Bronx Requiem(2)

Beck received of sentence of sixty days solitary in the prison’s Special Housing Unit (SHU).

They shackled his hands and ankles to a chain around his waist and shoved him into an isolation cell about the size of a parking space. There was an open shower in one corner, a toilet with no lid, a built-in bunk, desk, a shelf, and a door that opened to a cage outside tall enough for Beck to stand in, but only slightly bigger than what might be found in a dog kennel.

A nauseating stench, produced by human waste and unwashed bodies, permeated the airless cell.

With a Tier III violation, Beck was allowed two showers a week instead of the usual three, two books or magazines instead of the usual five, no television, no headphones for a radio, no personal possessions other than a small bar of soap and a roll of toilet paper. He received a change of clothes every ten days, one thin blanket that had never been laundered, one polyester sheet for his inch-thick foam mattress, no pillow. And no shampoo or comb. It took five days for him to receive a toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, and disposable razor that had to be returned after one use.

On his shelf, he found a beat-up Bible and a February 1994 copy of National Geographic.

All meals were served through a slot in the heavy metal door.

Out of spite, the guards in the SHU made sure that for the first week Beck’s meals consisted of water, a wedge of raw cabbage, and the infamous brick—a hardened loaf made out of carrots, potatoes, and bread dough. No human could possibly digest three daily servings of the brick. Beck managed to eat one brick per day by soaking pieces of it in water. He became so horribly constipated he had to stop eating on the fifth day. By the time they began serving him the usual prison food, he’d lost six pounds. He continued to lose weight during the rest of his time in SHU, eating food often delivered cold, sometimes with coffee grounds tossed on it, and three times consisting of nothing but an empty Styrofoam container.

From the moment he stepped into the small cell, Beck was determined to survive the Box. He immediately set out to clean his cell, which reeked of dried feces, urine, and general grime. Luckily, he had nearly a full roll of toilet paper. He folded a length of it into a tight block and used it to clean his sink, the rim of his toilet, and the floor around it before the wad of tissue fell apart.

He washed his hands, trying to conserve the half-used bar of soap, and spent the next hour doing calisthenics. Next, he tried meditating, first sitting, then walking methodically. After all that, less than three hours had passed on his first day.

Within four days, his notion of time slipped his grasp. Minutes could feel like hours. Days interminable. His concentration began fading in and out. His diet drained his energy, which made it harder to exercise.

He tried to find solace in reading, but found it increasingly difficult to absorb the archaic language in the battered Bible. By the third week, he had read the National Geographic so many times, he loathed even touching it.

He had to force himself to step out into his kennel cage for his hour of recreation because it exposed him to the screaming abuse of other prisoners and manhandling by the guards, which caused nearly uncontrollable waves of rage to come over him. His only compensation was breathing fresh air, but one day he found himself dodging wet feces the guards had manipulated a prisoner into throwing at him. No one ever bothered to clean the shit off his cage.

His attempts at meditation turned into obsessing about revenge. Twice he fell into screaming outbursts he had to fight to control. As time passed, he had to exert more and more energy warding off panic attacks. His first hallucination came thirty-eight days into his sentence, in the middle of the night.

On the forty-second day he ran out of soap, and yelled at the CO through the door slot to give him another bar, but instead found his water supply shut off for two days.

Beck knew about men who had come into the Box for minor infractions, and committed so many offenses while in the SHU they’d had months, even years, added to their sentences. The prospect terrified him. As did his fear that the SHU was permanently damaging him.

By the fifty-second day he was yelling, slapping his face to pull himself out of his paralysis. He felt as if his brain had frozen inside his head.

He avoided looking at the walls of his 105-square-foot cell because it often made him feel as if they were closing in on him. He paced back and forth for hours, head down, burning away the tension, trying to force all thoughts of mayhem and retaliation from his mind, banishing any memories of the outside, any moments of time spent with family or friends.

*

On the day they released him from SHU, Beck dared not speak while they shackled him for transfer back to the general population out of fear he would slide into an incoherent rage that would land him back in the Box.

Once showered, changed into clean clothes, and placed in a cell with a man he had never met, Beck raised an open hand at his cellmate, mumbled he was sorry, and laid down on his bunk to sleep, but mostly to avoid any contact or conversation.

He fell into a sleep so deep it felt like only moments had passed when the five-thirty A.M. standing count arrived. He drifted through breakfast in the mess hall, feeling half comatose.

When they released him to the yard, Beck felt more awake and connected, but much more nervous and uncomfortable about being around so many inmates. Even though the temperature hovered in the teens, he had been anxious to get outdoors because he could still smell the stench of the SHU.

Beck barely held himself together until he reached the yard. He headed for the north end because the guards avoided that part of the yard. If prisoners wanted to go there and kill or maim each other, it was fine with them. They’d eventually arrive to clean up the mess.