Serenity Now!

This is from the memoir I wrote about my meth addiction and recovery.  I’m currently seeking representation.

High-pitched giggling wakes me up. There’s a woman a couple of bunks away cackling insanely. The other women are telling her to shut the fuck up, but she just keeps on in a way that makes my skin crawl.

“Shut the fuck up, Lisa ‘ya fucking bitch!”

“What the hell’s wrong with her?”

“Fuckin’ tweaker.”

All of this drama plays in the background as I fade in and out of sleep with no concept of time. Lisa’s laughing that crazy laugh and the women are still trying to get her to stop. In the morning she’s gone. I’ve slept through breakfast, and the others are back at their bunks talking loudly or pacing back and forth across the length of the dorm. I sit up and listen without looking at anyone. I found out a long time ago that listening provides me far more information than if I were to ask questions. I hear that the guards have taken the laughing girl to the psych ward early this morning. I discover that many of these women have been here for months awaiting either trial or transport to prison. Many of them are young but there are women here who look as if they’re in their 50s or 60s.

In jail there’s no makeup allowed. Nor are hairdryers, curling irons or tweezers. It’s easy to tell which ones are in here on drug charges. They’re skinny, with sucked-in, scarred faces, sores on their arms and rotting teeth. They twitch and jerk because of damage to their nervous systems and pace back and forth like animals in cages. Eighty percent of the population incarcerated is here for drug-related crimes.

With some it’s more difficult to guess why they’re here. They look normal. I overhear one of them talking about her impending deportation back to Czechoslovakia.
There’s a woman in the bunk next to me who looks like she’s in her sixties. She keeps mostly to herself reading a tattered Harlequin Romance-–the only type of book available other than the Bible and the Alcoholics Anonymous handbook.

Eventually, someone else asks my name.

“Kim,” I say.

“Wadja do?”

“Possession of meth with intent, possession of paraphernalia and possession of marijuana.”

“Cool. How much did they get?”

“Just two rocks–my personal stash–my pipe and a little hash. I think they were disappointed they didn’t get more.”

A guard yells my name and takes me down to booking. Jill’s there on the other side of the glass waiting for me. I pick up the phone so we can talk.

“What happened?” she asks.