Transport

Transport: An Inmate Transfer Novella

TRANSPORT

By Steve Dustcircle

I snapped back from daydreaming by the movement on the other side of the glass. They're here to pick me up, I assumed, but then I saw the cart.

A cart of food was wheeled to my metal door, surrounded by meshed glass, and there was a buzz.

“They're not here yet?” I asked politely. It's easier to get the correctional guards to work with you or give you honest answers if you're polite and humble.

“No, not here yet. Probably on their way still,” was the heavier set old lady's reply, her Sheriff's uniform gleaming and pressed. “You never know how long these things can take.”

After seeing one cell for two months fighting extradition, and having little interaction with people except for other inmates and C.O.'s, I was anxious to be submerged in any situation besides the one I was currently in, even if it were worse.

“Okay, thank you, ma'am.”

I took my beige, plastic tray from the cart, and walked it to my table. No need to rush. Time in this room goes slow, especially when anticipating the transport vehicle.

That's another thing I wasn't sure about. Was the other state driving here to bring me back? Surely it wouldn't be a helicopter. What if they drove me to the airport, or made me ride a Greyhound—just me in cuffs and an armed guard, with curious passengers looking over nervously? Is there a service that would pick me up?

They had woken me up hours before breakfast, to switch me out of the white and black county clothes—yes, they still use black and white in some places, but was a canvas shirt and pants outfit—and let me wear the clothes I was arrested in. I was then placed in another room, away from the usual day room with attached double cells. I had the whole bunk room to myself, but time was standing still.

Just after I took a few bites of my bologna sandwich, not even touching the dessert yet, the door buzzed. Now? Seriously?

“They're here,” the CO said, stepping back, holding the door open. Patience wasn't a trait they were known for. I took another bite of the sandwich, pocketed the cookie still in plastic, and in silence walked toward the open door, with my tray, emptying it into the trash.

I stepped through the pathway, into the area of emotions: the corridors of the Sheriff's County Jail, where you only tread to meet fates: either you're coming in from arrest, passing through to go to court, getting released, or being passed on from one organization to another, like me.

The halls were just as bright as the cells and day rooms. Florescent lights refracting their brightness off of glossy-painted cinder blocks. Even the floors were almost like mirrors. A place of doom, made to looks cheerful. And some of the inmates were quite cheerful indeed: a few just passing through to sober up, a couple waiting for bail, some religious folks with renewed vision, some looking forward to a more “free” prison life, and some just simply off their rockers. Not all of us were happy to be there. Some knew we were facing some serious time. And some of us were facing some serious conversations with loved ones, bosses, roommates, and possibly homeless shelters.

 [Read the rest of the ebook at http://stevedustcircleus.wordpress.com/ ]