Running the Books: The Adventures of an Accidental Prison Librarian by Avi Steinberg Read Free Book Online

conversations, I decided to level with her, thinking perhaps she’d give me a break.
    “Well,” I said, “I did … smoke. Once. I mean most recently, a while ago though—at a party. I mean, it was a wedding, actually. And it was obviously before the wedding. The party at the wedding, I mean.” I winced. “But that shouldn’t be a problem, right?”
    Dead silence.
    “Hello?” I said.
    “It’s a heya tess,” she said finally.
    On the phone, and thrown off balance, I was having trouble with the Boston brogue.
    “A what?” I asked.
    I heard her sigh. She didn’t want to discuss this further.
    “Heya tess,” she said and quickly changed the subject to dental plan options.
    That night I searched online for information on drug screening. Within two clicks, I understood that the woman from personnel had been trying to tip me off: I was facing a hair test . I delved into the minutiae of this screening method. In addition to being alarmingly accurate, it also covered a longer period of time than the imprecise, tamper-prone urinalysis. Apparently hair, even more than urine, is articulate of its master’s misdeeds.
    This didn’t surprise me. I’d always held quiet beliefs about hair, vague but persistent suspicions of a treacherous, even demonic, aspect, the more sinister for its allure. It grows beautifully even though it’s dead. That’s creepy. I’d always sensed it wasn’t to be trusted.
    Now was the time to act. The incriminating data was hidden at a certain point in every strand of hair on my head. I had to locate, then remove, evidence—a wonderful start to a job at the Sheriff’s Department. There was only one surefire way to accomplish this: to shave my head completely. But I’d been taught etiquette, and it was bad manners to arrive at a hair test with no hair. I’d have to take a risk, tell Manny the barber to go as short as possible, and hope the evidence ended up on the floor of his shop.
    I emerged from the barber’s—my exposed scalp cool to the breeze—with a chill of doom. Even if I passed the test, I was marked as guilty. The moment my new bosses saw my drastic haircut on the day of the hair test, the sequence of events would be plainly obvious. I was a criminal applying for a job in a prison. I might as well walk into the joint festooned in oversized dollar-sign pendants, wearing an I ♥ Drugs T-shirt. I felt so exposed I actually wore a baseball cap on the way to the prison, as though my guilt were apparent to all. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was making a misstep in pursuing this. Maybe the woman from personnel had been trying to tell me to quietly drop out.
    The thought of turning and fleeing was unavoidable as I neared the front entrance. But before I could weigh this option, I was already walking fatefully into the lobby. Within a second, an officer told me to remove my cap. That was the rule, apparently. No headgear in prison. There was no anonymity, no hiding here.
    I sat down on a bench, cap in hand—a gesture that felt comfortingly Victorian—waiting for my potential boss, poised to catch her reaction to my radical new hairdo. Would she smile? What type of smile would it be? Would it be better or worse if she said nothing? This was no way to begin a new job.
    But the boss took her time. I had a moment to absorb the surroundings. The lobby was an accumulation of wide gray pillars, like somber votives, which alerted you to the immense weight bearing down from above, the concrete and steel tower balancing overhead. This was a very heavy building. From the moment you entered, you were being watched. You were on record and were meant to know this. You were dimly aware of a control room, which flickered and buzzed behind heavily tinted windows next to the door to the prison—or was it the door to the door of the prison?—located at the far end of the lobby. The officer guarding this door, identified by his name-patch as Grimes, fidgeted with his pistol holster and toyed