The Peanut Butter Bomber

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Abstract

’s company.Celly #2 was a guy named Dave Thomas, a 40-year-old drug dealer who’d been sentenced to roughly 3 years behind bars. Unlike yours truly, Dave was a real live criminal — and a violent individual. In our many late-night conversations, Dave acknowledged that he wasn’t an especially handsome guy — but he got a lot of chicks “’Cause I could fight.” (I know that a lot of women prefer a sensitive man who’ll treat them right. But for every one of those, there’s another who goes for a guy who kicks ass when somebody crosses him. And Dave was that guy!)In fact, Dave’s MO was one of having shot a competitor in the stomach with a handgun. And he’d been sent to the SHU (solitary) for beating the crap out of his previous celly. This is who the Bureau of Prisons thought would be an appropriate caged animal for a 69-year-old guy incarcerated for tax fraud (oh well).Anyway — badass that Dave surely was — homey was deathly afraid of mice and waterbugs. Which was not a fear you wanted to suffer if you were a prisoner housed at MCC, because we had an army of both! The infestation of critters was remarkable. Mice routinely ate through food packaging late at night. And entire families of rodents marched through one of the cells I inhabited.Dave gave equal respect to guys who could throw down in a brawl and inmates with good eye/hand coordination. And when we played a game of ping pong, Dave got a surprise.I didn’t really like ping pong— but Dave did. H

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e prided himself on his skill. When one day, he convinced me to participate, it was all Dave could do to finally emerge victorious with me as his opponent. I was always a good athlete. And it translated to our match — even if I hadn’t played in decades. Dave was impressed and let me know.But where I really gained Dave’s respect was with my bombing accuracy from the upper bunk of our cell. At times, we’d be chatting away at night when suddenly, a big ass waterbug would appear on the floor next to his lower bunk. Dave would freeze in fright at the sight and begin cursing the bug’s very existence. But there was no way he’d go near it!So when this first happened, I leaned over from my upper bunk to the top of my locker and grabbed a plastic peanut butter jar, gauged windage, height, and whatever else to drop the jar — hitting the bullseye. The bug flipped on its back whereupon Dave spang into action to crush it with his boot over and over again until it was pulp.“Bill! Bill!” was all he could say in ecstasy. Maybe white men can’t jump — but they’re sure good at dropping peanut butter jar bombs on waterbugs from the upper bunk.A few nights later, yet another roach tried the same routine — with the same result. Another bullseye for yours truly. Dave was beside himself. Some guys gain notoriety for kicking butt. I became known as “the exterminator” as in… “Goddamn right, you mother fucking roach! You shoulda known not to mess with Bill!”</article></body>

Roaches beware

Judging by the number of books, movies, and TV shows designed to peel back the layers of prison life, I think it’s safe to say that some people who’ve never had the privilege of being incarcerated, hold a certain fascination for something they’ve never experienced themselves. And I, who suffered the indignity for almost all of my 69th year of this life, have a slice-of-life story I’d like to share to give those interested readers a little insight.

MCC federal prison, once located in Downtown Manhattan (it has since been shuttered), was once described as “the Guantanamo Bay of New York City” by a leading publication. It was hardly the facility where any inmate wanted to be designated. Yet I, as a white-collar offender who would normally be sent to a better prison, somehow managed to draw the deuce of clubs and landed at the disgraced institution.

During my stay, I suffered (or enjoyed) 6 different cellies with whom I lived in 40 square feet — “locked in” 10 hours a day. And before you ask the question…yes, we did #1 and #2 in each other’s company.

Celly #2 was a guy named Dave Thomas, a 40-year-old drug dealer who’d been sentenced to roughly 3 years behind bars. Unlike yours truly, Dave was a real live criminal — and a violent individual. In our many late-night conversations, Dave acknowledged that he wasn’t an especially handsome guy — but he got a lot of chicks “’Cause I could fight.” (I know that a lot of women prefer a sensitive man who’ll treat them right. But for every one of those, there’s another who goes for a guy who kicks ass when somebody crosses him. And Dave was that guy!)

In fact, Dave’s MO was one of having shot a competitor in the stomach with a handgun. And he’d been sent to the SHU (solitary) for beating the crap out of his previous celly. This is who the Bureau of Prisons thought would be an appropriate caged animal for a 69-year-old guy incarcerated for tax fraud (oh well).

Anyway — badass that Dave surely was — homey was deathly afraid of mice and waterbugs. Which was not a fear you wanted to suffer if you were a prisoner housed at MCC, because we had an army of both! The infestation of critters was remarkable. Mice routinely ate through food packaging late at night. And entire families of rodents marched through one of the cells I inhabited.

Dave gave equal respect to guys who could throw down in a brawl and inmates with good eye/hand coordination. And when we played a game of ping pong, Dave got a surprise.

I didn’t really like ping pong— but Dave did. He prided himself on his skill. When one day, he convinced me to participate, it was all Dave could do to finally emerge victorious with me as his opponent. I was always a good athlete. And it translated to our match — even if I hadn’t played in decades. Dave was impressed and let me know.

But where I really gained Dave’s respect was with my bombing accuracy from the upper bunk of our cell. At times, we’d be chatting away at night when suddenly, a big ass waterbug would appear on the floor next to his lower bunk. Dave would freeze in fright at the sight and begin cursing the bug’s very existence. But there was no way he’d go near it!

So when this first happened, I leaned over from my upper bunk to the top of my locker and grabbed a plastic peanut butter jar, gauged windage, height, and whatever else to drop the jar — hitting the bullseye. The bug flipped on its back whereupon Dave spang into action to crush it with his boot over and over again until it was pulp.

“Bill! Bill!” was all he could say in ecstasy. Maybe white men can’t jump — but they’re sure good at dropping peanut butter jar bombs on waterbugs from the upper bunk.

A few nights later, yet another roach tried the same routine — with the same result. Another bullseye for yours truly. Dave was beside himself. Some guys gain notoriety for kicking butt. I became known as “the exterminator” as in… “Goddamn right, you mother fucking roach! You shoulda known not to mess with Bill!”