Solitary
I was sent to solitary. I took Don’s book with me. It was a book about Hawaiian culture. I started thumbing through it. I thought it might have some photos of topless native girls. Then I came to a chapter that changed everything.
I called the guard. “What do you want?” he said gruffly through the door slot.
I started doing a hula dance. I motioned, through the dance, for the guard to open the cell. He did.
I kept dancing down the hall, into the yard. I motioned for the guards to open the main gate, and amazingly, they did. I kept doing my hula dance through the gate and into the jungle. When I stopped and ran, about half the guards applauded and the other half started shooting at me.
The book said that it was a law in Hawaii that if you’re doing a hula dance, you cannot be interfered with or restrained in any way. And other people must do what the hand motions say.
It’s still the law in Hawaii.
Out of the blue, a chance to escape appeared. I was working in the prison laundry, folding towels — while being whipped, of course. The guard decided to take a break. I saw my chance. I put on a guard uniform and walked out.
No one stopped me. I went to the cafeteria, where the other guards were gathered for lunch. My plan was to leave with them at the end of the day.
The guards started talking about how they were getting screwed on their pensions, how the co-pay on their health benefits was getting higher and higher, and how sometimes their name tags were misspelled. I got madder and madder.
I went to the warden’s office and burst in. His secretary was buttoning her blouse, and he was straightening his hair. I said I represented the guards and began reading our list of demands.
I hadn’t gotten very far when his secretary said, “That guy’s a prisoner.”
I ran from the office but was chased down and beaten.
