The hollow clank of heavy metal doors heralds its way down the hallways of Clinton Correctional Facility. The noise echoes off the sterile concrete walls to alert everyone to my approach. I am being escorted by a correctional officer of considerable carriage; having milked upon the lard-excreting teat of the wasteful bureaucracy, he walks with that certain swagger of a man who belligerently exploits the power of his government-given position. Ironically, the peons that this piggly-eyed tyrant serfs over were the very citizens that he and the bureaucracy were sworn to protect. He is a lumbering colossus of a man; at least 6'4" and weighing no less than 300 pounds, teetering back and forth as we cross the dead halls of the prison. His tan uniform shows small patches of dark brown, as his body secretes the foul-smelling sweat of corruption. He slows: to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. For while his heart may be cold, his body still succumbs to the heat of a New York summer, penetrating and infiltrating the walls of the correctional facility. His face is an explosion of flesh; milky white, with slight patches of light red, his small dark eyes, of indistinguishable color, stare off into the future to his next meal, while in the deep recesses of his sticky mind he reminisces of this morning when he had his breakfast. Below his eyes protrudes his disproportionately small snout, which twitches upwards when he feels the tickle of musty air. His moustache lies lazily over his pouty lips. His moustache is sandy brown, no doubt he grooms it, for it is in excellent condition and twirls up like pig tails at the ends. He strokes it occasionally to give off the stereotypical and infallible impression of evil. He is a physical personification of system that he holds in place: apathetic, unfeeling, gluttonous, and white? with a moustache. I eye him with amused contempt as he clumsily works open the last door to the visitation room. "Five minutes," he snorts with slightly annoyed indifference. I slightly raise my eyebrows and a mocking grin emerges across my face. "Why, thank you officer," I say with solicitousness so saccharine that it leaves a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Fortunately, my sarcasm is lost upon my host who grins and nods with approval. I triumphantly march past the ignorant behemoth. Victorious that I have somehow outwitted this custodian of the machine, for my insolence has yet met no repercussions. Of course it is not that I have really won, but more the fact that he does not perceive my verbal calisthenics as an act of defiance or disrespect. However this detail does not stop my budding self-esteem from commanding my brain to produce pleasurable effervescent endorphins to reinforce this act of pointless rebellion. However my chemical induced grin soon shrinks back into a guarded frown as reality brings my spirits down from the ethereal realms. The visitation room is rather empty. There are pale green chairs strewn about. The room is separated in two by a large glass or plastic pane. Separating the inmates and those that are free from penal system "duties." While no doubt this segregation is not reflective of character or even justice, it is this thin pane that separates a man from being labeled a criminal or a plebian; evil or good; black or white? There are other people here to visit their loved ones whom have fallen upon? prison sentences. There is a fat white inmate being visited by his equally fat and equally white wife. She is no doubt talking about how her boundless horde of children (by an equally boundless horde of partners) has grown or how well they are doing in school. While the husband is no doubt reassuring her that when he comes out of the "poky" he will love and cherish everyone of them; as well as take care of her. Their exchange is so very "sweet;" with their hands meeting on opposite sides of the glass. The intense look in their eyes seemed to transcend their physical ties? as well as his legal bondage. For at this moment he was free. While this pane separated him from the outside world, and even prevented him from touching his wife: yet the heaviest manacles could not hold down his spirit. For while his corporeal existence remained in the confines of this maximum-security prison, at this moment his heart was somewhere else. And while he spoke sweet loving words to his wife, his eye shed a tear? for he knew that this moment could not last. And that it would be another 23 long years before his internment was over. But somewhere deep in his heart he felt an imminent joy. For he knew that someday he would walk out of here? after 25 long years served for raping and murdering his wife's sister. And he could look forward to fulfilling the promises that he made today... just a shame that his word of honor will collapse under a torrent of alcohol, domestic abuse, and country music. And among the wreckage of society? through the disfigured, failures of the commonplace, behind the confines of that glass cage, a solitary figure caught my eye. An impatient? impertinent? implausible? figure. A figure out of legend? out of oral tradition? He sat slouched over in one of the pale green chairs, with apathetic derision so thick? it created an effluvium that made everyone who was aware of his presence cringe in disgust. He wore a prison uniform that was at least 2 sizes to large for him. It looked like a tent hanging over his body. With his stomach protruding just slightly out from his medium frame. No doubt a result from bad prison food and his own lack of desire for exercise. His exceptionally dark mocha chocolate complexion accented the whites of his eyes, and as you stared into them you could see the madness that swirled within. His ambiguous eyebrows gave off the impression of confusion? yet still seemed to be menacing? as if to say? "I don't know where I am? but I'll still #$%# you up." He wore a small unkempt beard? more a result of negligence than a statement. His mouth was twisted in a scowl that seemed to invert itself in unthinkable physics. His general dislike for his current position was only aggravated by his natural impatience. His eyes ventured around the room's inhabitants, voyeuristically; licking his lips offensively when he thought of sadistic things he could do to that person. He fiddled about restlessly. Changing his posture? shaking his legs? fidgeting with his fingers. His continuously movement? his inertia? was only matched by the inner workings of his mind: perfectly insane; tranquilly criminal; moving at impossible speeds. Inebriated by profuse alcohol and copious chronic cannibus; he was a picture of a man who had? drank too much? drained too much? a genius? Bent by circumstance, and destroyed by consequence. He was my uncle: Russell Jones.