Complaining About the Noise in Prison Is Dangerous

We were in the throes of yet another Holiday Season, and the year was soon to pass. At the time, my growing popularity as a regular contributor to the prison newsletter had crescendoed into inimitable acclaim among my brothers. Yet, the quickening demand for my work began to take its toll upon my otherwise ebullient nature amid the veritable jungle of clamor and chaos imposed against those working diligently to make a name for themselves. In other words, the constant noise was getting in the way of my writing.

Of note were more than a handful of young and unruly tenants of our 30-man dorm whose late night and early morning activities were in stark contrast with my obligations to the craft. Ironically enough, it would be a situation upon which my exquisite appointment as a burgeoning Literary Artist would be called to resolve.

As it so happens, I was [most] renowned for effectively addressing some of the most volatile and unapproachable domestic issues in the prison setting with my passive-aggressive assertions. Ergo, at the height of intolerance for the present concern(s), I decided to extend my jurisdiction by posting a rather indignant article in the upcoming January, 2008 issue of the newsletter, explicitly depicting the protests of those [among us] — notwithstanding the arduous plight of one up-and-coming prison writer — seeking the restoration of solace in our living quarters. In doing so, I would be making an unprecedented political stand to garner yard wide support for a sweeping call for “old school” dorm etiquette — i.e. peace and quiet during notedly critical hours of “Ten-to-ten,” — that had been growing only more and more degenerative in recent months.

Adjacent to the wall in my cubicle is a metal-fab tabletop that extends from the upper shelf of my locker unit to the end of my rack, where I lay my head at night. Beneath it, the plastic form chair upon which I often sit for hours at a time, staring intently at that painted-white cinder block wall before me, awaiting the indiscriminate strike of genius within the highly cherished and fleeting moments of silence on the run. It was only within the confines of this distinctly familiar milieu that all of my talents have had a chance to coalesce into the many shimmering moments of illumination and clarity that my readers have celebrated and enjoyed thus far. But quite none of them were as memorable as the one of which I now speak.

I remember it well. The new year was quickly upon us with the January issue now in full circulation throughout the yard. Everyone in my dorm had just returned from morning chow, and there was a familiar stillness about — an eerie quiet that one recognizes only in retrospect — but one I reasoned would finally afford me the few hours needed to let my mind soar freely into the stratospheres of unbridled consciousness, while penning my February masterpiece. Even the rambunctious rodents were unusually docile this morning.

As a prelude to most any of my literary conquests, I typically begin my rituals with a ceremonious cup of coffee: one level plastic spoonful of freeze dried, a half-packet of artificial sweetener to give it a base, a couple of sugar packets to put it over the top, a few non-dairy creamer packets, to quell the bitterness, and the cup filled only three-quarters of the way, with the stinger in the water. Then I’d sit, stooped over the table, clasping the cup and slurping from the spoon (as though eating soup) so as to not burn my lips. But I had barely taken the third sip when my morning rites were cut short, suddenly erupting into an explosive fit of pandemonium and mayhem.

“POOOWW!!” I was instantly deafened by a thunderous crack to the left side of my head — what felt like getting hit with the working end of a baseball bat. My ears rang and my head was jarred forward with such a blinding force that my coffee cup flew out of my grasp, splashing hot coffee all over the desk and wall before me. In that piercing moment, I knew I’d been hit. But with what, by whom, and for what reason(s), I couldn’t yet tell, as I meanwhile tried to gather my senses as quickly as I could.

My first gathered thought was that it might’ve been an accident of sorts — a couple of guys getting out of hand, playing grab-ass too close to me, or someone having thrown something of considerable size to someone else that fell dreadfully short of its intended mark. In either case, I’d likely find it within my heart to graciously summon the will to forgive them, after taking a moment to hear-out their most obsequious apologies. After all, I had little reason to believe they would’ve meant any harm otherwise. But then, a second and third blow to the back of my head just as quickly affirmed that whatever was going on was no accident at all, but a most deliberate assault.

Further, it became obvious that the incursion was intentionally staged in the rear of my cell — a tight and unnegotiable squeeze into the two feet of aisle space between my bed and locker. This made it nearly impossible for me to recover from the blunt of one swing without having to labor the brunt of another. I struggled to gain my footing the best I could from the chair. However, I was still slumped over the table, being resisted, even overpowered, by a markedly incessant force, leading me to believe that whoever my attacker was, he must not have been alone. But the most distressing part of it all was trying to figure out who the hell was gonna clean up this fuckin’ mess!?? There was coffee EVERYWHERE, damn it!!

Meanwhile, I was catching as many punches to the back of my head as best as I could, all things considered. And there though the ability to fully characterize my assailants was severely hampered by my vain reluctance to take any debilitating punches to the face, as I pushed myself away from the table, I was suddenly able to at least confirm the plurality of opposition by a quick count of the feet below — unless, of course, he was half-horse, half-man, which, given the unwieldy circumstances, didn’t seem the least likely of notions. But, yeah — there was two of them.

After an embattled minute or so, inextricably caught up in the ceaseless barrage, I was eventually able to seize glimpses of my assailants. They were a couple of aimless but spartan youngsters, both, evidently, out to make a name for themselves in subservience to prison politics. And though it might not have been the most opportune moment to suppose exactly who might’ve given the “green light” on this one, I began to suspect that it might’ve had something to do with the doctrine of outspoken unorthodoxy espoused through my latest article.

All this I surmised in the fleeting seconds of quick thinking that arose between the debilitating force of one punch and the growing eagerness to avoid the next. But I had no sooner gained my footing before I felt it being ruthlessly pulled out from beneath me by a curiously unmerciful and adamant force, whose source was as unexpected as the arrival of the first two.

Evidently, there was a THIRD assailant lingering in the background (keeping point) whose stature and ferocity was even more insurmountable than the first two combined: a 6-ft tall 250-lb blonde haired Adonis-like structure making his He-man debut by giving me the ol’ “carpet pull.” He was obviously their backup, in case things got a little too ungainly and out of hand — which may very well have been the case, had he not intervened when he did (or at least so I say, whenever I recount the story on my own terms).

Nevertheless, I fell hard to the ground as their lead man set the new terms for the thunderdome activity — me flat on my back, stomach, or side, being pulled into the open aisle-way by a most virile command of my left leg, as the two loyal minions steadily pursued their ambitious hammering, finding as many opportunities to now kick me whenever, wherever, and as often as they could, as well. Every attempt I entertained towards scrambling to my feet was thwarted by the large anchorman, whose forbidding clutch of my left ankle remained unrelenting and merciless. Everyone in the dorm — all 30, or so — had no choice but to stand by and watch. Those wanting to come to my aid were helpless to do so, as interfering in such matters warrants requital of a similar degree.

Meanwhile, the flogging wore on for another good 30 seconds — but, I swear, it felt like 31, or 32…

It was about then, somewhere between the kicks to my ribcage and the punches to my head and face — between the distressing agony from newly torn ligaments in my left knee to the still burning glow of the left side of my face from the outset of the incursion — that I came to realize and appreciate the full breadth of my talents as a prolific writer. That I, with only so much as a few simple words, could strike such emotional discord within the hearts and minds of my brothers so as to compel them, of their own volition, to take time out of their busy schedules to selflessly carry out this degree of malevolence at the likely cost of THEIR OWN safety and well-being, was truly a gift from the Father, God, Himself. I knew right then and there, that I had finally made it into the elite and stratospheric ranks of a Literary Artist. I was now a fully fledged writer. And I gotta tell ya, it was a pretty damn good feeling!

Suddenly, my leg fell loose and the siege abated. As if on cue, the two immediate aggressors took flight for the exit, while the third lagged loosely behind. I wasted no time jumping to my feet. Surprisingly, despite the overall temperament of the onslaught, I found myself still rather functional and surprisingly intact. A little weak in the left leg perhaps, but nowhere near my tolerance level for such affairs.

With a limping gait, I instantly set forth in hot pursuit of my attackers. Their lead man cut me off, shoving me in the chest from what was, at least for me, an unreachable distance.

“That’s it — it’s over!!” he insisted, as he now towered over me with his dominating and unassailable stature — which I interpreted as a full surrender on behalf of the three of them. “You know what this is about, right!?” he probed, rhetorically.

“What difference does it make…!?” I answered snidely, feeling little need to have any suspicions confirmed only now, after the fact.

“You pissed off a lot of people with your last article,” he insisted, evidently echoing the sentiment of at least a prominent few. “I’m just here to deliver the message — keep it to yourself next time!” he said, unwavering. This was his final message before turning to leave.

I then returned to my bed space to clean up the mess.

I lost a good cup of coffee that morning. But the dorm was unusually quiet for the rest of the day.

Ward Allan Yont #110954

ASPC YUMA – Cibola

PO Box 8909

San Luis, AZ 85349