My morning was interrupted by the unmistakable and familiar sound of the transport wagon...
I could hear the sharp irritating rattle of its big skateboard wheels as it was being pushed along the corridor's concrete floor. For the inmates the sound of the wagon can sometimes mean the foreshadowing of bad news.
The other prisoners heard it too. As if on cue, hearing the sound of its discordant clacking caused several dozen heads to turn towards the entry gate of our cell block. With eyes transfixed we silently watched as a correction officer pushed the wagon into the building, while a second officer, working as his assistant, walked alongside him.
Upon seeing them, the big question that was registering in our minds was, "What cell are they going to?" We watched intently as they stopped in front of a cell on the first floor. The resident of that cell, we knew, was currently in the prison's Infirmary. He had been there for a couple of weeks. He's in his early sixties, and has been battling cancer. And from what we have heard, his cancer was advancing, and his health was deteriorating.
When his cell door opened, in went the guards to inventory each and every piece of his property. Their job was to place his belongings in what are called "pack-up bags." It's a routine process. But the questions now in our minds were, "Did he die?" or if not, "Where is he going to?" We knew, however, that he definitely wasn't coming back. Because if he was, they wouldn't be gathering his things.
For me this was personal. The man who occupied that cell is a dear friend of mine whom I have known for upwards of seventeen years. We were at Sullivan Correctional Facility together, and we both got transferred to Shawangunk (although at different times), and have since been reunited.
So for me, seeing the officers gathering his belongings was devastating. My heart was heavy. But on they worked putting item upon item into those big bags. And when one bag was full, they'd toss it into the wagon and would start filling up the next one until they were done.
I watched as the last bag was loaded onto the drab green wagon. My friend either died in the Infirmary, which would not be unusual (if so, he would not be the first), or he was being transferred directly from the Infirmary to what is known throughout the system as a Regional Medical Unit.
Later, I would learn the latter was the case. The cancer was spreading and his prognosis is poor. Except for a miracle, I doubt I will ever see his face again on this side of eternity. Amongst those like myself who've been incarcerated for a long time, the state's Regional Medical Units, of which there are a few, are better known as "Bone Yards," and with good reason. Prisoners with life-threatening health issues seldom return.
But the Misery Wagon has once again lived up to its name. Unless it's for a regular routine transfer, whenever the wagon shows up it is either to gather the belongings of a prisoner who has died, or was being committed to a Medical Unit, or was apprehended for committing a more serious rule infraction and was going directly to solitary confinement, also known as "The Box."
The Misery Wagon. That's what it is.
D. B.
The other prisoners heard it too. As if on cue, hearing the sound of its discordant clacking caused several dozen heads to turn towards the entry gate of our cell block. With eyes transfixed we silently watched as a correction officer pushed the wagon into the building, while a second officer, working as his assistant, walked alongside him.
Upon seeing them, the big question that was registering in our minds was, "What cell are they going to?" We watched intently as they stopped in front of a cell on the first floor. The resident of that cell, we knew, was currently in the prison's Infirmary. He had been there for a couple of weeks. He's in his early sixties, and has been battling cancer. And from what we have heard, his cancer was advancing, and his health was deteriorating.
When his cell door opened, in went the guards to inventory each and every piece of his property. Their job was to place his belongings in what are called "pack-up bags." It's a routine process. But the questions now in our minds were, "Did he die?" or if not, "Where is he going to?" We knew, however, that he definitely wasn't coming back. Because if he was, they wouldn't be gathering his things.
For me this was personal. The man who occupied that cell is a dear friend of mine whom I have known for upwards of seventeen years. We were at Sullivan Correctional Facility together, and we both got transferred to Shawangunk (although at different times), and have since been reunited.
So for me, seeing the officers gathering his belongings was devastating. My heart was heavy. But on they worked putting item upon item into those big bags. And when one bag was full, they'd toss it into the wagon and would start filling up the next one until they were done.
I watched as the last bag was loaded onto the drab green wagon. My friend either died in the Infirmary, which would not be unusual (if so, he would not be the first), or he was being transferred directly from the Infirmary to what is known throughout the system as a Regional Medical Unit.
Later, I would learn the latter was the case. The cancer was spreading and his prognosis is poor. Except for a miracle, I doubt I will ever see his face again on this side of eternity. Amongst those like myself who've been incarcerated for a long time, the state's Regional Medical Units, of which there are a few, are better known as "Bone Yards," and with good reason. Prisoners with life-threatening health issues seldom return.
But the Misery Wagon has once again lived up to its name. Unless it's for a regular routine transfer, whenever the wagon shows up it is either to gather the belongings of a prisoner who has died, or was being committed to a Medical Unit, or was apprehended for committing a more serious rule infraction and was going directly to solitary confinement, also known as "The Box."
The Misery Wagon. That's what it is.
D. B.
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