I wake, one nostril burning as I inhale the frigid and spiky air trickling down from an open cell window. I pull the beanie and a loose shirt over my cold nose hoping for more warmth. I try to return to the unconscious drift of sleep, but its no use, my hot-blooded celly is moving around. He’s getting ready for cell cleanup now that he’s back from breakfast and ready for work. I can’t do breakfast. The thought of a prison chow hall full of shuffling bodies, grudgingly awake, turns my stomach more than the food can. Worse would be encountering someone’s smiling morning face with words of good cheer. I simply cannot handle good moods so early out of deep unconsciousness.

My celly drops my own boot on me, from his upper bunk, as he clears the floor of shoes in order to sweep and mop. I’m not angry; falling objects are normal in such a small space with two occupants. He apologizes and I mumble a wry comment about a previous celly that did the same thing, only with books, as my way of telling him I accept. I don’t complain about the window or the books; what’s the point, neither is meant to harm. He’s as much trapped in this cell as I am. He just happens to have Tabasco sauce and jalapenos coursing through his veins, whereas I haven’t evolved past my reptilian DNA.

I shiver as I do the in-cell two-step to get to the sink around my celly. Back to my bunk, with a tepid mug of coffee, I go when the door opens for cell sanitation. After the boot I don’t want to be within striking distance when he starts swinging broomsticks and mop handles on his eternal quest to rid the cell of the dust bunny hordes. I pull the beanie down again, but with enough clearance to drink the coffee as I crawl back under the blankets. I want a few more minutes of warmth before I have to bare my fat to the freezing elements in order to put on my prison duds. Yes, I am fat. And no, it doesn’t seem to help keep me warm. A fat lizard is still a cold lizard before the sun comes up, and until that mug of liquid sunshine is inside me my disposition is as unevolved as my DNA.

My celly industriously sweeps and mops while merrily humming a tune that sounds much too cheerful for this morning…or any morning. He reminds me of another celly I had in college, his theme song was Don’t Worry, Be Happy and he was being in no way sarcastic. He meant it. Un, did I say celly? I meant roommate. Slips like that happen quite regularly since coming to prison. I have trouble referring to my past life with anything other than prison lingo.

Yes, I did time in college once. It was an institution much like this one, though the cells were bigger and there was more yard time…oh, and it cost $14,000 a year. The cafeteria food was institutional as well. I remember hating it while I was there; too blah. But now, with the dreamlike clarity of hindsight, I remember it as something akin to ambrosia, Turkish delight, and never ending mounds of PEZ. Great! Now I’m a curmudgeon. Pining for the "better" place that I used to know, like those legendary old fogies in their rocking chairs harping on how easy the young whippersnappers have it these days. Cliché, but true.

I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life while I was attending college, as is usual with new college students. I didn’t graduate, due to a lack of financial resources and my continuing inability to obey the conditions of my probation. I wish I could romanticize that period of my life, but it was much like now, lonely and cold. But I do wish they’d kick me out of here for the same reasons. No such luck, having a criminal background and no money are the prerequisites for admittance to this esteemed barbwire enshrouded institution. It figures.

I crawl off my bunk when the floor is dry and proceed to get dressed for the day. A look in the mirror reminds me I need a shave, but not now. With my moods the last thing I need in my hands is a sharp blade to put to my throat. I’d probably try to shave the back of my esophagus through my Adam’s apple, I feel that ambitious. Nope. Shaving is for later. Safer that way, less mess for my celly. I forego brushing my teeth because I haven’t finished my coffee and the dragon-breath will encourage people to stay clear. After a moment enjoying the wicked spite of my fire-breathing coffee-breath, I swallow the last of my black mood fuel and reluctantly reach for the toothbrush. My celly begins his everyday warning that I need to hurry up and go…because he has an urgent appointment to "talk to the warden" and "give him a piece of his mind" while "making a deposit to the warden’s retirement fund." "He’s ‘she’ and called the superintendent, I think to myself. But despite his semantic inaccuracies the euphemism is still too disturbingly descriptive. I have little desire to further flavor my morning with his pungent waste. I grab my glasses and stand at the door willing the officer to check the clock and run the line movement. Just like willing the bus to come on time while waiting at the bus stop, it never works. On the outside I’d light up a cigarette, and that would guarantee that the bus would arrive, but in here that isn’t an option; we’re a non-smoking institution.

I return to my bunk and allow my gaze to drift to the other side of the still open window. For a brief moment I am drawn outside and become lost in the rolling fogbank that hides the razor wire fence. I drift into the silver lining of the clouds come-to-earth, and lose myself in their natural beauty. The door opens and I shake off my short-lived mental escape as I stride out onto the tier.

Few people are out and I am glad because I still don’t have a firm hold on a chummy mood. A hundred paces down the hall and I enter the library; my work assignment. I dive into work as soon as possible and begin to feel my negativism wane with the activity. I love my job, and I love books. Since my job involves books I am doubly blessed. I begin to find peace of mind in the minutiae of my job, and for an hour or so I treat the books better than my coworkers. They offer greetings and I reply tersely. Later I will feel more like talking. It is a pleasant environment while everyone is starting their daily work routines, and I begin to feel more alive.

Several hours of productive work later I return to the cold cave of my cell eagerly anticipating a hot shower after lunch. When the forgettable meal is soon forgotten, I return to the unit to get permission for a shower. I scurry to and from my cell before the permission is withdrawn or another officer comes on duty and closes my door. My step lightens the closer I get to the hot water, and when I get to the shower it is unexpectedly swathed in roiling clouds of luxuriant hot steam. It is a fantastic surprise. A voice from the fog warns me to be cautious, only the hot water taps have been turned on. I step gingerly as I breathe in the vapors. I am pleased that the voice is of someone I consider friendly, though not a friend. I don’t think they’d ever go that far in the estimation of me. We are the only two inside the makeshift sauna, and the heat is wonderful, a lizard’s equivalent of a large black rock in direct sunlight…at noon.

I glory in the hot water, reluctantly leaving 15 minutes later when more bodies invade and force the plentiful steam to dissipate.

Now I feel mellow enough to drag a razor across my jowls with no ulterior motives or lingering death wishes. I even am happy enough to allow the window a bit wider, earning brownie points from my celly. Or maybe it’s just because I am finally warm. I swear; his sweat glands must produce linseed oil. I dress and my celly regales me with stories from his past. Unlike some former cellies I am inclined to believe him, he has the years and the half-cracked craziness to give them weight.

My mood improves in the afternoon as I help guys find the books they are looking for. I get a small sense of pride from running a library that guys can still visit, unlike a few of the other state prisons. Pride that I am usually able to help find what someone is looking for and am asked for recommendations. I take pride in my work, maybe too much, as can be inferred from my depressed and despondent mood when I am not working or being ‘productive’, like on the damn weekends.

My cell is empty when I return to it; my celly is at work for a few hours more. In the aloneness I let down all the walls and feel the emptiness that is I. With no façade, no work to do, and no one around, I feel the weight of the endless amount of negative energy I store inside my cold reptilian bulk. The blaming past hovers ready to pounce as a black future taunts me with fear and uncertainly. The thought comes, "I am getting out in 6 years, half my sentence is over." It is not a happy thought, I am not ready, and I may never be ready. I have nothing to look forward to – no reason to get out.

My mood plummets as I plant myself on the stool and stare at the cars on the distant highway. They have purpose and drive; they are so far away – further than a yard, a fence, and a buffer zone full of trees can account for. The weight of a millstone presses down on me as thoughts that medication had held in abeyance for the last decade rise from the murky depths to tempt me. As the spider outside my window does, I pluck at the strands of my emotions, testing their vibration and thrum. I try to see if my mood has captured more than a passing compensatory fantasy in the sticky web of murk I’ve wrapped myself in.

When I know it is nothing more than the usual ‘alone thoughts’ I have every day, I stand and prepare another mug of black coffee. Sipping the strong acidic liquid I suit up for a cold night. Maybe I’ll be warm when my celly gets back; warm enough to be honestly gracious when he asked to reopen the window. Truth to tell, the open window is nothing to me, merely the most apt and direct metaphor for the creeping lizard coldness at the root of me. The temperature gives me words and images for my pen to play with as I try to get a grip on my life.

I lay back, swathed in clothing and blankets, to drink my coffee and read a book while searching for an answer that I hope someone somewhere has for me. I fear that one of these days the coldness inside won’t let me wake and feel the warmth ever again – the big lizards are extinct after all. I can’t continue to live with this cold-blooded interior; it wears me out too much. It is time to evolve into a warm-blooded human, and for that I’ll certainly need lots of coffee.