Sixty Miles Per Hour by Andrew Nease The hills hid the cluster of broad buildings from the Route 30 traffic. The stoplight that monitored the intersection rarely hopped up to red; the Ford Tempo's and Dodge Caravans sailed by, sixty miles per hour. Five minutes from my house, I turned my Eagle Premier left at this stoplight. I drove past the sewage plant (Disposal Plant), the old-age home (Westmoreland Manor), the state prison (Pennsylvania Correctional Facility), and the juveniles jail (The Juvenile Detention Center). "So this is where my hometown tucks its waste," I thought as I followed the road to my destination, the county lock-up, preferably known as The Westmoreland County Penal Institution. I wondered if I could be arrested for just driving to the county jail. My friend Greg Adams told me I was "cleared," but something about the jail made me feel in the wrong. I feel the same way around police stations and airports. To use an overused analogy, I felt Big Brother's breath creep up my back and sit on my shoulders. In the parking lot, in the security of my car, I studied the foreboding building; the structure had three sets of thick doors, tall brick walls, and few windows. Next to the building, the 8 a.m. sunlight glistened a patch of grass; the grass was surrounded by a series of high fences laced with barbed wire. The breeze messed up my hair as I approached the entrance. In the lobby, Ray, the preacher, sat with Vivian, the excited one, and Mercedes, the quiet one. After they greeted me, I felt secure enough to go back to my car and grab my big, black guitar case. "They won't think this is a gun, will they?" The four of us entered an inner-lobby, visible from the outer-lobby but separated by a locked door. In this room, I saw a coat rack, a door to the guards' room, a table with a sign-in book, and a series of glove-compartment safes built into the wall. The guard handed me a form to sign. The form already had my thoughts on it; I just needed to sign the form to prove that I had thought them. My thoughts included: this prison holds men and women convicted of violent crimes; I enter because of my own free will; and the prison should not and will not be held accountable for my injury or demise. I can now remember the full-body comfort of lying beneath a knit blanket above a heater on a chill winter morning. Signing this form did not conjure up such memories. The guard thoroughly searched me and my property. I put my keys in a safe on the wall. The guard drew an invisible outline around my body with a hand-held metal detector. He searched my guitar case, my guitar, my harmonicas, and my folder of music, searching it all studiously, suspiciously, thoroughly--understandably, considering his position. I felt an extreme sense of out-of-place absurdity and ignorant childishness because of the Garfield sticker on my music folder. And all the while, I wondered how I would sneak in a weapon if I so desired. I remembered Greg, who usually goes to the jail on Saturday mornings once a month rather than me, told me the guard once made him leave his extra guitar strings in the locker. The guard told me that I couldn't wear my green jacket, because "they don't like you having loose articles down there." So, the guard reduced me to some shoes/socks, jeans/boxers, a folder/a guitar in a case, my body, and a red T-shirt. Meanwhile, Vivian attempted to crack jokes with the men in the blue-black uniforms. The guards attempted to smile at her every so often. Next, a guard escorted us through a door, down a hall, and into an elevator. In centralized rooms, other guards watched black-and-white television screens transmitting the signals from the many cameras. Even the elevator had a camera in the corner. At each of the doors, we would pause; somewhere, someone would push a button to release the lock, signaled by a five-second electric buzz. We went down one floor and out into another foyer. From this foyer, we entered a room with seventeen convicted female convicts. After passing out Bibles from a box, the guard left, closing the door behind him. In an instant, I felt vulnerable, as if I had just walked face-first into a spider's web. A shower of voices and visions pummeled my senses. Within the instant, I made frantic evaluations of the one-room environment, the women in the environment, and my own position beside the women in the environment. I concluded that the room had me trapped. These women wore loose maroon shirts and tight wide smiles. There were thirteen "whites," three "blacks," and one woman of Asian decent. Two women were noticeably mentally handicapped. Approximately eight women were my age, several in their late twenties/early thirties, and a few with graying hair. With society as a judge, more than half appeared physically "unattractive"--in other words, you wouldn't see their face on the cover of a magazine or in a movie. The courts had convicted all of the women of a crime; yet not one appeared capable of committing a crime. I saw a room full of daughters, mothers, and grandmothers. I found a seat as soon as possible. The group gathered around a large table. Ray introduced me, and the women greeted me and smiled sincere smiles. Throughout the meeting, when a prisoner and I made eye contact, we smiled. One woman looked younger than I did. She had red hair that curled around her soft-skinned face. She looked out of place, as if she belonged in an 11th grade classroom. I could picture her walking through the mall with her girlfriends, playing baseball, or marching in the high school band. I found myself watching her quite frequently. The meeting began with one woman singing a hymn she had started before we arrived. Her voice and its echo sailed throughout the room. It pushed its way into the high corners, into the cracks in the plaster walls; it worked its way around my waist, up my spine, and onto my neck. It covered my face like a blanket, went into my mouth, over my tongue, and stopped in my throat before touching too far inside. Afterwards, the group applauded and praised, and the woman covered her face in embarrassed pride. I handed Ray copies of lyrics and he passed them out. I played worship songs by request, including "Lord, I Lift Your Name on High," "Seek Ye First," "One Name," "How Great Thou Art," and "Amazing Grace." Usually, when I play my guitar, I lead groups in singing. However, this group led me. They had an indescribable passion in their voices--deep internal voices that sounded above their off-key external voices. They sang artlessly and better than any congregation I had heard. They sung most beautifully during "Amazing Grace." Never before had I heard voices so well match a song. "How sweet the sound." After singing, Vivian told a sunny-simple, "God's-grace-revealed-through-a-stoplight"-type story with simple questions and simple answers. Ray led an effective and relevant discussion about God's love with emphasis on how we should love our neighbors. The hour passed quickly—relentless. After Ray's service, a general commotion erupted in the room—the type of commotion you hear after school bells, plays, and concerts. As the women filed from the room, many thanked me and smiled; some stayed behind to talk to Vivian, Mercedes, and Ray. From a distance, I heard them shortly talk about their problems—"I know that when I get out, I can change! I just have to stay away from the alcohol. I just hope I can do it!" Most of the women told the same story. "Here's to subtle differences," I thought. "The freedom of Vodka." Bud, it doesn't get any better than this. A few women shook my hand. One woman, also twenty-years-old, had a full conversation with me. She told me I looked "really scared" during the meeting. When I told her what college I attended, she proclaimed, " I have a friend that goes there!" Then she asked me if I was allowed to write to her. I told her I would look into it. And so, she rose above the label of convict, and became Malorie Neill. Hesitantly, they and we filed out of the room. The women knew exactly where to go. The guards didn't scream at them; they didn't resist. I noticed an atmosphere of habit, compliance, and regret. The women gathered around a door until a guard unlocked it; the hollow buzz sounded. As she passed through the doorway, Malorie asked me to say her name so that I wouldn't forget it. I heard them chattering down through the hallway, on the way to their cells. And it ended. I left in reverse order of how I came into the place--back into the elevator, through the hall, into the lobby, outside to my car, and back onto the sad freedom of the highway.