Written by Lukas Tyler

Try as I might, all I could possibly see outside was mown grass. One by one, the doors to the cells opened. The guys in green pushed a gentleman’s head down. They kept us from hitting our heads as we shuffled, hunched, out of the cage. Thank you. The familiar face left. I wouldn’t see it again for hours. But my sense of time was gone. I had no watch. I had no phone. They were in my luggage, which was labeled “Lukas” on blue painters tape, in a clear plastic bag labeled “Lukas” on blue painters tape. Every rule I had seen, every request thus far, I had followed to the letter. I didn’t want to be a target. I needed to be good.

“Next!” some guy in green shouted.

It was my turn. I shuffled forward, clanking chains against the metal cage.

“Step!” Some guy in green shouted. He pushed my head down.

“Thank you,” I thought. “Thank you, Sir,” I should have thought. The sun was bright in my eyes. I hadn’t been in the cage that long, but my eyes disagreed. More guys in green stood outside the back of the van. Four? Maybe. My mind was racing. The moment I stepped out men started shouting. I turned right. In front of me a gang of guys in white were shouting wild things. I couldn’t make out anything specific, but I really didn’t want to. It seemed like a group of hardened prisoners. Fuck. Now I have to deal with them too, in addition to the guys in green.

Just focus, look straight ahead, make a good impression, that’s all I could think. The guys in white kept shouting. I looked down. I didn’t have to look where to go, a guy in green kept telling me. Forward. Left. Right. Whatever he said I was going to do. I saw grass, it kept going. The sidewalk was old, it wasn’t crumbling but it has been there for years, and the grass was growing back over it. Guys in green were everywhere. I was afraid to look anywhere. Looking wasn’t a crime, right? But the one time I started to look around a voice said, “head down” or “eyes forward.” Whatever it was I did it, and I didn’t consider doing anything else.

I got to the threshold of a building. They pushed me in.

“Left!” Some guy in green shouted. I complied. I was moved forward. They removed the black box from my cuffs and the belly chain from my body. Some guy in green chained my cuffs to the wall. Stuck. That’s where I was. I wasn’t going anywhere. I accepted my fate and shifted my feet.

“Stop moving!” Another voice shouted. Fuck. I didn’t really move, did I? I was adjusting my weight, and I was chained to a fucking wall. How did I move?! My feet became a statue.

Someone behind me was getting questioned. I stood as still as possible, keeping my chains silent so I could hear.

“Is there anyone that relies on you that police services needs to check on while you’re here?” “Is there anyone you want us to notify that you are here?” “Your prisoner number is” followed by some random five-digit number. “What is your number?” Whomever he asked got it right. OK, if he can get it right, I can get it right. Someone to my left was unchained from the wall and moved behind the blue line. I studied every question, no surprises. My eyes drifted. “Look forward! The wall is interesting. Look at the wall!” Silently I complied. That’s what they want, right? Silent compliance. I’ll just be quiet and do what the guys in green want me to do, and everyone eventually goes home happy. But I missed the questions he was asking. That’s OK. I know some of them. I’ll just pay attention and repeat that number in my head a thousand times.

My questions came. I got most of them right. I forgot my last name. How did I forget my last name? Some guy in green told me my last name. He was right. “Your prisoner number is 18265. What is your number?”

“18265.” I got it right. I said it over, and over and over, in my head. 18265. If I forgot this it would be bad. I knew I had to know it. I will probably never forget it. Years from now when I need a five-digit password it likely won’t be my zip code. Zip codes change, I’ve moved a lot. This is my number. This number means me. I was determined to remember it.

The guys in green took me to another room. Left, forward, right. They weren’t going to consider me going anywhere else. I wasn’t going to consider looking anywhere else. There were two pieces of plain cardboard misaligned on the floor. That’s the only place I was looking. I had no idea what the person to my left, right, or behind me looked like. They had green cargo pants on, and most of them had black boots. More guys in green. So many guys in green.

“Hands on the wall,” a faceless voice shouted. “Take your shoes off!” “Take your socks off!” I was nothing but silent compliance. Next the shirt. The pants. The jock too. I was naked. Or as close to naked as I could get in front of an unknown number of seemingly endless guys in green.

The only thing on my person was a Bon4M chastity cage. One of the guys in green had the keys. I didn’t know who. I had never met him. But he told me about this place three weeks ago. And at that time he took my penis away. October 26th. I’m not good with dates. But this one I had seen many times. Every picture I sent him proving I was a good boy had the timestamp “🔒 since 10/26” in the corner. I liked Him. I liked the control He had over me. I wanted Him to maintain or strengthen that control over me. I want to be a good boy for Him. For three weeks a part of my brain was constantly focused on this place I found myself in, the cage on my cock, and Him. I had work, a spouse, friends, and responsibilities. They each got their due attention, but some amount of space in my head was devoted to the need to be good for Him.

“Squat,” a voice said. “Cough three times.” “Louder!” I was nothing but silent compliance. I had never been strip searched before. Nothing was going to get past the guys in green. I lifted my legs and spread my toes. There were fingers in my armpits. They talked about my cock cage, and how much they enjoyed it. There were fingers in my mouth. So many fingers in my mouth. They weren’t going down my throat but flipping my gums inside out. They were feeling my molars. Lift my tongue. Right. Left. I had practiced holding a handcuff key behind my mustache on the front of my upper lip. I could eat with it, I could drink with it, I could talk and smile with it without issue. Thank god I chickened out and didn’t try to sneak it in. The guys in green would have sent me to the hole for a week if I had attempted it.

I’m surprised the guys in green didn’t know I had considered it. Somehow they knew everything and I knew nothing. They knew my last name, and I didn’t. Surely they could read my mind about the key I considered bringing. Then they discussed my hair. Thankfully I had cut it myself earlier in the week. It had been a couple inches long, some kind of mullet. Now it was an eight guard on top, zero guard burst faded on the side. They accepted it. Then they discussed my mustache. Since my hair was sufficient they accepted my mustache. Thank god. I didn’t want to lose it, but at this point I had no say. If I had hid a key there I’m sure my mustache would have been gone. My mustache is worth way more than a failed attempt at smuggling a handcuff key. I did the right thing. Nothing was going to get past the guys in green. I have never been more naked.

A voice behind me shouted, “What’s my name?” I had never seen a face. I had never put an identity to this voice. I had no idea which pair of green cargo pants or black boots were his.

“I don’t know, Sir.” I said Sir, I was going to make sure I said Sir. I was going to say Sir every sentence from now on; the start, at the end, or even better twice. I know they’re in charge. I’m going to make sure they know that I know that they are in charge, and I want them to be kind. Or as kind as they can be at least.

“My name is Officer Grin!” “What’s my name?” I answered Officer Grim. I couldn’t hear the difference between Grim and Grin. Those two words are a lot different, I assume that grim fits the situation better. Either way the faceless voice now has two names, and they were close enough together there was hope I wouldn’t be punished for pronouncing it wrong.

“Who’s the officer on your left?” For the duration of the entire interaction between this officer and me, my eyes were fixed on the floor. Guy in green cargo pants, comfortable looking tan suede boots with stitching on the outside top corner was not going to be an acceptable answer. I requested permission to look at his face. It was granted. On the way up I glanced at his badge, attempting to read as quickly as I could. I wanted to get it right. “Foxtrot…” my voice trailed off.

“His name is Officer Jackson,” I was loudly informed.

“What’s my name?”

“Officer Grim, Sir” my pronunciation was accepted, Grim it was. I requested permission to look at him to put a face to the name. I had spoken without being addressed. Did I just fuck up? Was this the end of me already? Permission granted. I tried to burn the six seconds of a generic white guy face into my brain. No piercings, short hair, some facial hair but nothing noteworthy.

“Thank you, Sir.” I was definitely going to have to ask someone else to help me identify who Officer Grim was. The person I would ask definitely was not going to be a guy in green. I wasn’t going to get his name wrong, because I wanted to live.

“Put this on.” Something was pressed against my back. I reached around and grabbed it. A tan jumpsuit. I climbed in. Ridiculously oversized orange slides. And cuffs. Not great, but OK. I will wear this. I’m not naked. And my former clothes were no longer mine. They belonged to the guys in green. “Nice T-shirt. Great store in Berlin,” said one of the faceless voices, this one with a translucent white apron covering his green cargo pants, appreciates the new shirt they had acquired. I got to see his face. Perfectly spiked four-inch tall mohawk, and distinct facial hair. Here was a face I could remember.

“Let me guess, you ride don’t you?”

“Yes Sir, a 1996 Harley Softtail Springer.” I hoped he liked my honest answer. It was my first actual conversation with a guy in green. I had to make a good impression. It’s a classic bike, he’s got to like it, right? He mentioned his bike. I had no clue what it was. I smiled. He discussed turning radius on Harleys. I mentioned that I had put more miles on my former Yamaha, Sir. I had a conversation with a guy in green. They don’t hate me yet and they like their new shirt. I’ll take that win.

A guy in green walked me through the building. I couldn’t tell you where, but we turned down a dim hallway lit only by Christmas lights and a skylight. “This one goes in solitary,” a faceless voice from a guy in green said. Door opened. The guy with green put me in. Door shut. By the time I turned around I was alone for the first time. I didn’t know where to look. There weren’t many choices. A concrete bed with an 8-inch-thick green mattress. A metal sink with a toilet built into it. A solid steel door with a window. It smelled old, humid, and dusty. It really wasn’t bad. I could be comfortable enough for however long they kept me there. I’ve been in many cells before, but never prison. Never arrested or transported to an unknown location without knowing who took me, or cuffed before someone even asked my name. I’d never been shouted at by a seemingly hardened group of prisoners. I’d never been strip searched. I’d never been that naked. I’d never seen that many guys in green before. I think I was in the cell for 7 minutes. It was short. I’ve been in cells much longer. Last week I slept the night in a steel-barred kennel, two feet wide, three feet tall, and four feet long. I can do this. I saw tan jump suits move past my cell, escorted by guys in green.

“We’re moving you to a different cell.” They took me wherever they wanted. This one was further down the row, past the solitary cell I was in before. It was slightly bigger. Two metal bunks stacked above each other, no mattresses, lots of dirt and dust. Solitary seemed better. I still had concrete walls to the left, right, and rear. This one had a barred metal front. I was exposed. I didn’t have the privacy of a concrete wall, solid steel door, and small window. And if there was a second person in here there would be much less space, and a shared toilet. I wanted to go back to solitary.

I assessed my surroundings. The skylight was barred at top and bottom, approximately four feet deep, concrete walls, and two feet square. The metal wall was bolted to the ground in front of me, and the wall above my cell. Even if I had the proper tools to take the bolts out, time, permission, and the strength to move decades of rust, they wouldn’t move. The bars were welded into a continuous piece as far as I could tell to the left and right. The bars were bolted in front of the other cells, too. They could come down as a set, or not at all. Multiple eras of electric lighting existed in the building. There was a large rectangular light at the top corner of the wall. There were bulb lights, with missing bulbs and exposed wiring. There was a dark string of bulb lights falling down against the wall. There were Christmas lights strung up and lit.

This place had been around for a long time. It was cheaper to add new than repair old. Appearance played no factor, only function and security. I could see the door towards solitary slightly. Each spot had a different bad view blocked by the bars. But if I were to move quickly I could have blurred them into one complete image. Dare I sit on the bed? There was no mattress, it was filthy. Is this a sign I shouldn’t sit? The room is so cool I want to look at everything, but would that look bad and disrespectful if they found me snooping at the fixtures, checking if water worked? The last thing I wanted was a loud toilet flush and questions. I liked solitary. I wasn’t afraid to look around there, test the mattress, look under it.

Two guys in green came to get me. “Finally a quiet prisoner,” one of them said. They made small talk to each other about how they almost forgot me and questioned if I was dead. Phew. They didn’t catch me snooping in the room, looking around however I wanted because I was in a cool space and hadn’t been met with “Eyes on the wall!” or similar. They took me to a doctor.

Somehow the guys in green had an actual doctor. The room looked clean and smelled sterile. He made the usual doctor comments. 20/30 vision. Near perfect blood pressure. No crackles, rales, or wheezing in my lungs. He looked in my ears and up my runny nose. Pulse 72. Oxygen sat 100. I was doing a good job keeping my heart rate down. Maybe the guys in green believed what I wanted to portray, that I was fine. I didn’t want to be arrogant. I didn’t want to be a pussy and therefore a target. I wanted to be as mundane as I possibly could. Silent compliance. If my blood pressure and pulse were proof, it was working. When he was done Doc asked if I wanted some unsolicited advice.

I said, “Yes please, Sir.”

“Keep your head down. Don’t make trouble. Do what the guards say.” Well, either he says that to everyone, or I look panicked. If I look panicked now, that’s not good. I’m not a stranger to hospitals. Talking to the doctor was the safest I had felt since my passenger from the 90-minute drive had been taken.

“Thank you, Sir.”

They took me outside. “Left. Eyes forward. Right. I said eyes forward! Left, right, forward.” I arrived at a worn steel door on what felt like the backside of the building. Another guy in green opened the door, and I was pushed across the threshold. Inside I was taken to the right, asked my uniform size, and provided one. I went back past the door I walked in and saw a big glass wall. Guys in uniforms that matched the one I had been handed mulled around. I was pushed forward towards the wall and then asked my number. I remembered it, I got it right. An electronic buzz unlocked the door in front of me. A guy in green opened the door.

I was directed to sit in the front row of four steel benches, uniform in hand. “You. Grab your towel, soap, and underwear. Over here.”

I rummaged through the pile I had been given. I found the soap and underwear. I couldn’t find the towel. I rummaged again. Towel must have meant what appeared to be a white washcloth, there was nothing else. I took those items and went over to the guy in green.

“In.”

I walked into the shower. It was spacious enough, like you’d find at a gym. The shower was tiled with eight-inch plain white tiles and a stainless-steel shower head with a button in the back left corner. The floor was a smaller white mosaic tile. The space was plain, a little dirty, old, but not in need of repair. An open metal door was closed behind me. It looked like something you’d see at the zoo, to keep the lions separate from the zookeepers when they’re being fed. The bars were sturdy, and spaced 6 inches apart, and went the entire width of the shower stall. Again they were old, but they had no rust. The door was padlocked shut behind me. I was told to strip.

I set my towel, underwear, and soap on the bars so they wouldn’t rest on the slightly muddy floor. I took my orange slides off, reached through the bars and put them on the ground. I took the tan jumpsuit off and pushed it through the bars and onto the floor. I was naked and exposed. The guys in green commented on the cage locked around my genitals. It pleased them. A guy in green picked up a hose and sprayed it at me. There was nowhere to go, no wall to attempt to hide behind. I let out an audible gasp. The water was cold, I was helpless. The guys in green had fun. Even though I had showered that morning before driving, I had no choice but to take another. This one was on their terms.

I rinsed off quickly, moving the water they shot at me to rub myself. I didn’t use soap, I wanted it to be over. They guys in green told me how they were being nice, and the water that comes out of the built-in metal showerhead is even colder. They stopped spraying.

I took the washcloth-sized towel and attempted to dry myself. It worked a little bit. I had never imagined using a towel this small, but I was drier than if I had none, so I was thankful. I slid into the assigned brown boxers, they were labeled with a screen-printed white M on the left leg.

“Dry my bars.”

“Huh?” I wasn’t sure what the guy in green had told me to do.

“Dry off my bars,” he said as he pointed to the cell door.

I complied and dried them off. I finished, looked up, waiting for the door to unlock so I would be taken somewhere else.

“You missed a spot.”

Hurriedly I dried the bars again.

“You still missed it. Maybe if you weren’t vertically challenged you’d be able to follow instructions.” The guy in green pointed to a spot on the door near my head height.

I moved the towel around, attempting to appease him. It worked. The guy in green looked at his clipboard and told me which cell was mine. 2104.

My assigned cell was close. I could see it on the opposite side of the center hallway, two doors to the right. I collected my remaining uniform pieces, went to my cell and changed. I had ankle socks, two sizes too small, with a textured bottom for traction. Oversized slides, the bottom admitted they were size XXL 13-14, I was not. The rest of my uniform fit well, but it took extra effort to slide onto my wet body. The undersized towel had helped but not finished its job. I put on the light blue pants of a woven cotton/poly blend, with a white stripe on the side of each leg. I put on the pain white T-tshirt with a black screen-printed M over the left side of my chest. I put on the matching light blue shirt. It was tough to pull over as it stuck to my undershirt. I don’t tend to wear many clothes. Shorts and a tank top is more my style than this. I failed to tuck my new uniform in. I would be reminded later.

I smelled unfamiliar, like a detergent I had never used before, small familiarities that don’t matter until they’re gone. The layered uniform was warm. I was instantly sweaty. I had been cold when I was arrested. This was going to be a long, hot, humid week. A guy in green brought me my meds, a clear ziplock bag labeled as instructed with blue painters tape. I had locked these in the car. They were going to do whatever was needed. I had no say, but also no responsibility. I was being taken care of, on their terms.

I looked out the large glass window. The guys in green had faces. They became guards and Officers. I couldn’t find Officer Grim. I wanted to remember that face. I couldn’t find comfortable tan suede boots with stitching on the top corner. I wanted to remember Officer Jackson. I couldn’t find the nameless one I had a conversation with. He actually talked to me, translucent white apron, mohawk, beard; I wanted to learn his name.

I look close inside the glass wall. There were others dressed like me. None of the crazy hardened guys in white, just others like me. That helped. These were my people. I watched them lingering around. I wanted to do whatever they were doing. I lingered around. I was one of them. This is where I belong. This is home.