Bitcoin Magazine
Samourai Letter #5: The Skinwalker
Dear Reader,
It has been a while since we last spoke. My last letter was written on the anniversary of my first month of incarceration at FPC Morgantown, the second month of being here has now come and gone. Truth be told I have struggled to think of what I could write to you all.
To be sure, there are some things and topics I would like to explore but I simply cannot without breaking rules or getting myself or someone else into trouble, so those stories will have to wait I am afraid. My wife suggests that I tell you all about some of various characters I have had the pleasure (and displeasure) of encountering here. I am not sure it would make for a good letter but she certainly seems to enjoy the stories I tell when we meet each weekend.
Someone else I respect suggested I write about my feelings, which is a mortifying proposition. ‘Feelings’ as far as I am concerned are like recounting the previous nights dreams or sharing holiday photos, best kept to your self. I have also had feedback that these letters have been helpful for those who have loved ones incarcerated in Federal custody to help them understand what it is they are going through. So, what will this letter be? I am still unsure, I am just going to write and see what comes out. Let us begin with an update since I last wrote.
On February 18th, the day before the two month anniversary of my stay here at FPC Morgantown I was woken up for the final time that night at 3:30 AM. The first time I was woken up was at the 12:00 AM count by the prick guard that insists on shining his flashlight directly into your sleeping face letting it linger there until your sleep is disturbed.
This repeated at the 3:00AM count and woke me up for a second time that night. Against all odds I managed to fall back asleep, though that mercy was to be short lived. At 3:30 AM I was woken up by the only thing more grating than the prick guard and his flashlight, the sound of “slides” (a type of sandal that you slide your feet into) lazily shuffling down the concrete floor of the open dormitory. Swishhhh Swoooosh Swishhhh Swoooosh the sound provokes a visceral response deep in my psyche that makes me want to shout “Pick your damn feet up when you walk!”. Instead I sigh and think to myself “the Skinwalker is off to bed finally”.
Now I owe you an explanation of course, ‘The Skinwalker’ is not his Christian name, rather that is what I have named him since I first got here and noticed his downright odd appearance. The only way I can really explain his appearance to myself is by imagining a race of hostile reptilian aliens who upon arrival to Earth abducted and gutted several humans and are using their bodies as some sort of skin suit.
His skin is so tight and taught across his face it truly appears that there is an 8 foot tall alien body tightly confined inside of a 6 foot tall human frame. Combined with his apparent case of alopecia (not a single strand of hair on him, head, eyebrows, arms, legs, nothing) and a red large birthmark on the back of his skull – where I presume the alien inserted the vacuum tube that sucked his innards out leaving nothing but an empty husk of skin – his appearance is downright unsettling.
While his off putting appearance was the initial inspiration for the moniker, his off kilter behavior seemed to play right in to the backstory I created for him. Basic human courtesy and respect is something the Skinwalker never mastered. Shouting across the open dormitory in the middle of the night, standing at the foot of your bunk having full volume conversations past midnight, very strangely prowling the hallways of the housing unit at 4:00AM silently changing every TV to the same ESPN channel using a remote control that he stole and now considers his own property. But his most egregiously odd behavior is certainly his bathroom habits.
If you read my last letter you know I am a bathroom janitor, as such I take a keen interest in the habits of the people who use the bathroom I clean. I know who is a disgusting dirty pig and who has basic life skills and can manage to clean up after themselves. Let me say, I could write a book on the downright baffling bathroom habits of purportedly adult men. I have seen shocking things that I am still trying to come to terms with.
The Skinwalker however, while not disgusting, perfectly illustrates his lack of basic human cognition. Around midnight or so the Skinwalker will shuffle slowly and loudly to the bathroom. He will turn on every single shower on full blast as hot as possible to create some sort of steam room effect. He then shuffles back out of the bathroom for about half an hour, really letting the steam build up – by the way, there is no ventilation at all in these bathrooms, so yes, mold is a problem, and yes, this behavior certainly doesn’t help things – when he finally shuffles back to the steamroom he spends well over an hour in there.
What he does for an hour in there I am unsure. Regenerating his skinsuit? Communicating with the mothership? Who knows. The most baffling part of this whole ritual, the most inhumane part, he finishes whatever it is he is doing in there, and just shuffles out without turning any of the showers off. When I wake up around 4:00 AM and use the toilet I am often the one who shuts the showers off, hours after he has shuffled himself back down the hallway to sleep. Some may say he clearly suffers from some sort of narcissistic personality disorder of some kind, but I am pretty sure he is just an alien in an ill-fitting skin suit.
Now, I anticipate many of you will wonder why I don’t just say something to the guy? Speak to him man-to-man (or man to Skinwalker). Under normal circumstances that certainly would be appropriate, but in here that could be interpreted as the opening salvo in what could turn into a physical altercation. At the camp level – minimum security – disrespect is rampant because no one wants to say anything that puts them at risk of having to fight which has serious knock on effects such as 1) losing good time credit which extends your stay here, and 2) being classified as higher risk needing to be moved to a higher security institution.
So you just grit your teeth and bare the disrespect. So, as I lay there silently seething I told myself I needed to get moved. I couldn’t live next to the Skinwalker anymore, I couldn’t live in the same dormitory as the guy. I needed to be moved and it needed to happen today. In truth, I knew I needed to move from the moment I got here.
I think in my first letter I mentioned the B-Wing (where I was put) as being filled with young rowdy reprobates, and turned out to be a pretty apt description. Many of the guys in B-Wing are young, rowdy, and seemingly quite happy to be in prison. The A-Wing on the other hand is much quieter, filled with older and more mature residents, men who wanted to get home, back to their lives and their families. I knew I needed to get myself to A-Wing somehow, and the above described shuffling incident on February 18th was the straw that broke the camels back.
You all know that I am the bathroom janitor in B-Wing. I didn’t take that job for my health. I knew quite early on I needed to get out of B-Wing and I deduced from conversations with prisoners who seemed ‘in the know’ that taking a less desirable job within the housing unit – a job that required actual work and effort – as opposed to a “paper job” (a job that only exists on paper, like vacuuming a carpet once a month) was the best way to demonstrate to your counselor that you were a serious person worthy of moving bunks. After a month of faithful and grimy work I made my request to move in writing – in BOP parlance this is called a “cop out” – In response I received no response, radio silence.
I figured maybe it was too early to ask, maybe I had not yet proven myself as A-Wing material. I continued the gritty and grimy work for another month, not receiving a restful night of sleep once since arriving here, I was reaching my wits end.
On February 18th I told myself I would submit another “cop out”, asking once again to be moved. If this request was denied or ignored I resolved to quit the bathroom job and give up trying. I must have caught my counsellor on a good day, or maybe my desperation was readily apparent and he took pity on me. Whatever the reason, within the hour of making my request I was called to his office and told my request was approved, I was to move out of B-Wing immediately.
I did not need to be told twice. I thanked him, grabbed a hand cart, and began the process of moving out. My neighbors were curious as to where I was going. When I told them I had been moved to A-Wing there was plenty of good natured jeering and ribbing. “Oh you’re too good for us over here in the hood” one neighbor said with mock indignation and a mischievous smile on his face. “Oh you’re moving to the suburbs huh?”.
Mostly my neighbors were happy for me, they recognized that I was in bed every night at 9:00 PM trying to sleep, and that my new home was more appropriate for me. My immediate neighbor, the Skinwalker said nothing and made no further acknowledgement of my existence. With some help from a friend my belongings were packed, my mattress and pillow secured, and I was finally out of the B-Wing.
I had carefully chosen the cell I wanted in A-Wing. Before submitting my “cop-out” I had walked the halls inspecting the different empty spaces like I was an annoyingly picky house hunter on a HGTV show trying to choose a new apartment.
I finally settled on a space that was slightly larger than normal and importantly had a window with a view. In B-Wing my cell was in the center of the dormitory, so there was no window. Even better, this window was east facing so I would be able to catch the sunrise as it peeks over the mountain top. I specifically requested this cell in my “cop-out” and it was granted. After moving in I cleaned every surface thoroughly (prison is dirty), swept and mopped the floor several times, laundered my sheets, and finally made the bed.
The difference in A-Wing was stark and immediately apparent. My new neighbors all came to welcome me, everyone spoke in hushed tones as to not disturb anyone else. One man came by with a welcome gift of a Zinger (a sort of chocolate cake Twinkie) which was happily accepted. It truly was the suburbs, and no I did not miss the inner city.
The real test of course was the night. Would I finally get some restful sleep? The evening came, the 9:00PM count was concluded, the lights were shut off. The silence was deafening and glorious. In the B-Wing when the lights went out, the party began. The Skinwalker and his crew would play their crappy mumble rap on a jury-rigged speaker as loudly as possible so that the already mumbled lyrics were further distorted and sounded as if it was recorded in a tin can. In response to this cultural onslaught the neighboring Puerto Ricans would play their crappy mumble rap on an equally tinny speaker system as loudly as they could.
Because two different speaker systems were playing two different musical arrangements as loudly as possible everyone around would have to shout even more loudly to be heard. It was a perfect storm of noise. In the A-Wing the only noise was the pleasant hum of a nearby industrial fan blowing. I was told later the fan was brought in because it was too quiet at night and some white noise was needed.
I was worried that perhaps it would be too quiet and I wouldn’t be able to sleep without the cacophony of chaos that had inundated my senses every night for 2 months. That worry was quickly settled, I fell asleep within minutes, I slept the whole night without interruption. I awoke at my usual and preferred time of 4:00 AM, I made my “prison latte” and sat at my desk looking out of my window.
I watched a family of deer foraging peacefully around a babbling stream. I know I don’t belong here, I know I shouldn’t be here, and I need to keep fighting to get out of here. I need to get back home and restart my life. But at least now I am more comfortable, I will now be able to get decent sleep, surrounded by people who understand basic human courtesy. This is now a much different way to serve my time. A small victory. Everything here is about securing small victories, recognizing them, and celebrating them.
Thank you for reading,
Keonne Rodriguez
Write to Keonne:
Keonne Rodriguez
11404-511
FPC Morgantown
FEDERAL PRISON CAMP
P.O. BOX 1000
MORGANTOWN, WV 26507
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This is a guest post by Keonne Rodriguez. Opinions expressed are entirely their own and do not necessarily reflect those of BTC Inc or Bitcoin Magazine.
This post Samourai Letter #5: The Skinwalker first appeared on Bitcoin Magazine and is written by Keonne Rodriguez.
