The visit went well. In fact, it was the best one we had had in years. It took us awhile to get over the awkwardness of them visiting me in prison, a scenario we had never envisaged.
I ate a chicken sandwich, a bag of muddy buddies, and Payday bar and drank a Pepsi and Muscle Milk. It was a sumptuous banquet, although I paid for it later wth a wicked stomach ache.
The unfortunate part of having two drinks was that I was about to piss my pants bythe end of the visit.
Inmates can’t use the restroom during a visit whenever he needs to.
You have to ask the CO at the podium, who radios the other CO, who shows up 10-20 minutes later. You are strip searched before you’re allowed to go piss.
So, everyone waits until the visits are over instead of wasting a half hour to relieve themselves.
A little more than an hour or so into my visit, the CO calls out table numbers, signaling the end of the visit. The inmates and visitors around us hugged and said their goodbyes.
The room went awfully quiet, awfully quick, until we were one of three tables with an ongoing visit. The other two were doubles (two visits scheduled back to back).
“Table 12,” the guard announced. I hugged my parents goodbye, sat back down, and surveyed the room. As far as visitors went, only the two doubles remained, but every inmate still sat at their table. Some of their visits had ended over an hour ago.
In the past, when a visit ended, an inmate waited in line, and a guard would quickly dress him down and send him back. It had never taken an hour to return to the unit.
The guard didn’t start the strip searches until every regular visit had ended. He had another guard assist him. They went into he little room where the searches are conducted, and called table numbers.
At least five minutes passed between searches. One by one they processed the remaining inmates until there were a handful left. The table next to me was called, and I knew I was next.
15 minutes elapsed before a guard emerged from the shakedown room. But he wasn’t calling table numbers. Instead, he went up to the female CO at the podium.
“We have to get some shoes,” he said.
“What?” she asked, nonplussed.
“I guess he didn’t have the right shoes,” he explained, shaking his head.
Great. There went any chance of me getting back to my bunk anytime soon.
The inmate to my right was wary at this unexpected turn. “What the hell does that mean? I’m trying to get outta here,” he yelled.
The CO, with only six months on the job, sheepishly assured him we’d be getting out of the VR shortly. But that didn’t happen.
20 minutes passed…30 minutes…
The other inmate lost his patience, and voiced my own frusrations.
“Hey, you need to getme the fuck outta here! My visit ended two hours ago and I need to piss!”
“Sir, please sit down or I’ll have to call control center.” His greenness was showing. I saw panic in his face.
“Well, get me a fucking tray then, I’m missing chow.”
“Me, too,” I piped in, wondering how much longer I’d be there.
As if to underscore their incompetence, the guards brought in the inmates for the next round of visits while we still sat there. My visit was supposed to run from 8-10.
Easy Trouble 