DannyBoyinExile

The other day I’m in the dayroom when a CO shows up, repeatedly shouting my cell number. “Where’s three row, thirteen cell? I need three-thirteen!”
I could tell that he had “move slips” in his hand, meaning one of us was about to be moved – but it wasn’t me. My cellmate is a baker in the kitchen, and they had him moved to the dorms. The living conditions are much better on the dorms, to be sure. But their main concern was to make it easier to get his ass to work every night – even on lockdown. So they moved him, which left me in a cell to myself. For a night, anyway.
The most hazardous part of losing a cellie isn’t loneliness, by any means. It’s the fact that, in order to keep people housed together who are compatible (as far as age and weight) – there is a good chance that YOU could be moved, rather than ending up with a new cellie who you may or may not like. And that’s exactly what happened.
The next day I’m in the chow hall, when some other guys from my wing found me and broke the sad news to me. “They’re looking for you! You’re getting moved.” That in itself was bad news, considering that I had lived in the same cell, on the same wing (with the same cellmate) for TWO WHOLE YEARS! You tend to get settled in quite nicely after so long – and they were moving me to a whole different wing!
So much for my schedule, which was perfectly in tune with my cellie. So much for my seat in the dayroom, which everyone knew was “DannyBoy’s spot.” I didn’t even have to mark it, as everyone knew who sat there.
So much for all the status I had, after living on the same wing, and associating with the same people, for two whole years. Now I was moving to a new wing, where (ironically) I was the new guy – even though I’ve been on this unit for over twelve years.
I’ll know lots of people WHEREVER I move, so it wasn’t exactly traumatic. The only problem I encountered is that I was in one row, five cell – which is right in front of the dayroom! I can lay in my bunk, and feel like everyone in the dayroom is watching me, as they can damn sure see me. Conversely, they can sit out there and feel like I’m watching THEM – which couldn’t be further from the truth.
At least I still have my job in the laundry, which keeps me active and occupied all day. By the time I get home, it’s nap time, then I’m in the dayroom myself – then it’s back to my cell for the night. In years past, I felt compelled to sit in the dayroom until it closed (just to prove that I wasn’t SCARED to!), but my Party Animal days are behind me.
I try my best to find a silver lining in ANY gray cloud, and this is no exception. I live on one row, which happens to be where the picket officer hangs out – so at least it’s much easier to get my cell opened so I can escape the madness and relax. My cellie, on the other hand, DOES stay in the dayroom until it closes – and that’s fine with me, so I can have the cell to myself for the rest of the day! Likewise, he has the cell to himself while I’m at work all day.
I didn’t WANT to get moved, but I did, and it’s up to me to make the best of it. I could whine, scream, or complain, but it wouldn’t do me any good. I remind myself that it’s not THAT bad, and my situation could always be worse. And that’s a good idea whether you’re in prison or not. So says DannyBoy.