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106 ​11 It’s Labor Day. Supervisor Taftmont directs me back to 3D as if I’ve been running this beast of a cellblock like General Patton for years. This guy isn’t smarmy like Supervisor Maywood, who put me on 4K, but like I did after 4K, I stewed on my couch this morning until the last moment to go outside, unlock my car, and drive to the train stop—­ debating whether to call in a resignation. In the end, I forgave myself, rationalizing that I’m too inexperienced for 3D by myself. As with 4K, 3D is admin’s fault. I shouldn’t feel this terrible. But what I do feel terrible about and not very manly about is that every day I hope not to work a tough unit with an attendant the inmates will test. And thus test me. What I should be doing is welcoming 3D and hoping for a reunion with Jensen so that I can seize control the moment he arrives and become the heavy and show those assholes that I am the man and they are the boys. Instead of turning from him and striding to the time clock and elevator, I pansy out, “Do you know who I’ll be working with?” “Yeah, let’s see here.” Supervisor Taftmont scans down at a grid sheet covering the small desk in front of the time clock. “You’ll be with Gerald Jensen.” “Well, is there any way I can work with someone else or go to a different unit.We were there yesterday, and it didn’t go very well. I think we’re both too new to work a unit like that. We locked up three or four of ’em, but we should have locked up a lot more.” “Oh, okay,” he answers like my declaration that just any two greenhorns can’t manage 3D astounds him.That the caseworker hasn’t told everyone yet somewhat comforts and saves me some face. He glances at the supervisor next to him, a shorter and older leather-­ jacketed man with a mangy, graying beard and a 107 c h a p t e r e l e v e n chain hooked into his wallet. Taftmont is meek and square, like Jensen. Now I too am mystified that administration promoted him to “stupidvisor.” The other supervisor looks like a black Hell’s Angel who could man 3D alone with no problems. “So should we pull someone off the fourth floor to do four to twelve?” Taftmont says to the black Hell’s Angel-­ looking supervisor . “How about Otis?” “Yeah, Otis is strong.” There it is, from a respectable supervisor’s lips to my ears: Attendant Dostert is weak. Two hours with 3D’s regular 2–10 in charge flash by, but many inmates grin slyly whenever I step or sit close to them. My coworker notices and seems to have questions for me and questions for the boys, yet says nothing. Normally off on Mondays, he came in for time and a half to cover someone else’s vacation too. Anticipating barbeque sizzling at home and the Bears on Monday Night Football up in Green Bay against the hated Packers probably trumps any great worry about what happened to Newjack me here yesterday. Attendant Otis arrives at 4:00 p.m. He steps to the console, autographs the logbook, and looks to the TV area with a game face. He isn’t here to be shamed. Today is not yesterday. Inmates, be they in front of the television, at the card tables, or behind the ping-­ pong table, rotate their heads to size up this black man, taller than me, a few years older, slightly slimmer, and a gold hoop hanging from his left earlobe.They have waited, eager to learn if yesterday evening’s party will rock on tonight. My being here was half the guarantee.The 8–4 leaves, and Attendant Otis orders all the juveniles into the middle of the block. No flinging discipline forms through the air. He says about what Pruitt said. The boys fix themselves in place and listen. A smirk crackles his voice, like it’s our turn to toy with someone. I’m sure the supervisors advised Otis to take over. He finishes his speech and deposits everyone in the TV area. No recreation. An hour later, Attendant Otis serves dinner. No cookies are snatched. Afterwards, to subtle groans, he extends his ban on [18...

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