In the Glass House, there are no full walls around your cell, just cubicle partitions, about 5′ tall, so privacy is non existent… until, Eureka! I awoke from a (failed) nap with a plan!
For those new to hearing about the Glass House, imagine a corporate office, but in each 8×8 cubicle they stuck: – a steel bunk bed that’s really warehouse shelving, – two wall-mounted double-door lockers (about 3-feet wide, 3 feet tall, and 18 inches deep), – a tiny desk (tinier… you will hit your knee on its tiny drawer trying to sit under it), – two deep teal Sebel-brand stackable plastic lawn chairs (made in Australia! who knew they made stuff!?)
– two grown men accused or convicted of federal crimes ranging from drug running to pimping to child porn to human trafficking to armed bank robbery to wire and bank fraud to terrorism. Yay!
Also there are bars on the windows.
Now imagine the cubicles form a U-shaped ring around a Formica-tiled sumo wrestling stage, raised three steps, with rows of the aforementioned men slouched in their green chairs staring at TVs, listening to via tiny radios with headphones or earbuds. Now imagine it’s all surrounded by a second floor ring of cubicles, and each ring is capped off with bathrooms and showers with no doors to block sound (or smell!).
To sleep amidst the blaring LED lights, flashing TVs, and general clusterf*ck of sound, men on the bottom bunks pull strings between their bedposts and drape a fabric over it. However, the top bunk is still subject to fluorescent lights.
I live on the top bunk, above an 85-year old man, “Doc” (a PhD), with a penchant for tall tales and ranting about a different minority group every few days, who has taken over every square space of the cubicle, and the tiny table.
I pick my battles…and I’m “short” and new, so my stuff fits in my locker and my bed (shelving!). (The top of my locker resembles a small library, with a Judaica section on the left, and psychology, architecture, drawing, and fiction on the right.)
I spent much of my day reading, but when it’s time to nap or sleep or meditate, it’s like being in a bus station…
To solve this, I built a structure from thick string. Two strings going the length of the bed, head-to-toe, tied to the corner posts, which reach about 30 inches above the 2″ thick foam mattress (you feel the steel through it). Then, 5 strings side-to-side, tied around the long strings. Then 3 strings tying the 5 strings together. Here’s a drawing: TOP VIEW: HEAD |–|–|–|–|–|——————–|FOOT |–|–|–|–|–|* |–|–|–|–|–|* |–|–|–|–|–|* |–|–|–|–|–|——————–| You drape a blanket over the head of the bed, forming a square tent. The cross-member strings prevent the blanket from drooping over the night into your face.
You tie the three central criss-crossed strings (*) together at their intersections so they open into a neat grid each time, just by pulling the outer string as far as it’ll go.
You’re only allowed to cover about half the length of the bed (they need to see you’re in there), but this enables you to instantly cover & uncover your bed anytime for privacy and to block sunlight and (insanely bright) LEDs. It also signals friends to give you space.
Because the 10pm “Stand Up Count” is normally at around 10:30-10:45pm and wake up is 5am, being able to nap in the middle of the day is critical.
Figuring this expanding/contracting bed tent brought me great joy, because the light and activity in Glass House gets pretty crazy.
There’s a shouting match RIGHT now between K.C. and “Tier”, and now Rubinstein is joining in… it appears to be about… whether or not one of them goes to the chow hall on Thursdays to eat Chicken. (Most things being taken care of for you in prison, there’s room to worry about another guy’s chicken-eating schedule.)
On top of that, Doc is always hovering in the cubicle moving like Mr. Smithers in the Simpsons (similar physique)
and if I’m not blocked off he keeps offering me things to win over friendship. “Do you need a highlighter? I snatched one from Education when they weren’t looking.” “If you need scotch tape, I have two fresh rolls.” Last night it was, “If you need, I’ve got a copy of Black’s Law Dictionary.” It’s kinda sweet and sad, because he needs friends and has burned many here, but there’s a take-a-favor-from-a-mafia-guy vibe to the offers.
Oh, and there’s a bodega restaurant in the next cell run by “Mr. C”, a nice old man who is very round everywhere (even his head) who has transformed his cubicle into a gathering place akin to a Washington Heights stoop where people gather in Australian plastic chairs and on the sumo-stage steps next to the cubicle to chat loudly in Spanish while large clear plastic bags of rice, sauces, smuggled chow hall meats, and spices marinate. His cellie, John, an English Literature graduate from the Boston area in for “significant” drug dealing, who we’ve renamed Pepe, is a fun chat and great with word play, and treats Mr. C with difference. Like me, he’s living above an old man whose taken over the cubicle completely. Like me, he spends much of his day reading.
So yes, a bed tent is a luxury.
I never thought I’d be into camping, but sometimes I imagine I’m cuddled up in a van in the woods, going to sleep listening to the sounds of the wildlife…farting, flushing, shouting, banging (don’t look!), shaking (ice), dragging chairs, belching, showering, snoring… ah, yes, nature.
Well, I’ve become a 7-year-old boy bragging about his bed tent… and one thing you DON’T want to be on this compound is a 7-year-old boy.
Wishing you all a great week and a Shabbat Shalom. See you soon on the outside.
Love, Ari =============
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