The Commissary Lady brings us bags of delicious treats, not once a year, but twice a week! On the eve of her visits everyone dutifully and earnestly gets a bubble sheet to write a list of requests to the commissary lady. We carefully color in the dots for such treats as M&M's, pickled jalapenos, and jock itch cream. She doesn't even care if we have been naughty or nice, (we are in jail, after all)!! She only cares that we correctly fill in the bubble sheet and that we have money, of course. Elitist bitch.
We waited all day, our faces pressed against the potentially MRSA tainted glass, waiting to hear the signature sound of her canvas carts overflowing with outrageously priced delicacies that we can't do without.
As the hours passed, furtive glances passed throughout our cell. Anguished looks would darken faces like clouds casting shadows on the ground. Every time we heard the outer door roll our heads perked up, listening for the sound that promised full bellies for even the pickiest eaters for days to come.
(As an aside, I may be one of those pickier eaters but I will eat no more cat food and pasta casserole this week. The line has been drawn).
When our dinner came we could no longer deny that we had been betrayed. The tension in the cell was as thick and putrid as the spiceless cat food I forced down my throat.
I hate the commissary lady, at least until tomorrow because a man must have his peanut butter and chocolate wafer bars, 2 pack, $1.30.
Next- The importance of soup.
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