The Crash

Chapter 7

It's time for booking. We all get pictures taken for an ID, they run pregnancy tests, and we're taken to different rooms to get our uniforms, pajamas, and undergarments.

The shirts are light blue with a darker blue collar, and the pants are a dark navy with an elastic waist. They look comfortable, at least. I don't care about being fashionable right now, so it's not a problem. I'm not here to impress anybody.

The bedding we get is a bit better than what I had in jail, not the itchy wool like the blanket I was sleeping with. These are actual blankets-the white cotton ones like I have under my comforter at home.

The worst part about booking is honestly the wait. Everything is hurry up and wait. In line for an ID? You'll be there for two hours. Waiting to get a pregnancy test? You'll be there for three. It's never-ending.

Once we're done going around the carousel of rooms, all the newbies are gathered in another destination with a sergeant standing in the center. He's an older man with a kind look on his face, although a hint of corruption shines through. It makes me wonder if the compassionate front is just that.

"You are all here because you made a mistake, but you don't have to let that define you," he says. "You have a chance to turn this around and become a better person."

I'll never come back from what I've done.

Some of the girls cry, some roll their eyes, and some look like they are still in pure shock from all the change. I can tell I'm not the only one who has hit rock bottom.

He explains the basics of the new-prisoner protocol and prepares us to walk to the dorms.

I'm so nervous, I have no idea what to expect. I don't know what kind of beds they have, what the room looks like, or what the other women are in for. I don't even know how to fight, so hopefully, it won't come to that. Ever. I'm so nervous to be around the other women, too. It was hard enough in jail, and most of those women weren't hard-core felons. Who knows what I'm up against now.

We line up single-file, in twos as instructed. A stern-looking guard leads us to the other side of the building, past a C.O.'s desk, and into a room lined with bunk beds down the sides and center. The beds are so close together that you could stretch your arms out and touch two of them at once. There are no ladders or guards on the metal frames, so I wonder how I'm going to get up and if I'm going to roll off in the middle of the night.

I have a tag tied to my white and blue mesh bags with a bed number and the letter T. I'm assuming that means top bunk. Great. I'm definitely going to fall off. I scan the aisles, looking for bunk number 67, and find it in a back corner. I'm kind of thankful for the placement because it's against the wall and out of the way; a little bit more privacy.

Once again, everyone stares as I make my bed and take my shoes off. They're all looking at the new girl, probably wondering what I did to get here just like everyone else. I'm sure I'll be asked that question a lot on my first day.

"Hi, new bunkie." and old woman says cheerfully.

She looks sweet and innocent, like she shouldn't even be here. I can't even wrap my head around the fact that an old lady could do something to catch a felony. What could she have even done?

"Hey." I say back, slightly wary.

She motions to a large, grey metal box under the bed frame. "This lock box is yours, the one at the foot of the bed. The other one is mine. Make sure it's flush with the bed frame at all times. You'll get the hang of it here in a couple of days. The first week is just tough because it's a whole new routine. I've been here for three weeks, and I'm just now starting to figure everything out."

"Yeah, that makes sense. Thanks." I reply.

I open my lockbox and place my personals inside, the empty spaces starting back at me. Other girls have graham crackers, peanut butter, coffee, and an assortment of other things. They must have shopped already.

I climb onto my bed and look around the room, taking in all the new sights, sounds, and smells. It's summertime, and there is no air conditioning, so it's incredibly hot despite the giant fans blowing down the aisles. The room smells of B.O. and upset stomachs from the sudden change in food. The scent makes me gag.

Sweat beads up on my brow, and my shirt becomes damp in the small of my back. Strands of hair are plastered to the nape of my neck.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" The old woman asks. "It might get your mind off of things. By the way, my name is Cindy."

She smiles at me warmly, almost grandmotherly. I miss Gran so much.

"Sure." I tell her.

She leads me to the other side of the room where a door leads to the small yard reserved for those of us in admissions.

There is a small loop, a track for us to walk on. There's also an area sectioned off away from us where there is a swing set, a slide, and some ride-on toys.

"What's that area over there?" I ask Cindy, wondering why they would have children's things in a prison."

"Those are for the nursery program." She says. Some women who are heavily pregnant in here are eligible to stay with their babies for the first year."

It sits kind of wrong with me that an innocent child would have a prison number, even though I know it's not the same.

From what I learned in orientation, we will have to stay here for two to four weeks while they class us according to our risk level and our current health. We will either be going to general population, the psych unit, the violent offenders section, or transferred to a medical prison. That mainly goes for the girls who got positive pregnancy tests, which is surprisingly a lot.

It's crazy to me that so many of them didn't even know. It must suck being pregnant in this eat and having to eat that nasty food when you're already nauseous.

We walk the small track, redundant and unexciting. The privileges in admissions are so limited. I can't believe I have to spend the next few weeks in here.

I'm nervous to go to general population, but at least I'll be able to leave the building. For now, we have to be escorted everywhere, and we have a strict routine with no privileges.

A large, older black woman walks up to me, introducing herself. "Hey there, my friend Cindy here told me she got a new bunkie. All the girls call me Mama Bear. If you ever need anything, come find me, and I'll do the best I can."

I guess prison moms really are a thing.

"Yeah, she's my new bunkie. My name's Alex."

She smiles warmly. "I've been here a few times, so I know the ins and outs of everything. I'm not proud of it, but I can lend a helping hand or a listening ear."

A lot of people say prison is like a revolving door. A lot of people coming in are the same ones that were just leaving a few months ago. It's sad. I will never be one of them.

Mama Bear gives me a quick wave before going back to her group.

After we get inside, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. I walk in to find disgusting toilets with only a brick wall in between each one. No curtains. The mirrors are comparable to baking sheets. They are so hazy that you can barely see your reflection in them.

"You have got to be kidding me." I think to myself. "I thought this was only in movies." So much for stage fright.

I relieve myself quickly and walk back