This is the opening scene, it introduces the protagonist, presents the setting, and establishes the stakes. Non-fiction, memoir.*****
Day 1
Chapter 1: "Where am I?"
Ol' boy (OBCC)
I was shackled, with arms cuffed behind, and riding in a prison bus; it was impossible to maintain my balance. The late summer sun burned my face through the dirty glass, smeared with the sweat and oil of the thousands of prisoners who'd traveled this route before me. The alcohol from a day earlier still insulated my veins and only intensified the heat.
Sitting sideways to accommodate my 6-foot height in a space designed for someone 5'5", I couldn't help but have my face slam against the iron mesh wall with every bump. I rocked with the motions of the bus at the mercy of NYC's pockmarked streets in fear, engulfed in shame, and weighted with depression. I'd been arrested and was at the mercy of the New York City prison system.
The bus finally stopped. With my face against the grate, I hadn't seen our approach. I could tell you nothing about our destination. There were six detainees besides me on the bus. My first concrete sight of the prison was the entry to what I would learn was Ol' boy. Its proper name was Otis Bantum Correctional Center, OBCC for short. I would later learn it was one of the newer buildings on Rikers Island. Without knowing the age of the place, it looked old, like the old the sun does to skin, leathery and cracked. The traffic of bodies, drug up its metal stairs and into its iron doors, had worn it down.
Ol’boy was one of ten such prisons on Rikers. They each had their individual purposes. Ol’boy housed the worst criminals on Rikers Island. This is where they imprisoned those charged with murder, rape and assault with intent to kill. The gang members were imprisoned here. Ol’boy was were they put the prisoners they wanted to protect the rest of the population from.
I arrived at my destination, a first-time prisoner, arrested and sent to Rikers during what would later be coined "The Summer of Hell." Unfortunately for me and thousands in the city's penal system, Rikers was broken and crumbled into madness.
Nothing on the outside indicated the chaos inside. There was no breeze, no moving clouds, just tranquil blue skies. Layered against nature's canvas were building walls, shaded by the sun behind them, which robbed them of their color. It made the whole scene appear flat, like a 2D living image. Metal doors opened to greet our entourage of escorted delinquents. Inside the door, a room glowing, with sound and motion extended beyond the surface of the flat, tranquil exterior of brick and blue-painted steel. What I knew on the outside was no longer reality. This cave-like entrance, its depths unknown, was my reality now.
When you first enter Intake, the humidity of hundreds of people sweating and breathing hits like falling face-first into warm, stagnant water. It was thick, suffocating, and surely diseased. COs herded us, cuffed and shackled, through the door. Black and brown men of all ages spat and cursed at COs and their predicament, many with evidence of their crimes on their bleeding knuckles or blood on their clothes. So, in that sense, I fit right in.
Intake is a series of barred plexiglass and mesh metal Pins. Scarred by time and use, they were more translucent than transparent. I could see down the hall, but what was beyond was indistinguishable.
In this immediate area was the first pin new arrivals go in, Pin 5. Across from it, perpendicular to the door, was the changing and search table. We didn't need that yet, but it was the next stop. The procedure for new arrivals is a 24–48-hour process. The law requires it to be 72 or less.
Cuffs clinking and feet shuffling, we formed a line and distributed one after the other into the new arrival Pins 2, 3, or 5. If things were working as they should have been, after being stripped and searched, we would put on khakis and go to one of the Pins in the back. Pins labeled by borough made up the walls. For example, P3 was Richmond and the Bronx, P1 was Manhattan and Queens, P6 and P7 were Brooklyn. Next, we'd go to the clinic to take a covid test and give blood and urine to run STD tests. From there, we'd go back to P1, 6, or 7 for placement in a "house," the term used for a series of 2-level dorms or cells. Houses were independent units comprised of two wings called upper and lower. There are nine houses in this building. So, there is 1 Lower and 1 Upper, 2 Lower and 2 Upper, and so on. There is a CO on the floor for control. A bubble or control room is between the two levels where the COs monitor and control the population and lock and unlock the doors holding the inmates. When things were at their worst, inmates manned these, and there were no COs on the floors.
This is the opening scene, it introduces the protagonist, presents the setting, and establishes the stakes. Non-fiction, memoir.***** Day 1 Chapter 1: "Where am I?" Ol' boy (OBCC) I was shackled, with arms cuffed behind, and riding in a prison bus; it was impossible to maintain my balance. The late summer sun burned my face through the dirty glass, smeared with the sweat and oil of the thousands of prisoners who'd traveled this route before me. The alcohol from a day earlier still insulated my veins and only intensified the heat. Sitting sideways to accommodate my 6-foot height in a space designed for someone 5'5", I couldn't help but have my face slam against the iron mesh wall with every bump. I rocked with the motions of the bus at the mercy of NYC's pockmarked streets in fear, engulfed in shame, and weighted with depression. I'd been arrested and was at the mercy of the New York City prison system. The bus finally stopped. With my face against the grate, I hadn't seen our approach. I could tell you nothing about our destination. There were six detainees besides me on the bus. My first concrete sight of the prison was the entry to what I would learn was Ol' boy. Its proper name was Otis Bantum Correctional Center, OBCC for short. I would later learn it was one of the newer buildings on Rikers Island. Without knowing the age of the place, it looked old, like the old the sun does to skin, leathery and cracked. The traffic of bodies, drug up its metal stairs and into its iron doors, had worn it down. Ol’boy was one of ten such prisons on Rikers. They each had their individual purposes. Ol’boy housed the worst criminals on Rikers Island. This is where they imprisoned those charged with murder, rape and assault with intent to kill. The gang members were imprisoned here. Ol’boy was were they put the prisoners they wanted to protect the rest of the population from. I arrived at my destination, a first-time prisoner, arrested and sent to Rikers during what would later be coined "The Summer of Hell." Unfortunately for me and thousands in the city's penal system, Rikers was broken and crumbled into madness. Nothing on the outside indicated the chaos inside. There was no breeze, no moving clouds, just tranquil blue skies. Layered against nature's canvas were building walls, shaded by the sun behind them, which robbed them of their color. It made the whole scene appear flat, like a 2D living image. Metal doors opened to greet our entourage of escorted delinquents. Inside the door, a room glowing, with sound and motion extended beyond the surface of the flat, tranquil exterior of brick and blue-painted steel. What I knew on the outside was no longer reality. This cave-like entrance, its depths unknown, was my reality now. When you first enter Intake, the humidity of hundreds of people sweating and breathing hits like falling face-first into warm, stagnant water. It was thick, suffocating, and surely diseased. COs herded us, cuffed and shackled, through the door. Black and brown men of all ages spat and cursed at COs and their predicament, many with evidence of their crimes on their bleeding knuckles or blood on their clothes. So, in that sense, I fit right in. Intake is a series of barred plexiglass and mesh metal Pins. Scarred by time and use, they were more translucent than transparent. I could see down the hall, but what was beyond was indistinguishable. In this immediate area was the first pin new arrivals go in, Pin 5. Across from it, perpendicular to the door, was the changing and search table. We didn't need that yet, but it was the next stop. The procedure for new arrivals is a 24–48-hour process. The law requires it to be 72 or less. Cuffs clinking and feet shuffling, we formed a line and distributed one after the other into the new arrival Pins 2, 3, or 5. If things were working as they should have been, after being stripped and searched, we would put on khakis and go to one of the Pins in the back. Pins labeled by borough made up the walls. For example, P3 was Richmond and the Bronx, P1 was Manhattan and Queens, P6 and P7 were Brooklyn. Next, we'd go to the clinic to take a covid test and give blood and urine to run STD tests. From there, we'd go back to P1, 6, or 7 for placement in a "house," the term used for a series of 2-level dorms or cells. Houses were independent units comprised of two wings called upper and lower. There are nine houses in this building. So, there is 1 Lower and 1 Upper, 2 Lower and 2 Upper, and so on. There is a CO on the floor for control. A bubble or control room is between the two levels where the COs monitor and control the population and lock and unlock the doors holding the inmates. When things were at their worst, inmates manned these, and there were no COs on the floors.