The Holding Cell

The Holding Cell

After we’ve finally completed the process of turning in our medical forms and getting our pictures taken we are lead into a large corridor.  Heading north down this hallway are 3 holding cells on the left hand side of the corridor.

About 25 of us are put into holding cell number 3.  Along the right wall of the cell is a concrete slab to be used for a bench.  The slab has enough room for about 10 people to sit.  On the left wall is a shorter bench that can seat maybe 7 or 8.  Next to the bench on the left wall is a short privacy wall which barely hides a stainless steel toilet. 

When I say that the toilet is stainless steel, I am referring to the actual material used to form the toilet.  The actual toilet is far from stainless.  In fact, it is spotted up like a windshield after you drive through a field of grasshoppers at about 90 miles per hour.  The kicker though, is that this dysentery covered commode also doubles as a drinking fountain.  Yes.  I just said that the toilet is also a drinking fountain.  Conceptually, it really is just a disgusting idea.  The prison also has combination toothbrush/dingleberry combs that you can buy at the commissary.

One of my cell mates bravely goes over to get a drink from the fountain part and jokes that when he turns the fountain on, the water level in the bowl goes down.  Yuck.

I decide that I am going to wait until one of my cell mates is midway through taking a leak, and then I’m going to go stick my head under his elbow and get a drink from the fountain.  “Sorry Buddy.  Mind If I get in here.  I’m parched.”  This should make for maximum awkwardness in the use of this bizarre invention.

The toilet of course, has no seat.  No toilets in prisons have seats.  Apparently the traditional toilet seat that folds down has been used as a weapon too many times in the history of prison toilets, so now they just don’t come equipped with seats.  It is basically just a metal receptacle with a metal backing that is the refill tank.  There are two buttons on the backing.  One button flushes the toilet, the other button engages the drinking fountain.  The flow of water from the drinking “fountain” is not really a fountain at all.  It is actually just a dribble of water that runs down the front of the metal.  If you were really thirsty you could probably put your mouth on it to get some water…did I mention that it’s covered with unidentified splatter stains?

We’ll come back to the toilet later.

So now we have 17 people sitting on these concrete slab benches and 8 people sitting or lying down on the floor since we have no more bench space.  Now begins the waiting.

The intake process, I have heard, can take up to 12 hours.  I arrived at 8 AM.  By the time we all get shoehorned into this holding cell it is only 11AM so I could be looking at 9 more hours of just sitting here.

For the first 3 hours in “the tank” as we call it, there is pretty raucous conversation amongst us inmates, everyone pitching in their story about being arrested.  Some are contrite and realize that they shouldn’t have been driving drunk, others are bitter, still arguing that they got jobbed by the cops. 

A couple of stories are told, some jokes are made and sometimes I almost forget that we are here to go to jail.  We get to laughing so hard at some of the stories and the follow up comments it is actually fun at times.  But after the stories are all played out and our asses are sore from sitting on concrete floors and slabs for 3 hours we are all getting weary. 

There's one guy in our group that I dub Tour Guide, due to his encyclopedic knowledge of the booking process at Tent City.  He’s very funny and has obviously been here a few times for various transgressions.  At around 2:30PM one of the other inmates, realizing that Tour Guide is a wealth of knowledge, asks his opinion on how long we will be waiting before we get to Tent City. 

“There’s no f**king way we’re getting to the tents before 11.”  He tells us. 

A chorus of “no way” and “you’re nuts” comes from the cell but I have a bad feeling that Tour Guide knows what is up and that we had better just get used to it.

After Tour Guide's disheartening comment I stick my nose into my book for a couple of hours.  It’s now about  4:30 PM and I’m getting hungry but even worse…I’ve got to go the bathroom.

The problem with having to go the bathroom is not just the disgusting toilet.  I only have to take a leak so I won’t even have to touch that foul piece of machinery.  The problem is that I’ve got stage fright.  Basically I find it almost impossible to go the bathroom in an open area with a bunch of people milling around.  In doing research for this blog post I find that this is an actual medical condition called parauresis. 

Parauresis is caused by a problem with your prostate or it is caused by a mental hang up related to one of the following:

1)      Fear of exposure of an inadequate or small penis

2)      Fear of being judged for not being able to urinate.  This is often rooted in a past memory or experience of not being able to produce a sample for a drug test.

Clearly, my parauresis is caused by option number 2.  The reason I know this is that I am completely comfortable with the fact that I have a small penis.

Whatever the cause, it doesn’t matter.  The result is the same.  In a situation like this if I try to go, I will be unsuccessful and my bladder will continue to fill and cause me bitter discomfort until I am finally able to use a civilized bathroom that is not surrounded by a bunch of prisoners.

I continue to hold it in until about 6PM.  It is so painful now that I have to at least try to go the bathroom.  Three other inmates have tried unsuccessfully to use the bathroom in the past hour which lets me know that this parauresis deal is an epidemic. 

By the way, why don’t we have a pill for this?  The pharmaceutical companies can get you a pill to keep your toenails from being yellow or keep your legs from being restless but they can’t produce anything to prevent your bladder from bursting?

My attempt is pathetic.  As I approach the latrine, I am imagining Niagara Falls, a hot shower, spillways at Hoover Dam, anything with water.  Nothing.  As soon as I stand there wanting to go, nothing happens.  I go back to my seat vanquished by the toilet bowl just like the three guys before me.  If this was a baseball game, the inmates would be the Pittsburgh Pirates and the toilet is Roy Halladay just mowing them down. 

We receive a meal around 7PM.  I won’t go into that monstrosity right now because I will have a full post devoted just to the food.  Let’s just say, I thought I might try a different strategy to conquer my parauresis. 

The meal comes with this brand of green koolaid type stuff called Chubs.  I can’t even find this crap with a google search on the internet but somehow they got a contract with Maricopa County to supply drinks to the prisoners.

Anyway, I figure if I chug one of these things, it will make me go just from the added pressure.  Basically, I’ll have to go so bad that it will overcome my parauresis affliction.

Well that doesn’t work.  All that does is make my bladder more full and I still can’t go.

Over the next couple hours I try to go two more times unsuccessfully.

It is now 11 PM and according to Tour Guide we are probably going to be staying the whole night in here.  I ask him how he knows this.  He points out that none of us have been finger printed yet.  In order to get in to Tent City we all have to be finger printed and then given an ID card.  We’ve been sitting in this cell at Lower Buckeye Jail for 12 hours now and it looks like we may be here until morning. 

The battle with my bladder rages on until about 4:45 AM.  I’ve now had to go the bathroom for a full 12 hours.    The other inmates have been trying to grab some sleep in shifts on the floor.  Sit an hour, sleep an hour etc.   I don’t even try to sleep because my stomach is just killing me.

My stomach is now hard to the touch due to my overinflated bladder.  It feels like a drum.  A drum covered with fat, but still a drum.  Finally, on my fifth attempt of the evening, I am able to go the bathroom. Apparently necessity has cured all of us, because in the past hour several of the other sufferers have been able to “let go” as well.

I sit back down on my bench and immediately fall asleep which is really saying something because I am just sitting straight up against a brick wall.  Not exactly my optimal sleep number setting.  The abdominal relief combined with the fact that I’ve been awake since 6 AM the day before just knocks me out.  About 5 minutes after I fall asleep, our door rattles and I wake up with a jolt, hopeful that we are being moved forward in the process somehow.  Nope. Just some dick that works for the jail kicking our door as he walks by because he thinks it’s funny to wake up the sleeping prisoners.  The joke's on him.  He has to work here, I’ll be gone in 15 days.  F**king loser.

At 6:15 AM one of the guards that frisked us the day before walks past our cell.

“Holy crap!” he says.  “These guys are still in here?”

He seems genuinely concerned about the fact that we’ve been stuck in this same cell for almost 20 hours. 

About 20 minutes after that we finally start getting finger printed.  I’m just glad to be moving out of the cell, even though it's just for 2 minutes and it's only across the hallway.

Tour Guide says it will still be about another 3-4 hours before we get to Tent City. After the grueling evening of staying up all night with abdominal pain, 4 more hours of sitting around doesn’t sound too bad right now.

You know that you’ve had a shitty day when the best thing that can happen to you is finally getting to Tent City.

Next:  Arrival At Tent City