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Staircases are ominous at Fishkill; a month before my release from the place in February of last year, an old-timer named Kirsch, who was the first person to speak to me when I entered the state prison system in June 2004, died of a heart attack in a staircase. He used to dye his hair with typewriter ribbon, preventing him from showering if he wished to remain a brunette—or rather blue-nette. His body was not claimed by anyone and was interred in Fishkill's graveyard.The narrow flights are dangerous places where you can slip and fall, but JRock's death, I suspect, was not caused by a loose step but by a lack of cameras. Electronic eyes watch the yards and the walkways, but not the stairwell. Indeed, the only truly thing haunting about Fishkill is the Beat Up Squad—what we prisoners called the group of guards who took it upon themselves to inflict informal corporal punishment upon us in the staircases.I knew JRock from the medication line. Like many inmates with bipolar disorder, he had another world within his reach, one he could visit by simply not taking his pills. Many prisoners did this; the walkway was covered in spat-up tablets. The bipolar world was one of manic highs and depressive lows. The Times reports that JRock's mother died in November, and as far as I knew, she was his sole source of support—pretty much the only person who picked up the phone when he called (collect, of course).Related: The Pains I've Endured in Prison Buses and Police Vans
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Since almost all of the mentally-ill inmates lived among the general population—prisoners were often specifically transferred to Fishkill for treatment—the cops didn't know who was who and were wary of all of us. They had reason to be; I once witnessed an ill man catch a delusion and turn around to punch the man on line behind him in the face. He did it with all his strength and for no reason whatsoever. I was next on line, but the cops jumped on him and brutally restrained him. They had seen this before.I spent two birthdays in Fishkill, the tenth and eleventh times I popped a can of ginger ale to celebrate in prison; five months after I turned 36, I bought a cup of coffee at a gas station to mark my release after 123 months incarcerated. This last stretch of time, spent at a medium-security facility as close to the city as you can get, should have been a cakewalk after the four maximum-security joints I did seven years inside and the three special housing units (SHUs) in which I served a combined year of solitary—a.k.a. box time. But I walked on eggshells. This was Fishkill, and Fishkill is haunted. The Beat Up Squad, specializing in violence enhanced by delusions and paranoia, doesn't exactly discriminate.Every prison has its own culture, which disseminates from the top down. One prison I spent a relatively happy two years in had a superintendent who wore pinstripe gangster suits and loved to chat with the mobsters. The joint was old enough to have ovens that were meant to bake bread for the prisoners. These days a simulated Wonder Bread comes from a central depot, but when I was in that prison, the grand old ovens were used to make pizza. Each month, whichever wing of the prison was cleanest had a pizza party. When I turned 30, a combination of bending the rules and kind officers looking the other way let me have my own pizza party in the yard. I gave away 20 pies and ate a whole one myself. That was a prison that wasn't haunted. No one ever got beat up, and those deemed to be mentally ill went across the river to Fishkill.The Beat Up Squad, specializing in violence enhanced by delusions and paranoia, doesn't exactly discriminate.
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