I was taken to a small room with a urinal and a large mirror next to it. A guard removed my handcuffs. I shook my arms to get the stiffness out.
A nurse without a white coat, or anything to show she was a medical professional, started giving me orders. She told me to drop my pants down to my knees, lift my shirt up to my chest, and then pee into a designated cup.
“Could you please give me some privacy?”
“No.” No apology, no explanation, nothing.
I was used to peeing in the presence of other people, but not in the presence of a female.
“I know this isn’t fun,” said the man named Mo, “but all newcomers have to be tested for drugs and alcohol. There have been some drug-related incidents in here lately.”
“I’m telling you again: drop your pants and pull up your shirt so that I can see your stomach.” She wasn’t wearing a white coat, but she certainly had a bossy voice.
I dropped my pants and underpants, and stood there with my limp white penis. It made me mad. Why did I have to pee in front of this horrible woman who didn’t even have the decency to dress right? Why were they doing this to me?
“Easy,” said Mo. “It’ll be over soon.”
“Now pee into the cup,” she said again.
I tried to relax in spite of my anger, to let the pee come, but nothing was happening.
“Just take it easy,” said Mo. “It’ll come.”
I felt panic rising in me. In the mirror I saw the nurse staring straight at my crotch.
“Can’t she look the other way?”
“No, I can’t.”
“She has to make sure there’s no cheating,” Mo explained. “That you don’t slip someone else’s urine into the cup.”
I had no idea how I’d have managed that, and anyway, I wanted nothing to do with anyone else’s pee or other bodily fluids.
“It’s not working. She’s got to leave. Or at least look the other way. I can’t do it.”
“And everything was going so well—” Mo began, but the woman cut him off: “No more whining, only whizzing. Now.”
I saw that Mo was laughing. He was against me, too.
“If you can’t pee, you’ll be put in solitary until you can,” she said.
We had a solitary unit in the prison, too. I’d been put in there once, when I was new and didn’t yet know it was best to do what they tell you. They left me in there for three whole days until I couldn’t remember who I was or where I was or if I even still existed.
I took a deep breath. Straining as hard as I could, I managed to squeeze out a few drops of urine.
“Just in time. Pull up your pants,” the woman said.
Once I was dressed, I was able to think clearly again. It occurred to me that nurses probably don’t have the power to decide who gets put into solitary. In prison they didn’t, anyway. I decided to find out as soon as I had the chance.
I was assigned my own private cell. It wasn’t very big, six by nine feet at most, but it had all I needed. A bed. A desk for writing, although I was hoping that, in here, I wouldn’t be left with too much time on my hands. And a shower, sink, and toilet in a separate stall. It didn’t have a regular door, just little swinging doors. I’d be allowed to shower, poop, and pee in private, then. It was a definite improvement.
Better than the dormitory in the Mason Home where I spent most of my youth, with its communal showers and toilet doors that were way too small, so you couldn’t even take a dump without everyone knowing. There, if you sat on the toilet and farted, they’d all start cheering. They also applauded if you won the masturbation contests in the showers, though I could barely get my penis up when there were others around, and so I never won. But farting was my forte.
Then there was Harderwijk penitentiary, where for years I’d had to share a cell and toilet with another guy. He stunk to high heaven, even though his diet was the same as everyone else’s. He’d go sit on that crapper twice a day, producing the worst stench you can ever imagine. You could close the door, but the stink somehow filtered out through every crack anyway. I often complained, even wrote letters about it. Addressed to him, but also to the warden, and the queen, who’d said on TV she wanted to be a queen for all people, and I was still a person, wasn’t I?
But my cellmate Eddie just made fun of me. “That’s just the way a real man craps, Raynus. Smell and learn.” The more I complained, the worse it got, until he stopped closing the door altogether and the stink was completely unbearable. The warden sent someone to tell me to stop whining, and I never heard from the queen.
For a whole six months I was forced to inhale that smell two times every day, once in the morning and once at night. In the end my whole system shut down. I got more and more constipated. From an average of one crap a day, it turned into three times a week, and then I couldn’t seem to go at all anymore. My stomach blew up like a balloon. I was in agony. I couldn’t eat or drink; I didn’t even want to move. I just lay there flat on my bed while Eddie kept doing his stinking business with the door wide open.
I was moved to the infirmary and they gave me an enema. It was humiliating and painful, but my bowels finally came loose. The foul smell wafting through the green-tiled bathroom of the sickbay was even worse than my cellmate’s stench. That was kind of satisfying, in a way.
When I got back to my cell Eddie had gone, and I spent the last six months in relative peace, although with too much time on my hands, as always.
I had my own toilet once, years ago, when everything was still okay. I loved that toilet. Unlike the one in the boys home or the prison, that toilet was all my own.
“Your things are being delivered this afternoon,” said Mo. Startled, I sat up; I’d completely forgotten he was still there.
“Then you can arrange your suite the way you want. Maybe you’ve got some personal items you’d like to display. Or hang on the wall. We do have a rather strict policy about smut. Tits, okay. Ass, not okay. The other rules are: no alcohol, no drugs, no cell phones, and no Internet.”
“What about my fish?”
“You have fish? What kind?” Mo sat down on the edge of my bed, like a mother getting ready to have a nice bedtime chat with her teenager; at least, that’s what I’d seen on TV. My mother had visited me in prison pretty often but had always gone home before it was time for bed.
“I have a saltwater aquarium.”
Mo whistled through his teeth. “Expensive hobby.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“What kind of fish do you have?”
“All sorts: surgeon, clownfish, angelfish, cowfish . . .”
“I’ll mention it to the people upstairs, okay? As long as the aquarium isn’t too big, they might allow it.” Mo slapped himself on the thighs and stood up. “I’ll leave you alone for twenty minutes. To let you recover from your journey and get used to this place a bit. Then I’ll come pick you up for your intake with the psychiatrist.”
“Okay.”
“After that I’ll give you a rundown on the daily routine. And tomorrow, if the psychiatrist says it’s okay, I’ll introduce you to the other inmates.”
The steel door of my cell clanged shut. There was a small sliding hatch at eye level. That way they could spy on you whenever they liked.
I counted exactly five paces from the steel door to the wall. Normal walking steps. I paced back and forth a few times to make sure I’d measured right. Then I sat down on the bed and stared at the freshly painted white walls.