Reality Check by Allen Masterson

You know your life has taken a turn for the worse when "dropping the kids off at the pool" becomes serious business (that's a metaphor for taking a shit, if you're unfamiliar with that particular euphemism).


It's the little things which get you when acclimating to a prison environment for the first time. Taking a shower, the unceasing noise level, rap battles in the shower room, getting served hot dogs from a six foot eight black transvestite who goes by the name of "Twon", etcetera, etcetera. I could make a list of annoyances which would rival the long version of Pi, but the consequence of a nervous breakdown dissuades me.


Most inconveniences of prison can be overcome, and can even settle into background noise with time. But the one activity which never failed to disturb me, and forever changed my view of our species, was taking a simple shit.


The first time I truly felt the error of my ways was not in a courtroom, not in the back of a police car, not even the first freezing shower and strip search while being processed. It was sitting knee-to-knee with a disgusting gang banger, with diabetes, wiping his ass back to front.


You see, the stalls in some prisons have no dividers. They stand juxtaposed for intimate shitting with a friend, or with diarrhea ridden mortal enemies.


At first, I believed I could hold out for just the right time to shit in peace, and avoid getting sandwiched-shit sandwiched, but my inner works began to revolt due to wanton scheduling, and I figured eventually I would get used to it like the hot dogs and zillion other bizarre prison idiosyncrasies I was destined to endure for my three year sentence; but I never did.


There are days when I begin to feel a bit of the outlaw stirring inside, and even entertain thoughts of making a score that would save me from mundanity; but I usually snap out of it when I sit down comfortably on a lonely toilet residing in an isolated bathroom for my shitting pleasure. We'll call it a daily dose...