On the Run

I used to work in a prison. I was a psychologist. I talked to people about how they were adjusting to prison life, and counseled them about problems they faced in this very stressful environment. I was fifty years old when I got this job. I played the "little old lady" bit for all it was worth. I wanted to appear non-threatening and harmless to my clients. They were supposed to be the ones facing stress, not me.
         Three times a week I had to make cell-side visits to patients who were in solitary or administrative segregation. That meant I had to go out there among them. The cells had walls on three sides and expandable metal or bars on the front. Usually the patients who knew me were respectful and glad to have a visit to break the monotony of the long days. Occasionally, someone who was really psychotic would flash me or do something even more offensive. The inmates who were not the object of the visit could deliberately make this a harrowing experience for me. They often wanted to show me parts of their bodies I didn't care to see. Cat calls and suggestive or insulting comments were common. I learned early on to tune in the tape player in my head and put on "Amazing Grace." It seemed to me that the office which made cell assignments conspired to place my patients in the last cell on the run and preferably on four row which meant I had to walk up three flights of stairs all the way to the end of the run get to my patient. I am a tough little old lady. I could do this.
         The really tough thing was to have to go to a wing where the inmates were not locked up. It was especially bad if I had to go to a close custody wing. I always tried to go and come back before the field squad came in because they were strip searched in the hall. One day I missed my timing, and as I came down the hall there was a line of 30 naked men holding their clothes and waving at me. "Hey, Mrs. Haynes." "How you doin', Mrs. Haynes?" They all seemed thrilled to see me. I was not thrilled to see that much of them. I learned that the main thing to do was to look way down the hall and keep your eyes up, try to see only faces or maybe the ceiling.
         On an individual basis this was even harder. One day I was called cell-side to see a guy who was acting really strange. He refused to come out of his cell. He was not psychotic but he was trying to convince someone he was. He was a black man and he had covered himself in soap and lotion and powder and was wearing his underwear on his head. He said he was a ghost. The trick was to look him in the eye. I talked to him for a few minutes. There was nothing dangerous or malevolent about him. He just wanted to act silly for a while and see if anybody took him seriously. When I didn't, he put his underwear on appropriately. He came to see me a few times and satisfied his need to be a ghost.