“Mr. P and The Blade”
by Inmate 07770-062 Mr. P never wore a badge that said police, never carried the swagger of a street cop. Just a guard. A man who once dreamed of white aprons, steel pans clanging like applause, flavors blooming in the steam. Then Desert Storm came, left sand in his bones and a shadow in his step. Prison work was steady— steady enough to forget the kitchen for a while. Steady enough to believe the slogans, Repent. Rehabilitate. Steady enough to watch other people’s clocks tick away their time. Dreams? They started to feel like they belonged to someone else. Until the day he saw her— not in the mess hall, not in the yard— but in her cell, shoulders bent over a plastic bowl, chopping onion, fresh jalapeño, ripe tomato—every bit contraband. The blade in her hand was no kitchen issue. One call and she’d be written up. But he didn’t call. He just watched, listening as she poured out recipes like they were prayer— gumbo thick enough to stand a spoon, beignets soft and tasty as a S...