Anteaters paradise

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Whatever happens to the bins of belongings that are locked up, awaiting their owner’s release from seg? Somehow, the contents disappear. It is possible—unlikely, of course, but possible—that a porter falls into the good graces of a C/O. They might stumble across some “unclaimed” booty. They share the wealth. Edible items are more likely to go right down their greedy, thieving hatches. Any item that looks relatively uncontaminated will do.

Heading out from the chow hall, we pass the blue bins. They contain prisoners’ personal belongings. There are a slew of them lined up along the stairway. Their owners, who have just returned from a day at court, are eating. An inmate stops alongside of one of the bins. He proceeds to stuff his shirt with various boxes of snacks and bags of chips.

“Hey, is that your bin?” a lieutenant calls out. That stops the pilferer cold. With an uneasy glance toward the officer, he is prompted to keep on toward his destination. Nothing is mentioned about the bulging sack full of prizes jiggling around his torso. A different culprit—for example, someone like me or someone black—would not have gone two inches before being pummeled and dragged off to seg.

Volumes sufficient to fill the Library of Congress to overflowing could be filled with equally bizarre scenarios. I present them as fantasy because the bottom line, for many who are victims of foul play on this fetid field, there is no recourse. A solitary ant to an army of anteaters is, to be certain, a snout-licking spectacle. Advocacy is as available and accessible as Atlantis. Your goose is carved before it is even so much as plucked. Fairness is a foreign concept.