A Canary Flag

The thin, slender, yellow and black flag wisps in the wind. I'm sitting at a table in the yard in the northern part of the compound, watching this object flutter about. Every now and then it gets caught in the Constantine wire, struggling to get from from the razor teeth below it. The end of the flag is tattered; strings of fabric dangle underneath it, a sign of the previous forays with its dreaded neighbor of wire.

"It's for the tear gas, you know."

I am interrupted in thought as someone advise me of the state of the flag and its apparent purpose.

"Tear gas? What do you mean?"

"Ever heard of the good squad?", he asks.

"No, can't say that I have. Who are they?"

"The guys in black - riot gear, shields, tear gas, helmets, the works." He looks at me suspiciously, obviously not knowing one of the major components of life in prison.

"Does it get that bad here? We are only low security."

"It could. At Taft they used it. Without the flags, they fired, and it flew right back in their faces. You got to be careful with it."

The guy walks away, and I continue to stare at the tear gas flag that currently only serves to tell me if it is windy outside, and how much. A while ago, there was tear gas at MDC, and I only just heard about it. The stories I heard are not pretty. It is best to stay far away from a situation before it erupts. For now, I watch the flag look down at my cards, and continue to play my game of solitaire.

I know that I am in an environment where anything can happen. I tend to forget that - always look over your shoulder, always watch your back. The minute you don't is the minute you can be in big trouble. I continually have to remind myself of this task. No one is your friend, you can never trust anyone, you never know what it is they say, and where it will lead, and always land you in trouble.