“Friend, how did you get In here?” Matthew 22:12
Since I moved into a new housing unit, my commissary day changed. Commissary day is when you receive the order you have placed for food, hygiene and other permitted items. The night before is Commissary Eve, when you go to bed dreaming of the Ramen noodles, swiss rolls, deodorant, and AA batteries for your radio that will arrive the next day. It’s kind of like Christmas Eve, but it comes once a week.
My commissary day used to be Tuesday, but now it’s Monday. However, for the first two weeks on my new housing unit, I had to go on my old day- Tuesday- which put me out of sync with everybody else on my block. Everything went well the first week. I asked my CO for a pass and went to commissary – a small building near the chow hall – with my old housing unit. The second week did not go as smoothly,
It started when I asked the CO for a pass for commissary. He said that he just used his last pass in his booklet of passes. I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t, “Just go ahead,” he told me. “If they ask about your pass just tell them I was out.” Once again I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t.
Basically, it’s a lot like high school here. There are times you’re allowed to be out in the hallway – or in my case out on the sidewalks – and times you’re not. And if you’re out during one of those other times, you’d better have a pass, or you can be written up or sent to the hole. And there are CO’s positioned along the sidewalks to check your pass and pat you down for contraband.
So off to commissary I went with no pass. A little voice told me I should have just waited for another time, but the Co had told me to go.
I arrived at the commissary building and waited in line to hand the brown shirt my ID. Brown shirts are state workers who are not COs. They manage things like commissary and maintenance. “Where’s your pass?” the brown shirt asked me. “The CO was out of them,” I replied. “What?” he asked. I leaned down to speak through the slot in the safety glass window and repeated myself. He blinked at me. It was as though I had said that a pigeon had flown off with my pass. “You’re supposed to have a pass,” he said. He looked nervous. The process called for him to take my ID and pass and confirm that I’m on the commissary list. He could easily find my name on the list without the pass, but once I was confirmed he was to hand my ID and pass to the next brown shirt, and she was the one who really ran commissary. She didn’t put up with any nonsense , and the brown shirt seemed to be more concerned about her than I was.
The brown shirt was still looking at me, waiting for some kind of response. I’ve discovered in prison that it’s better to reaffirm that you understand the rule under discussion than to point out your infraction. So instead of pointing out again that I did not have a pass, I said, in agreement with his last statement, “Yes, I’m supposed to have a pass.” He didn’t know what to say to that so he just said, “OK,” and waved me away.
After turning in your ID and pass, you wait in an area surrounded by steel railings that looks like a cattle pen. When your name is called, you go to window number two and the female brown shirt hands you your bag of commissary items. I had just stepped into the cattle pen to wait when she called my name, and she didn’t sound happy.
“Where’s your pass?” she asked.
“The CO was out of them,” I answered.
“That doesn’t even make sense” she said. She waved me back to the cattle pen. In a few minutes she called me back to the window. “You’re not even supposed to be on the walk without a pass.” “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. She looked at me in consternation. At this point, as an inmate, I was supposed to get loud and angry and argue with her – not agree with her. “Who’s the CO down there?” she asked. I told her the CO’s name. She shook her head and handed me my bag.
Once you receive your plastic bag of commissary, you take it to one of four sorting stations where you compare the items to an invoice. You place your items into your mesh laundry bag to carry them back to your cell. To get to my cell, I had to pass two COs on the walkway. They have a daily quota of inmates to stop, pat down, and verify their passes. But since I had no pass, I wanted to avoid them. I thought of asking the female brown shirt for a pass before I left the commissary, but she was on the phone. With her animated speech and the way she kept glaring at me, I guessed she was on the phone with my block CO verifying my story.
So out the door I went, following two other inmates. Like the pigeons who use flocking as a survival technique, it’s often best to be part of a group to avoid notice. A solitary inmate is more likely to get “pulled over” by a CO. I stayed right behind the two inmates, and rejoiced as the lead inmate was motioned to the side by the CO. He waved us other two on our way. The second CO, farther down the walkway, was standing by the gate that led to my housing unit. He has no clipboard with him, which meant he was not checking passes. I nodded to him as I passed by. I was safe.
Back on the block I finally relaxed. All that stress. All that anxiety. All over something that should have been so simple. All I needed was that little piece of paper in my hand.
Of course it made me think of one of Jesus’ parables – the one about the wedding banquet. In Matthew’s version, there’s a big party going on to celebrate the wedding of the king’s son. As the king visits with the wedding guests, he notices a man who is not wearing a wedding robe. The king wonders how he got into the banquet without being properly dressed. When the man has no response, the king orders him bound and tossed into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The good news is that there is no need to try sneaking into heaven. In Matthew 22:9-10 the king orders “everyone” to be invited to the banquet, both good and bad. All we have to do is accept the invitation. And unlike my block CO, Jesus will never run out of passes.