Once in the luxurious TIJ bought Ford, I strap on my seat belt and have my usual weekend drive down Santa Ana. As I conduct down the streets, windows down, seat tilted low, and smooth music playing in the car (all this to look cool of cores), I see the lustful body of a Latin princess. Her hair so black that it almost seemed to be night itself, holding the stars in her hair, and as I admired her beauty the guitar starts to play, Its Santa Ana: Maria Maria. My heart begins to race, intoxicated in the untamed eyes of the street flower; I slow to link our sight together.
Getting a red light I stop only a couple of feet away and I smile at her, taking the initiative in embracing a connection. She takes a swift glance at my dazed eyes and immediately turns away, giving me a little smirk to hang on to (dare I say a flirt?). My blood begins to race through my body, sending a volcano of heat to my cheeks, creating a beacon of excitement. With every Maria Maria being sung in the song, my heart skips a beat, being sucked into my fantasy of lust and romance. If I could only step out of this car and take her into my arms, showing her the passion that her beauty had ignited in me, exploring every curve in her body that screamed to be caressed.
Suddenly the light turns green and the song abruptly stops, delivering me back into my car. I look back the lady and realize where I was. It was Bristol, known for male prostitutes that dress up like chicks. I slam the gas on my car (avoiding anymore contact with her, him, or it) and abide in going to work. Shaking off the awkward feeling of me fantasizing over a guy (in my defense it might have been a chick, I’m just not sure) I promise myself not to mention it to anybody (but I must be faithful with Blogger) and I park my car next to the stone fortress.
Going through the huge iron doors, the comforting smell of the jail wakens me up and sends me into an apathetic mode. I head to the bubble (where there is a sexy deputy and yes it’s a woman) to receive my power and rite given to me by the county: Jail keys. As I hand my identification card to the cold and heartless but beautiful deputy my head wonders off, playing the Eagles: Hotel California. Receiving my keys the song continues, walking and song playing in my head, I can imagine the deputies singing me the song. From the entrance all the way to the kitchen the intoxicating song controls me, sending me in sudden burst of smooth dancing (when no one is watching), thinking of all the inmate residence in the fortress and wondering what at that minute they were up to. With only the sound of my feet echoing through the walls and my humming, with sudden burst of me singing “Welcome to the Hotel California, such a lovely place” (the only words I know to the song) I continue into the underground depth of the kitchen, becoming more romanticized as I imagine it as a hotel. I stop in the tunnel to enjoy my last moments of my imagination and deep connection with the badass jam and step into a world of cock and balls, leaving the Hotel California behind for another midnight entrance.
Inside the kitchen I meet my fellow cooks. All of them crazy, obsessive, or just down right fucked up in some way, then gain what do you expect when dealing with criminals and grown children. At exactly 12:15am we all meet in the supervisors office, receiving the daily information on what happening for breakfast and also not forgetting the gossip. Everyone smiles, laughs, and shakes hands but once we step out of the office and head our separate ways the shit talking begins (the formalities of any job). I quickly run out of the office grab my equipment and head to the IRC kitchen and call for my crew.
As I sit in my office waiting for the crew to come in I work on the endless paper work, thinking about the speech I will give the crew and how I will stand and move. Slowly I feel the beat hitting me, giving my speech some rhythm like a free style rapper feels his flow. When I hear the door open with blue jacks and tired faces walk into the kitchen my heart starts to race and the sudden rhythm of Mos Def: Mathematics hits my head. For a minute I’m not Ed anymore, I’m Mr. Gonzalez, gangster tamer, always having to seem harder, smarter, and tighter in order have control in the kitchen. Having the beat stick in my head and seeing the inmates lined up in front of me I bust my lyrics, having Mos Def trapped in the back of my mind, I talk.
After my “Monday” speech I give every single inmate a responsibility or job to do, sending each to their positions and giving instructions to all the new workers. Once everything is settled I head to my office, keeping an eye on the inmates and working again on the reiteration of paper work that County demands but never reviews, writing down every temperature of every refrigerator and every word I say to any inmate. There is not much to do for the first hour so I sit comfortably and wait upon the arrival of breakfast (either eggs and potatoes, eggs and beans, or potatoes and beans) to serve the inmates. The office smells of old and new coffee (brewed 24-7) with paperwork spread all over the office. Glass walls surround the office, giving me full view of the kitchen the entire time, making sure the inmate are not tiring to steal form me or beat each other up. As both the inmates and I wait we have our usual morning staring contest, seeing who chickens out first with the dirty looks (I always win, but it wasn’t always so, especially when I first started), giving me a sense of pride (I’m Macho Man).
Finally the food arrives and to my surprise its minced meat and potatoes (or as the inmates call it “shit on a stick”), sending the inmates in a jubilant mood shown in their smiling faces as they get the whiff of the beef. I step out of my office and like a traffic officer gives the cars directions in who goes next, I stand straight in the middle of the kitchen, giving orders in where everything goes and what people should be doing. The first twenty minutes are intense, keeping me on my toes as I safely get the “line” in order. As the inmates line up on the food serving line and I give my final inspections, getting ready to serve about 1300 people in one hour, there can be no mistakes. Looking into the solemn faces of the inmates lined up, forced to work in my kitchen, Nina Simone comes to my head and her interpretation of…Work song. The line starts to run and there is no stopping it until all the inmates are fed. The blues song hits me hard as I see the inmates start to tire from the repetitive movements they make, sending sweat dripping down their faces, muscles tensing and steam burning their already hot faces. Just as fast as the song finished the line seems to finish, relieving the inmates from the hellhole called the “line”.
For the next half hour the inmates get feed their double portions (something I like to reward them with). I sit back in my office again filling out another packet of paperwork that I have come to memorize, no longer thinking while filling it out but instead just a repetitious thought. While I work I observe the workers, seeing the complexities of human behavior and the spirit that rest in our hearts. The inmates always win. Although they were jailed and raped of their natural freedoms they still laughed and smiled and joked and played. It boggled me. And at the same time it gave me hope, knowing that if I was in their spot, lively and hopeful people like them would surround me.
After their half hour of eating was over it was time to get the kitchen clean, messed and ragged form a couple hours of intensified work. I step out and give the shot callers the orders (leaders of each gang) to start the cleansing. Like a brush fires starts in late summer the inmates stat rising and picking up brooms, mops, towels and soap, smiling and happy after a well earned rest and hardy breakfast (for them at least). I go back on my office and watch the frisky inmates, dancing and singing as they clean the kitchen. The happy workers remind me of a song I heard in “Scrubs”, a German eighty’s song. I still haven’t been able to find the song but it matched the dancing inmates to a “T”. As I watched their spunky cleaning I could not help but smile and laugh at their interpretations of what is called “dancing”, ones doing the robot, others the fast movements like dirty dancing, and others doing the gangster twist (I’m good at that). My first instincts (as an oppressors) was to stop the fun and go out yelling and threatening for them to stop having fun and start being bored as they clean, but my conscience convinced me not to.
A couple of hours later the three shot callers come to the door in my office asking me to give my inspection of the cleanliness of the kitchen. I agree and head out to review my kitchen (and yes its MY KITCHEN!). Walking around the kitchen seeing the tired faces of the inmates sends a chill down my spine. What sent these guys to do the things they did, robbing cars, dealing drugs, beating their wife or joining gang violence. Staring into their faces the Beatles: Eleanor Rigby came to my mind as I saw all these lonely people, coming back to jail for the comfort and love that they get from each other (something they lack in “the outs”) and for a minute I hated myself. Good hard working men jailed up because of addictions brought upon them by society and life were suffering and here I was making a profit from them (Something I loose sleep over). The sad violins of the song finish and I head straight to my office, avoiding the truth of the business of jail.
In the office I wait for lunch to be sent up, thinking of anything that pops into my mind. The continuous subject of my ex-girlfriend always comes up everyday, considering that I have told some of the inmates about her and I still haven’t had the balls to say that she had left me, thinking that they might see that as a weakness and use it against me. So when they ask me everyday how she is doing, I smile and say “she’s good” and as they ask another question I dismiss their questions with a “don’t worry about it” and head to another corner of the kitchen, acting like I’m to busy to talk: Skilled trickster. So while sitting in the office reminiscing of good and bad times the only song I can think of is by David Olivares: Cosas Del Amor. The Tuba is hypnotic and the accordion flutters my heart with amazement, considering that the song was written just for me. As I go off and hear the song in my head, thinking of my old romance, my supervisor contemplates of my awkward smirk and nod shaking. Later speaking to me that I need to “remain in jail with him” and not go off in my dream word.
Lunch arrives and my head comes back to reality, leaving the wondering mind and going straight to work. Again I come out of my thrown and start my finger pointing and order giving gestures of authority. For the next half an hour I assemble the line, inspecting and following food health codes. Once the line is calibrated I send the inmates to go get clean and adjust to go back to the barracks. One of the inmates, calling himself Edge reminds me of Aerosmith: Living on the Edge and while seeing the battered and forgotten inmates wash their hands, changing their working clothes, and put on their county jackets the song plays along. As Edge stands next to me he can hear me whisper “There’s something wrong with the world today…” and he turns to look at me and abruptly mentions, “Mr. Gonzalez you really can’t sing.” Sending me into a moment of embarrassment and denial.
When the deputy arrives and picks up the inmates I feel relief hit me and the knowing that another morning has passed unnoticed inside the concrete walls of jail. Little by little the new cooks come in and one by one I inform them of what to expect for lunch. Once I have transitioned form my shit to the next shift I take a big breath and head back to the tunnel, accompanied by some of my coworkers, eager to go home to their wives, husbands, and children (me my bed). Again I see the sexy familiar face of the female deputy, smiling at each one of us and willing to give us back our cards. Maybe it’s the fact that she is leaving also that puts her in a good mood every morning but I like to imagine that it’s the fact that she recognizes every morning just how long and hard we work and gives us the little dignity and respect we deserve.
As soon as I hit the fresh air outside I take a beep breath, remembering the nasty used air inside the jail (great smells). My eyes take several minutes to adjust to the blinding sunlight and I hid from it for several minutes like a vampire. I walk to my car, considering the work day and all that I have learned from the inmates and myself. Once in my car I turn on the radio and an appropriate song comes on Queen: We are the winners. I turn up the radio and drive safely back to my awaiting puppy Boo and my warm bed. As I drive away, winning the days work and smiling at my badassness in every job, I sneak past the wakening city that has no idea what occurs as they slumber.
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