The Prison Twelve-Step
[This is an excerpt from Lookout for Shorts: A Penetential Odyssey), an often light account of a slacker’s comeuppance*. The following took place in 2012 at a North Carolina minimum security prison. Names have been changed. *Currently seeking representation.]
Twelve-step recovery meetings are a big part of prison life, mostly because the administration made attendance mandatory for drug offenders in exchange for privilege promotions. NA meetings stayed full because a prison administrator made sure guys didn’t leave after signing in. Not so at AA meetings. They weren’t monitored by staff, so only eight or ten dudes showed up to “work the steps” to try and salvage their lives.
The civilian AA meeting leader was an ex-con called Jerry, a jovial black guy of around sixty. His “shares,” delivered in a sing-song voice, usually ate up twenty minutes. These usually included Jerry’s baby delivery story, him reading from Psalms 23, references to the size of the lines he used to snort, and how his first drink of the day came through a straw due to shakes that kept him from drinking normally.
He told of being interned at a “nuthouse,” where he defecated on the lawn while not even drunk at the time. A Mexican guy there told him about a “tecato gusano,” which is a “psychic worm” many Hispanics believe causes addiction and can never be sated or killed. Jerry was a hoot until it became clear he repeated the same stories every week.
Alas, mind-numbing repetition described these AA meetings in general. “I know I’ve done wrong, I’m going to do right, and I’m going to work the steps,” can only be swallowed so many times. Few of the inmates in this small group ever had anything new to share. I decided to read the Big Book on my own and pay the guy that controlled the sign-up list a stamp a week so I could blow off the meeting. Before I bowed out, however, I picked up some wisdom.
The group once entered a debate about the gray areas of sobriety. For instance, is smoking a cigarette solely for the “dizzy buzz” a violation? What about getting dizzy from vigorously smoking one to trigger a bowel movement? For that matter, can’t most recreational drugs be helpful until they’re abused?
Much more worth attending were the NA meetings. These weren’t productive 12-step studies either, but more like going to a party. Twelve-step tenets were discussed only occasionally, and not for long. Guys only cared about telling “war stories,” i.e tales from their wild days. The civilian that ran the meeting enjoyed yarns full of dubious detail, as opposed to Jerry, who took the AA meetings very seriously. Story time beat shoe-gazing in a packed room with guys unwilling to discuss their fears and feelings anyway.
Inmates told of running from the cops or seemingly getting away with murder. Domestic violence details were revealed as if describing a trip to the store. I learned that impregnating a gainfully employed woman is a reasonable career move for some guys. I tried to keep my brow from raising upon hearing all of this but probably failed.
Wonderful street terminology surfaced during these stories. “Dry goods” is slang for drugs other than alcohol. A hooker may be referred to as “coin-operated.” The way a confident man walks can be called “pimp-rolling.” Calling someone out for bullshit dropped during a discussion is: “You ain’t gotta lie to kick it.”
Once a month someone stood behind a lectern for an official Speaker Meeting, instead of war stories coming from the gallery. Jittery civilian volunteers sometimes spoke at these, sounding like kindergartners compared to our usual banter. More often an inmate told his story. One time this was me.
“If someone told me I’d be an inmate giving a speech in prison back when I pimped,” I began, “that probably would’ve been your mother.”
Huge laughs. Insults appeal to some crowds, and I’d read this one right. I spent the next ten minutes telling my story. I never really “hit bottom,” my chemical abuse caused a steady erosion of my will. My hard-partying stole the energy needed to make something of myself. The longer I went, the more eyes glazed over in the audience. Time for Plan B.
I dropped war stories of my own, including about my arrest and the Memphis on Acid tale. Smiles and life returned to the room. On a roll, I told some of my more off-color stand-up comedy bits. They killed, so to speak.
A bit describing a blowjob from a toothless grandma even earned me a nickname: Gum Bob. Many guys could relate because methamphetamitic pursuits left a lot of the women they knew with dentures.
I wrapped up my speech feeling warm and happy inside. I wasn’t a total loser, at least for a while.
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