“Okay, stand over there, by the wall.”
I look over at the wall opposite the nursing station. It’s white and completely blank except for a neon-green Post-it that says “Stand Here.”
There’s a camera bolted to the nursing station. The clerk looks through the eyepiece and adjusts the camera angle.
I stand in front of the Post-it and look straight at the camera. No smile. No smirk. I don’t want to look smug, just in case TMZ gets my mug shot.
A machine on the nursing station ejects a bright red plastic card. The clerk looks at it, loops on a black lanyard and hands it over to me.
“Federal Bureau of Prisons—INMATE,” it says in large black type. In case my all-khaki ensemble doesn’t give me away.
Elisabeth Lindstrom, 88299-050.
At least they got the spelling right.
The next few hours are a blur of mindless interviews and bureaucratic bullshit. As I’m led from room to room, I push my shoulders back, stand tall and stare straight ahead. I’m not gonna let this experience get me down.
“Okay, Lindstrom, you’re good to go,” my van-driving guard finally says.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Unit A2.” The guard walks me out of R&D and points uphill toward a cluster of buildings.
“Are you coming with me?”
She shakes her head. “I got stuff to do down here. Just head up the hill. A Building’s on your right. Ya can’t miss it.” With that, she goes back inside, leaving me alone.
After all we’ve been through, I thought we had something special.
I’m a little out of breath when I get to the top of the hill. At least I’ll be able to get into shape while I’m in prison.
A group of women wearing white T-shirts and heather-gray shorts stands in the middle of the quad-like lawn, chatting and laughing. They all stop talking and stare at me. I often have that effect on people.
“Hey, Blondie, ya lookin’ for A or B?” one of them shouts.
“A,” I shout back.
“Over there,” she says, pointing to the nearest building.
I nod in thanks, and the women return to their chatter.
Entering A Building, I suddenly feel like a real inmate. The prison looks pretty much like what I’ve seen in movies. Cinder block walls painted institutional white. More cheap vinyl floors and buzzing fluorescent lights. Up front is a guards’ station manned by uniformed officers. And everywhere, women of all shapes, races and sizes—mostly XL and XXL—rush by in a khaki-clad stream of humanity.
“Lindstrom?” a female officer asks as I approach the guards’ station.
“Yeah.”
“You’re late.”
“Sorry,” I say, still not sorry.
“Next count’s in thirty minutes, and lights-out at ten o’clock,” she says. She reaches into a cabinet and hands me a big pile of stuff. A dark gray, scratchy-wool blanket. Two threadbare sheets. A sad, flat fiberfill pillow. A clear plastic bag with motel-size soap, toothbrush and mini-tube of toothpaste.
“Count?” I ask. I follow the woman down a corridor lined on either side with identical cinder block sleeping compartments.
“Ask Flores, she’ll teach you the ropes,” she says, stopping in front of a compartment. She motions to the raven-haired woman sitting on the bottom bunk, who’s got her nose deep in a pulp paperback.
“Flores, this is Lindstrom, your new bunkie,” the officer says. As she leaves, I hear the echoes of her heavy black boots making their way back to the guards’ station.
“Hey, I’m Lindstrom. Beth Lindstrom.”
I sound like James Fucking Bond.
“Juanita Flores,” she replies. She puts her book facedown on the mattress, wriggles out of her bunk and shakes my hand. I notice she’s got an awesome manicure.
“Nice nails,” I say. “Gel?”
Juanita looks pleased.
“No, it’s regular polish. But, like, three thin coats and a shiny topcoat. The girls here are fricking mani-pedi geniuses. And they’re not even Vietnamese.”
“So, what’re you reading?” I ask. I point to the paperback on her bunk.
“Murder on the Orient Express,” she says. “I’ve probably read it a million times, but I can never get enough of mysteries. You read it?”
“No, but I saw the movie. A long time ago.”
“Movies are never as good as the book,” she says. “I’ll show you how to make your bed.” She reaches over to grab the sheets from my pile of stuff.
“How hard can it be to make a bed?” I want to ask—although now that I think about it, I can’t actually remember the last time I did.
“Six times a day, we have count, which means you need to be at your bunk,” Juanita says. “Every morning by first count, your bed needs to be inspection ready. If your bed’s not perfect, you get a shot.”
“A shot?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s kinda like a speeding ticket. You get enough shots, you lose TV privileges, get more time, whatever. So, whatcha do is make the bed all perfect and sleep on top.”
Juanita secures the sheet on the mattress with hospital corners, drapes it partway down, then folds it back up.
“Gimme the blanket,” she says.
She tucks the blanket into the foot of the bed, draws it up to the head and then folds the sheet over the edge. In a few deft moves, Juanita’s created the appearance of a perfectly made bed with just one sheet—the same way we used to short-sheet our counselors’ bunks at summer camp.
“Light’s out every night at ten o’clock,” Juanita continues. “When you’re ready to go to sleep, you spread the second sheet on top of the blanket and lie on it. These sheets are crappy, but at least they’re better than the horse blankets, which are itchy as shit.”
Juanita pulls a colorful granny-square afghan from her footlocker. “It gets cold at night. You can borrow this ’til you get your own stuff.” She folds the afghan neatly in thirds and places it at the foot of my bed.
Everyone will tell you: I’m no softie. But in that moment, I’m close to tears.
“So, does everyone do this?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Sleep on top of their bed?”
“Yup.”
“No one actually sleeps under the blanket?”
“Nope.”