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Thread: Life Without - A Memoir - continued

  1. #1

    Life Without - A Memoir - continued

    Hello friends, allies, and fans.

    After many requests to continue "Life Without" I have decided to give a big "Hell Yeah!" and do so.

    I cannot continue it on the other channel and I am barred from even reading it that channel. I have saved all originally posted chapters in different places.

    So, I'll continue this epic saga here. Thank you Thailand Chatter! There are chapters already written that have not been posted, and I'll be writing more chapters and adding to the story.

    Twists and turns to come!

    As "Life Without" continues there will be no reference to any particular current forum, but the story will about a blend of the "real world" and the "forum world" and one inmates quest to overcomes the challenges he faces.

    Because it's been since Sept 21, 2018 since the last chapter was posted in the DH over there (you can still view it I assume) I'll repost the first 18 chapters here, and then continue the "new" or continuation from chapter 19.

    Thank you for all of your support - from the inside of my heart and soul to the physical forum incarceration....Life Without......


    Saluting!
    LWO Community strong!

  2. #2
    Cool! Look forward to reading it, Boots!

  3. #3
    Gee, I wonder if 'boots' is the ever obsessed 'smeg'.
    As obsessed as ever. I wonder if his story will revolve around an ant like character.
    Wow I can't wait to cut and paste it to another forum for the entertainment of that forums members, where they can laugh at and deride without fear of repercussions.
    Carry on.

  4. #4
    Quote Originally Posted by vendetta4real View Post
    Cool! Look forward to reading it, Boots!
    Thanks for the support, vendetta.

    As I noted, the first 18 chapters will be verbatim and re-posted here and to keep the story line and characters and then new chapters will continue the saga.

    We'll be adding soon.
    LWO Community strong!

  5. #5
    Quote Originally Posted by Cujo View Post
    Gee, I wonder if 'boots' is the ever obsessed 'smeg'.
    As obsessed as ever. I wonder if his story will revolve around an ant like character.
    Wow I can't wait to cut and paste it to another forum for the entertainment of that forums members, where they can laugh at and deride without fear of repercussions.
    Carry on.
    No, I'm not Smeg.

    Anyone who reads this or other forums knows this.

    I hope you do not cut and paste this story but I understand that you can and post and that site that banned me for basically no reason.

    Nonetheless, LWO will continue.

    the first 10 chapters will be identical, the next new.

    Peacw
    LWO Community strong!

  6. #6
    “Life Without” – A Memoir

    By, Grampa



    Page 1



    You could hear a pin drop.



    The seconds turned into minutes and the minutes seemed like hours. High ceilings and wood-covered walls with wooden-everything filled the court room. There are always lots of wooden décor in courtrooms.


    We waited. And waited.


    I was notified that the TD jury had reached its decision. This was not a jury of my peers but of the TPTB. “The Powers that Be.” They made their ruling behind closed doors and summoned me to the courtroom to hear the verdict (which I knew was coming) and the sentence (which I had no idea what to expect). But after 12 years and 3 months on the only forum I knew and loved I was here to learn my fate. Judgement day.


    The wooden door slowly creaked open. The TD judge appeared in a long loose-hanging black robe. In this story names will be changed to protect the guilty, so I won’t specifically name this judge. His username has 6 letters with the first and last being the 14th letter of the alphabet.



    “All rise!” the bailiff bellowed, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.


    I stood. Pensive.



    “You may be seated.”



    The sound of the audience sitting in muffled tones movement of clothing in chairs.


    Then back to silence.



    The TD emblem that appeared on the top-left side of the forum looked ominous in a large detailed plaque above the judge meticulously constructed by hand – and of course wood. A symbol of power. Authority. And also, the state. The TPTB.


    My heart rate increased. I was intentionally breathing deeper through my nose to give the appearance of being stoic yet not scared. But that was bullsh*t and everybody knew. I sure as hell knew it.


    “It has been ruled by this court of Teakdoor on March 1, 2018 that you, Grampa will be remanded to the TD jail.


    You will be eligible for parole when you receive 100+ positive green repo points!”


    Gasps and muttered sounds emanated throughout the court-room, echoing off of the wooden walls.


    “Do you have anything to say, Grampa?” the judge asked me as h made this mundane procedural question, peering at my through his spectacles.



    I clenched my teeth and murmered “no," barely a saying a word.



    “Court is adjourned!” and with those piercing words he slammed the (yes wooden) gavel in a single forceful robust clack! Immediately standing up and disappearing through the doorway he’d entered through. I was led out of the court-room through the back door on the other side. As I slowly was led out I glanced across the court-room. I saw the 5 posters who tormented me with reds. They had a look of satisfaction among them, some grinning slightly. Neverna was in the middle. I didn’t make eye contact. I never knew where she stood with me. To the right were my crowd of dozens of supporters, with SK and SKkin in the front row. Looks of the strength yet disappointment in their eyes.


    As soon as I left the court-room and entered the sterile-white hallway with marble floors I heard, “put your hands behind your back, please.”


    The TD officers clamped the iron bracelets in front of my back.


    We began the slow yet steady walk, where one could only hear the taps of soles hitting those pristinely white marble floors.


    This was not the end, but the beginning of my journey. A passage into the Boulevard of Broken dreams.
    LWO Community strong!

  7. #7
    Chapter 2: Transition


    After you get the book thrown at you (in addition to being convicted) you go straight from defendant to Con. Prisoner. Don’t not pass go, do not collect $200, go directly to jail.


    Back at the County TD jailhouse I was given several legal papers to sign. They were written in plain and simple English for the layperson (us cons) to understand, but I couldn’t be bothered to read more than the first 3 lines. Things about “liability” for this and that and “not responsible for X, Y, and Z.” I just signed at the bottom.
    What was the point? I was just given “life without.”


    Usually those sentenced will wait until the next bus has enough seats full of cons to transport to the prison. The wait for the bus ride to prison could be weeks and even more than a month. If one was lucky it would only be days. County is much worst than prison. County is their house; prison is our house. Fortunately for me, I was told I would be leaving the day after tomorrow. They can’t give a time for security reasons but just said “have your stuff ready when we call you.”



    The ride:


    A guard approached in my peripheral vision and barked through the dark bars of my cell, “Gramps! Get your stuff! We’re leaving in 15 minutes!” The face looked familiar but I recognized his voice even moreso….Sodum.

    The former poster Sodum who was a patrolman-copper turned something like a contractor when he wasn’t posting. It must have been over 10 years since I’d seen him. He never knew my real off-screen identity and I wasn’t ready to tell him then and there, nor would I ever be. I nodded and answered “yeah, I’ll be ready.”


    “I’ll be back in 15!” he hollered as he marched away.
    I finished putting what little I had in my County-issued “item” bag – that’s the official bureaucratic name for it. “Items” are anything but clothing. Momentos, photos, books, legal papers, notebooks, puzzles, top ramen, portable water heater for coffee, you name it. The “laundry” bag is for clothes and clothing only. Those were the rules. One thing you need to learn quickly on the inside - are the rules. Those of the institution and those other rules of the code of conduct among fellow inmates. Breaking institutional rules leads to “points” which can shave off good time or allow the denial of privileges. As for the other sets of rules, breaking the unwritten rules created by and for inmates will often result in a beat down and possibly even the inevitable.

    I had everything in my two bags. The rest of the cell was empty, devoid of a single item. Someone would be coming soon to replace me, as is always the case. This hotel ain’t got no vacancies.


    Sodum returned exactly fifteen minutes later.


    “Let’s go! Chop Chop!" He ordered, while clicking open my cell door with his jangling keys on his large over-sized key ring. Sometimes I wondered if all of these keys were some kind of power-trip. A lot of guards were into what I call ‘symbolic authority.’ A lot of guards played the physical sports in school like rugby and American football. Almost all did a stint in the armed forces for a couple of years before returning to their home-town and then a relative got them a life-time gig as a D.O.C. Officer (Department of Corrections officer) or “C.O.” (Corrections Officer). Also known as Cage-Kickers. Being a Cage Kicker was better than an assembly line job which was about all of these “prison towns” had. In general their IQs were not considered the highest, but this is often said so mostly by inmates who have a hate-on for guards. There are some good ones and professional ones. But more often than not they create an intimidation management style and adversary role. They look down on us. Just like the rest of society.


    We were cons, prisoners, failures, throw-aways, the bottom of society wasting taxpayer money, getting fed three meals per day funded by those who pay the taxes.


    And this was now me. I was now one of the “them.” The lowest form of society, the bottom-tier, if you will – That was now who I was. It was, me.


    But at this time I had not yet had not any time to mentally grasp what had just happened to me nor the ability to reflect on my future situation. Time….there would be plenty of that ahead. Too much of it.


    14 of us were shackled at our ankles while our wrists were chained to our waists and marched single file into what they call the “Big Bus.” It looked identical to a school bus but there were not windows except for tiny slits on the side at the near where the roof met the side panels. It was pained bright white. The driver sat inside a cage basically for his own protection. Security reasons, again. We were led in by a guard and filled up the empty seats starting from the back up to the front. We were ordered not to talk to one another. Security reasons, once again. In case there was some conspiracy to carry out a mutiny and work in coordination with inside-plan to do a jailbreak with help from the outside.


    I sat down next to a guy in his forties I’d never seen before at County. We were all dressed in white “TD Jail” prison jump suits.


    The driver, in his 60s, probably using this driving-gig as a part-time job started the diesel engine. A guard manned both the front and rear of the bus


    I would arrive at TD Prison 8 ½ hours later….
    LWO Community strong!

  8. #8
    Chapter 3:

    Welcome. Come on in!

    After 8+ hours on this journey of the mother of all silence of eternity, we were about to arrive. As our bus descended down steep hills taking turn after turn we finally entered “Smeg Valley.” It was a valley surrounded by brown low mountains and hills. Smeg Valley is like a bowl. At the bottom of this bowl is where TD State Pen sat. Heat waves rippled from the grown if you looked afar. High jaggeds mountain cliffs could be seen behind the haze of heat. This Pen was also called the “Hot House,” and for good reason.

    This concrete monstrosity was entrenched firmly in the bottom-center of the valley. This vast hot flatland was a sparse brown patch of land devoid of vegetation except for miles except for the occasional cactus highlighted by a rolling tumbleweed. Strategically located. You could see an inmate out of this complex miles away with the naked eye if he ever escaped. This was no man’s land. You were not getting out of this place. With my limited view out of the driver’s front windshield I got my first glimpse of this brightly painted white concrete, foreboding fixture. From Teakdoor wood to concrete blocks of buildings: guard towers, razor wire and fences so high they reached the sky. It was getting larger and larger – because we were getting closer and closer. Now, it was starting to sink in.

    I felt a sharp pain of anxiety enter my gut. I didn’t know what to expect, only having heard rumors at county about how tough this Pen was. Now, reality was starting to set in. I was scared shi*tless.

    The bus stopped at the first perimeter – this is guard talk for the outermost fence, reinforced by lethal electric 25 foot-fence and razor sharp barbed wire. The guard at the ground-level wooden shack said something (unintelligible to me) to the bus driver through his window and the electronic electrified fence slowly opened. Like a snail crawling, it seemed to take forever. Then he slid the Big Bus into first gear and we crept and lugged into this this “no man’s land,” a no-go area between the first and second perimeter. Here, there was a tall full-on guard tower manned by two Corrections officers. One had a rifle with a scope attached. Just like the movies.

    “Oh sh*t, here we go” I thought to myself.

    The door of the bus opened and a guard entered and stomped up the stairs and stood next to the driver, not even taking turning to take a glance at us. They both compared their clipboards and checked the list of our names. Then he turned towards us and counted silently with his lips moving, pointing with his finger and nodding his head slightly at each one of our faces, whispering “one, two, three, four, five,” six”…..etc.

    He pulled out a black walki-talkie from his belt.

    “14!”

    “14 confirmed,” was the staticky response from the other end of the walkie.

    “OK, gentlemen! You have arrived at TD State Penitentiary.
    I’m officer Michael Rye!” he bellowed, making sure every inmate could hear him, including my grandmother who is 96 and legally deaf.

    Officer Rye stood at about 6 foot 2, with broad shoulders and puffy forearms. You could tell he was a weight lifter. He had a (balding) shaved head that had seen a lot of sun, silver-rimmed round-sloping sun-glasses and a dark brown handlebar moustache. He had a ponch. Easy to assume he liked cold suds in his off-time after work.

    He had volunteer high school American football coach written all over him.

    A former jock, I thought to myself.

    “ Soon, you’ll depart from this this bus and then you’ll register your things in your Item Bag, be issued your TD inmate number and then you’ll be issued TD State Pen uniforms you’ll be wearing and---"

    A hand rose in the middle of the bus, interrupting.

    “Yes?” the officer Rye asked, making eye contact with the inmate.

    “What color are these new prison jumpsuits,” the Con enquired.
    F*ck, what a stupid question, I thought.

    “You’ll find out soon!” Rye replied matter-of-factly to the inmate’s query.

    Another voice asked, “When can we make a phone call?”

    “Soon!” exclaimed Rye, with a dint of irritation in his voice. He’d probably heard these questions hundreds of times before.

    “After your photos are taken and your fingerprinted and you’ll be given your new attire – and by the way – they are dark blue with black lining. Just like the Teakdoor forum.

    “Does this answer your question?” looking at the inmate who ask this vain fashionista question.

    The con nodded, “yes.”

    “Now, where were we?……Classification……you’ll go to classification. This is an interview,” he added, then stopping abruptly.

    There was dead silence.

    I was told about classification at County. It’s where they “classify” you and assign you within the system. There are 5 levels. Level one is for low-level offenders considered not a risk to others and from there it goes all the way up to 5. Three and four are bad but five is for The Hardcore, the worst, and for me, the scariest. This is where shankings often happen and occasionally someone end ups dead. Daily life in level five is about alliances, not making an enemy by accidentally bumping into him in the chow hall, and basically staying alive.

    The bus made its finally crawl into the open doors to a dark and obscure warehouse devoid of hardly any light. As we fully entered it, the sliding iron doors shut in a slow methodical fashion by remote control. The bus stopped, its doors opened.

    Officer Rye, who never turned his back to us as he stood in front of the bus facing us, blurted: “Now stand up one-by-one and exit starting at the front row to the back! Starting with you!” Pointing like a drill instructor to a young, lean, kid, probably 20, in the front seat directly behind the driver.

    My gut felt queasy.
    Last edited by Boots; 08-02-2019 at 06:48 AM.
    LWO Community strong!

  9. #9
    Chapter 4:

    Classification:
    “Who do you run with?”

    As Rye informed us, classification came. I took my ‘Hollywood’ front pic and profile shot and gave my prints. Some guard in his 60s took my mugs. He must have ‘shot more people than Cecil B. Demille.’ (1)

    The handcuffs and ankle shackles were off now, since we were firmly inside layers of security. I started to feel (a little bit) like a human being.

    Onto classification:


    “Walk straight down the hall and sit and wait in that blue chair on your left until you are called,” a guard told me. I didn’t bother reading is badge to get his name. I walked to the chair and sat for what seemed to be about 15 minutes. There were no clocks.

    The wooden door with opaque marble-like glass clicked open.

    A polite and soft-sounding woman about sixty pounds over-weight with shortish graying hair and spectacles with chords to hang them around her neck, in her 50s calmly said “come in,” in a mild mannered tone of voice.

    I walked to her desk and sat down. Her open cubicle was quite spartan. I noticed some obvious family photos of her and her Fam and a shot of her in a kayak with a paddle in her hand and a smile. We weren’t face-to-face, but sitting at 90 degree angles. It was more comfortable that way. Amicable, not confrontational. This woman – the classifier for the state (social worker) had already gone over my brief file and new I was a non-violent fresh fish now serving time for my first offence. I got an immediate good vibe from her. A sensing of goodness. I felt she cared and had spent her life doing this. This was all before even knowing her name. I could tell she had a degree in social work and had dedicated decades of her life in this field of work – dealing with people….problem people.

    “Hi, I’m Patricia Bavasi.”
    “Hello,” I said, not saying my name. She knew it already.
    “How are you doing so far?” she asked with an impression of genuine concern.
    “OK, I s’pose. I just got here,” I answered. Not sure if she believed me. I wasn’t OK. I was weary and tired mentally and physically.

    I’m going to ask you a question: “Do you run with anyone?”

    “Huh?”

    “Who do you run with?”

    “I don’t jog or run,” I responded.

    “What I mean to say is, are you a member of, or are you affiliated with any gangs?”

    “No. No way. Not at all,” I answered with surprise.

    That’s what I thought from reading your profile, but it’s a mandatory question I have to ask new arrivals. There is one thing on your sheet here…..The Alliance….an organization of your supporters who operate in covert fashion on the forum and follow your orders. Is this true?”


    “No,” I lied. “That was all just a forum rumor.”


    “Well, we don’t have adequate evidence that this organization exists or even conducts malicious behavior so I’m writing “not confirmed” on this report.
    “Well, I’ve already reviewed your file: Your education, work history, police record, and the conviction and sentence given to you. You’ve never been sentenced to Teakdoor jail before?”

    “No,” I answered shaking my head.

    “Not even a week or two?”
    “No,” I repeated, once again.

    “Your sheet is clean up until your only and latest conviction and sentence. I’m a bit surprised of the harshness of your sentences.”

    “Me too. Life.”

    “Well no, it’s not life,” Mrs. Bavasi noted.

    “But it’s life….Life, right?

    “Well, not so fast,” she countered holding up the TD court sheet closer to her. “It says sentenced to jail until you earn 100+ green repo points.”

    We cannot classify this as a “life sentence,” but as “indeterminant.”

    “What does that mean?” I asked.

    It means that there is no release date specified, but that release can be gained once a particular condition is met,” Bavasi clarified in bureaucratic fashion. It could be tomorrow….that’s unlikely….or….never….that’s possible. I’m just being honest and giving you the potential possibilities.”

    I raised my voice a little, “But that sentence means I’m leavin’ here with a toe-tag. Me getting 100 green repo points has as much chance as a snowball in hell.”

    “Now hold on a minute,” she interjected. “You have the right to appeal. There is an appeal process. It’s not very fast, but you CAN appeal. You need to keep some positivity and hope. I’ve had others here before me here like you who were given long sentences, and eventually they were allowed back on the forum – under conditions.

    I communicated to Mrs. Bavasi that I understood with my eyes.

    And it’s a good thing….I mean….it’s better than being classified as a “lifer.” Being categorized as “Indeterminant” in sentencing means that Level 5 is not an option, whereas a life sentence often means being places in level four to begin with and you having to earn points to move into the lower levels.

    I gave a visible sigh of relief.

    “So…..what level am I---”

    “You’ll be housed in Level 1 to start,” she told me..

    Now I blew a louder and lengthier breath of fresh air that was noticeable. She knew what I was going through.
    “Yes, level 1. Low-level offenders. This runs….well, let’s say the problems there are minor in comparison to the upper levels. As I’ve said I’ve reviewed your schooling and you have no priors and your offence of a ‘flounce fail’ is certainly a lessor crime than forum stalking, trolling, or multi-knicking.”

    “Thank you, Mrs. Bavasi,”


    “It’s what I’m here for,” She replied as she handed me my classification paper for level 1. “If you have any questions don’t hesitate to ask me. I’m here full-time. 8:00 to 4:30 Monday to Friday. I’m available during these times. And remember! You need to follow the rules of the institution and not get into trouble to remain in Level one. However, don’t think you’re going to have problems if you keep your head on straight and keep your nose clean.”

    “OK, thanks,” I said again.

    “Have a good day,” Said Mrs. Bavasi, sincerely.



    Footnotes.
    (1). The reference and quote to Cecil DeMille was taken from a line from Gene Wilder in the film “Blazing Saddles” (1974).
    LWO Community strong!

  10. #10
    Chapter 5:

    The not-so-grand entrance



    The mugshot, fingerprints and paperwork were finished.


    Now it was time to get assigned to my cell (and worrisome to me was who would be my cellmate, or “cellie.” Nobody got their own cell. It was always 2 inmates sharing one and when things got crowded they even packed in three. That’s when tension levels can rise.
    I was issued 4 white t-shirts, 4 pairs of boxer underwear and 4 pairs of socks. All were white. Plain white. Were these new digs new? Hell no. Not in prison. You got used stuff. You can barely see the little stains under the armpits of the one of shirts, but they are there. Perhaps a coffee stain on one sleeve and who-knows-what on the other clothes issued to me.

    Oh, you can buy new clothes here. Sure. At the commissary. At a price mark up of more than 100%. It’s a Monopoly. And you see, that’s how a thing called “prison labor” gets to look more and more appealing for those doing time here – unless you or your family have money to put into your commissary account.

    I was given 2 large two large and two small towels – all white.
    2 bars of soap, a toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste. All of these things were in a white cotton bag that you sling over your shoulder and carry to your new home.


    I was given my new address:



    “326c,”



    said a prison orderly to me matter-of-factly. (“Orderly” is a fancy word for inmate worker.) He wrote it down on a small piece of note paper and gave it to me.


    I looked through the thick glass that separated me from General Pop, where I saw three stories or what they call tiers of corridors and rows of iron-barred cells. Dozens of inmates meandering about on the open bottom floor. sitting at tables talking, playing cards, standing, chatting, etc. It was a sterile and bland atmosphere of concrete and iron. The chairs and tables were anchored to the ground with bolts so there was no way of throwing them or using them as a blunt instrument against someone.

    I looked at the small note paper for about 5 seconds.

    “Where?-----”

    He interrupted me politely knowing I had no clue, looking up, raising his hand and pointing to a far, across Gen Pop to the third story at the back.
    I could barely see it.

    “There,” he motioned.

    “’3 means third tier – 3rd floor. 26 is your cell number and C is the section of Gen Pop you’re in: 326c. Walk up those steps to the third tier on the right and walk down to the end. The numbers are at the top right of every cell. OK?”

    “Got it,” I answered.

    He knew I was anxious. He had graying hair and deep-seated wrinkles on his forehead. Experience. If you want to call it that. Like Officer Rye, this orderly had seen this hundreds of times before when a fresh fish enters Gen Pop. He gave me a relaxed and pleasant facial expression, stuck out if hand to shake mine and said, I’m Dan,”

    “Grampa,” I responded, shaking his hand.

    Dan continued, “When I buzz this door open for you ignore the cat-calls and taunts. There just messin’ with you - but they are sizing you up. To see if you're weak. The tryin’ to play with you, make you nervous. They know this is your first time and you’re also a fresh fish ‘cause you got your cotton laundry bag and dressed in all-white. Don’t pay no attention to them. They will hoot and holler and whistle at you. You just walk straight to your cell with your head held high lookin’ straight ahead. Walk at a regular pace - not too fast, not too slow. You’re nervous and that’s normal and there is no way you can completely hide that."

    “Thanks Dan,” I said sincerely. “How long have you been here,” I asked?

    “Long enough,” he responded in a serious tone…..“I’m buzzing the door open now. When you hear the buzz, push the door open and walk in.

    Holy F*ck, I thought to myself. My mouth was so dry I had cotton-mouth.


    The long and steady BBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!! Came.



    I pushed the door open and walked into General Pop.















    LWO Community strong!

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