“Now I don’t have to tell you good folks what’s been  happening in our beloved little town. Sheriff murdered, crops burned,stores looted, people stampeded, and cattle raped. The time has  come to act, and act fast. I’m leaving.”

                                                                        — Blazing Saddles

In my zeal to describe the wondrous, even unbelievable efforts to lead drug addicts and dealers through the hot coals of recovery, here is another True Crime description of my time in prison. Not only was I paying for the Vindictive Prosecution at the hands of the D.A. and the Town of Southampton for providing affordable housing but I was writing about corruption. So, I wound up in prison, writing, of course. Here’s a snippet from my memoirs about treatment for my non-existent addictions at the hands of a system run amok. In a program called ASAT.

January 7th, 2015

Black skies, fluorescent lights. All at 6:30, after being awake from 5:30, making my coffee in the dark and tiptoeing around in the dorm. Only the microwave ding makes any noise since the hot pot for coffee is broken.

Domo, the 20’s-something black kid who has the cube just across the aisle from me is still missing. He’d suddenly disappeared after one night he just seemed to look “pale.” Although he rarely said anything more than “got bread?” which is why I started to call him Wonderbread. He was kind of a pleasant cipher. But, when people go missing it’s usually because they left the program or went to the Box. Neither was the case with him.

“Bigs,” I said, Domo’s next door neighbor, “where’s Domo?” 

“Infirmary,” he said.

“Why? Whats wrong with him?”

“He got asthma, real bad.” said Bigs. “You feel whaddI’msayin’?” 

“I hear you.”

No surprise. Having a breathing problem in prison is serious. Between the prolific amounts of methane produced by virtue of the shit and shit food, the incessant smoking in the bathrooms that permeate the dorms and, not the least of which, the dorm-filling snowmobile event of the night before. The entire dorm had been filled with carbon monoxide for hours since the windows were left open and the farmers were having a party on the land adjacent to the prison.

Imagine putting a pipe up your nose and attaching the other end to a snowmobile  exhaust and, well, there  you have  it.

Good luck to Domo.

And, then, there was the cold.

It had finally hit. It was minus 15 without the wind. And, it WAS windy. The combined effect brought the wind chill factor down to minus 25 degrees. Terrific for asthma.

I’d spent my time in the Gym in the morning and came back for the ASAT program, which started as usual at 12:15 in the afternoon. My second cup of Starbucks which came from a recent package from my wife warmed me up and I had a can of sardines for lunch with some Triscuits.

After changing my Gym clothes, dipping my boots in the slop sink water to clear off the salt that was now everywhere you walked, I carried my chair and ASAT folder into the Rec room.

Roddy was there on time, unfortunately, and Green was leading the class. He was about 5’10” tall, black, slim, constantly  had his hands in his pants arranging his shirt and had a comedic streak. He was someone who not only had a sense of humor but liked to test the limits of it with Roddy and everyone else. He had a quixotic manner and expressive face with full lips, short hair, and smiled a lot. He reminded me of Denzel Washington and Dave Chappelle. He’d start the class with the A.A. readings, duck back and forth into and out of the bathroom which we were not supposed to use, fixing his pants from time to time, and was not  above blowing a couple of methane bombs on his audience with a completely straight face.

Today we got through the readings and “Information” which consisted mainly of Green reading from the Daily News about the Gilgo Beach serial murders. This went on for half an hour before we had “Creative Energy.”  Keef,  the mentally adolescent white guy who seemed to want to go on and on about his alcohol-fueled personal life with his wife and two kids — who had placed an Order of Protection against him which was why he was now in  jail for violating it — was leading the group.

“Okay,” said Keef, with an eager-beaver, bushy-tailed look, “let’s play Musical Chairs.”

I looked at him as if he had 3 heads thinking that he was joking. Wasn’t this a drug program?

“Nah,” came a response from the group.

 “How about a word game?” said one of the black guys.

But, Keef hadn’t prepared anything and he was counting on not having to do anything. He was a child. He was an idiot. He constantly talked about how his parents had bailed him out in his 30’s.

“C’mon you guys, just line-up eight chairs, two rows, and let’s start the music.”

Roddy was enjoying this. She’d told the guys the day before that there’d been too much Sudoku for Creative Energy, whatever the fuck THAT meant. So, now, no games that would allow you to use your mind. Now we had to do something really creative. 

Musical Chairs. Now, in principle I don’t have anything  against musical chairs. My 9 year old would probably tell me that he was a little old for that and I remember playing that at one of his birthday parties when he was 6. And, there was no doubt that in a drug and alcohol program there could conceivably be a genuine reason to play that game.

Especially, if the point of it was to make the participants look or feel infantilized. Or, perhaps, Roddy was acting out her sadistic aggression against men, which, from the dribs and drabs leaking out of her personal life certainly confirmed — with a pending divorce from a man wanting to move on to a younger woman without a “pouch”  — and, with a body that drew comparisons to farmland animals among the guys, her motives were suspect. My experience in psychotherapy involved supporting egos not destroying them.

No, my objection  was not that it was stupid or demeaning, or even beneath me. Though, all of that occurred  to me. What I objected to was the fact that I wasn’t going to learn anything. I wasn’t going to hear about lives and drugs and supposed treatment for self­ abuse and Recovery  not to mention Recidivism. 

How would these guys cope and not have to return through help in a $30,000 a man Federal gift to the State?

But, of course, I was bullshitting myself. We were going to play Musical Chairs.

Since there was NO music anywhere in the prison, Danger, now the laundry guy, hummed  a song and a bunch of us lined up around 8 chairs.  I walked around the chairs and when the humming stopped I took my time and sat down. Unfortunately, no one ever tried to take MY chair. 

And, the stupidity went on. And, it went on for so long, with Roddy shrieking with laughter and the rest of the guys clapping and laughing as this went on, that I just took my time and sat down as the humming stopped. Nothing that I did seemed to prevent me from SLOWLY sitting down.

And, it went on so long that I became the center of attention because I was doing so well at not  being bumped out of the game.

Finally, after much finger  pointing, laughter, derision, shrieking and laughing from an elated and mentally disturbed Roddy that she’d enabled this exemplary abuse — without the guys even realizing what she was doing, perhaps not even aware that they too were objects of her condescending and bizarre laughter  — the game ended. 

Lopez, the effeminate-looking Peurto Rican, sat on the last chair and was thrown off by another guy. But, I’d been the fun for Roddy and the group. A serious, 72 year old guy with a straight face and multiple degrees who was unable to lose at Musical Chairs. 

I’d finally arrived at the pinnacle of my game.

“You a smooth dude,” Bigs said later. 

“What?” I said.

“Yeah, you a smooth dude.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I said looking at Bigs in the bathroom where he was smoking with a couple of the others.

“I seen how you jes sat wenna music stopped. Nothin’ stoppin’ ya, cool an’ controlled. Yeah, I seen ‘at.”

I was bizarrely flattered by a black guy saying that to me and said – getting a comment like that from a niga, is a real compliment. I was stepping outside a bit from my comfort zone saying it that way but he smiled and nodded his head.

Of course, I’d thought he meant what had happened AFTER the musical chairs. Here, I was thinking that he was truly insightful and he was just complimenting me for winning  Musical Chairs.

What happened AFTER Musical Chairs was that the Group, in which we were all gathered to discuss another of Roddy’s concepts — Gambling. As in ‘We are all gamblers.”‘

One guy started by using the usual line about how he sold drugs and gambled with his family’s happiness. Intense. Okay, but, so what? We were all gambling that we were going to wake up tomorrow. The round-robin came to Keef, the 30’s white guy who seemed to have verbal diarrhea and could not  stop spilling out his horrible acts once he got started. Once he began I just wanted  to kick him in the head. And, apparently I was not alone.

“So, I hit my wife and she fell on the floor an’ I jes’, y’know, I jes’ rolled her head in the dog pee and dog shit on the floor. It was terrible to do that an’ I’m not proud of myself. But, I did it an’ that’s why there was a Order of Protection. An’ ‘en, I wenta see her anyway, y’know we were fighin’ again an’ she hit me inna head with a windshield scraper. I hadda get 28 stitches.  But, she jes’ lef’ me onna floor and said she hadda pick up our daughters at school. She jes’ left me there bleeding. She coulda’ called the school and told ’em she was gonna be late, but, she jes’ left me there.”

Seemed reasonable to me.

I made no face. I said nothing. But, I just looked at this guy. Green, the comic, and Worthy were looking at ME, not Keef. I actually wanted to laugh at this asshole but, I kept a straight face, kept looking at Keef, looked at Green, who was suppressing  a laugh, as was Worthy, and Roddy was looking directly at Green and, also me. 

I couldn’t help myself and said, “He’s an embarrassment to white men.” ·

This comment, accompanied by my totally straight face, unleashed a torrent of guffaws on the part of Green and Worthy. They lost it. Roddy was staring straight at the three of us. I was totally straight-faced with no sign of emotion whatsoever, and the two black guys were losing their composure looking at me. They totally lost control. 

It was Pandemonium.

“And, I remember my mother and father having to bail me out. Cause, y’know they were hippies and did a lot of drugs when I was growing up. But, we had a good time. We’d swim in the lake an’ jump inna water from the old tire hangin’ from the old tree,” Keef went on, oblivious to anyone thinking anything other than ‘How interesting his story is,’ and “What an idyllic existence,” but, in fact, he was surrounded by drug dealers, addicts and alcoholics who thought he was just another white asshole.

At this point, even Roddy was beginning to question this monologue and said, after shaking her head and displaying a ‘What the fuck?’ expression while saying, “What does this have to do with gambling?”

Green and Worthy, as well as a few others, took the opportunity to use her comments as an excuse to vent their pent-up hilarity and explosive laughter literally blew out of them. I kept a straight face. I did not want Roddy attributing ANYTHING of a ”negative” nature to my words or actions.

Even though Keef truly WAS an asshole. A spoiled child.

At that moment, I heard the loudest fart I’d ever heard in my life. It stopped Roddy in mid-sentence and she looked around and said,

“Really?” as the sound tapered off after a few seconds, 

“Really? guys?” she said again. 

Of course, since no one could use the bathroom, there was nothing to be done. All of the guys pulled their T-shirts up over their noses and hid their noses. There was the sound of muffled  laughter.

This finally stopped Keef in his tracks. It enabled Green and Worthy to blow out the final remnants of their pent-up, suppressed laughter. It gave me a break. Until the group came around to me.

“Well,” I said, “I was involved with writing about political corruption, I had real estate investments and it was funded by Wall Street. It was the biggest casino in the world. I gambled and I lost. And, my  family has had to suffer as a result of  my actions.”

It was a serious, mea culpa, in line with the ASAT program, I was showing remorse. On my way to recovery.

“Any questions?” said Roddy.

“Yeah,” said one  black kid, “was ‘at like Wall Street?” _•

“What do you mean?” I asked the kid, looking at him and trying to figure out if he wanted a movie review. There was no connection between what I was talking about and the Michael Douglas film.

“Y’know Wall Street?” he said again.

“You want to know if what I was describing in my situation was like that movie?”

“Yeah?” he said.

I looked at Roddy and now I’d discussed casino gambling, Real Estate and the source of all of the money coming from the investment banks to basically fuck everyone, Wall Street, and before I started trying to explain to them how small time they were as opposed crimes were in comparison to the billions that the bankers ran away with I wanted to check to see where she  was at. Was I going to go into the political corruption, the lawyers who’d duped me, the criminal D.A. who I’d written about who sent me here in retaliation.

“You want me to go into this?” I said to Roddy, sensing that with the little she  probably knew about the longest and biggest con in history, I’d best see if even she had a taste for the truth. I’d already started off by letting the cat out of the bag. She knew I was a  journalist but she didn’t know I wrote about political corruption. If she paid atten­tion.

“No,” said Roddy, obviously agitated apparently at the interest these guys had in what I had to say. Which, is precisely why I wanted to find out if she were going to feel challenged by my knowledge or, perhaps, even popularity among the guys. They, of course, sensed that their petty  crimes – those in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, paled by comparison to what the boys on Broad and Wall had managed to pull off.” IBY, YBG. I’ll be gone, You’ll be gone.” Their crimes were in the hundreds of billions and for some like Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley, reaching towards the Trillions.

“Thank you. Let’s move on in the Group.”

Danger came to me later and said, “Dis is what dey was talkin’ about,” and then he showed  me an article about Wall Street. It was a commentary about “The Wolf of Wall Street.” It was a magazine piece that was about Leonardo DiCaprio, the actor who starred as Jordan Belfort, known euphemistically as the Wolf of Wall  Street.

And, what Roddy just pushed away was the film about intense greed, gambling with people’s money and drug and alcohol addiction. Some­thing I could describe, explain and interpret for these guys in a way that would make sense to them. Not only was it appropriate. But, it held  their interest.

It was a real entree, a way to connect with these guys. Like sex, drugs and rock’n’roll. It was about big money, drugs and alcohol and BIG theft and how gambling could ruin your  life.

And, how pervasive it was in our society. But, Roddy didn’t  want a real connection. No real examples of the foundations  of a gambling society. There was too much at risk for her to grasp and discuss. And, with my obvious expertise she was going to lose control of the discussion.

Which is why I asked her about continuing before it got out of hand. I mean what was I going to say, ‘Hey Roddy, this is  about gambling, this is about drugs, booze, criminal  behavior. This is what Wall Street did to America. See me!

Isn’t this what we’re here to talk about?’

So the group moved on. Mike started to talk when I passed. “Well, I was gamblin’ wid  ma famly’s lives.” said Mike, the heavy-set 25 year old black kid with the afro-styled hair. “What’d  you do?” I asked.

“Ah, wuz sellin’ drugs an’ I got caught.” Others shook their heads. “But, I’m still not sure why I’m heeah in ‘is  program.”

“What do you mean?” said Ms. Roddy, curiously. A look on her face. 

“Well, I don’t do drugs. I mean what’s dis for, anyways?”

There was some nervousness in Roddy’s face, like the Emperor’s New Clothes question had come out again.

“Well, you WERE gambling with your family’s welfare, and you were selling drugs to other people’s kids, so, weren’t you involved  with drugs?” she said with satisfaction on her face. 

A look of relief when he nodded his head. 

Here was a 20-somthing black kid with street smarts, having been in prison for nearly a year, asking a very honest question. What the fuck am I doing here in a drug program when I don’t do drugs?

Yeah, well, I unnerstan’ that. So, I was gamblin’ and I got that. But, whats’at gotta do wit my recoverin’  from drugs an’ alcohol?”

Now, this was a problem. I had taken the program to “understand about alcohol” and I my family history of abuse. But, in order to go through this program, my education gradually turned into my “need” to take this program. It was the gradual fuck you. And, Mike was calling Roddy on it.

“Well,” said Roddy, trying to use the tried and true flim-flam principles that kept people in line. After all, once you’re in it’s important to keep you to make sure that $30,000 isn’t  pulled back. 

“You were selling drugs, right? You had  drugs around all the time, right?”

“Yeah, I unnerstan’  but y’know I wanna ged outta sellin’ drugs an’ at whole lifestyle, but I need a job. Is’is program gonna’ help me gedda job?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Roddy, happy to have found a connection that worked and a hook to shut him up.

But, of course, she was lying through her teeth. ASAT did nothing for these guys in trying to get them jobs. It was a funnel to direct people through to collect upfront fees.

The tragedy for her lie was that here was at least one guy who  clearly was receptive to going straight. You could see it in his eyes and you could feel it by virtue of the questions he was asking. Yet, he WOULD be back. Because they were bullshitting him.

And, guess what? They wanted him to come back. They’d get him and another entire fee all over again by making sure that the revolving door was functioning properly.

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