The Taste of Confinement: Part 1 - Hooch in My House

The first time I felt that rush I was being thrown out by my dad. I was ten. I never knew my mother, she passed away before I was born. So I was put up for adoption. No one wanted me. Each new foster home was a kick to the curb. The street felt warmer. So I made due on Carleton Street until I was put here. In here, I stare at blank walls, sleep next to a toilet, and eat in what feels like a jungle gym—a place where you better hold on tight or you’ll end up falling, the first time with a concussion and a smashed up face, the next time with poke holes from a shank and an offsite escort to the hospital. The unpredictability of moods and tolerances and the politics keeps me on a constant edge. Heavies dominating my every move with unspoken code and street debt. But not in one more day, because then I will enjoy the comfort of good company—my sweet sweet hooch. 

It takes me three days to finally collect everything that I need. Each day I store an orange and a cup of juice in my house. I’ve seen it made in rice cookers, but I know my cellie got caught that way before I arrived. The guard spotted fruit flies in his house and became suspicious. He spent five days in the hole. I am not about to risk getting caught over those pesky flies. Just last week on the first tier, Sanders was caught with 25L. During a cell frisk, the guards found his hooch in a garbage bag, about 4L with pineapple pieces. Then their suspicions grew when they started to question him and he flinched and started to sweat. His house was pulled apart and another 21L was taken from inside his mattress. Without being bunked, Sanders had more to work with, an extra mattress to hide his batch in and keep it warm while it fermented. With New Year’s Eve around the corner, this was a buzzkill for the entire living unit. But I’m not looking to share more than what I need to or make a buck. I use what they already gave me: a plastic bag in a garbage bin. The bag is big enough for a solid batch to share with a lookout and the bin keeps the liquid together like a cooking pot. 

My lookout, Walter, gave me some of his hooch a month ago. I couldn’t down a sip without pinching my nose. The stench was so bad you could smell it behind the closed cell door. Markel on the other side of the tier had to keep watch while we poured some into a cup. Walter swore by the ketchup packets for the sugar as I struggled to down it. It was as nasty as rotten fruit covered in dirt. I prefer my hooch with real sugar and orange juice is as close as I can get. With orange juice and oranges, I feel almost as important as those rich people who buy ten dollar smoothies. But I know that I am drinking something better than what their ten dollars can buy out there. I am creating an experience, a comforting escape. 

On day three, I make a food trade with Johnny. I know better than to take a meal that isn’t mine, an offence treated worse than murder. You don’t want to be a snitch and you don’t want to be a thief. If your word can’t be trusted, you got nothing. So I offer Johnny a noodle soup packet that I had purchased from canteen for his sandwich. I then return to my house and with my toothbrush handle I meticulously scrape off the innards: the egg and mayo. With bread, I have the final ingredient that I need: yeast. 

I begin the process. I add three peeled oranges cut into small pieces, three cups of orange juice, and two pieces of sliced sandwich bread into the plastic bag. With the bag securely tied and two 500ml bottles containing warm water sitting at the bottom of the garbage bin, the liquid will ferment over the next five days. I lay a towel over the garbage bin as a way to conceal it, and from then on, each moment is a discreet and secretive risk assessment—a test on how not to get caught. For five days, I’ll replenish the warm water using the living unit kettle, and with each new day that comes, I will experience an adrenaline rush, again. 

Day five arrives, I feel like finally it is a good day to be me. At breakfast, I nod over to Walter. He knows what I mean, the hooch is ready. We will meet at my house after lunch so dinner will taste better that way. The food in here makes me miss my hospital bed. In what feels like no time at all, but forever at the same time, I spot Walter by my door. We fist pump and he takes a seat on the bottom bunk. Carefully, I remove the towel then loosen up the knot. The smell alone could give us away. As Walter gets up to peer through the window to keep watch, I manage to fill two cups and tie the bag back up. The first few gulps go straight to my head. I start to slowly reminisce. 

Like how I was denied bail because I don’t have an address. The judge said I was a flight risk. With as little as a hundred dollars in my pocket, I don’t see how I could have gotten very far. As he sits on his altar above me, he is convinced that he knows me better than I know myself. 

I take another sip. Walter tells me that he has been doing dead time for more than a year. The idea that I might be waiting that long for my day in court makes hooch feel like it will become my best friend. I glimpse at Walter as he slowly turns over in my direction. His hands are on his face. He looks pale, like he’s about to throw up. “Walter, man, how are you doing?” With this second look, I know he is going to bust. “Yo buddy you gotta get outta my house or you’ll sink us both.” As Walter makes his way down the corridor to his house, he lets it go. “Fuck,” I say outloud to myself, we are blown. 

The guard rushes up the stairs while I’m trying to hide the hooch. A code blue is called and Walter is taken to healthcare. While being assessed, the nurse alerts the unit guard of his “extra-jovial demeanour.” Walter triggers a unit wide inspection, one by one each house is being frisked for contraband. Within 30 minutes, two guards arrive at my door. They ask if I have any unauthorized items. I say no. I step outside of my cell while one guard waits with me and the other starts looking around. 

“Good morning. My name is Ms. Ahuja, A-H-U-J-A for the record. I am an independent correctional decision-maker and will be presiding over this hearing today. I have the authority to conduct this Disciplinary Hearing from the Assistant Deputy Minister under the Correction Act Regulation. This matter today is for Mr. Moore, Correctional Service Number 03.692.982 for Disciplinary File Number 193824. Before we begin, Mr. Moore, do you understand the Centre’s allegation against you?”

DISCLAIMER: To safeguard the privacy of individuals, all identities, names, and distinct personal details have been altered. However, the narratives and the situations described are authentic and reflect real occurrences. The contents are based on my personal knowledge and experience working for BC Corrections from 2021 to 2023. As an external independent decision-maker I presided over disciplinary proceedings, when inmates were accused of wrongdoing inside the institution.