO was approaching before I tried to get the dope back up. “Whiteboy got away!” I hear someone call out.
I push as hard as I can with my throat trying to push the dope out. I knew it was beyond swallowing. I notice Kyle isn’t by my side and I’m alone. I tense my stomach and push harder and the package, moving slowly from my mouth having run dry, comes up my throat and into my mouth.
Relief and euphoria break through the adrenaline and I realize I’m already facing my unit and I’m thankful for this as I move at a brisk clip across field and concrete. This was what normal people can’t understand, the rush associated with the lifestyle. Some people preferred to have dope delivered or send someone, but I always liked driving to the set to pick up myself. There was no better feeling than cruising back down I-75 knowing you were out of the risky party and almost home free.
None of the people standing in front of the unit or on the basketball court registered to me as I walked on autopilot through double doors. I turned sharply in the lobby and made my way down the front hallway. The unit was basically a pool barn divided up into 8 man cubicles with walls that went about 8 feet high. People on top bunks were exposed to people walking through the hallway and people laying down for the night to watch TV washed past my peripherals.
I needed to find Paul Vella (RIP) aka Pauly D. He was also jokingly called “The Dirty Hamster” for his habit of sleeping with snack food wrappers strewn about him (and it was a habit, despite his claims of it happening only a few times). He loved prison food more than anyone I ever met and had the Diabetes to prove it, which leads me to another nickname. He was also known, by all the IV drug users on the compound, as “The Needle Man”. The insulin “required” by his lazy pancreas gave him access to syringes, and his giant balls gave him access to steal them. From what he said there was a certain nurse was less on-the-ball about watching their Diabetics administer their insulin and the rest and when she worked he had about a 50% success rate of stealing a syringe. The rest of the nurses would make sure they saw you dispose of the syringe into the sharps container, but she didn’t watch it particularly close and would sometimes turn her back allowing for an opportunity. He would drop the cap of a pen down into the box to create a convincible sound.
I knew where Paul would be because the last place I saw him was laying in my bunk watching my TV. Paul didn’t really have money and he was one of my best friends even before he started stealing syringes so I genuinely liked to share my food and television with him and he was always the most appreciative out of anyone I did time with. My family ended up driving Paul home from prison so he wouldn’t have to take the bus and gave him a Costco sized tub of peanut butter, which was his prison favorite.
I turned into my cube and saw from the face of one of my Cubies they weren’t happy about an outsider being in the cube. I didn’t care and walked past him to my bunk and tapped Paul’s shoulder to get his attention from the TV. He pulled out his, well, my headphones and turned to me without speaking. He did that a lot, probably because he had a slight speech impediment… and Hep C, and fucked up watery calves plus swollen feet on top of the ‘beetus. The prison actually issued guys with feet like him special shoes that are infinitely more comfortable than the regular state issues. I deemed them the “Air Force (Type) Ones”.
“I need to use the loaner,” I said in shame. Paul, also being a Solid Honkey, had given me dibs on the first syringe he ever stole, plus he would let me trade out my used ones for new ones he’d steal. My old syringes became the loaners. I used rigs until the wheels fell off, until you had to use your ear wax to lubricate the plunger. I traded rigs to Pauly D at about a 2/10 and within a week they would be a -7. It would amaze you that the needle could even puncture skin.
In a bout of self improvement fueled by intravenous drugs I had destroyed my last clean rig one night in the bathroom the last time I used two days prior. Paul had told me I would regret this and I knew then he was right but half ass resolved to prove him wrong. I made it one whole day before I was coming back to him, state orange hat in hand.
Paul smiled, acknowledging he had been right along but didn’t rub it in thankfully. Paul hopped down from my bunk and led me out of the cube. I walked two cubes down and turned into his cube as I saw him tilt his locker backwards and grab a package wrapped in napkin from between the wall. He walked back towards the doorway of the cube and made sure no police were making rounds. He unwrapped the napkin and I saw two syringes with the numbering completely rubbed off and with numbering that still looked fairly crisp and clean.
“Now these two are $2 to use and they’re the same, they’re fine. But this one, this one is $5 to use, but when you shoot it you will feel where they money goes” Pulp Fiction. He hadn’t quoted the right, or even very close, and it sounded silly with his lispy speech impediment but I appreciated the references none the less.
“So this one’s clean?” I asked.
“No, but it’s better than the others”, He let on that he had been joking and wouldn’t charge me just to use it and just wanted to quote the film.
I grabbed the half decent looking syringe and hoped maybe the cosmetic damages I was now noticing were from being hidden and not from multiple HIV infected prisoners sweaty palms. I found Fat Josh by the washing machines doing his State Job of laundry porter. I asked him for a cup of bleach and he smiled realizing what I was doing. Fat Josh was the first person to introduce me to drugs in prison and I could tell by his pinned eyes he has been using the loaner too.
I assembled my shower bag with plastic spoon, cotton swabs, and bottle of hot water all inside and stuck the syringe in my waistband as I floated like a serene zombie with my cup of bleach towards the bathrooms. In security level 1 bathrooms have stalls with doors but they only go up to lower chest level. It’s enough coverage that someone would really have to be leaning over and specifically looking to see below your chest. You could hear the CO’s coming from the jingle of their keys plus they didn’t ever check the stalls anyways.
I sat down in the stall closet the wall and finally spit the plastic bag out of my mouth. The bindles were all still safe inside. I broke apart each $50 fold of paper each with more disappointment than the last with regards to their size. The 8th fold I sat aside untouched for Kyle and smiled at his quick thinking. A speech Impediment! Ha! CO Fuqua (pronounced: Foo-kwaa) more like “Fuckwad”! I thought as I rinsed the syringe with shitty watered-down prison bleach 5 times. I tried to hold each rinse for a ten count but my pace increased. Finally I mixed $350 dollars worth of heroin with 90 units of hot water. The dope dissolved fine and I noticed for the first time the little rice grains in the bag and some of the dope folds. Tank must have had the dope hidden inside a bag of rice.
I balled up a Q-tip cotton and dropped it in the mixture. The needle jabbed into the cotton as I pulled back on the plunger and tried to gauge how sharp the needle still was without luck. The dope drew back quickly and easily since the prison used larger 27 gauge size needles for insulin. I rung out the cotton with my finger as if the minuscule amount of dope I was getting out of it would do anything.
I sat everything down and pressed the needle against my inner arm which gave resistance for a moment before succumbing to the needle which wasn’t terribly dull. I didn’t have to dig long to find the large vein of my inner arm and a thick plume of blood came up in the way blood comes up a large gauge syringe. I pressed all the way down and then some as I release the cord of the shower bag from around my arm. My fist opened and closed as I attempted to pump the blood and after a few seconds the rest of the night was good.
You can take a criminal out of his neighborhood, but you can’t take his neighborhood out of him. People bring their bad habits with them to prison whether it be drug use or drug dealing the same way gangs from the streets make their way into the corrections system and vice versa. When I went to prison at age 22 I had no desire or thought of reforming my drug habit. I arrived in real prison in early January and got high for my first time while their was still winter.
I remember my nerves blaring as I sat on a picnic bench with Stump, watching him huddled up into his coat hood with his arms pulled back through the sleeve holes trying to manipulate the homemade lighter inside his jacket, and thought it looked comical but couldn’t laugh. This was the first time I had ever had the nerve to smoke anything in prison, I smelled tobacco and marijuana almost every day and could not believe it. Every time I smelled the sweet sickly aroma I would giggle with delight because I’m still a highschool boy at heart that loves smoking weed where you’re not supposed to. Such a flagrant breach of the rules inside a corrections institute blew my mind… but within 6 months I would be smoking joints behind the softball fence with Gay Mike like it wasn’t against the rules. Things becomes easier like that in addiction.
Drug use in prison eventually got as normal to me as drug use in the streets. Drugs are a major factor in prison, they produce an unbelievable amount of profit but with drama and violence to match. Drugs are usually ten times the price they would be worth on the street and they still sell out quicker than they can be smuggled in.
People don’t really get raped in prison anymore but drug debts often lead to a sort of gray area rape. One of the biggest and most powerful subcultures in prison are the Black Muslims. These guys range from Louis Farrakhan like political beliefs to just normal gang bangers that don’t even know the first thing about Islam. In many joints they control the heroin trade through sheer numbers. In MDOC over half the inmates are black and it seems like damn near all the black guys over 35 were in some sort of Muslim group. Every one of the muslim groups does not condone homosexualty but Black Muslim men are notorious for gay sex in the joint. It’s just a known thing that they are “on the down low” more than any other group or subculture. It’s a common prison move, since they often control the heroin, to lure young white guys into heavy drug debts in an attempt to turn them out (“press them for sex”). Basically the alternative offered is either violence or being forced to leave The Yard (Locking Up) and potentially face problems at the next prison.
For the most part though I didn’t have a bad time in the drug trade. I got into typical shouting matches with friends, argued with black men over my line of credit, was threatened over said line of credit, used dirty needles, and all the same antics I did on the street but never had a violent incident. I did have one close call though, a call so close I almost earned myself a few more years in prison.
I was fiending hard after watching a re-run of “Drugs Inc” on NattyG in the middle of the afternoon. It was only 2pm and I was already fiending for drugs, it wasn’t looking like today was gonna be one of those “good days”. Someone more experienced with recovery might have noticed the trend of watching “Drugs Inc” then getting high and cut out that specific show out of the schedule, but it was one of my favorites. It doesn’t take much to set off my addiction. Getting a brand new, fresh syringe would set me off like no other… as if a only having a dirty one would stop me!
I remember it was the Portland episode of Drugs Inc. I remember thinking Portland seemed like junky heaven. I wanted to live in Portland for this. I dreamed of a culture that accepted me for what I was. A burden on society, sure, a stain on the napkin of an otherwise beautiful cityscape, me nodded out on a bench. Not a menace, not a villain, just a guy with problems but no nefarious intent. All my life I dreamed of a place where they would just let a junky be a junky. I can take being dopesick, I can take spending all my money, I can take being alone, I just can’t take getting locked up. Portland and those pacific northwest cities seem like they don’t put you down just for being a fiend. I came down with 2 years for failing a drug test in Michigan. But I wasn’t in Portland, I was in Jackson, MI, but I could get heroin on credit.
Jackson, MI is known for the MDOC with multiple prisons in the city along with quarantine. It’s also a city with a hood that doesn’t get the publicity of Saginaw or Flint but still bangs hard as fuck. Some of the craziest white guys I’ve met in my life were meth cooks from Jackson County. Some of the hardest GD’s (Gangster Disciples) I ever met were from Jackson City. Jackson also produced a strange amount of white GD’s which is something I can’t much comment on. In the parole violator camp the Jackson boys always clique up heavy. It wasn’t much of a surprise that the Jackson clique in prison were major players in the drug game due to their geographic proximity.
Tank was a black kid in his mid 20’s. It’s easy to describe him as a kid because of his smaller build compared to all the other black guys in prison but he commanded as much respect as anyone. I thought that even without the drug connection he might have held just as much power in some way or another. I had many dealers in prison I got friendly with who would give me long grace periods before I had to pay my debts and never gave me terse words over big debts. Tank wasn’t like that. With him you paid your debt when it was expected and he never warmed up to me even after multiple successful deals. He had the least problems with debt collection of any dealer I ever saw because of this stone demeanor though.
The fact that Tank and his crew were operating this criminal organization from the fuckin’ honor dorm tells you all you need to know about how “on the ball” MDOC is. I swear that more dope came out of the “Change for Life” (aka “Cons for life”) honor dorm. Not to mention the guy that got caught with 34 knives there. I spent many hours of my life sitting on the picnic tables outside the honor unit waiting for Pooky to get the drugs from Ray Ray and have Junebug run them out to me. You would think since we are fenced inside a small area a prison drug deal would be at least fast but leave it to black ingenuity to find a way to make the white man suffer even more in his chemical and physical bondage.
My sewn-up dirty New Balances pitter pattered across the basketball courts as I made my way towards C-Unit. “Makin’ my way downtown…” my body bounced and swayed ipsy-pipsy as my enthusiasm for life bloomed and my outlook rose more and more positive. In the back of my mind the rotten idea bloomed, “What if I can’t get the drugs?”, I blocked the negative vibes out and focused on the positive, the syringe is always half full. The drugs were on The Yard the day before yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. But they weren’t here so long that the stash would have been ran through. The dealers never fucking let you know when the stash is getting low though.
I side stepped a few pick up basketball games and walked by Faggot Beach (the volleyball court) and C unit came into my view. I made a quick scan of the crowd in front of the unit trying to spot someone I knew or Tank himself. I needed someone from C unit to go in and get Tank for me. I saw Bike Chain Mike Augastinus but that would be my last resort, I didn’t need Bike Chain knowing I had money or dope. I slowed down my step and considered asking a stranger to go inside and get Tank.
Just when the chips were down Kyle Brewer emerged from the door with his thick black jazz musician MDOC sunglasses scanning the compound. Luck! Nothing better than a friend to shoot a move with. Kyle walked towards me muscles pushing out of his mint fresh white tank top. His arms and neck were covered in crude tattoos with “FUCK” running down one bicep and “OFF” down the other. He was often referred to as a “Solid Honkey” because of his adherence to his word and speed of paying debts. Kyle wasn’t my closest friend but I liked him more than just about anybody on The Yard. I asked Kyle to run back into his unit and give Tank a doorcall (This is sending someone into a housing unit you do not lock in to get someone). As soon as he heard my question his face turned to frustration, right away I could see he’d been getting sent in and out for people.
“Good luck, mothafucka we’ve been door callin’ this nigga for half an hour,” a voice called from a picnic table.
It was Trenton Palmer and Pooh-Bear, the rest of the Jackson drug ring. They had three homemade prison calzones made with dough stolen from the chow hall. One was in front of each of them with the other in front of the empty seat, obviously waiting for Tank.My heart sank with the realization there was obviously a difficulty in locating Tank.
“Is he in the unit? Is he in a class or something? Or someone else on The Yard?”
“He’s gotta be in there. He don’t have class today and we checked everywhere else,” answered Pooh Bear. I didn’t know Pooh as well and it was clear he was taking some pleasure in my obvious fiending.
“I called fucking everywhere, his cube, both bathrooms, the day room. He’s not in there,” said Kyle
Just then Tank emerged through the double doors in button down MDOC blues. Why anyone wears state blues (“I’m here now! In state blues. Tub of chow hall butter and some sewn-up shoes!”) when you can just wear a white t-shirt or tank top is beyond me. I suppose Tank was probably institutionalized having been in prison half a decade but appearing to be only in his mid 20s. He was doing a 7 year sentenced for Armed Robbery after hitting a 7-11 for 70 dollars. It was an odd contrast that a guy running such a lucrative drug ring in prison was committing such desperate and petty crimes in the streets. I tried to flag down Tank first but Trent and Pooh Bear were louder and more boisterous than me and gained his attention first. Before they could finish asking where he had been Tank roared over both of them.
“I was beatin’ my fuckin’ meat, nigga!”
Tank had been jacking off in the bathroom to porn, which he was returning to Trent (who had a serious collection), and had ignored Kyle’s calls for him (understandable). Trent glanced at me and locked eyes for a minute with a look that told me he was still holding. I instantly felt relieved but glanced at the calzone laid out on cardboard and knew he would most likely want to eat before getting the dope out of hiding. “The first thing that you learn is that you always gotta wait”. The Dopeman always has a way of hassling you around, even the good ones turn like this. Even in a place where we are literally confirmed they found ways to make me anxiously wait. Prison, home of the 2 hour drug deal.
Calzones were eaten, steps were paced, watches were glanced at, prices were talked and we settled on 8 packs for $400 to be paid no later than a week. Tank went in for the dope, came back out, and things felt really right for the first time since the last time I knew I was about to get dope. Tank motioned for me to follow him away from C unit, showing respect for the unit’s “Honor Dorm” status. Kyle followed with me to make sure everything went OK. He was a solid guy like that and was one of the few people that wouldn’t just stick around in hopes of getting free dope. His tolerance was nothing and I considered giving him a shot. The day had darkened and the sun looked like shaded colored pencil. It was beautiful and a great time of day to get high but I wished it was earlier in the day so I could fully experience my high outside. I would most likely stay up all night reading, writing, and compulsively doing push ups. People knew there was dope on the compound when I was frantically running sprint/pushup circuits.
For some reason that to this day baffles me Tank led us all to the Big Weight Pit. This was nearly in the center of the yard and not obfuscated from view in any way. To make things worse it was 8:30pm, which meant The Pit was closing, which meant there was a CO present to lock up the weights. Before I could voice my concerns Tank shoved an egg sized ball into my hand.
I interlude to tell you that $400 worth of heroin prison is NOT an egg-sized chunk. $400 worth of heroin in the world isn’t even close to being that big. Tank in true black-drug-dealer fashion had managed to inconvience everyone involved in the transport of said narcotics by packaging a small amount of drugs in a large amount of paper. This egg sized bundle contained about half a marble worth of heroin all together. There were 8 separate $50 folds of magazine paper with dope all packaged inside an entire sandwich baggie. “What a fucking waste of time and space,” this is what was on my mind when I heard CO Fuqua shout at me.
“You two! Shakedown, right now,” CO Fuqua was tall, black, muscular, and striding towards us at an authoritarian pace. The dope was in my fist, he was maybe 15-20 feet away and approaching quick. I’ve never been a good criminal, I freeze up way too easy but prison had conditioned me to act without thinking. I brought my fist to my face and put the package into my mouth. I’ll let him tackle me and take whatever ticket that is, plus the Substance Abuse ticket I get when they inevitably drug test me later. I will not just allow myself to catch a possession from inside the joint.
The package passed my lips and felt large in my mouth. I braced for impact but nothing happened. Maybe it was God, maybe CO Fuqua had just glanced away, but as he closed in at about 5 feet he didn’t let on that he saw anything. Now I had to do something with this egg in my mouth. I prepared to choke and swallowed hard. The packaging compacted a lot, thankfully it was a thin sandwich baggie. I felt the packaging slide down my throat and felt sad knowing it wasn’t sealed so there’d be no point in trying to puke it up. Before it reached the bottom of my throat movement stopped. I checked if I could breathe and only a tiny wisp of air came through.
Suddenly I panicked and became very away of my surroundings. Fuqua hadn’t saw me shoot the move, but every other person around The Pit did. The white noise of voices quieted down slightly as conversations cut off to watch and others became hushed. I could see everyone’s eyes were on me and you could even see the groups movement slowed a little bit and body language tensed up. Fuck! Why are they making it hot like this!
“IDs, now,” Fuqua’s voice demanded respect and he was more aggressive than most black COs. I only now realized that Tank was nowhere to be seen and Fuqua was not also demanding Tank’s prison ID but rather Kyle’s. I was struck with hope that maybe he hadn’t witnessed the actual drug deal after all. I reached into my pocket and handed him my ID. Time slowed down and I tried to keep my breathing normal as I struggled to get air through the miniscule opening. A paranoid daydream played in my head of me holding my breath for as long as I can before breathing in deeply through the small opening, causing a sharp whistling that pierces the silent nightmare and alerts Fuqua to my contraband. Maria, Full of Grace, Johnboy, Full of Dope.
“What’s your name?” Fuck!
“Kyle Brewer,” Kyle answered first giving me a minute to think. Why the fuck does he need me to speak? My name is on the fuckin’ card! Fuqua handed Kyle back his ID and his gaze shifted to me. I waited for him to speak hoping for another miracle.
“What about you, son?” He spoke in such an alpha confident way my hopes of getting one over on this man diminished. I did the only thing I could do and tried to speak my name.
“uhOhn, uHoonEe…,” someone the lack of confidence in my answer was somehow clear in what came out as gibberish. It sounded like I either had marbles in my mouth… or something in my throat.
“What? What the fuck did you say?” Fuqua was terse before but now he was bonafide upset.
“uhOhn...uHoonEe!” I tried to form words but it came out the same as before just louder.
“Open your fuckin’ mouth. Right now,” these words were actually said quieter than any previous exchange but they bit way harder. Now I was really fucked, and after making it this far. I opened wide and didn’t try any tongue tricks lest he examine even closer. Once again, I braced for impact.
Nothing came. I guess the package was actually lodged too far down my throat for him to see. One more bullet dodged, the only problem was Fuqua wasn’t letting up about my suspicious dialect.
“Why the fuck do you sound like that?” He demanded. I tried to think of answer and realized I wouldn’t be able to vocalize it anyways. I didn’t get a miracle, I didn’t have a guardian angel or God either. You don’t need those when you have a Sold Honkey watching your back.
“Hey, man! Leave him alone! He’s got a fuckin’ speech impediment!” Kyle shouted back, matching Fuquas previous intensity. He said it with righteousness, he said it with confidence that assured everyone -he- was in the right. A hail mary play by the Master of Improv! Fuqua’s body language relaxed and he shrank back, it was working!
“Oh, yeah, sorry…” Fuqua muttered. A few black faces watching from the crowd snickered but for the most part played it cool. He had actually fucking apologized on top of everything. He didn’t stay meek for long and proceeded to search the both of us with another CO coming to assist him. I hadn’t had a decent breath in over a minute and the tiny wisps I was getting weren’t enough. I could feel the shortness of breath gaining quicker and quicker.
I moved my feet apart widening my stance as the large black man’s hand reached up my inner thigh. I had already resigned that a GI Joe motherfucker like this was most definitely a ball-grabber and for a third time I braced for impact. Thankfully black homophobia prevailed and his hand stopped only slightly above the back of my knee. He reached into my front pocket and pulled out the bottle cap I used to mix my dope in. I prayed that he wasn’t that street smart and that there wasn’t a dried up cotton filter stuck to the inside of it. Less breath than ever now as I tried to keep my breathing slow with a post-speedball heartrate.
“The fuck is this?”
I looked at him with eyes that pleaded not to be embarrassed again by speaking in my retard accent and it worked. He handed me back my ID and walked away. I didn’t feel a rush of relief yet. The entire situation had given me a rush of adrenaline from the fight or flight response. My vision was starting to cave in at the edges as the lack of oxygen really got to me. I turned the opposite way as Fuqua and made sure no CO was approaching before I tried to get the dope back up. “Whiteboy got away!” I hear someone call out.
I push as hard as I can with my throat trying to push the dope out. I knew it was beyond swallowing. I notice Kyle isn’t by my side and I’m alone. I tense my stomach and push harder and the package, moving slowly from my mouth having run dry, comes up my throat and into my mouth.
Relief and euphoria break through the adrenaline and I realize I’m already facing my unit and I’m thankful for this as I move at a brisk clip across field and concrete. This was what normal people can’t understand, the rush associated with the lifestyle. Some people preferred to have dope delivered or send someone, but I always liked driving to the set to pick up myself. There was no better feeling than cruising back down I-75 knowing you were out of the risky party and almost home free.
None of the people standing in front of the unit or on the basketball court registered to me as I walked on autopilot through double doors. I turned sharply in the lobby and made my way down the front hallway. The unit was basically a pool barn divided up into 8 man cubicles with walls that went about 8 feet high. People on top bunks were exposed to people walking through the hallway and people laying down for the night to watch TV washed past my peripherals.
I needed to find Paul Vella (RIP) aka Pauly D. He was also jokingly called “The Dirty Hamster” for his habit of sleeping with snack food wrappers strewn about him (and it was a habit, despite his claims of it happening only a few times). He loved prison food more than anyone I ever met and had the Diabetes to prove it, which leads me to another nickname. He was also known, by all the IV drug users on the compound, as “The Needle Man”. The insulin “required” by his lazy pancreas gave him access to syringes, and his giant balls gave him access to steal them. From what he said there was a certain nurse was less on-the-ball about watching their Diabetics administer their insulin and the rest and when she worked he had about a 50% success rate of stealing a syringe. The rest of the nurses would make sure they saw you dispose of the syringe into the sharps container, but she didn’t watch it particularly close and would sometimes turn her back allowing for an opportunity. He would drop the cap of a pen down into the box to create a convincible sound.
I knew where Paul would be because the last place I saw him was laying in my bunk watching my TV. Paul didn’t really have money and he was one of my best friends even before he started stealing syringes so I genuinely liked to share my food and television with him and he was always the most appreciative out of anyone I did time with. My family ended up driving Paul home from prison so he wouldn’t have to take the bus and gave him a Costco sized tub of peanut butter, which was his prison favorite.
I turned into my cube and saw from the face of one of my Cubies they weren’t happy about an outsider being in the cube. I didn’t care and walked past him to my bunk and tapped Paul’s shoulder to get his attention from the TV. He pulled out his, well, my headphones and turned to me without speaking. He did that a lot, probably because he had a slight speech impediment… and Hep C, and fucked up watery calves plus swollen feet on top of the ‘beetus. The prison actually issued guys with feet like him special shoes that are infinitely more comfortable than the regular state issues. I deemed them the “Air Force (Type) Ones”.
“I need to use the loaner,” I said in shame. Paul, also being a Solid Honkey, had given me dibs on the first syringe he ever stole, plus he would let me trade out my used ones for new ones he’d steal. My old syringes became the loaners. I used rigs until the wheels fell off, until you had to use your ear wax to lubricate the plunger. I traded rigs to Pauly D at about a 2/10 and within a week they would be a -7. It would amaze you that the needle could even puncture skin.
In a bout of self improvement fueled by intravenous drugs I had destroyed my last clean rig one night in the bathroom the last time I used two days prior. Paul had told me I would regret this and I knew then he was right but half ass resolved to prove him wrong. I made it one whole day before I was coming back to him, state orange hat in hand.
Paul smiled, acknowledging he had been right along but didn’t rub it in thankfully. Paul hopped down from my bunk and led me out of the cube. I walked two cubes down and turned into his cube as I saw him tilt his locker backwards and grab a package wrapped in napkin from between the wall. He walked back towards the doorway of the cube and made sure no police were making rounds. He unwrapped the napkin and I saw two syringes with the numbering completely rubbed off and with numbering that still looked fairly crisp and clean.
“Now these two are $2 to use and they’re the same, they’re fine. But this one, this one is $5 to use, but when you shoot it you will feel where they money goes” Pulp Fiction. He hadn’t quoted the right, or even very close, and it sounded silly with his lispy speech impediment but I appreciated the references none the less.
“So this one’s clean?” I asked.
“No, but it’s better than the others”, He let on that he had been joking and wouldn’t charge me just to use it and just wanted to quote the film.
I grabbed the half decent looking syringe and hoped maybe the cosmetic damages I was now noticing were from being hidden and not from multiple HIV infected prisoners sweaty palms. I found Fat Josh by the washing machines doing his State Job of laundry porter. I asked him for a cup of bleach and he smiled realizing what I was doing. Fat Josh was the first person to introduce me to drugs in prison and I could tell by his pinned eyes he has been using the loaner too.
I assembled my shower bag with plastic spoon, cotton swabs, and bottle of hot water all inside and stuck the syringe in my waistband as I floated like a serene zombie with my cup of bleach towards the bathrooms. In security level 1 bathrooms have stalls with doors but they only go up to lower chest level. It’s enough coverage that someone would really have to be leaning over and specifically looking to see below your chest. You could hear the CO’s coming from the jingle of their keys plus they didn’t ever check the stalls anyways.
I sat down in the stall closet the wall and finally spit the plastic bag out of my mouth. The bindles were all still safe inside. I broke apart each $50 fold of paper each with more disappointment than the last with regards to their size. The 8th fold I sat aside untouched for Kyle and smiled at his quick thinking. A speech Impediment! Ha! CO Fuqua (pronounced: Foo-kwaa) more like “Fuckwad”! I thought as I rinsed the syringe with shitty watered-down prison bleach 5 times. I tried to hold each rinse for a ten count but my pace increased. Finally I mixed $350 dollars worth of heroin with 90 units of hot water. The dope dissolved fine and I noticed for the first time the little rice grains in the bag and some of the dope folds. Tank must have had the dope hidden inside a bag of rice.
I balled up a Q-tip cotton and dropped it in the mixture. The needle jabbed into the cotton as I pulled back on the plunger and tried to gauge how sharp the needle still was without luck. The dope drew back quickly and easily since the prison used larger 27 gauge size needles for insulin. I rung out the cotton with my finger as if the minuscule amount of dope I was getting out of it would do anything.
I sat everything down and pressed the needle against my inner arm which gave resistance for a moment before succumbing to the needle which wasn’t terribly dull. I didn’t have to dig long to find the large vein of my inner arm and a thick plume of blood came up in the way blood comes up a large gauge syringe. I pressed all the way down and then some as I release the cord of the shower bag from around my arm. My fist opened and closed as I attempted to pump the blood and after a few seconds the rest of the night was good.
Goodluck ~Ogh 
lol 
