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Squalie

You noticed the difference between minimum yard and maximum yard as soon as you were transferred. Minimum cell blocks had tier arrangements, six to seven men in dormitory-like settings. Maximum was single cells, all in a row, with a giant size chamber where inmates congregated . It was known as the ‘Fishbowl’ because the corrections officers could see right through the plexiglass from their cage.

For most inmates, maximum yard was a temporary arrangement; you could wind up there after fighting, disrespecting or disobeying an officer, or the like. Fighting called for three days in solitary, and after that time, a doctor would inspect your frame. Flanked by two COs, who held you upright, spread eagle, both hands in cloth bindings. The doctor (Doc Specs) would be the judge of your aggression, passivity, and relative calm. He then made a decision on whether or not you should ‘hit the yard’.

During those three days you were fed on trays through a grate in the door, stark naked in a cell with a mattress and chipped green toilet. There were trusties who served food, inmates who were favored by corrections. They all wore jeans and white t-shirts, all crew cutted and silent. You could hear them chatter amongst themselves, over the sound of AM radio. Rarely did they speak to inmates.

The sounds of other inmates catcalling and screaming obscenities. All day and night. Conversations between cells would start friendly enough, then often turn to accusations and threats. ‘ You snitched on me and Bobby! I’ll deal with you on the outside!’

On the third day of solitary you got notice if they’d keep you or release you to population. Upon release, they’d bring you the achingly familiar pile of clothes. Grey baggy pants, yard boots, undershirt, shorts and grey shirt. They were in a neat little pile, usually freshly creased. Everybody on release hit the tard at the same time. No one knew what to expect from the ever changing alliances and COs (Corrections Officers) rotation in Maximum. The Screws, the COs – they were up to speed with the inmates. In the mornings at the table, we watched them while we ate our sullen breakfast. They stood around above us waving cigarettes, talking about last night’s drunk. Small town boys, in their twenties, already married, already divorced. The tables sat four, with two spoons for each, no forks or knives-anything that might be of use as an implement of destruction.

I can remember the grey skies. Right after dawn. Lined up to march from Maximum yard to Mess Hall. One of the screws would leave the cage, and yell’Chow!’ And that one word each daybreak prompted us .We made our way in silence. There was no talking at all permitted in the march to chow, or the chow line. It was discouraged in Mess Hall , but you’d hear it occasionally. It cut down on arguments that led to fighting. This was a hangover from a policy known as ‘ Silent Treatment.’

For that matter, penitentiaries in New England had a policy of Silent Treatment. No speech whatsoever was permitted between inmates until they were outside on the yard. Within the cellblocks and tiers, any talk at all was a serious infraction. The only time an inmate could speak within was to address a CO. This was formal, by way of announcement- 1) Approach the cage 2) Raise hand 3) Recognized 4) Inmate has a request 5) State your request 6) ‘Request Granted’ or’Denied’. If one of the screws gave an order, a command you had thirty seconds to obey, even if it was something like ‘empty the wastebasket.’ If you ignored it, you’d risk three days in the hole. I’m told in New Hampshire, Silent Treatment is still the rule.

Certain hours inside, and certain times on the Yard. When inside, most of the time was spent in the Fishbowl, on benches and upright chairs. Back then, you could still smoke tobacco in the System and a lot of activity centered around the habit. Deals on packs, two later for one now- and cigarettes were common currency, you could buy clothes, smut books, on and on…

There was a Cape Verdean dude who picked and cured jimson weed. It grew in the far corners by the wall. He made his way undetected and pulled it up by the roots, dried it out in the sun, and rolled in cigarette papers for sale. Papers were no problem- if you ran out of smokes, you could get a free sack of tobacco and papers in tinfoil from the cage. Back then, tobacco was permitted in the system.

There was a type known as a squalie. They spent all their time in the fishbowl. Probably out of fear. Squalies were usually younger, mildly incapacitated and unresponsive. Older inmates took them under their wing, made sure they had clean clothes, enough food, and were not victims of random predators, And there were so many.

Tending to a squalie was no charity, they had to hand over weekly canteen goods in exchange for protection. Taking on three squalies or more meant a buffer against the hardship of life behind bars.We knew them to be ‘squalies’, like squalid- if they had no caretakers, they’d wind up a shambles. Some who tended squalies contacted family to ensure a steady flow of goods. This arrangement could be ongoing and semi-permanent. Tending to squalies was hard work ,but it had its rewards. You had to negotiate between the COs and the squalie, break him down to obey you, to the point where he was an insured dependency. For those with few outside contacts, family, spouses, etc. the squalie was a source of income. His caretaker was responsible for his safety and hygiene, as well as protection. There was a degree of competition between squalie handlers, as to who could carve out the most in the way of benefits. They had rewards in the way of weekly canteen packages. You could order cigarettes, candy,toothpaste, fruit pies, and various sundries. Your relatives (loved ones?) funnel money into an account. The money goes to the canteen. No squalie could get a handler’s protection without canteen funds. That’s not the way the world turns.

About the artist

Michael Igoe, city boy, Chicago now Boston. Works appear in journals and anthologies at amazon.com, lulu.com, barnesandnoble.com. National Library of Poetry (Owing Mills MD) Editor’s Choice For 1997. Best of the Net Nomination 2023. Instagram:: igoe590 Twitter(X):: MichaelIgoe5 poetry-in-motion.org