The day after Memorial Day, Tuesday, May 27, 2003, I began my career in corrections. I walked into a room of over 40 people that I had never met before. Lincoln is not that large of a city, at almost a quarter-million. The chances of not knowing a single individual out of 40 is something I can not fi gure out by performing basic math. I took the fi rst empty seat I could fi nd about half-way back into the classroom. Glancing around the room made me think about what I was getting myself into. About half a dozen gals, clearly nurses and secretaries, were part of the group. Offi ce staff, mental health professionals, and caseworkers would make up another small group. A large majority of the remaining people, including me, would be correctional offi cers.
Christian Leuenberger occupied the seat next to me on
my left. Barely 19 years of age, Leu (Lou) measured about
6'4" and all of 300 lbs. He was right out of high school,
with all the weight-lifting records intact. His smile was the
only part of him that did not move fast. I naturally started
talking to him, and discovered that we were natives of the
same home town. Leu wound up being my partner for a
class called Pressure Point Control Tactics (PPCT). Age
forty-nine was just six weeks behind me, and I was learning
tactics to control inmates. The young Grizzly Adams replica
basically kicked the shit out of me for a week. Imagine a
combination of Tigger grabbing his toes and bouncin' on
his ass and Clifford (The Big Red Dog) rolling in the grass.
That was Leu. My career was just beginning. If we had
done PPCT for another week, it would have just ended.
Every person hired by the state that will have contact
with inmates must attend training at the Staff Training
Academy. The state of Nebraska purchased and renovated
Whitehall Elementary School at 56th and Walker for that
purpose. What do all Nebraska Correctional Employees
have in common? Well, we all went to the same Elementary
School.
The Department of Correctional Services Staff Training Academy, located at Whitehall School at the corner of 56th and Walker Street.
Dream Journal
While I had no intention of ever working this career
fi eld, the thought of being a correctional employee is not
entirely foreign to me. I have had dreams in the past about
working in corrections.
Realistically, binding female prisoners is not something
I could really do, but the concept was fun to fantasize about
in my youth. Those fantasies resulted in a great many
nocturnal emissions. I would not be the ideal warden at
the Penitentiary for Women, unless it became legal to have
sex with an incarcerated person. Perhaps it is a good thing
I do not work in a female prison. I might get a ton of
pussy up until the point one of them wanted me in jail for
something else I would not give them. It is currently a felony
to have sex with an inmate in the state of Nebraska, even if
they consent. I fi gure I would last about two days, maybe
a week tops. That time frame is my prediction regarding
when I would get caught, not when I would get started after
the box.
"You can tell he's new, because he swears up and down
that he doesn't masturbate, and will never go down on a
woman."
10-54 for a 10-100
Before my fi rst day of work at the Diagnostic and
Evaluation Center, still during my pre-service time, we
had a week of On-The-Job Training (OJT). I was taken
on a tour of some of the other facilities in the Department
with a small handful of other new-hires. We started at the
fl agship, The Nebraska State Penitentiary. The electric chair
looked so fucking deadly it made me giggle and blush! I
quickly learned that the word describing our department
and what we supposedly do, Corrections, is a misnomer.
We do not correct anybody. Perhaps small factions of us
make an attempt. Penitentiary is close, because inmates do
penance, even if they are not penitent. That concept is close
to showing respect without having any. It would not be right
to call it a human storage facility, but that would be the most
accurate terminology. Not that the department is looking
to rename itself, but perhaps human life-delaying facility or
some form of that could be the new term for Corrections.
When I fi nally arrived at my permanent facility, the
Diagnostic and Evaluation Center, I was still nervous. The
place was a fucking shit-hole. You could probably fi le for
a Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) when you leave
because everything here is an assault on your senses. I
wanted to make a good impression, but I knew I would get
fucked with. I imagined it would be a lot like being the
new guy (FNG) in a Marine Corps unit. My trainer, Fred
(nickname), was a veteran of Corrections, but a lovely young
lady nonetheless. She was hot, and her father was a hero
of the department, having survived a brutal attack from
two inmates many years ago. She had a potty-mouth, but I
enjoyed being around her anyway. Mostly because she was
hot. She had plenty of knowledge to share, but did not share
much. She had a real bad attitude. I still liked her. Did I
mention that she was hot?
My training did not last long. There is not much to teach
when it comes to running a control station. Most of it you
get by experience. The post I was watching was a control
station where I operated the doors electronically for two
units via touch-screen. One of the units was out in their yard
area, and the other was in the gymnasium. I was alone and I
needed to take a piss. My post had a bathroom, but closing
the door to it meant you took your eyes off of the post that
you were supposed to keep in constant view. The radio code
at our facility for a bathroom break was 10-100, but I had no
radio. Most of you are thinking, "What could happen?" In
hindsight, probably not much, but nevertheless my condition
did not change, and I was not going to quit my post without
proper relief (General Order #5, for you non-Marines.).
I began to consider my options. The radios were taken
by the fl oor corporals that accompanied their units to their
current locations. All I had was a phone. I called master
control to page a utility, but they informed me that there
were only two on duty, and it was not likely that they could
come for me. I could break the rules, and just use the dang
bathroom. Hell, it was four feet away. I could leave the
door open and hear if anything happened. I could use my
water bottle. I could line the trash can with paper towels and
piss in there. I could piss my pants, but I had grown out of
that thrill. I began to restock supplies and clean the control
station to take my mind off of the pressure. What would the
consequences be if I got caught in the bathroom? I called my
trainer at another post and asked her what to do.
"Are you somehow impaired? Just go!" Word got
around that I was acting way too paranoid and new for a
veteran Marine. I received some other phone calls.
"Hey retard, did you forget your helmet today?"
"Ya want me to 54 your back-door?"
"I bet the slick people in your family already own their
trailers."
"You pussy, you can't pee anyway with your dick in
your wife's purse!"
"You're no more daring than eating an apple in the
dark!"
Officer Mike Jepsen called me and fi nally talked me
into using the bathroom. It was not so much the "What's the
worst thing that could happen?" comment but probably the
"I bet you gotta pee worse than a three-cunted caribou on
a bamboo bridge." That made me have to pee. I just could
not hold it anymore. If I did not use the bathroom, I would
have unwillingly used my pants.
The electric chair at the Nebraska State Penitentiary.
"If you keep fucking with me, the next time the deputy warden comes out here, I'm throwing everybody under the bus."