In a couple months, I’ll have nineteen years, day for day, in this concrete jungle.  ‘Jungles’ bring to mind wild animals and certain death around the next bend.   In here, society views us as wild animals, and for us, the chow hall can become the location of death around the next bend.

A few years ago some guys and I were on the rec yard discussing who we thought had the best chance to go to and win the Super Bowl.  A couple guys were going with the Patriots, others were going with teams no one even remembered making the play-offs in recent years. Being a Cowboys loyalist, I just knew my team was going to get up in there.

The Patriots won again.

When the discussion was losing steam, a guy we all knew approached our little circle, gesturing and speaking excitedly about a confrontation he heard going on between two cellmates.

To make a long story short, two guys were drinking hooch, got drunk, started arguing and calling one another names only two drunk people would come up with.  When we asked Lil’ K what the argument had to do with us, he responded, telling us one of the guys was handicapped and being bullied.

Generally, in prison, people tend to mind their own business. Even considering the situation, I felt like – this is the ‘joint’, the jungle – and definitely none of my business.  Being on closed custody and dealing with the constant threat of being placed in a cell with a psyche patient, we agreed to wait until we could get all the guys in question together before pursuing the subject further. 

Before the meeting had a chance to happen, a riot jumped off behind the argument the next day at chow hall.

Turns out, upon investigating the situation thoroughly, the two cellmates were as cool as two men who live together and get drunk and high often can be. As the riot was taking place, I found the guy who was supposedly getting mistreated.  I asked him if he and his cellmate were alright.

“Hell, yeah, that’s my boy!”

Go figure.

Instantly, I was reminded of the importance of minding my own business.

Everyone who went to chow that day had to start their closed custody time over, and we were put on lockdown.  Fortunately, no one was seriously injured and no weapons were involved. 

That night I explained to my cellmate what happened. He looked up from his Alex Cross novel, crumbs on his mouth from his peanut butter sandwich, and assured me, “This too shall pass.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: This is Mr. Edwards first submission here. He believes, as do we, in the importance of sharing the ‘mundane’ as well as the dramatic. Andre Edwards lives in a Texas prison and can be contacted at:
Andre Edwards #1139465
3872 FM 350 S.
Livingston, TX 77351