Date: Sat, 9 Feb 2013 00:37:24 -0500
From: d.a. w <daw62@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Professor's Punishment   Chapter 1

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Professor's saga.  I value comments from readers,


The Professor's Punishment
Chapter 1


The van that had carried me from my trial turned toward the prisoner
entrance. Once again, it went through the three gates and was checked over,
top to bottom, to prevent anyone from sneaking into the prison. Why would
anybody want to sneak into this place?I hadn't sneaked in. I had come here
voluntarily, the first time, as a kind of weird adventure and fantasy
fulfillment. I wouldn't want to sneak in again. If anybody wanted to stop
me, take me out of the van, turn me away, that would be good.

This trip Inside was different from my first trip Inside. I wasn't coming
into Princeton Reformatory for a brief experience, about which I had
fantasized and which I had arranged for myself. I was coming in as a
nameless, hopeless, two-time loser, sentenced to spend his next 15 years as
an item in a warehouse for hopeless losers.

I listened as the van moved inside. Now it was past the first gate, now the
second gate. Now it was past the last gate and moving toward the reception
building. All I could think about was the difference from my first
arrival. Then I was excited. Then I was on an adventure. Now I was being
punished. Punished conclusively. Punished as I deserved.

I had been a college professor. I had been honored, respected. That wasn't
enough for me. I wanted all my fantasies fulfilled. Now they were being
fulfilled, completely, conclusively. I wanted to be an inmate; now I would
be an inmate, a real inmate. I would be in general population. I would be
one of the faceless herd. Unknown. Unrecognized. Indistinguishable from the
next nameless, faceless inmate. I was now completely a property of the
state--numbered, inventoried, locked away behind so much barbed wire that
no one could ever find me.

Not that anyone would want to. Even Jim Henderson had no reason to concern
himself with me. Not anymore. I pictured him coming out to the walled city
to visit his friends, the tribe of CO's, and maybe looking out over the
yard, idly wondering whether he could pick me out of the mudflow of cons in
their brown numbered suits. It wouldn't take him long before he got tired
of that game.Meanwhile, I would be there in the mud, one more whitish gray
blip with a number on its back. Number 117213. My inventory number in the
great Princeton warehouse. That was what the state needed to identify
me. That was all it needed. And that, now, was me. The rest of it—hopes,
fears, feelings, background, fantasies, adventures—those things had no
connection to my inventory number. And I was nothing but my number.



The only problem for the state was where I would be locked away and how I
would be counted, managed, and controlled, to make sure this piece of state
property didn't get lost. DOC Number 117213 was irrelevant to the state so
long as DOC Number 117213 stood at the bars to be counted. DOC 117213 was
irrelevant to the state so long as DOC Number 117213 didn't require extra
food, uniforms, attention, or punishment. Would the state care if 117213
became a prison bitch to some stronger piece of inventory? Would the state
care if 117213 was forced to do hard labor such as 117213 had never done in
his life? Would the state care if 117213 lived a life in which every minute
was an increasingly redundant reminder that dumb mistakes get a person
locked and lost in the prison world?



The answer was NO. The state did not care as long as 117213 could be
counted four times a day. Inventory Number 117213 could get beaten up,
turned into a servant of other numbers, worked into the dirt, and no one
would give a fuck.

This time, I realized how little I had really known about the life and
feelings of a man coming into prison to begin many years of this life as
property. The answer was nothing, nothing at all. Then I realized something
else. "Life," "feelings"—that was meaningless. Meaningless to the barbed
wire and the stone walls. Meaningless to the faces of the stolid
guards. Meaningless to the concrete desert that the prison bus was rolling
across. As for "man"—I was beginning to understand the difference
between a man and a number. If you want to, you can recite a slogan, "A man
is not a number." All that means is that when they give you a number,
you've stopped being a man.I descended the steps, securely held by a guard
on either side, and was moved into the reception building. I was unchained,
showered, poked, and probed, and marched into the room where they issue the
uniforms.

I saw the big room with the numbered boxes marked on the floor. It was then
I knew for the first time the fear and despair of a real inmate."213," I
was ordered, "move your ass to Box Number 1. Do it NOW."The order was
routine, coldly abusive. If one of them had smacked me on the face, I might
have thanked him. It would have meant I was still something individual,
special, personal. Instead, the abuse rolled out like the shit you drop
every morning at 8 a.m. But the convict tries not to get smacked. So this
convict hurried to stand inside Box Number 1, and did his best not to be
special. He laced his hands behind his head, placed his feet parallel to
the sides of the box, and moved his head so that he was looking about
eighteen inches in front of his body. "His" body—as if it belonged to
him, instead of the state.

Looking cautiously off to the side, I saw my plastic envelope of documents
being taken to the officer in charge.I stood and waited.And waited.And
waited.I began to panic. I knew that an inmate who did not follow orders
would be punished; however, my body was not used to holding one position
this long, and I knew that soon I would have to move, or perhaps I would
just fall over as my mind wandered and I lost concentration.Just as I began
to believe that I was about to fall, I heard a commotion behind me. I heard
the clanking of chains, and I knew that a number of new inmates had
arrived. I had been saved to be reprocessed into Princeton State
Reformatory with the busload of new prisoners fresh from that lovely R&D
Center.

"All you assholes strip off and assume your strip search positions," a
guard ordered.

I heard an obedient rustle. Then a mutter."That's dumb as shit!" I heard
some prisoner state from behind and to my left. "What the fuck could be
`concealed,' after we were strip searched leaving R&D? Don't you dumb shits
ever talk to each other, dude?"It was all under his breath. But I was
amazed that the newbie had been allowed to make his entire little
speech. "Under your breath" doesn't mean much when there's nobody else
who's willing to talk.I should have known that there was a lesson about to
be delivered.The Major in charge came through my range of vision, and stood
in what I had to believe was the center of the first line of boxes, each
now inhabited by a new reformatory inmate."An interesting point," he
said. "Bring that inmate forward."I know that the inmate who yapped was
about to be educated. I felt a strange sense of superiority over him
because I was now a more experienced inhabitant of this brave new world,
and I knew that the questioned was about to be taught his lesson."Officers
will now educate this offender about how to do as he's told, and about how
his observations and opinions will be kept to himself unless an officer
asks for them."The newbie was dragged over, his sorry little dick bouncing
against his legs, then positioned several feet in front of the rest of us
offenders awaiting processing. I looked at the convict. It was like I was
looking at a used car, or a cast-off item in a thrift store. This item,
this new convict, was maybe 18 or 19. Tall. Loose limbed. Loose in the
mouth. Shaved bald, of course, and you could see from the dead white on his
skull that a shitload of hair had been shaved off of him. He looked like
one of my students. One of the bottom half—young, naďve, unfamiliar
with the concept, still feeling entitled, somehow. Maybe because he'd been
making about a thousand trips to the gym, if I read that six-pack right. It
didn't come from road work, that's for sure. One day ago, he'd been a
dilated-eye doper, with a parent-paid admission to the gym. Now he was in
prison. He was a number. He was a balded, locked down con--but he hadn't
learned what that number meant. He stood in front of us, wide-eyed like a
student taking his first Chem test."Grab your ankles!" The convict paused,
confused. Obviously, he was still under the impression that he was
something special. That he was the son of some good family that had sent
him to a private school. That he was Interested in Ecology and spent
Christmas kickin' back on Maui, and was therefore different from every
other con on the bus. That nobody had ever told him what to do. Then he
grabbed his ankles. Because he had to.

"Offenders, you see this offender positioned to be educated. We have
learned over years of experience that the way to an offender's brain is
through his butt."He paused. "Your name, convict?""Uh
. . . . Jeremy. Jeremy . . . "The Major smiled. "Officers, what is this
convict's name?""121791," one of them said."Very well," the Major
said. Then he turned to the offender."You're new, 121791. So I won't give
you the ten strokes you deserve. You'll get five strokes with the
paddle. I'll count it down. Five, four, three..." I noted that the offender
moved one foot in front of the other, just a bit, to give him some kind of
bracing against what he, and all of us, knew would be a full swung blow
against his ass. The skater boy was learning."Two. One. The officer will
proceed with the punishment."Another guard had been lurking behind the new
convict. I watched as he rubbed the large frat-type wooden paddle across
the offender's ass. Then he pulled back and let go. SPLAT!!!The sound
echoed in the room. The offender almost fell over, but his uneven placement
of his feet allowed him to remain upright. He was learning. "ONE" the Major
intoned. From behind me I heard some gasps. Even with my limited previous
experience I also involuntarily gasped.There was a short pause before the
second stroke landed. This time the offender couldn't keep quiet. "OH
SHIT!" he yelled. Screamed."Proceed," the Major said.Again the wind-up and
the sickening smash of wood on flesh. "Three!"This time, the offender
managed to keep in place. The count proceeded through five. The offender
croaked out the count, his voice getting weaker with each successive blow.

Behind me, I could hear the other cons suck in their breath, like it was
the last breath they would ever be allowed.I knew I was terrified by what I
witnessed. I saw it now with the eyes of an offender who would be under the
discipline of the paddle for 15 years, and not some dilettante who was
playing offender for a few insignificant months.

I found myself trembling from witnessing this example of the possible
punishment that awaited any offense against orders by those I know knew
were my owners. I knew that every naked con who witnessed this example
understood that we were going to be ordered to do things that we at this
point could only wonder about, and we would do our best to do as ordered
because we had no desire to meet the punishment for failure to obey. I also
realized that when I was paddled in the hole, I was not receiving a full
paddling. It was like much of my experiences when I was a short timer... a
brief introduction to a long, long course of study.

"Officers, position 121791 for inspection."121791 was stood up in front of
the assembled cons. His legs were shaking, and his face was covered with
tears. The Major looked at the clearly suffering inmate. "All right, boy. I
grant the possibility that up until now there has been some
misunderstanding about who and what you are. Let's clear that up. You are a
convict. Your name is 121791. You are not a `person.' You are state
property. You are the same as this stick you see on my belt. From now on
you will behave like that stick. You will do what I want you to do; you
will move where I want you to move. If I want you to strip down, you will
strip down. If I want you to march to your cell, you will march to your
cell. If I want you to grab your ankles so you can get your ass beat in,
you will grab your ankles and get your ass beat in. You will stand where I
tell you to stand, look where I tell you to look, and speak when I tell you
to speak. WHEN you speak, you will address me as SIR before and after
whatever it is that you have to speak, and you will extend the same
. . . courtesy to every individual who isn't wearing a convict
suit. Understand, convict?"

Convict 121791 looked at the Major, and began stumbling back to his
box."Halt!" the Major shouted. "When you are asked a question you will
answer it."Convict 121791 looked over at the Major, clearly
confused. Whatever street smarts he had gave him no idea about how to deal
with his new world. "Uhhh . . . Sir . . . I uhhh . . . I . . . " Whether it
was because of the way they'd hurt him, or because of what he still thought
he was, he couldn't get it out. He couldn't say "Sir I understand Sir."

"Come back here," said the major, "and grab your ankles, boy. Five more,
Officer."Convict 121791 dragged himself back into position, reached down,
and found his ankles. Five more staggering blows were delivered to the
convict's ass.The process seemed to go on forever. Finally, with
appropriate coaching from the Major, Convict 121791 acknowledged that he
was indeed Convict 121791, that he was state property, that he would act as
state property, and that he was thankful to the Major for helping him to
learn. The Major smiled."Return to your square, convict, and remember this
lesson. Officer, note that Convict 121791 has received ten strokes during
induction, and that he is to be watched.""Yes Sir," the officer
responded. I knew that I was now beyond terrified. Offender 121791's butt
was multicolored in reds and blues. I knew I could not walk if I ever
experienced such a beating, but a voice inside my head informed me, "Yes,
offender, you will be able to do so, because you are now totally in these
men's power, and the alternative to not doing as ordered is too terrible to
consider." Without a stoke being delivered to my ass, I knew I was now
going to be a star obeyer.My thoughts were interrupted by the Major."Listen
up, convicts!" If every offender was like me, I knew that when he heard
that, he was definitely going to pay close attention."If this is an
example, your little stay at R&D has taught you little. Apparently it has
taught you that nothing could be `worse' than R&D. Perhaps it has taught
you that this institution is some kind of a . . . what do they call it? A
country club prison. If that is your assumption, you are sadly
mistaken. R&D was not the end but the beginning of your new life as state
property. This is not prison lite. This is PRISON."You are not here to be
entertained. You are here to be numbered, caged, worked, and punished
whenever we think that punishment is required. You are here to learn to be
the property of the state. This lesson is not hard to learn. As you see, it
is hard only if you refuse to learn." I was obviously a slow learner. I'd
heard the speech when I was processed the first time. But then I was on
incarceration lite. Now I was experiencing the real thing. Now I fully felt
the power of the state on me. I knew that indeed the state had given me
over for correction, and the means of correction would be loss of freedom,
and corporal punishment whenever I deserved it. This experience brought
back the feeling of helplessness I had as I felt my body being violated in
the processing at the R&D center. But now the violation was obviously
permanent. . . . The Major spoke again, snapping me out of my thoughts."Any
questions?" he said. "This is your last chance. But if you are thinking
back to school when a teacher asked for questions and shits like you
responded by asking something that was either silly or meant to be
embarrassing, then I will warn you that the offender who tries that will
meet the correction of inappropriate remarks that you have just observed.

NOW. ANY QUESTIONS?" I held my breath. Would anybody be dumb enough to ask
one? To my amazement I heard from directly behind me, "SIR, I have a
question, SIR"I saw the Major fix the offender with a cold stare, which
since the questioner was just behind me, also froze my breath."Yes
offender. State your question.""SIR this offender has already realized what
a stupid shit he was in school SIR. SIR this offender would like to get a
high school diploma while here SIR. SIR does Princeton Reformatory offer
offenders this opportunity SIR?"There was a pause as the Major stared at
the offender who had had the folly or bravery to ask a question."Offender
number!" he stated.



"SIR 121795 SIR."The Major turned to a CO right behind him. "Note this
offender's number.""SIR yes SIR" was the immediate reply, and I noted the
officer taking a notebook out of his pocket and writing the number
down."Number 121795 asked a reasonable question, showing a reasonable
amount of courage. Provision will be made for school materials to be
furnished. If you take advantage of them, and do excel in them, well and
good. If you do not, you can expect to be punished. I don't like to be
disappointed.""Sir," 121795 stuttered, "yes Sir." Maybe his question was
real; maybe it was a stupid attempt at getting attention. In any event, he
would now have to make good on it.Then I saw what I never expected to see,
and I almost gasped. A slight smile appeared on the Major's face. I do not
know whether any other offender would note it, and certainly only those of
us in the first line of offenders could see it, but it was there."Officers,
suit these convicts up." The Major turned in a military manner and left the
room.The officers didn't need to do much. One of them went behind the
counter at the end of the room, and five minutes later, four brown
uniformed convicts entered the work space behind the counter. One by one
our numbers were called and we walked to the counter to receive our
brand-new browns—two sets, a "wear" and a "spare": "one for your body,
one for your laundry, dude." Then each new convict stood in front of the
crowd and jammed his naked ass into his new convict shorts.I was expecting
everyone to get more confident, now that he wasn't totally naked and
vulnerable, but it's hard to be confident when you're dressing into a
convict suit. You could tell that a lot of them had never worn anything
that wasn't soft and stylish and comfortable and picked out just for him. I
guess that none of them had ever even seen one of those pillbox caps we
were being issued—except for me, who'd seen those caps before, in
ancient prison films. When I got up to the counter, the two earlier guys
were still there, one trying to get his boots laced up, the other just
staring in wonderment at that square cap with his number stamped across
it.The convict at the counter bore an uncanny resemblance to one of my
students. Same blue eyes, same red, honest-looking lips, same neat high
cheekbones. He smiled sarcastically. "Here's your suit, old-timer," he
said, dropping a pile of brown on the gray steel counter. "Wear at the top,
spare at the bottom." He reached behind him and pulled out a pair of heavy
black work boots. They clunked on the counter. "Suit up, pops." Before I
could gather it all up, he was already calling the next number.I thought I
knew about browns, but this suit was much heavier than the last
one. Heavier, coarser. And this time, with numbers. Large black numbers for
my back, my pec, my butt, my cap. And more numbers—white, this
time—for the heels of my big black boots. Even my socks had numbers on
the insteps. As I buttoned my dick into my thick, numbered trousers, it was
like watching the whole mud-colored institution rise up slowly to swallow
me. I never knew that clothes could be this heavy. My huge brown convict
coat must have weighed ten pounds. But all you could see, I guess, was
those big black numbers. The coat, the boots, the shirt, the trousers, had
"hard labor" written all over them. I shuddered as I settled my convict cap
on my bald head. Now I was a total convict, totally encased in
brown. Looking down at the number on my chest, I thought that the only
thing looking normal and human was the little V where the top of my shirt
opened out on my neck. I thought about those hot young guys in brown
open-necked shirts that delivered packages to the university."Hey pops,"
the con at the counter said. "Fix that top button. No open necks allowed in
here." I closed the metal button onto my neck. So much for looking like a
hot young worker.When all of us had been turned into giant blobs of convict
brown, a long chain was brought out, with handcuffs attached, and we were
locked onto the chain. It wasn't easy, but each of us took bent over and
took the pile of spare uniforms up in 0our handcuffed arms. Then one of the
cons came by and dropped a package of "personals" onto the top. "Don't drop
it, dude," he snickered. As soon as he said that, I dropped it onto the
floor, and almost dropped the uniform too. A bored guard walked by and
smacked me on the ass with his paddle. I was glad that it wasn't more. I
picked up the package, and shuffled on.So now we were on the march,
shuffling and clanking across the floor, a mob of numbered brown suits
headed for the human warehouse. They certainly did not need all this heavy
chain to keep me totally under control. But of course I was being
processed, not consulted. As we began our trip, I again marveled at how
little I had really learned on my first little stint of being an
offender. I realized that in less than a day I was many times more a real
offender than I was during the whole previous time. Many times more a real
convict, locked into the place that is made for convicts."Cells" had been
mentioned. What would my cell be like? I knew that whatever it was like, it
was not my choice and I would now have to live and exist on other's orders
and plans, with no hope of getting myself free. Now it was real.A CO came
over with a clipboard, and checking our numbers with his list, grabbed the
beginning of the connecting chain. Another officer took the end of the
chain, and when tugged our chain gang left Intake Processing, and with the
clanking of our chains and the jingling of keys as the officer in the lead
unlocked doors, we left the processing room, went down a hallway, and
finally through a set of double doors, with the normal series of the doors
behind us closed and locked before the ones before us opened.Finally we
were in the center yard of Princeton. I saw a pattern of sidewalks that
went diagonally across the yard as well as sidewalks that went straight
across it. "We're going to Block E," the front officer said to one at the
back. "Roger" was the answer, and all of us were on the way to the
accommodations that the state would require us to use. Block E looked to be
one of the old original blocks of the prison, dating back to the early
1900s. I could see the brick sides marked by evenly spaced sets of two or
three story windows all thoroughly covered by bars which were both
vertically and horizontally locking those inside from even the insiders of
the prison.