What is it in life I’m looking for that I can never seem to find?” Speaking to my love interest, I tell her I love her but I must go. “Be careful Trip-Call me when you get to wherever it is you’re going.”

Showering, I let the steaming hot water hit my face for as long as I can stand it in hopes my sinuses will clear. If only I can force myself to breathe again. I am desperate to shove more coke up my nose so I can stay awake and alert and feel alive. While shaving, I look at myself in the mirror and realize how totally trashed out I am. I really should stop but as long as I can ingest more blow, I will. There’s no stopping until my system absolutely shuts down on its own. I am Superman! A super hero who knows not rest nor defeat! I’m a big, strong man who breathes fire and can leap tall buildings with a single bound! I comb my hair, brush my teeth and take one last look at myself in the glass before going about my way. I don’t even say goodbye to Valerie. Instead, I mindlessly trod out into the early morning daylight and get more cocaine from the trunk of my car. I start my engine, snort more dope and drive away not knowing or caring where I’ll go. For the next three days I am oblivious to my surroundings. Finally, I wake up in a motel with a chemical hangover, shower, shave and start all over again.

Funny, but I remember that night like it were yesterday even though it was almost 25 years ago. Every once in a while a certain song or smell will cause déjà vu - a feeling that I’ve “already seen.” And, I’ll be right back in the fast lane drinking and drugging just like I used to be. Sometimes I can even taste the cocaine as I subconsciously smack my lips in remembrance. Then, I look down at the two cocaine demons tattooed on my arm, Ether and Oil; a con­stant reminder of the wicked drug of death that consumed my life for so many years. Even before the days of free-base, I was addicted to cocaine. I’ve probably snorted enough to amount to that found in a child’s sandbox. It’s a wonder I’m still alive. All I can say is, I’m glad those days are over. But I wish I’d quit experiencing these feelings of déjà vu because it’s hard on a guy that’s trying to rehabilitate. If you’ve done cocaine before but have quit, don’t do it ever again. And if you haven’t but get the sudden urge to try … don’t do it. It’s a dead-end street that could very well lead you to federal prison. I’m Tripper. Better Days!

Cummins

Cummins prison farm in Grady Arkansas is by far one of the most dangerous maximum security state joints in the nation. With approximately 2,500 inmates, 800 to 1,000 or so who are serving LIFE or LIFE WITHOUT PAROLE sentences, vio­lence is the everyday norm. The strong survive. The weak get punked out. There are so many treacherous, ruthless, will-kill-a-mother-fucker-at-the-drop-of-a-hat idiots locked down at Cummins you just cannot believe it. Men with Nazi warbirds tattooed on their chests, teardrops under their eyes, and FTW (Fuck The World) on their necks. All straight-up prison shit that lets a man know … don’t fuck with me! Psychopathic killers who do 1,000 consecutive pushups at a time. Lifers who’ll cut your throat ear-to-ear over something as simple as borrowing a cigarette or a postage stamp and not paying it back. “Snitch” and “bitch” are fighting words. Everyone’s drunk, hot, tired and mad. Work like a dog in the cotton field and eat like a bird in the shitty chow hall when you come in from the squad. Nobody wants to be at Cummins. Unless of course, they’re whacked out of their fucking minds.

I did time at Cummins. And Tucker prison- farm too. Quite a bit of time as a matter of fact. Over the years, I saw a lot of shit go down. Some stuff I can talk about. Some I can’t. Men get killed in the Arkansas Department of Corruption every day. Bodies are buried all over Cummins and Tucker. They say the chow hall at Tucker has dozens upon dozens of bodies buried underneath it. Men killed by the guards, and some by other convicts, from the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s. Ever seen the movie “Brubaker” starring Robert Redford? Well, that movie is about Tucker although they don’t actually say so. Many of the scenes were realistic. Close to how it really was. Only in reality, things were much, much worse. Shitty beds, no a/c, and dilapidated plumbing. Food with bugs in it, homosexual activity and homemade prison wine. The absolute pits where old timey southern prisons were concerned. From what I remember, Alcatraz and Sing-Sing couldn’t have had shit on Cummins or Tucker. The entire system is evil. There’s blood in the walls. Men were stabbed, raped and killed there all the time. It was totally unbelievable.

Sitting on my broken down bunk in 5 barracks at Cummins one night, I heard a bunch of convicts from down the hall whistling and yelling. “Police! Shakedown! Hide your shit!” Suddenly, prison shanks and swords came sliding down the aisles from every direction. A convict by the door gathered them hiding them under empty racks and in 55 gallon trash barrels. Men quickly ran to hide their drugs, hypo­dermic needles, lead pipes and other contraband. I watched as one California AB (Aryan Brotherhood gang member) put a Little Debbie’s Starcrunch box in a trash-can near the rear of the cellhouse full of twenty-dollar bags of heroin. A North Little Rock gangbanger hid several hundred dollars worth of illegal prison money books inside a drain tied to a string in the bathroom floor. Men swallowed balloons full of cocaine. Prison queers shoved rubber glove fingers full of methamphetamine up their ass. In mere moments everyone was ready. Bring the fucking shakedown on! Men at Cummins were use to this kind of thing. It was a way of life in the pen. All I did was kick back on my rack, pretended to read my book, and watched the show.

“Catch your racks!” the leader of a ten-man goon squad yelled as he and his cronies entered the barracks. Men scrambled knowing they’d get their heads busted with a wooden baton if they didn’t comply. One by one convicts were strip searched and their bunks and locker boxes destroyed. Some, the ones who bucked or talked shit to the guards, were cuffed and hauled away to punitive isolation (the hole). A few of the rats caught PC (protective custody) for telling on their friends and others kept their mouths shut and did their own time. Sixteen men went to the hole that evening. Some for drugs, some for shanks, others for being defiant telling the Lieutenant and his CO’s to suck their dicks. Soon as the melee ended, I watched as a young punk walked over to the trashcan and retrieved the Starcrunch box the California M.C. dude put there. He knew it didn’t belong to him yet he sneakily took it anyway. You see, Biker Billy had been taken to administrative segregation. Myself and others knew the box didn’t belong to the prison bitch, yet he took it anyway. Except one thing was for sure, he wasn’t going to get away with it. Too many men saw what he’d done.

Slowly but surely, things returned to normal and everyone that could recovered their hidden contraband. Johnny Rodriguez, a San Francisco Puerto Rican dude, also saw the punk steal the Debbies box full of smack. And just so happen, he and Billy were homeboys. Both from the bay area and both partners in the heroin smuggling operation into the pen. Tying a bandana around his head and putting a razor blade in his back pocket, J. Rod approached the punk and his prison daddy toward the rear of the barracks.”Looky here homes.- That box you just took out of the trash? That didn’t belong to you and you need to give it back. Compendia?” Immediately the punk’s daddy jumped up off his rack and backhanded the Puerto Rican sending him flying across three racks on aisle six. “Best mind your own business spic or you might get your ass killed!” The queer’s lover, also known as his prison daddy, sat back down on his rack and laughed. Puerto Rican Johnny got up, dusted himself off, and went back to his rack while bitch boy and his protector pulled up a shot of heroin in a rig.

I saw Johnny whispering to a Colombian dude named Pablo. After a heated ex­change in a language I didn’t understand at the time, the two parted ways. The Colombian back to the domino table and the P.R. to the bathroom. Stepping to a urinal to take a leak, I noticed the bitch queer walking to the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. I could tell he was wasted from the way he swaggered and stumbled when he walked. Just as I finished urinating and was zipping up my pants, I heard yelling, screaming and a huge commotion coming from the barracks. Johnny had stabbed the punk’s prison daddy in the abdomen six times with a shank made out of a sharpened up screwdriver. Knowing his daddy was being fucked off, the punk emerged from the shower only to be tripped by the Colombian and as soon as he hit the floor, Johnny was on top of him like flies on shit. Fifteen puncture wounds and two pints of blood loss later, pretty bitch boy was hauled to the infirmary on a gurney along with his wanna’be badass daddy, also poked full of holes.

Puerto Rican Johnny and Colombian Pablo went to seg.(The Hole) Never did find out what happened to all the heroin although rumor had it the bitch already had it keistered (shoved up his rectum) well before the whah-whah of the outside ambulance ever sounded. Throughout the entire ordeal all I did was continue to read “Gone With The Wind.” When the Build­ing Captain called inmates to his office for questioning I don’t believe any of them had anything to say. I know I sure didn’t. All I said was, “I was asleep.” Knowing I wasn’t G.F.T. (good for information), having had dealt with me before, Captain Lay said, “Yeah, right. Now get your smart ass out of my office before I get mad and lock your ass up!” Day in/day out, that was the type of shit that went down at Cummins. And even though I haven’t been there since early ‘93, I imagine stuff like that still goes down there today. You wanted prison stories containing violence? You got it. And there’s plenty more where that came from sadly. Prison is not only a sentence, it’s a fight to stay alive. Where exactly is that written in the judicial codes, prison handbooks, and case law saying that is right? Prison is a sentence of your freedom being withdrawn from you. The fight for your life, well that just comes with the ride. I hope you never experince this ride, stay out of trouble, it’s not worth your life.

I am Tripper! Please keep reading “Tales From The Cells!” Better Days!

Many apologies for the delay in the page. I’ve had some personal issues to attend to, which created a tremendous lag in answering and keeping the blog conversation moving. Thanks to all of you who keep coming in to read Tripper’s stuff and for leaving comments and kudos. Real human interaction is his drug of choice now. And I feel that’s pretty damn healthy! He’s come a long long way, but it would not be possible without each and every one of you guys!! Please remember to leave some love, or even some kudos!! The birthday blog response is in. I am working on getting it scanned to post. It will be the next one up, that way ya’ll can see how great you really are! Be Good and Be Well….Tripper’s Representative

Playing the board game RISK with some guys, a Romper Room Reject suddenly got mad at me and threw the dice hitting me right square between the eyes. Blood gushed everywhere and I had to be taken to the infirmary. Mad that I invaded South America from the U.S. and wiped out all his armies, Buddy lost his temper and not only hit me with the little white cubes, he also turned the game upside down tossing all the cards and game pieces on the floor. At the hospital, I spoke with Nurse Cake as she bandaged up my nose. “Sorry to ruin your solitude tonight Ms. Cake. But some idiot flipped out on me when I reneged on my promise not to invade his country. Ever play RISK?” I asked. “Yeah! What a fun game! I personally like to start out with North America and go from there.” she said. “By the way,” I continued with our conversation, “Is that idiot we all call the crypt keeper bothering you? Because if he is, we’ll make sure he leaves you alone.” “No, it’s alright,” she said and smiled. Bandaged and smitten with the beautiful nursey named Cake, T returned to the unit with a smile.

Every man in the joint malingered, feigning illnesses. Everything from full blown heart attacks to migraine headaches just to get to see Nurse Cake. It got to the point where a truly sick person couldn’t get medical treatment at all. Staff started to notice the attention Nurse Cake was getting. Other nurses gossiped and hated on Nurse Cake and I knew it’d only be a matter of time before they’d get jealous and she’d get canned. And sure enough, when speaking to Nurse Cake at pill line one evening, she told me she’d given her two week notice and was being forced to resign. Never fails. Every time we’d get a nurse or female doctor that gave a shit, the administration would come along and find a way to get rid of them. Fire them, saying they were either too friendly or not doing their job. When Donnie, aka the crypt keeper, aka ass clown, found out Nurse Cake was leaving, he damn near cried. He really was sick then. And the fucker faked so many illnesses those last two weeks, he spent the entire time in an observation cell on suicide watch just so he could be close to Nurse Cake.

I got out of prison. 8 months later I got a P.V. (parole violation) and was sent back to the pen. At Pine Bluff Diagnostic, who else did I run into? The ass clown! Housed in a different barracks than mine, I only briefly got to talk to him in the chow hall. But when I did, he whispered to me, “Remember Nurse Cake?” “Yeah,” I said. “Well, I married her!” “No you didn’t! Why you lyin’ little piece of shit!” I yelled. “Quiet down inmate!” screamed a nearby CO. knowing inmates weren’t suppose to talk in the chowhall. “You didn’t!” I whispered across the table. “No, I did! I swear it! She and I have an apart­ment together in North Little Rock. I got a job working on a barge and I am supporting her and her kid.” A week or so later, we rode the prison transport van to Varner Unit. That’s when he told me the whole story and I’ll have to say, the dumbass kid really did hit a lick. Once at Varner he even showed me a picture of he and Cake together. In the end, as much as it surprised me, I guess old Donnie really did get to have his Cake and eat it too!

T’m Tripper! Better Days!