It was a subtle beeping…

It was a warm day in September when i arrived at Building 50.  Vines seemed to grow out of the brick structure and a rusted metal door was opened toward me as i stepped out of the van.  I was directed down a hallway and placed into a waiting room which had the comfort of a cell.  Heavy doors with the typical narrow window secluded me while i waited on a cold green chair that no doubt had lasted since the seventies.  Minutes passed and hours passed as i sat there spinning all different emotions and questioning why in fact i was here in the first place.  Finally the door opened and two men entered sitting across from me holding their notebooks and a thick file.  They asked me to read aloud five pages of a twenty page document that stated the reasons for us all arriving here today.  I noticed the handwriting immediately and any fears or apprehensions soon turned to disbelief and anger.  I was here because someone close to me had a plan.  For better or worse, i was in for a long stay at Building 50.  The man, who apparently was the doctor as the other individual remained silent, questioned me in regards to numerous accusations of my behavior the last 30 days of my life.  I immediately was defensive and the fact that this “doctor” spoke broken english made me question how an institution which relies on communication can validate my state of mind when there was clearly a lack of communication.  In hind site, my actions, body language and demeanor in general made me a prime candidate for evaluation…weeks of eval in fact.

After this four hour drama, i was escorted by Jones.  Jones was an animated member of the staff who despite his intimidating stature was quite an entertaining and calming individual.  I felt quite at ease as i was following directions for my, let’s say, physical evaluation.  Standard procedures took place to categorize any scars, tattoos or physical marks and the oh-so comforting cavity search to look for confiscated paraphanalia.  It was at this point that i realized i would soon enter a new world beyond this private room where survival tactics may have to be deployed.  My heart began to race as i dressed into my arrival clothes minus shoe laces, belt and dignity.  The door i now exited from into the common hallway of Building 50 did not have a door handle on the other side clearly indicating a “no access” message.  It was now time to join the rest of the population for dinner.

Jones escorted me into the dining room not unlike a prison scene, but with a mixed gender audience.  There was no talking or noise, there wasn’t even the expected tings of silverware on plastic trays.  As i scanned the room taking it all in, my eyes fixed on two men squared off in the middle of the tables.  “You effin nigga” screamed the buzzed cut twenty-something.  There was no verbal reply from the other guy, just a lighting fast uppercut that sent this agressor to the concrete floor.  Then to my amazement, the winner – who would later be known as “Sarge” fell square back on the same concrete floor and began to convulce.  As if scripted and rehearsed, a subtle beeping was played over the loudspeakers as everyone went about their conversations and continued to chow down.  The dining hall doors slammed open.  Four large orderlies jogged in followed by two staff members wearing white coats armed with syringes.  They removed the scufflers and were gone within seconds.  This was no doubt an organized routine.  My ears once again fixed on the noise and it was a subtle beeping.  Then it stopped.

I glanced to my left as someone called out, “hey newbie.  If you wanna eat, you better get it now.  This ain’t no dine on my dime place and i gots to go.”  I picked up a tray moved down the line having my dinner plopped on a styrofoam plate.  I turned around and looked for an open seat.  It felt like the first day in a new school, but this was no school and for the others, it was not a new day.  I took a deep breath, moved forward into the mix of tables looking as confident and relaxed as i possibly could and sat down next to two girls who seemed to have hijacked a large table all to themselves.  “What time is the next fight?” i asked in my attempt to quickly break the ice.  “Could be right now if you think you’re going to sit here,” replied one of the girls.  “I’ll take my chances,” i said.  At this point, patience was not in my arsenal of virtues.  I was angry and didn’t care much about what could happen to me.  My response seemed to be acceptable to the two girls and they introduced themselves.  Charlene and Tia were frequent visitors of Building 50.  For the next seven minutes or so, they kindly gave me the brief on the place and offered a simple piece of advice – if anyone starts with you, don’t take it personally, and most importantly, don’t take it period.