My official "post" at the Prison is "Vacation Relief" which pretty much means that I fill any slot vacated by an officer who is on vacation or has called in sick. what this means, generally, is that I don't know where I'll be or with whom I'll be working until I check in at the Seargent's desk at the beginning of the shift. it doesn't make much difference to me WHERE I'm posted, except that some of the posts don't have microwaves & I like to pack my lunch accordingly--& if I'm going to be in a Tower I like to have extra Crunchy Snacks or else I'll smoke double my already absurd cigarette intake (damn oral fixation)
last night I presented myself at the Sgt.s desk & was told a housing Unit. Then the Sgt. said, "You'll be working with Bedlam [not his real name], are you cool with that?"
"Sure," said I, "I haven't worked with him yet, actually."
"Well, you're in for an experience, then."
the occupation of Correctional Officer seems to attract more than it's share of oddballs, malcontents & pyschopaths (actually, this seems to be true of most of the jobs that I've held--a point that I try not to dwell upon) & Bedlam holds the position of the High Priest of Wierd at this particular Institution. since we work the same shift & it's a relatively small crew, I've run into him a few times & have heard a few Stories about him. talking to him, he seems to be one of those people who seems--either from past or ongoing indulgence in Recreational Substances, or a uniquely wired Reality Processing Switchboard, or some combination thereof--to be permanently stoned.
anyway, we worked a Unit last night, which pretty much means we were in a "bubble"--the central control room of the unit & I went around five times to make sure evryone was still alive & where they were supposed to be, & the rest of the time I read the new New Yorker & various articles that I'd downloaded to my Palm Pilot. Bedlam had a long, involved conversation in whispers with--I'm hoping with himself, as I was the only other corporeal being in the bubble & the only bit I caught was "windshield wipers", & a lot of giggling.
this was all well & good, except about mid-way thru the shift he picked up one of the shotguns (each bubble has two 12-guage shotguns & a mini-14, all loaded at all times) & calmly, while still carrying on the conversation with--whomever--racked a shell.
it's one thing to be locked in a small room with someone whose mental yacht, you might say, is not only NOT securely tied to the dock, but furthermore seems to be crawling with heavily medicated monkeys--& it's quite another when this person is holding a loaded & racked 12-guage shotgun.
(I'm tempted to make a comparison to my feelings toward the current Administration, but that's a bit ham-fisted, even for me.)
anyway, I became intensely interested in the article I was reading, hoping that he hadn't been advised by--whomever he was chatting & giggling with--that this would be a lovely night to blow his head off, or MY head.
neither of these things happened, but DAMN....
anyway, that's what happened last night.
last night I presented myself at the Sgt.s desk & was told a housing Unit. Then the Sgt. said, "You'll be working with Bedlam [not his real name], are you cool with that?"
"Sure," said I, "I haven't worked with him yet, actually."
"Well, you're in for an experience, then."
the occupation of Correctional Officer seems to attract more than it's share of oddballs, malcontents & pyschopaths (actually, this seems to be true of most of the jobs that I've held--a point that I try not to dwell upon) & Bedlam holds the position of the High Priest of Wierd at this particular Institution. since we work the same shift & it's a relatively small crew, I've run into him a few times & have heard a few Stories about him. talking to him, he seems to be one of those people who seems--either from past or ongoing indulgence in Recreational Substances, or a uniquely wired Reality Processing Switchboard, or some combination thereof--to be permanently stoned.
anyway, we worked a Unit last night, which pretty much means we were in a "bubble"--the central control room of the unit & I went around five times to make sure evryone was still alive & where they were supposed to be, & the rest of the time I read the new New Yorker & various articles that I'd downloaded to my Palm Pilot. Bedlam had a long, involved conversation in whispers with--I'm hoping with himself, as I was the only other corporeal being in the bubble & the only bit I caught was "windshield wipers", & a lot of giggling.
this was all well & good, except about mid-way thru the shift he picked up one of the shotguns (each bubble has two 12-guage shotguns & a mini-14, all loaded at all times) & calmly, while still carrying on the conversation with--whomever--racked a shell.
it's one thing to be locked in a small room with someone whose mental yacht, you might say, is not only NOT securely tied to the dock, but furthermore seems to be crawling with heavily medicated monkeys--& it's quite another when this person is holding a loaded & racked 12-guage shotgun.
(I'm tempted to make a comparison to my feelings toward the current Administration, but that's a bit ham-fisted, even for me.)
anyway, I became intensely interested in the article I was reading, hoping that he hadn't been advised by--whomever he was chatting & giggling with--that this would be a lovely night to blow his head off, or MY head.
neither of these things happened, but DAMN....
anyway, that's what happened last night.