V for (Vegetable Oil) Vendetta

December 12, 2010

Remember, remember the twelfth of December, and Joe's insidious plot. He pilfered with reason – an honest man's treason – in the kitchen that hygiene forgot.

When it comes to blogging from prison, I usually have either a drought or flood of topics to write about. Once again, it’s time to bring out the sandbags.

Since all my tales of woe seem to entertain you, my readers, I am proud to bring you my latest story of misfortune. Today, I almost got charged with assaulting a correctional officer.

To explain this, I need to give you a little back-story first. As you should have surmised from previous posts, I’m a sneak thief when I’m working in the kitchen. Unfortunately, I’m not a good one, since on Saturday I was caught smuggling vegetable oil for the fourth week in a row. For some reason, I have EXTREME unluck with cooking oil. I had stubbornly made it my prison life’s goal to successfully nab some.

On Saturday, I had almost achieved victory. I snuck into the kitchen, filled a 16-ounce spice container full of oil, and absconded with the loot undetected. I was home free, or so I thought.

My job in food service is to push a cart loaded with clean cafeteria trays from the dishwasher and deliver them to a staging area near the kitchen. My problem was that I still had to finish my shift before I could bring the oil back to my cell. I should have found a hiding place for the oil until it was time to leave, but instead I stupidly kept it in a pouch on the coat I was wearing. I was walking around with my contraband like an idiot all day.

I had thought it would be okay since I had kept the empty container on my person for weeks and the cops had never noticed (or at least had never questioned me about my slight bulge). Ironically, they chose the one day that the container was full to stop and search me.

It was during the middle of breakfast service when a lieutenant spotted me carrying. She stopped me while I was working and ordered me to remove my coat. Of course, she found the oil and confiscated it. Was I punished? No. I was merely caught in the same Tom and Jerry cat-and-mouse game inmates have been playing with correctional officers since prison’s inception.

It might have gone differently had I been caught with mountains of contraband, but I know my limits and never try to take much. Stealing is an art, and it takes tons of practice to become a Picasso or a Rembrandt. My sentence simply isn’t long enough to learn how to hide 90 eggs on my person at one time.

If you think that I need the money, you’re wrong. My editor kindly sends me money every month. So why do I bother pilfering food from the kitchen, you ask? Because I’m being paid slave wages. I made $10.00 last month. Go look at the commissary sheet and try buying a month’s worth of supplies with that. You can’t. Also remember that if you want to stay in contact with your family, you’ll need money for phone calls and postage stamps.

If you should ever become a federal prisoner (and I hope that you don’t), you will quickly realize that if you don’t have financial help from the outside, your stay in prison is going to be a rough one. I believe it’s morally acceptable – nay, I think it is a moral OBLIGATION for an inmate to rob the government in these circumstances. Everything I loot is sold at rates cheaper than the commissary, plus it contributes to the prison economy. In a way, I’m helping those with less means than myself.

The police who steal stuff that was rightfully stolen by inmates are stagnating the prison economy and causing a recession. I think it’s time for all inmates to go to their gang leader representatives and ask for an economic stimulus package. We need more thieving jobs in the cafeteria to increase the flow of goods inside the prison, and thus start an economic recovery!

. . .

. . . . . .

(Okay guys, I’m claiming temporary insanity on those last couple of paragraphs.)

So what was I talking about? Oh yes, the vendetta.

Saturday, I was caught smuggling vegetable oil by a female lieutenant. While doing my job the following day, I ACCIDENTALLY bumped into this same lieutenant with my pushcart. The cart has bad wheels, and it likes to veer to one side, so it was an honest mistake.

I tried to apologize, but when the lieutenant realized that I was the same guy she caught the day before with two dollars worth of vegetable oil, she exploded in anger. She actually thought that I was petty enough to hold a grudge against her for taking my oil, and that I hit her on purpose. Her anger would have been understandable if I rammed her at terminal velocity, but my actual speed was two, maybe three miles per hour. It’s like she was trying to be angry.

As soon as she realized who I was, a switched flipped in her head, and she became completely hostile. She wouldn’t accept my apology or let me say anything in my defense. The woman ordered me outside the cafeteria where she conducted a pat search (I had nothing), and then sent me to the Lieutenant’s Office. Being sent to the Lieutenant’s Office is equivalent to going to the Principal’s Office as a kid in grade school. In short, if you are headed to the LT’s Office, you’re in a heap of trouble.

I waited in the lobby (yeah, it’s that big) for about 20 minutes before anyone spoke to me. Finally, a different LT asked me why I was in the office. He waited for me to finish my story, then advised me that my punishment would probably depend on how well I kept my mouth in check when my “victim” questioned me. He also added, “I hope you don’t end up getting an assault charge.”

My mind was stuck between shock and disbelief. Assaulting a correctional officer could earn me extra prison time, and I can barely deal with the time that I have now!

My accuser entered the office after another ten minutes, and our conversation was brief. She was still upset with me, and she refused to listen to my side of the story. She took down my name and number, then she sent me back to the cafeteria for count time. She said that she would speak to me again later.

I did as I was told. When I reentered the cafeteria, I was approached by a ton of fellow workers wanting to know what happened. A few had seen the incident, but most hadn’t. I filled them in. When I got to the part about the assault charge, some of the inmates laughed at me. “That lieutenant is bs-ing you about the assault charge,” one inmate said. “They like to play head games.”

He was right; the lieutenant had changed her tune when I next saw her. I can only assume this is because she looked up my record on the computer and found out that I’m a short-timer, and that I don’t have a violent record (except in the case of Fudd). The pieces just didn’t fit. And she probably realized that a pushcart assault charge would stick to me about as well as marbles to a Teflon frying pan.

“I now believe it was just a simple accident,” she said, “but know that your stealing days are over. You belong to ME now.”

So now this woman is going to watch me like a hawk whenever I come to work. If I so much as belch without saying “excuse me,” I’ll be sent straight to the hole. Be warned, this can happen if you’re a federal inmate with rotten luck like mine.

BONUS:  Remember the porn story that was written about Billy? The author was caught while typing it up in the library. The story was destroyed, and the author got a 300-series write-up for “misuse of government property.” I wonder if he’s going to rewrite his story. Only time will tell.