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The Professor's Punishment Chapter 1
The van that had carried me from my trial turned toward the prisoner entrance. Once again, it went through the three gates and was checked over, top to bottom, to prevent anyone from sneaking into the prison. Why would anybody want to sneak into this place?I hadn't sneaked in. I had come here voluntarily, the first time, as a kind of weird adventure and fantasy fulfillment. I wouldn't want to sneak in again. If anybody wanted to stop me, take me out of the van, turn me away, that would be good.
This trip Inside was different from my first trip Inside. I wasn't coming into Princeton Reformatory for a brief experience, about which I had fantasized and which I had arranged for myself. I was coming in as a nameless, hopeless, two-time loser, sentenced to spend his next 15 years as an item in a warehouse for hopeless losers.
I listened as the van moved inside. Now it was past the first gate, now the second gate. Now it was past the last gate and moving toward the reception building. All I could think about was the difference from my first arrival. Then I was excited. Then I was on an adventure. Now I was being punished. Punished conclusively. Punished as I deserved.
I had been a college professor. I had been honored, respected. That wasn't enough for me. I wanted all my fantasies fulfilled. Now they were being fulfilled, completely, conclusively. I wanted to be an inmate; now I would be an inmate, a real inmate. I would be in general population. I would be one of the faceless herd. Unknown. Unrecognized. Indistinguishable from the next nameless, faceless inmate. I was now completely a property of the state--numbered, inventoried, locked away behind so much barbed wire that no one could ever find me.
Not that anyone would want to. Even Jim Henderson had no reason to concern himself with me. Not anymore. I pictured him coming out to the walled city to visit his friends, the tribe of CO's, and maybe looking out over the yard, idly wondering whether he could pick me out of the mudflow of cons in their brown numbered suits. It wouldn't take him long before he got tired of that game.Meanwhile, I would be there in the mud, one more whitish gray blip with a number on its back. Number 117213. My inventory number in the great Princeton warehouse. That was what the state needed to identify me. That was all it needed. And that, now, was me. The rest of it—hopes, fears, feelings, background, fantasies, adventures—those things had no connection to my inventory number. And I was nothing but my number.
The only problem for the state was where I would be locked away and how I would be counted, managed, and controlled, to make sure this piece of state property didn't get lost. DOC Number 117213 was irrelevant to the state so long as DOC Number 117213 stood at the bars to be counted. DOC 117213 was irrelevant to the state so long as DOC Number 117213 didn't require extra food, uniforms, attention, or punishment. Would the state care if 117213 became a prison bitch to some stronger piece of inventory? Would the state care if 117213 was forced to do hard labor such as 117213 had never done in his life? Would the state care if 117213 lived a life in which every minute was an increasingly redundant reminder that dumb mistakes get a person locked and lost in the prison world?
The answer was NO. The state did not care as long as 117213 could be counted four times a day. Inventory Number 117213 could get beaten up, turned into a servant of other numbers, worked into the dirt, and no one would give a fuck.
This time, I realized how little I had really known about the life and feelings of a man coming into prison to begin many years of this life as property. The answer was nothing, nothing at all. Then I realized something else. "Life," "feelings"—that was meaningless. Meaningless to the barbed wire and the stone walls. Meaningless to the faces of the stolid guards. Meaningless to the concrete desert that the prison bus was rolling across. As for "man"—I was beginning to understand the difference between a man and a number. If you want to, you can recite a slogan, "A man is not a number." All that means is that when they give you a number, you've stopped being a man.I descended the steps, securely held by a guard on either side, and was moved into the reception building. I was unchained, showered, poked, and probed, and marched into the room where they issue the uniforms.
I saw the big room with the numbered boxes marked on the floor. It was then I knew for the first time the fear and despair of a real inmate."213," I was ordered, "move your ass to Box Number 1. Do it NOW."The order was routine, coldly abusive. If one of them had smacked me on the face, I might have thanked him. It would have meant I was still something individual, special, personal. Instead, the abuse rolled out like the shit you drop every morning at 8 a.m. But the convict tries not to get smacked. So this convict hurried to stand inside Box Number 1, and did his best not to be special. He laced his hands behind his head, placed his feet parallel to the sides of the box, and moved his head so that he was looking about eighteen inches in front of his body. "His" body—as if it belonged to him, instead of the state.
Looking cautiously off to the side, I saw my plastic envelope of documents being taken to the officer in charge.I stood and waited.And waited.And waited.I began to panic. I knew that an inmate who did not follow orders would be punished; however, my body was not used to holding one position this long, and I knew that soon I would have to move, or perhaps I would just fall over as my mind wandered and I lost concentration.Just as I began to believe that I was about to fall, I heard a commotion behind me. I heard the clanking of chains, and I knew that a number of new inmates had arrived. I had been saved to be reprocessed into Princeton State Reformatory with the busload of new prisoners fresh from that lovely R&D Center.
"All you assholes strip off and assume your strip search positions," a guard ordered.
I heard an obedient rustle. Then a mutter."That's dumb as shit!" I heard some prisoner state from behind and to my left. "What the fuck could be `concealed,' after we were strip searched leaving R&D? Don't you dumb shits ever talk to each other, dude?"It was all under his breath. But I was amazed that the newbie had been allowed to make his entire little speech. "Under your breath" doesn't mean much when there's nobody else who's willing to talk.I should have known that there was a lesson about to be delivered.The Major in charge came through my range of vision, and stood in what I had to believe was the center of the first line of boxes, each now inhabited by a new reformatory inmate."An interesting point," he said. "Bring that inmate forward."I know that the inmate who yapped was about to be educated. I felt a strange sense of superiority over him because I was now a more experienced inhabitant of this brave new world, and I knew that the questioned was about to be taught his lesson."Officers will now educate this offender about how to do as he's told, and about how his observations and opinions will be kept to himself unless an officer asks for them."The newbie was dragged over, his sorry little dick bouncing against his legs, then positioned several feet in front of the rest of us offenders awaiting processing. I looked at the convict. It was like I was looking at a used car, or a cast-off item in a thrift store. This item, this new convict, was maybe 18 or 19. Tall. Loose limbed. Loose in the mouth. Shaved bald, of course, and you could see from the dead white on his skull that a shitload of hair had been shaved off of him. He looked like one of my students. One of the bottom half—young, naïve, unfamiliar with the concept, still feeling entitled, somehow. Maybe because he'd been making about a thousand trips to the gym, if I read that six-pack right. It didn't come from road work, that's for sure. One day ago, he'd been a dilated-eye doper, with a parent-paid admission to the gym. Now he was in prison. He was a number. He was a balded, locked down con--but he hadn't learned what that number meant. He stood in front of us, wide-eyed like a student taking his first Chem test."Grab your ankles!" The convict paused, confused. Obviously, he was still under the impression that he was something special. That he was the son of some good family that had sent him to a private school. That he was Interested in Ecology and spent Christmas kickin' back on Maui, and was therefore different from every other con on the bus. That nobody had ever told him what to do. Then he grabbed his ankles. Because he had to.
"Offenders, you see this offender positioned to be educated. We have learned over years of experience that the way to an offender's brain is through his butt."He paused. "Your name, convict?""Uh . . . . Jeremy. Jeremy . . . "The Major smiled. "Officers, what is this convict's name?""121791," one of them said."Very well," the Major said. Then he turned to the offender."You're new, 121791. So I won't give you the ten strokes you deserve. You'll get five strokes with the paddle. I'll count it down. Five, four, three..." I noted that the offender moved one foot in front of the other, just a bit, to give him some kind of bracing against what he, and all of us, knew would be a full swung blow against his ass. The skater boy was learning."Two. One. The officer will proceed with the punishment."Another guard had been lurking behind the new convict. I watched as he rubbed the large frat-type wooden paddle across the offender's ass. Then he pulled back and let go. SPLAT!!!The sound echoed in the room. The offender almost fell over, but his uneven placement of his feet allowed him to remain upright. He was learning. "ONE" the Major intoned. From behind me I heard some gasps. Even with my limited previous experience I also involuntarily gasped.There was a short pause before the second stroke landed. This time the offender couldn't keep quiet. "OH SHIT!" he yelled. Screamed."Proceed," the Major said.Again the wind-up and the sickening smash of wood on flesh. "Three!"This time, the offender managed to keep in place. The count proceeded through five. The offender croaked out the count, his voice getting weaker with each successive blow.
Behind me, I could hear the other cons suck in their breath, like it was the last breath they would ever be allowed.I knew I was terrified by what I witnessed. I saw it now with the eyes of an offender who would be under the discipline of the paddle for 15 years, and not some dilettante who was playing offender for a few insignificant months.
I found myself trembling from witnessing this example of the possible punishment that awaited any offense against orders by those I know knew were my owners. I knew that every naked con who witnessed this example understood that we were going to be ordered to do things that we at this point could only wonder about, and we would do our best to do as ordered because we had no desire to meet the punishment for failure to obey. I also realized that when I was paddled in the hole, I was not receiving a full paddling. It was like much of my experiences when I was a short timer... a brief introduction to a long, long course of study.
"Officers, position 121791 for inspection."121791 was stood up in front of the assembled cons. His legs were shaking, and his face was covered with tears. The Major looked at the clearly suffering inmate. "All right, boy. I grant the possibility that up until now there has been some misunderstanding about who and what you are. Let's clear that up. You are a convict. Your name is 121791. You are not a `person.' You are state property. You are the same as this stick you see on my belt. From now on you will behave like that stick. You will do what I want you to do; you will move where I want you to move. If I want you to strip down, you will strip down. If I want you to march to your cell, you will march to your cell. If I want you to grab your ankles so you can get your ass beat in, you will grab your ankles and get your ass beat in. You will stand where I tell you to stand, look where I tell you to look, and speak when I tell you to speak. WHEN you speak, you will address me as SIR before and after whatever it is that you have to speak, and you will extend the same . . . courtesy to every individual who isn't wearing a convict suit. Understand, convict?"
Convict 121791 looked at the Major, and began stumbling back to his box."Halt!" the Major shouted. "When you are asked a question you will answer it."Convict 121791 looked over at the Major, clearly confused. Whatever street smarts he had gave him no idea about how to deal with his new world. "Uhhh . . . Sir . . . I uhhh . . . I . . . " Whether it was because of the way they'd hurt him, or because of what he still thought he was, he couldn't get it out. He couldn't say "Sir I understand Sir."
"Come back here," said the major, "and grab your ankles, boy. Five more, Officer."Convict 121791 dragged himself back into position, reached down, and found his ankles. Five more staggering blows were delivered to the convict's ass.The process seemed to go on forever. Finally, with appropriate coaching from the Major, Convict 121791 acknowledged that he was indeed Convict 121791, that he was state property, that he would act as state property, and that he was thankful to the Major for helping him to learn. The Major smiled."Return to your square, convict, and remember this lesson. Officer, note that Convict 121791 has received ten strokes during induction, and that he is to be watched.""Yes Sir," the officer responded. I knew that I was now beyond terrified. Offender 121791's butt was multicolored in reds and blues. I knew I could not walk if I ever experienced such a beating, but a voice inside my head informed me, "Yes, offender, you will be able to do so, because you are now totally in these men's power, and the alternative to not doing as ordered is too terrible to consider." Without a stoke being delivered to my ass, I knew I was now going to be a star obeyer.My thoughts were interrupted by the Major."Listen up, convicts!" If every offender was like me, I knew that when he heard that, he was definitely going to pay close attention."If this is an example, your little stay at R&D has taught you little. Apparently it has taught you that nothing could be `worse' than R&D. Perhaps it has taught you that this institution is some kind of a . . . what do they call it? A country club prison. If that is your assumption, you are sadly mistaken. R&D was not the end but the beginning of your new life as state property. This is not prison lite. This is PRISON."You are not here to be entertained. You are here to be numbered, caged, worked, and punished whenever we think that punishment is required. You are here to learn to be the property of the state. This lesson is not hard to learn. As you see, it is hard only if you refuse to learn." I was obviously a slow learner. I'd heard the speech when I was processed the first time. But then I was on incarceration lite. Now I was experiencing the real thing. Now I fully felt the power of the state on me. I knew that indeed the state had given me over for correction, and the means of correction would be loss of freedom, and corporal punishment whenever I deserved it. This experience brought back the feeling of helplessness I had as I felt my body being violated in the processing at the R&D center. But now the violation was obviously permanent. . . . The Major spoke again, snapping me out of my thoughts."Any questions?" he said. "This is your last chance. But if you are thinking back to school when a teacher asked for questions and shits like you responded by asking something that was either silly or meant to be embarrassing, then I will warn you that the offender who tries that will meet the correction of inappropriate remarks that you have just observed.
NOW. ANY QUESTIONS?" I held my breath. Would anybody be dumb enough to ask one? To my amazement I heard from directly behind me, "SIR, I have a question, SIR"I saw the Major fix the offender with a cold stare, which since the questioner was just behind me, also froze my breath."Yes offender. State your question.""SIR this offender has already realized what a stupid shit he was in school SIR. SIR this offender would like to get a high school diploma while here SIR. SIR does Princeton Reformatory offer offenders this opportunity SIR?"There was a pause as the Major stared at the offender who had had the folly or bravery to ask a question."Offender number!" he stated.
"SIR 121795 SIR."The Major turned to a CO right behind him. "Note this offender's number.""SIR yes SIR" was the immediate reply, and I noted the officer taking a notebook out of his pocket and writing the number down."Number 121795 asked a reasonable question, showing a reasonable amount of courage. Provision will be made for school materials to be furnished. If you take advantage of them, and do excel in them, well and good. If you do not, you can expect to be punished. I don't like to be disappointed.""Sir," 121795 stuttered, "yes Sir." Maybe his question was real; maybe it was a stupid attempt at getting attention. In any event, he would now have to make good on it.Then I saw what I never expected to see, and I almost gasped. A slight smile appeared on the Major's face. I do not know whether any other offender would note it, and certainly only those of us in the first line of offenders could see it, but it was there."Officers, suit these convicts up." The Major turned in a military manner and left the room.The officers didn't need to do much. One of them went behind the counter at the end of the room, and five minutes later, four brown uniformed convicts entered the work space behind the counter. One by one our numbers were called and we walked to the counter to receive our brand-new browns—two sets, a "wear" and a "spare": "one for your body, one for your laundry, dude." Then each new convict stood in front of the crowd and jammed his naked ass into his new convict shorts.I was expecting everyone to get more confident, now that he wasn't totally naked and vulnerable, but it's hard to be confident when you're dressing into a convict suit. You could tell that a lot of them had never worn anything that wasn't soft and stylish and comfortable and picked out just for him. I guess that none of them had ever even seen one of those pillbox caps we were being issued—except for me, who'd seen those caps before, in ancient prison films. When I got up to the counter, the two earlier guys were still there, one trying to get his boots laced up, the other just staring in wonderment at that square cap with his number stamped across it.The convict at the counter bore an uncanny resemblance to one of my students. Same blue eyes, same red, honest-looking lips, same neat high cheekbones. He smiled sarcastically. "Here's your suit, old-timer," he said, dropping a pile of brown on the gray steel counter. "Wear at the top, spare at the bottom." He reached behind him and pulled out a pair of heavy black work boots. They clunked on the counter. "Suit up, pops." Before I could gather it all up, he was already calling the next number.I thought I knew about browns, but this suit was much heavier than the last one. Heavier, coarser. And this time, with numbers. Large black numbers for my back, my pec, my butt, my cap. And more numbers—white, this time—for the heels of my big black boots. Even my socks had numbers on the insteps. As I buttoned my dick into my thick, numbered trousers, it was like watching the whole mud-colored institution rise up slowly to swallow me. I never knew that clothes could be this heavy. My huge brown convict coat must have weighed ten pounds. But all you could see, I guess, was those big black numbers. The coat, the boots, the shirt, the trousers, had "hard labor" written all over them. I shuddered as I settled my convict cap on my bald head. Now I was a total convict, totally encased in brown. Looking down at the number on my chest, I thought that the only thing looking normal and human was the little V where the top of my shirt opened out on my neck. I thought about those hot young guys in brown open-necked shirts that delivered packages to the university."Hey pops," the con at the counter said. "Fix that top button. No open necks allowed in here." I closed the metal button onto my neck. So much for looking like a hot young worker.When all of us had been turned into giant blobs of convict brown, a long chain was brought out, with handcuffs attached, and we were locked onto the chain. It wasn't easy, but each of us took bent over and took the pile of spare uniforms up in 0our handcuffed arms. Then one of the cons came by and dropped a package of "personals" onto the top. "Don't drop it, dude," he snickered. As soon as he said that, I dropped it onto the floor, and almost dropped the uniform too. A bored guard walked by and smacked me on the ass with his paddle. I was glad that it wasn't more. I picked up the package, and shuffled on.So now we were on the march, shuffling and clanking across the floor, a mob of numbered brown suits headed for the human warehouse. They certainly did not need all this heavy chain to keep me totally under control. But of course I was being processed, not consulted. As we began our trip, I again marveled at how little I had really learned on my first little stint of being an offender. I realized that in less than a day I was many times more a real offender than I was during the whole previous time. Many times more a real convict, locked into the place that is made for convicts."Cells" had been mentioned. What would my cell be like? I knew that whatever it was like, it was not my choice and I would now have to live and exist on other's orders and plans, with no hope of getting myself free. Now it was real.A CO came over with a clipboard, and checking our numbers with his list, grabbed the beginning of the connecting chain. Another officer took the end of the chain, and when tugged our chain gang left Intake Processing, and with the clanking of our chains and the jingling of keys as the officer in the lead unlocked doors, we left the processing room, went down a hallway, and finally through a set of double doors, with the normal series of the doors behind us closed and locked before the ones before us opened.Finally we were in the center yard of Princeton. I saw a pattern of sidewalks that went diagonally across the yard as well as sidewalks that went straight across it. "We're going to Block E," the front officer said to one at the back. "Roger" was the answer, and all of us were on the way to the accommodations that the state would require us to use. Block E looked to be one of the old original blocks of the prison, dating back to the early 1900s. I could see the brick sides marked by evenly spaced sets of two or three story windows all thoroughly covered by bars which were both vertically and horizontally locking those inside from even the insiders of the prison.