Black Winged Stranger

Ahh, I remember it well. It was Wednesday afternoon, June 26, 2003. The air conditioner had been out of service for two days and there were damn near 200 inmates laboring away in the prison’s industry—or, should I say, withering away in the prison’s sweat shop. I mean that literally. It was 92 degrees outside and ten degrees higher inside where we sat at our workstations, assembling fluorescent lamps. I suppose the heat would have been bearable were it not for the 100 percent humidity which had the lot of us in a lethargic state of body and mind. Inmates moved sluggishly from lamp to lamp like characters from “Night of the Living Dead.” Not even the guards, who sat beside portable fans, were spared. Our slave masters in this case suffered right along with us— thank God for small favors. And I don’t say that loosely, because the oppressive heat forced them to open one of the steel gates out back. But it was to no avail. Conditions remained the same except for the fact we were now slowly cooking in an open oven as opposed to a closed one.