When you first go in, getting out feels like an eternity away. It’s not just a long time—it’s forever. You wake up every day knowing tomorrow won’t make a difference. But then, you hit the halfway point and suddenly, it’s like riding your bike into the country. You go really far, stop, turn around, and realize—you still have just as far to go on the way back. That 50% mark turns to 75%, and then the math games start. Weeks, days, percentages, hours, minutes, even seconds. Anything to make it feel closer.
Some guys never made it to the end the way they were supposed to. One guy got word from back home—Mexico. Something was happening, and he had to go. Middle of the night, he grabbed what he needed and ran. Right down the hall, past the front door guards, and off into the night. We always heard that escaping the building was easy—getting out of the county? That was the hard part. But in his case? Let’s just say, it felt like maybe the county wanted him to go. And he was gone. Just like that. A ghost.
Then there was my bunky, a young guy I actually liked. It felt like summer camp with him—jokes, horsing around, just making the best of it. He was a good kid, and he respected adults, so he never even complained about my snoring. Just let the old man sleep.
He got out on a snowy morning. I thought we’d wake up early, have coffee, and say a proper goodbye. Instead, I woke up and he was already standing at the door, fully dressed, waiting for the buzzer. The second it went off, he turned, said “Bye bro!”—and vanished. I watched the window, expecting him to stop, maybe look back. He didn’t. He ran. And ran. And ran. Sidewalk? Still running. Parking lot? Running. Street? Gone. I was his best friend inside, but once he was free, that bond disappeared with him. And I get it.
Then there was my last bunky. The guy who was never getting out.
Not because he had a long sentence—but because he couldn’t handle delayed gratification. He kept sabotaging himself.
His job was simple—go to his Burger King shift, come back. Instead? He’d disappear. He’d come back late with stories about Walgreens runs, buying rubbers, fast food, weed, and girls. Each time? Two more weeks added to his sentence.
Then he got messy—boom, another week.
Then he thought he could game the system by scheduling a CPAP sleep study just to get a night in a “nice place.” But when he showed up with no insurance, no money, and no plan, they sent him right back. And just for wasting everyone’s time? Another two weeks tacked on.
I honestly have no idea if he ever got out. He could have been done and gone, but he was his own worst enemy. The county wasn’t holding him back—he was.
As for me? I was ready.
By the time my last day came, I had a collection—radios, cups, bowls, little things I wanted to take with me. But I knew if I had any of it on my last day, he would end up with it all. If he had been different—if he had just worked hard and followed the rules—I would’ve set him up, let him flip my stuff to the next guy. But he wasn’t, so he got nothing.
Instead, I spent my last week slowly moving my things outside. One piece at a time. If you’re patient, you could probably move a whole car in and out of jail. By the time my last day arrived, my footlocker was empty.
So when my bunky finally asked, “Hey bro, can I have your stuff?” I just smiled and said, “Sorry, it’s already all gone.” Then I ran for the door, never looking back.
Follow-up:
I want to be clear—I take the crimes I committed seriously. This all happened years and years ago, and while I served my time, the punishment never really ends. If you think it’s easy sailing once you get out, think again. My wife and I still live on a razor’s edge, constantly facing the crushing consequences of my past choices.
Life is so much easier when you follow the rules and do the right thing.
