requested #17
Your last meal.
Prison is a cold place. Cold on the skin. Cold on the mind. Cold on the heart. Cold on the soul. It's meant to be that way. You don't get deluxe accommodations in a place like this. People don't want you to enjoy the time you spend here, and they want you to remember it for as long you live. Cold is hard. And the colder some place is the harder it is put your mind at rest. And a restful mind is a forgetful mind and no one wants you to forget what you've done to get here.
It's the final night of my life and everyone around me in this concrete box has suddenly become my best friend. A real chum. A pal. They're all crying - or close to crying, anyways - you would think it's them that's gotta die tonight. I wish they would just all go away and let me do this in peace. No one asked them to come here.
And it's not just these people that are feeling bad, I have lawyers I have never met that have been working on my case for years that are crying together in hotel room near the capital building. Crying because they weren't able to save my life. I'm not sure whether they're crying for me or at they're own failure. Anyways, they're crying.
I have two hundred people singing and holding candles just outside the prison walls. All of that singing is for me. Mostly gospel tunes that I ain't never heard of. I guess they think I'll need to know some where I'm going. Next to them are all the media from all over the country that are begging me, my family or anyone who's ever met me, for an interview. They'll even interview some kid that was in third grade with me. I don't even remember him, but apparently we were "chummy" and he could see "it" way back then. By "it" I think he means my taste for killing.
Even the harden screws of this joint and the warden are using softer voices and peaceful hands when they walk and talk to me. It's unreal. I guess this is how people deal with death - with kid gloves. It's funny, we are so cruel to each other almost all of the time, but when we know that someone is dying, we treat them like they're a V.I.P. or something. What's so special about dying? Everyone does it. I think they're just trying to ease their own guilt about it, just in case we meet up after this world in a dark place in hell.
In an odd twist to this tale, I'm being given whatever I want to eat the night before I am going to die. Odd to think that this meal has no value whatsoever to me. I'm never going to use the energy, so why do I need to eat and why anything I want? Another thing, why do I have to take a shower ? I'm pretty sure that I won't be getting dirty anytime soon. Does my body have to be clean to die? As I understand it, I'm going to soil myself anyway. Wanna hear something funny? They swab my arm with alcohol before they stick my arm with a needle filled with poison. You know, to kill off any infections that I might get in the two minutes before I die.
With all this floating in my mind, I choose my last supper to be a dish that I hated as a child and only learned to love as I got older. It was a favorite of my grandmothers and it took her years to convince me of it's value - Beef Stroganov. For years the thought of hot sour cream with chewy stringy beef and rubbery mushrooms sitting on big ole noodles just turned my stomach. But as I got older, the distinct smell of the dish became more familiar and soothing to me and when my grandmother got too old to eat it, I found myself seeking it out. After she passed away, it became my favorite dish because it made me think of her. It warmed my heart just thinking about it.
Of course, in prison, you're not going to get Grandma's famous Beef Stroganov. Prison food is famous for it's, let's just call it, quality. The food is bad and most men can go crazy just from the food alone. Day after day, year after year. You begin to forget that food is something that is good for you. Ask any soul that has spent any time down on the farm and they will tell you that the only thing that keeps them alive is their desire to taste a particular dish just one more time before they die. They would be willing to break out of jail just to eat a hamburger, even if it meant life in prison. There are people that have broke out of prison and passed on getting laid just so they could eat a steak.
During my stay in this pit, I have eaten some incredibly creative dishes. There isn't an artist or chef in the world that can hold a candle to the chefs in the American penal system. You see, the chefs here don't get fresh ingredients and they don't get top shelf items. What you see in here is a lot of discontinued items or stuff that have passed their expiration date. Corporate America needs a tax break so it doesn't mean nothing for them to give up the four year old canned "peas n beets" to the criminals. Their buddies in the government give them a tax break for it and they look like charitable souls. It doesn't matter that the food is inedible. Who cares what prisoners eat anyway? When was the last time you even thought to ask?
The prison chef has to cook for up to 2000 thousand men three times a day. Men that you wouldn't want to disappoint, if you know what I mean. There are men in here that have killed people for cutting them off in traffic, what do you think they would do to someone who burned their toast? And if a prison chef disappoints 2000 hard core muthas at a time by choosing the wrong dish on a given day (If it's strawberry jello day and he brings out lime jello) someone's getting shanked.
It must be a breath of fresh air for a prison chef (or perhaps it's just that same sappy sentiment that the rest of the world has about a condemned man) when he sees that "special meal for one" hanging on his to do wall. I'm sure he's filled with anxious pride that he finally gets to spread his creative cooking wings, even if it is for a dying man. This is his time to shine, even if the only person that is going to enjoy will never be able to tell anyone how good or bad it is. Maybe that's why he likes it, cause no one is going to shank him if it tastes bad.
It's six o'clock and the normally stale smell of concrete institutionalism gives way to the smell of warm sour cream over wide egg noodles. It's a powerful aroma in this air tight hall and everyone that has gathered to mourn my soon to be loss is being subjected to it. For a brief moment, their sadness is misplaced by the reminder that they haven't eaten in a while and that even though my life might end, theirs will still go on. Silently they think to themselves, "I need to get something to eat as soon as I get out of here..." It's in that moment that their minds remember that this isn't happening to them, it's happening to someone else. It's that detachment that makes it possible for them to go on after all this business is over with. It's the same feeling that all those singers outside will feel as soon as they realize their efforts were worthless and that they need to get home and take a shower and eat a hot meal. "The killer is dead, we need to get back to paying our bills. Our worthless singing didn't save his life, but it did make us hungry."
It's funny... As I sit here eating this delicious meal, listening to the singing, watching everyone cry - I am reminded of the fact that I had to kill my grandmother to earn this meal. For just an instant, I chuckle and cry. I start to choke on a big piece of half chewed meat and my choking makes a guard run over and check to make sure I'm alright.
Fool. If I died, it would have been justice.... But I guess if I did, I would be robbing them of their chance... I swallow and say I'm fine.
Prison is a cold place. Cold on the skin. Cold on the mind. Cold on the heart. Cold on the soul. It's meant to be that way. You don't get deluxe accommodations in a place like this. People don't want you to enjoy the time you spend here, and they want you to remember it for as long you live. Cold is hard. And the colder some place is the harder it is put your mind at rest. And a restful mind is a forgetful mind and no one wants you to forget what you've done to get here.
It's the final night of my life and everyone around me in this concrete box has suddenly become my best friend. A real chum. A pal. They're all crying - or close to crying, anyways - you would think it's them that's gotta die tonight. I wish they would just all go away and let me do this in peace. No one asked them to come here.
And it's not just these people that are feeling bad, I have lawyers I have never met that have been working on my case for years that are crying together in hotel room near the capital building. Crying because they weren't able to save my life. I'm not sure whether they're crying for me or at they're own failure. Anyways, they're crying.
I have two hundred people singing and holding candles just outside the prison walls. All of that singing is for me. Mostly gospel tunes that I ain't never heard of. I guess they think I'll need to know some where I'm going. Next to them are all the media from all over the country that are begging me, my family or anyone who's ever met me, for an interview. They'll even interview some kid that was in third grade with me. I don't even remember him, but apparently we were "chummy" and he could see "it" way back then. By "it" I think he means my taste for killing.
Even the harden screws of this joint and the warden are using softer voices and peaceful hands when they walk and talk to me. It's unreal. I guess this is how people deal with death - with kid gloves. It's funny, we are so cruel to each other almost all of the time, but when we know that someone is dying, we treat them like they're a V.I.P. or something. What's so special about dying? Everyone does it. I think they're just trying to ease their own guilt about it, just in case we meet up after this world in a dark place in hell.
In an odd twist to this tale, I'm being given whatever I want to eat the night before I am going to die. Odd to think that this meal has no value whatsoever to me. I'm never going to use the energy, so why do I need to eat and why anything I want? Another thing, why do I have to take a shower ? I'm pretty sure that I won't be getting dirty anytime soon. Does my body have to be clean to die? As I understand it, I'm going to soil myself anyway. Wanna hear something funny? They swab my arm with alcohol before they stick my arm with a needle filled with poison. You know, to kill off any infections that I might get in the two minutes before I die.
With all this floating in my mind, I choose my last supper to be a dish that I hated as a child and only learned to love as I got older. It was a favorite of my grandmothers and it took her years to convince me of it's value - Beef Stroganov. For years the thought of hot sour cream with chewy stringy beef and rubbery mushrooms sitting on big ole noodles just turned my stomach. But as I got older, the distinct smell of the dish became more familiar and soothing to me and when my grandmother got too old to eat it, I found myself seeking it out. After she passed away, it became my favorite dish because it made me think of her. It warmed my heart just thinking about it.
Of course, in prison, you're not going to get Grandma's famous Beef Stroganov. Prison food is famous for it's, let's just call it, quality. The food is bad and most men can go crazy just from the food alone. Day after day, year after year. You begin to forget that food is something that is good for you. Ask any soul that has spent any time down on the farm and they will tell you that the only thing that keeps them alive is their desire to taste a particular dish just one more time before they die. They would be willing to break out of jail just to eat a hamburger, even if it meant life in prison. There are people that have broke out of prison and passed on getting laid just so they could eat a steak.
During my stay in this pit, I have eaten some incredibly creative dishes. There isn't an artist or chef in the world that can hold a candle to the chefs in the American penal system. You see, the chefs here don't get fresh ingredients and they don't get top shelf items. What you see in here is a lot of discontinued items or stuff that have passed their expiration date. Corporate America needs a tax break so it doesn't mean nothing for them to give up the four year old canned "peas n beets" to the criminals. Their buddies in the government give them a tax break for it and they look like charitable souls. It doesn't matter that the food is inedible. Who cares what prisoners eat anyway? When was the last time you even thought to ask?
The prison chef has to cook for up to 2000 thousand men three times a day. Men that you wouldn't want to disappoint, if you know what I mean. There are men in here that have killed people for cutting them off in traffic, what do you think they would do to someone who burned their toast? And if a prison chef disappoints 2000 hard core muthas at a time by choosing the wrong dish on a given day (If it's strawberry jello day and he brings out lime jello) someone's getting shanked.
It must be a breath of fresh air for a prison chef (or perhaps it's just that same sappy sentiment that the rest of the world has about a condemned man) when he sees that "special meal for one" hanging on his to do wall. I'm sure he's filled with anxious pride that he finally gets to spread his creative cooking wings, even if it is for a dying man. This is his time to shine, even if the only person that is going to enjoy will never be able to tell anyone how good or bad it is. Maybe that's why he likes it, cause no one is going to shank him if it tastes bad.
It's six o'clock and the normally stale smell of concrete institutionalism gives way to the smell of warm sour cream over wide egg noodles. It's a powerful aroma in this air tight hall and everyone that has gathered to mourn my soon to be loss is being subjected to it. For a brief moment, their sadness is misplaced by the reminder that they haven't eaten in a while and that even though my life might end, theirs will still go on. Silently they think to themselves, "I need to get something to eat as soon as I get out of here..." It's in that moment that their minds remember that this isn't happening to them, it's happening to someone else. It's that detachment that makes it possible for them to go on after all this business is over with. It's the same feeling that all those singers outside will feel as soon as they realize their efforts were worthless and that they need to get home and take a shower and eat a hot meal. "The killer is dead, we need to get back to paying our bills. Our worthless singing didn't save his life, but it did make us hungry."
It's funny... As I sit here eating this delicious meal, listening to the singing, watching everyone cry - I am reminded of the fact that I had to kill my grandmother to earn this meal. For just an instant, I chuckle and cry. I start to choke on a big piece of half chewed meat and my choking makes a guard run over and check to make sure I'm alright.
Fool. If I died, it would have been justice.... But I guess if I did, I would be robbing them of their chance... I swallow and say I'm fine.
posted by Daniel Loomis | 6:09 AM
<< Home