Got this from Patriot_Net mailing list. this is posted with the consent of the author and the moderator of the list.

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Servitude -- A term which indicates the subjection of one person to another person, or of a person to a thing, or of a thing to a person, or of a thing to a thing. Reference : Bouvier's 8th 1859
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From: "Kay Lee"
Sent: Monday, August 07, 2000 9:19 PM
Subject: [Patriot_Net] PODW WAID AND THE PRISON NOTEBOOK

Gary Brooks Waid wrote that he had received nearly a hundred
letters this last week or so, so I know many of you out there
care about this courageous federal marijuana prisoner from

Texarkana BOP who is doing hard time in a brutal Florida system.
I received a letter from Gary today, a new story (SEE BELOW).

Although his last few letters were mostly about how tired he was
and no problems were mentioned, Gary has never stopped reporting
on the world behind the walls of the Florida DOC, despite a
number of repercussions, so I was real worried when I first
received this email today concerning PODW Waid.

KL
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From: Rosamond Baker
Sent: Monday, August 07, 2000 12:02 PM
Subject: Gary Waid

Dear Kay,

I emailed you a while back about my concerns about Gary being
put to manual labor after I had sent a copy of your website
pages on the 'Riley Throwdown' to my friend, Richard A. Warren
DC# 123103, one of the witnesses to the incident. I did meet
Gary when I was at New River East to visit Richard.

As you probably already know Gary has been moved to N.F.R.C.-
West, last Friday, I believe. They found him using the DOC
website. The men at New River East are concerned about him and
would like any information they can get on who, what, when, and
where he is. Can you help me on this? They all hope he is safe
and is doing the community service he was promised but they know
all to well the lies that are told to inmates.

Thank you for any assistance you can give me on this matter.

Peace and Love,
Rosi Baker

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But his letter was probably sent just before ....wait, I'm
calling the prison.

Okay, Gary's been transferred to NFRC (THE DREADED BUTLER
NIGHTMARE http://www.angelfire.com/fl4/prison/butler.html), but
Ms Peterson at Butler Did tell me that Gary is not there for
being in trouble, he's not there for health, but he's in
transition...being transferred somewhere. We do not yet have
details. If this is the community service that he's been
romised, everything is okay. If not, we need to keep an eye out.

Don't call Butler yet until we know, but I have Gary's "team
leader's" phone number and will call again tomorrow to make sure
this is a good thing.

By the way, New River East and West changed their numbers a few
months ago. The operator still has the old one, and I had to
call Tallahassee to find out the new numbers were (East) 904-368-
3000 and (West) 904-368-3105.

Tell the men he may be just fine...I'll let all of you know when
I find out more. I have just begun rebuilding my address book,
so if you could post this on whatever lists you are on, it will
put people on alert.

In the meantime, I hope you will catch the irreverent irony in
his newest story, "Prison Notebook: A Crazy Man Just Smiled At
Me", printed below.

Kay Lee
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AUTHOR'S NOTE:
If I use a capital letter to indicate an officer, the letter
will be random. GW

PRISON NOTEBOOK: A Crazy Man Just Smiled At Me
by Gary Brooks Waid

There's a lot of mental illness in prison, more than in the rest
of the world. Or at least it's more obvious. When I was at New
River West, half the guys I met were fresh roasted, some of them
dangerously so. Tell your children: If you break the law and
go to prison, the man who lives in the next bunk may very well
be a homicidal lunatic. It's especially disconcerting when for
some reason he takes a liking to you, wants to hang out, decides
to be your pal. That's all anyone needs - a bosom bunkie who's
doing life for carving up the pizza delivery girl because she
was a tool of Satan. He sits at the foot of your bed and
masturbates as he describes his walk with God.

Also, while you're at it, tell your children that in prison you
could become a target for a crazy guard, too.

Oh yeah! Yeah oh yeah, there's a bunch of nuts prison guards in
America. Usually they've been fired from real jobs because they
couldn't get along, or because they screwed with whatever
program they were supposed to facilitate, or because they
insisted on engaging in weird rituals or polemics that weren't
relevant and that monkey-wrenched the work site. Ex-cops become
prison guards sometimes, for example, after they've been run off
the force for violence or for having done something too bizarre
for their co-workers or the general public to digest. At
Texarkana FCI there was a guard who had been a police officer in
Laredo, Texas, until he chained a Mexican fellow up and threw
him off a bridge. The Mex was killed, I think, and the
inefficient officer had to be relocated in a hurry. But
sometimes the employee will do nothing more than become a pain
in the ass. Maybe he rats out fellow workers for not shining
their shoes properly. Or maybe he takes liberties with the
public because of his job title. A man like that is not just
annoying, he creates internal dissention and causes needless
public complaints. Occasionally he's dangerous. The army
regurgitates these guys all the time. Or promotes them. In
Viet Nam they got fragged on a regular basis. The only possible
home for many of these dudes is deep within a giant bureaucracy,
counting and cataloging paper clips, or as guards for various
Departments of Corrections.

Here at New River East in Raiford, Florida, we've got a
certifiable square peg who everyone agrees is insane. One
source tells me he came to us by way of the Investigative
Division of the power company, where he spent his days busting
meter violators and such., measuring wire fatigue and writing
reports on tree limb violations. Another guy, an officer, says
no, he was a county building inspector creating havoc at
construction sites all over the area. He got in trouble with
his co-workers when he told on them for using county trucks to
go to lunch. But both sources agree that Sergeant Z is
completely around the bend. He's the proverbial bed bug who,
because he's now a Sergeant in the Dept. of Corrections, insists
he be treated by his captive audience as some sort of moral
compass, a wish not easy to honor from a man who's nose is
constantly up one or another prisoner asshole, sniffing for gas
leaks.

>From a distance, Sgt. Z looks almost normal. He's your
average, middle-age, silver-haired, brown uniform. But, he's
always smiling one of those manic, inappropriate smiles from
Venus or Mars that somehow touch the hysteria button, and when
you get closer you can see that he's a lodestone. His eyes are
unforgettable mad, and he has a busy, obsessive repertoire of
gestures and furtive eye dartings that are extremely uncomfort-
able for most people (even other guards) to deal with. You
could say that Sgt. Z is a walking, talking ad for PROZAC.
He's 'Homphrey' Bogart in THE CAINE MUTINY, fingering his little
silver balls. He should be weaving baskets somewhere, or making
Hopalong Cassidy wallets in Arts & Crafts class.

For the record, big prison bureaucracies regularly accept his
type and consider them perfectly employable. After all, nothing
is ever reported to the outside world, so a total creosote brain
can float along in the ebb tide of his psychosis and pick up a
check in spite of his world view or his insecure, sometimes
dangerous hate. Other guards just learn to put up with them,
and the prisoners run away. But Sgt. Z is special. He
absolutely will not allow the institution to cruise along doing
time. He has to throw up barriers.

Those of you reading this article have likely broken a dozen
state and federal laws, city ordinances, homeowner's agreements,
etc. this week. Y'all know it, too. Hell, there are so many
tiny things that have been legislated, almost nothing you do is
clearly, unarguably secure from meddling regulation.

Eating? "HEY, get that outta your mouth, pal!"
Sleeping? "What 'cha doon onna bench, asshole?"
Sex? "Ooh, don't, STOP,NO, THAT'S ENOUGH!"
If you run a yellow light, if you paint your house pink, if you
spit on the sidewalk or water your lawn or own a cat without
papers or perform unacceptable sex or smoke something or eat an
unprescribed headache pill or tamper with your pillow tag,
you're breaking a law.

So imagine what it's like in prison. Imagine how you'd feel if
a crazy person followed you around all day with a little blue
book, crying foul and issuing citations and examining your body
for evidence of improper behavior.

Sgt. Z's blue book is scruffy and dog-eared from the constant
thumbing. He attacks the inmates with it, and he insists on
delivering theories, engaging the men in riddles, forcing his
patronizing lessons and finding fault, quoting obscurities then
tailoring them to fit his nutso assumptions. Reliable sources
tell me that when at home, Sgt. Z can spend hours acting odd.
He stands in the shadows under the eaves of a dark night, for
hours, just stands there in the yard, hidden from view, waiting
for some neighbor to commit something, murder or rape maybe, so
that he can spring into action. His neighbors think he's looney
toones, of course, according to my reliable source. But I don't
need to resort to second-hand reporting to see that Z is a
freak. And I don't need reportage to see that his freakishness
is harmful. He pounces on minute, meaningless rule violations,
then issues citations that steal time from prisoners and create
problems throughout the population, even into the officer cadres
because they have to stand up for him.

I watch him operate sometimes and wonder what could possibly be
on his mind. How does he justify himself? How did his children
survive intact (if they did*)? I look into his eyes and want to
run in panic, screaming. Any moment I expect him to talk to his
invisible rabbit or flap his arms and try to fly. He acts
exactly like a man with something to hide, like he's done a
thing truly awful and he's ashamed of it. Maybe he's consumed
with guilt over a leather-and-whip fetish. Or what if he wears
pantyhose under his uniform and lashes out because they give him
a rash. He's on a precipice, a cliff, about to hurl himself
into the void, jabbering all the way down and worrying his hands
together, shouting about disrespectful inmates, inmates who
touch themselves inappropriately or who keep extra pairs of
socks in their lockers.

*His son is also a prison guard I think, and if he's the Z that
booed me up at FSP, the fruit didn't fall far from the tree.

There is an axiom as true in here as it is on the outside: "If
there is an excessive amount of silly rules, there will be an
excessive amount of rule breakers."

So Sgt. Z's insatiable maw is constantly fed.

He crawls the rec yard these days, pouncing on any man who dares
to give a friend a soda pop from the canteen ("No bartering,"
says Z, ignoring the definition of the word "barter"), or
capturing some slimy bastard who wears his shoes untied. And
you absolutely cannot point out irony to him. He's not capable
of making the leap. The other day he confiscated my gym shorts
because they weren't neat enough. They were too scruffy. Had
holes. As he explained this to me I stood and eyed the other
officers in his group. They looked uncomfortable. They tried
to look away. Some of them dribbled smokeless tobacco down
their chins. One guy was five-and-a-half feet tall with three
chins and knees like ice cream cones. He weighed well over
three-hundred pounds. The whole squad looked like a school of
blowfish, swollen for protection. Very neat blowfish.

But Sgt. Z, as I said, sees no joke. And he's not fat. He has
no time to eat, what with the constant poking into prisoner's
underpants, pulling out his blue book, quoting chapter and verse
through a nose as red as rutabaga and a lipless smile of
contempt.

I'm telling you, this guy is not normal. He peeks in windows at
night. He times and counts inmate visits to the drinking
fountain or sessions on the toilet. He will spend hours on
paperwork so that he can legally take a pair of cheap sunglasses
or a borrowed magazine. He's one of those guys who thinks
respect can be commanded, and the whole time he's insisting on
his respect, there's this glittering sparkle of madness forcing
its way out of eyes like windows in a warehouse. There's a
seretonin overdrive within his neurochemistry that must be a
harbinger of something within his neurochemistry that must be a
harbinger of something terrible to come. He's a hysterical
balloon about to burst, and I for one don't want to be there
when it happens. His mind will fill with voices and faces and
the shrill laughter will echo across the yard, and he will have
embraced his rural, ignorant, anal-retentive muse and failed to
survive intact.

I see Z taking a crap in the morning, seated precisely, knees at
35 degrees, wiping left-handed, front-to-back, then examining
the residue for contaminants. He flushes exactly once, then
stands, tucking pee pee away so that nothing swings or bobs or
otherwise moves to a rhythm unacceptable.

Suddenly, for no apparent reason he puckers his lips and makes a
farting noise.

"Ha-ha!" he shouts, and begins to pluck his eyebrows in the
mirror. "Goodness, ha-ha, yes!" he screams, giggling, burbling,
dribbling wet warm saliva over his chin and down onto his
underwire bra.

AUTHOR'S ADDENDUM: After showing the preceding article to a
hundred or so inmates, I must here confess to being told of
another reason for Sgt. Z's disruptive behavior, a reason that
has nothing to do with being insane. They claim he's just stupid
and mean.

I don't think that's possible, but some of the inmates have
convinced me to at least present the argument. I agreed, only
on condition that I use their rationale against them. In other
words, I will here prove that the good Sgt. is nuts.

Ahem...

What separates man from the beasts is his ability to see the
whole picture. He has a concept of mortality. He envisions his
end, as well as his beginning. Dogs and bugs see only what's in
front of them. Squirrels may store nuts for the Winter, but
there is no proof they actually know why.

Pretend for a minute that Sgt. Z is not an inefficient prison
guard upsetting the orderly running of a human warehouse, but a
chess player who has no concept of what it is when you make
moves to further an end. He will NEVER win because all he'll do
is to capture pawns or knights or bishops with each ill-thought
move, and the moves will be independent of any concept of
checkmate. He takes his turns, moves his white pieces simply to
capture black pieces, and the idea of a goal is lost. So in the
end he'll have a stack of worthless pawns and bishops and
knights (various inmate trash, paperwork, punishments), and his
king will be in the shitter (the inmates will hate him, other
officers will look at him with contempt, the warden will roll
his eyes and sigh, the efficient running of the prison will be
impossible).

Maybe I'm not being clear...

Shooting at a target is fairly simple. Monkeys can throw
rocks. But shooting at a MOVING target takes brains. You have
to see into the future, and seeing into the future is a HUMAN
characteristic. Seeing into the future entails a bunch of
complicated mathematical calculations done on the molecular
level instantaneously. It's a uniquely human experience. Only
humans can picture what will happen later, when they do
something now.

And Sgt. Z will likely never be able to hit a moving target. He
doesn't understand the concepts behind managing many hundreds
of incarcerated men.

If you readers out there smoke a joint, maybe, and think for a
minute, re-read the last two paragraphs, you'll see what I'm
getting at. Sgt. Z can't possibly be sane. If he was, he'd be
non-human. And I really don't think that's possible. The
Florida D.O.C. will do a lot of things, but they won't ever give
a monkey Sergeant stripes. Never. And that's the truth.

SERIOUSLY:

The real problem with guys like Z is that they wield so much
arbitrary power, power that is uncontestable and actually
whimsical in its administration. There's the ubiquitous DR of
course, but there is also a thing called a CC (correctional
consultation), which is a yellow flimsy that takes three days of
an inmate's good time and is given out by the guards when they
witness an infraction of some kind. It is supposed to be
administered judiciously. After all, a CC robs a man of 3 days
of his life. But because there is no official hearing or
witness evaluation at the administration level, a crazy guard
can go wild without any sort of censure.

And that also is the truth!
Gary Brooks Waid

Gary's Stories can be found at SMUGGLER'S TALES FROM JAILS:
http://www.angelfire.com/la/kaylee/tales.html

Shared by Kay Lee
MAKING THE WALLS TRANSPARENT
http://www.zyworld.com/kay~lee/garywaid.htm

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Government is not reason; it is not eloquence;
it is force! Like fire it is a dangerous
servant and a fearful master.
--George Washington
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