William Myrl; Letters to No One (58)

Dear No One,

We used to put our signs on chairs. There weren't enough for everyone, there are never enough, wherever you go. Tan plastic success, if you lived in green and white for long you could lay claim to one. They all had marks on the back, some names, and some drawings. I opened up an ink pen and painted my sigil on the back of one once my number came around. It was a weird non system, and "my" chair was taken by a CO to be put in another pod shortly after I had baptized it. 
We didn't have music then. For a while, we could get VH1 on the television in the pod and they would do countdowns in the morning. The masses would gather, listening. People complained about the noise keeping them awake (music, after breakfast) and it was taken away. This is why we can't have nice things. 

There was a silent stretch after that. When they opened the new budding, still green and white, and shipped us over, I managed to make AGT and American Idol a regular event for a while. Awful television, but it was what we had. The main contenders on the opposing team were the guys who needed to have the E channel on at all hours of the day, praying for the chances it afforded to view Kardashians in bikinis. Also the "sports rule" guy. Its a given in many places that sporting events trump all other forms of television, because as I understand it, men are imbeciles. It was the E channel that gave me my first exposure to Firework. They premiered the music video and I nearly had a white out. If you don't like Katy Perry, you don't like life. This was also the year that Jackie Evancho was on AGT, and had the number one slot stolen from her by some crooner no one has heard of since. She does some badass PBS specials now.

We still have those chairs, different places, different faces, chairs are forever. No one marks on them here, however. It was a ridiculous custom that required a slightly more docile, and a smaller population. There was a pair of older gentlemen that used to sit behind he table closest to the wall, the back of the day room. They had bushy beards, bug hair, they'd known each other many years. Every day they waited, watching, for what I know not. It was their post, their eye both on the television and the neighborhood. Here, the old men are mostly gone from their rocking swings. They have televisions in their cells now.

Yours,
William Myrl

Letters to No One 58