By Joshua Ryan
The gate was stuck in the wall like a black tooth. “Cargo of eight,” we heard the driver say. “Yeah. OK. Thanks.” Soon there was the sound of an old motor reluctantly starting up, and half of the double gate swung back on its hinges. The bus moved through and halted, blocked by another enormous gate. The first gate closed behind us; we waited in the stone box between the gates, engine switched off. Finally two men in gray were seen, walking around the bus and inspecting it. Then the engine came on; the second gate opened; the bus crept into the prison.
What’s the first thing you see when you enter the walls of Maskawa? You see crap. You see a giant wall with razor wire attached to its top and a line of prison trucks parked at its foot —white bugs ganging in a basement. You see a garage made out of an old Quonset hut. You see delivery trucks — Philly’s Farms, Industrial Needs, Plastics Plus — backed into a loading dock. Then you see a low brick building with glass blocks where windows used to be, and RECEPTION carved in stone over the door. That’s where the bus stops and you have to get out.
Don’t really know how I ended up where I did. Sometimes I think i’m crazy to stay here, and other times I think i’m just where I should be. I didn’t plan this: I just sort of slid into it. Not even sure how much further into slavery I can slide. Maybe tomorrow i’ll decide to call it quits, but I might just decide to stay put and ride it out. Kind of surprised how far i’ve gone. It just didn’t happen by accident though, I think it’s a bit like a storm. You can sense that one is approaching, seeing the clouds gathering and all, and you can either head inside and batten down the hatches or you can stay out in the thick of it. I guess I don’t know enough to come in out of the rain but I like splashing around and getting wet.