Key West- sorry no time to edit but it is for you

The one thing that helped me to stay sane was, writing. The other thing that helped was working in the kitchen. 
Ideally, you try to get into the kitchen, so you can eat a little bit more than what they normally serve. It was all garbage but you get a bit more of it. 
Eventually, I was fired for my antics and practical jokes. There was a Log Book that we had to sign but the page was left empty and wasted, to me. I took it upon myself to enter actual log entries akin to a Ships Log, entering things that portrayed the actual goings on only in metaphorical illustrations. The guys I worked with got a big kick out of it, and a star was born. 
Now I was invited into the mop closet to smoke cigarettes that we got from the kitchen employees.

The cameras were located in many places, especially on the mop closet entry. It was always comical to think of the guy manning the surveillance monitors, who would see us coming out of the closet like a bunch of clowns getting out of a V.W. Beetle at a circus. Fifteen guys coming out of the room one by one, carrying a broom or mop or dustpan- whatever they could carry out, like it was normal routine activity. As if the guard didn’t know what was going on. It always cracked me up when they did that, wondering why the surveillance system didn’t have audio as well.

One day, I was fired from the kitchen. It wasn’t for the butter that I put on the backside of the cooler door handle, or the baking grease I smeared on the mop handles, or for the balled up cake residue left in the pan- that I placed on the floor near the bathroom as if someone crapped their pants. It wasn’t for switching the contents of the barrels that held the powdered sugar and the Corn Starch or for smuggling salt and pepper back to the dorm or for being caught smoking. And I didn’t get fired for playing the pots and pans like percussion instruments or for doing unflattering impersonations of Mrs. Alverez, the kitchen lady, or for eating an entire roast beef that I took from the O.R. cooler. And It wasn’t because they found twenty containers of peanut butter while doing a routine search of my stuff or for putting jelly in someone shoes before they got up to go to work. I was fired because an English chap, that started working with us, decided to try getting in on the fun by urinating in a cup he had been drinking lemonade from, which he placed in the O.R. cooler after trying to offer us “lemon tea”. Someone had taken the cup from the cooler thinking that it was actual lemon juice because of the seeds that were in it, and either drank from it or added it to a batch of tea. They took me directly to the disciplinary wing called, Alpha, telling me that I was on thirty days confinement for pissing in the tea. What could I do?

The cell they put me in was on the upper tier. A young guy was already in there, so I was glad to have company… for about two days. He had very long hair, like I did before I cut it to work in the kitchen. Noticing the dirty nails and scratching made me suspect that he had a hygiene problem. The problem was that the dirt turned out to be blood.  It didn’t take long to talk him into cutting his hair a bit, so he asked me to help him with it. I agreed and we went to the officer’s desk, while we were out for our one-hour a day to shower and what not, asking to use the clippers.

When I dove into his hair with the clippers, dozens of Nits were easily seen. I freaked out because I was dealing with lice and didn’t want to be. They sent us to Medical to be seen and we were sent back with some chemical solution to treat with. We both had to stand naked in the shower area for almost and hour with the stuff on us. After we finished I was relieved to have gotten past it. There was no more sleep disturbing scratching going on after that but my sleep was disturbed anyway, when a ruckus two cells down made me jump out of bed.

Looking out the window of the door, I could see the clock that said three thirty, as well as, a guard on the floor below, watching the cell doors to see if anyone was up looking that way. There was a guard standing at the door of the cell with the commotion, and some muffled shouting. Then there was a bunch of thumping and screaming, and a loud crash as the person being beaten was slammed into a stainless steel cart on the catwalk that for some strange reason was in front of his cell. Blood was everywhere. I will never forget the faces of the officer’s that did it. One kept his head shaved and had a nasty scar on his head from a bullet wound that he received in Desert Storm. Later, I found out that this was retaliation for filing a complaint and suing the officer. Whether that’s true or not, I cannot say. What I do know is that they attacked and nearly killed him. Four officers were involved.

The very next morning, in what I understood as an attempt to keep any lawyers from trying to find a witness, our cell door windows were completely covered with a plastic coating that prevented us from seeing out. A recipe file card was taped over a small hole they left in the center to peek in at us with. When they delivered breakfast, I asked the trustee what went on. All he could tell me was that a trail of blood two feet wide was left on the floor that led all the way to the medical office.

Just before my thirty days were up, I started scratching at night. I thought I was going mad. After putting in a kite to see a nurse, I was told that it was Scabies. They gave me some cream to apply to the areas. Here I was, fearing that I would get lice from the kid.

Joe was one of the many gay men in my dorm. He, like a lot of gay men, took a personal interest in me.  I laughed it off as well as I could, and developed a report with him, even hung out a couple of times when we were released. He was another crack addict. When he worked at a gas station that they trusted him with closing, he stole fifteen hundred dollars from the deposit bag for his habit, eventually fleeing to another state. He said all the right things and sounded sincere in his rehabilitation. After going back to the men's shelter I found that my belongings had been given or thrown away, and that I was not welcome to stay there, I had no place to go but the Safe Zone. I asked if I could entrust him with some notebooks and writings that I had accumulated while serving the one year long sentence for the solicitation to sell cocaine charge- whatever that means.

Joe had an apartment that he was sharing with a family he became acquainted with. It seemed like I could count on him to keep my papers safe for the time being, so I left them with him, along with my food stamp card to let him get a few things he needed as payment for storage. He ended up getting thrown out for drugs a short time afterwards, taking my card and causing for my papers to be thrown out with the trash.

The time of day became late in my worry, and I found myself the farthest I could be from the Safe Zone. You have to check in by a certain time and the gate closes a little while after that, putting me on the streets for the night once again. Left to wander, I headed for Duval Street to find an opportunity.

What I found were these people who were palm weavers. They made hats, baskets and bowls. They fashioned roses and crucifixes also, which seemed to be of interest to the tourists. All while sitting at the foot of the carnival style buildings that lined the street and sidewalks. It was a routine sight in the shopping and drinking streets, which was pretty much all of them.

The city has street vendor permits, of a certain number, that people can purchase for things particular to their “trade”. My questions began, asking each one of them if they needed help with anything, finally finding a couple guys who said I could help them sell their goods- roses made from Palm fronds. Soon, I discovered that this was a big joke because they would sell a couple roses and just go to the store for beers with what money they received. Then they would leave me to watch their spot and handle sales, barking at tourists as they walked by- same as the Carnival or County Fair.

Feeling and looking like a clown, I tried to play the part. It became obvious that these guys were addicts when they came back, talking strangely about where they stuck “the pipe” in the bushes and asking me if I “smoked”. The night proceeded while they squandered the money as it came in, spending it on drinking and drugs. I had accumulated only eight dollars because for every item I could sell they gave me a dollar bill.

It was turning into a far desperate situation than I could have imagined myself being a part of... I lost hope and turned to trying my hand at prostitution when three old ladies came along. What made it easy to think of was that I had been drinking and became hypnotized by the strong sexual overtone of the adult environment, like the festival that they call Fantasy Fest. The three of them were here on vacation though, and had just got off of a cruise ship to stay for a while and fly back home. One in particular was perky and upbeat, looking around sixty-five year old. Though a difficult decision to make, I put the bait out there and began flirting to let them know it could be had. All I could think was it could be worth a couple hundred bucks, and how I could be gone in the next day or two- finally escaping from the Keys. Things developed between us and it was a go, they were interested. Now all I had to do was stay drunk enough to actually go through with it. OH GOD! What have I done? Bring on the beer quick, before I change my mind!

Now, it’s been over a year since I arrived in the Keys. Fantasy Fest is in full swing and the crowd is freaking crazy. Everyone is doing private things in Public places. Many are naked but for body paint that looks like clothing. There are people having sex in many places out in the open. There are people everywhere drinking alcohol and smoking dope. There are people who have brought their children.

Amazed at what I am witnessing, I fight my way through the crowd to find a place to clean up. My eyes meet with the eyes with a man who has a jar in his hand. He quickly waves me closer and dumps some marijuana in my hand from the jar, telling me to enjoy it. The smell of blueberries perfumes the air from it. This pleases me because I needed to be intoxicated for what I was about to do, bumming a rolling paper along the way.

The little old ladies are meeting me at The Bull and Whistle Bar in a short while. The Garden of Eden is upstairs- a clothing optional place. When I get to the bar, I notice that the side entrance is dimly lit with a lot of shadows between it and the store next door. The bar bathroom made it easy to roll the joint and get cleaned up in because everyone was too interested in what was going on around them to take time to use it until they had to. Exiting the bathroom, I went to the shadows to smoke my weed.

As I finished smoking and pitched the roach, a cop car stopped at a gob of people about forty yards away. The officer got out of the car and looked around. He was looking for something, turning his head my way as I exhaled the last puff of smoke I held in my lungs. Then I turned to go back into The Bull and Whistle but he yelled for me to come his way, so I did. In the end he arrested me for possession of Marijuana, saying that he saw me blow out marijuana smoke from where he stood, and that he could smell it in the air. I had to laugh, like I was the one person who had smoked weed that night and he was out trying to sniff me out. There are sixty thousand people in Key West during this festival, very many smoking pot but I am the one he comes looking for.

Well, luckily for him, he had a roach he kept in his pocket for just such an occasion- evidence for whomever they want to take in. Moments later I found myself right back in the very same jail cell for the third time. It was just like everyone else that I saw get out and come right back within days. Catch and release, catch and release, catch… big money. It was purely madness.

Even my P.D. laughed when I explained the situation of the charge but it didn’t change the fact that I would be sitting in jail for another length of time. By now I am emotionally numb. Life has pretty much ended for me. I was happy if I woke up the next morning but for what, I don’t really know. Prosecuted on another charge got me forty-five more days, much to my dismay. But what I got out of that was more information.