Free Doing Time by Bell Gale Chevigny

that could be manually opened and closed, just a little. The concrete walls were painted a dingy off-white and adorned with graffiti and cigarette stains.
    This was my home. I was due to report to work the next morning and I could feel myself getting dug in. In prison it doesn’t take much to make a man happy: food, some quiet, a good book, a job, and enough heat in the winter. That day I was happy just to be able to lie on that hard bed with a seventy-watt light bulb glaring in my face. I felt the worst was over. I could now begin to serve my time.
    Escape from Reality
    Like most first-time arrivals to Graterford, I was preoccupied with survival and how to avoid becoming the victim of violence. When there was general movement in the prison, for example, the main corridor would fill with hundreds of inmates in transit. This made the corridor an extremely dangerous place to be. I was more likely to see a stabbing than a guard on duty.
    The cellblocks were just as insecure. A guard at one end of a cell-block could not identify anyone at the other end; the distance of seven hundred feet was just too great. Because of their fear of being assaulted where no one could see them, many block guards never patrolled the inner perimeter and spent most of their time avoiding conflicts at all cost, even turning the other way. In fact, inmates serving long sentences preferred to lock at Graterford because, even though it was violent, it afforded them the most personal liberty. The more violent a prison is, the more reluctant guards are to enforce petty rules for fear of being assaulted.
    If I made eye contact with a stranger, I would feel threatened. An unexpected smile could mean trouble. A man in uniform was not a friend. Being kind was a weakness. Viciousness and recklessness were to be respected and admired. I could feel my habits, my personality, and even my values change. I came to view the world as a place of unrelenting fear. Oddly enough, these changes were in some way comforting. In the struggle to survive, it was easier to distrust everyone than to believe in their inherent goodness.
    By the time I had settled in, however, I found myself feeling safe enough to think beyond the moment, something I had not been able to do since my arrest. Unfortunately, this new sense of security brought with it the “sleeping phase.” I began to sleep twelve to fourteen hours a day. My whole life consisted of eating, working, and sleeping. I never dreamed. I only tried to stay unconscious for as long as I possibly could. Though I had no way of knowing it at the time, I had entered a very common prison-adjustment phase, one so common, in fact, that walking in on a newcomer while he sleeps is the most practiced technique of cell thieves and rapists. In Graterford, a man who spends too much time in bed sends the same signal as that of a bleeding fish in shark-infested waters.
    â€œYou can’t be sleeping all the time,” cautioned my chess partner one day, waking me to play a game. “You can’t sleep away your sentence. You have to stay awake to stay alive in here.”
    I resolved to keep myself busy. I took up reading and painting. I was allowed to buy almost as many books, magazines, and newspapers as I wanted, as well as canvases, brushes, and paints. Self-help was encouraged so long as you could pay for it.
    Soon I was reading everything I could get my hands on and painting well into the wee hours of the morning. My cell became crowded with books, magazines, canvases, newspapers, even an easel. I went so far as to rig up extra lighting, hang pictures, and buy throw rugs for the cement floor. I had successfully transformed my cell into a cluttered boardinghouse room.
    â€œYou have to spend more time out of that cell, Victor,” insisted my chess mate and only friend at that time. “It’s not healthy to do a ‘bit’ [time] like that. Look at your cell, you have junk everywhere. You even have lights