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 do 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, tolerances, and politics keeps me on a constant edge. Heavies dominate 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, guards found a 4L bag of hooch with pineapple pieces. Their suspicions grew when they started to question him and he flinched and started sweating. 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 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 a 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 ketchup packets for the sugar as I struggled to down it. It tasted as nasty as rotten fruit covered in dirt.

I prefer mine made with real sugar, and orange juice is as close as I can get. With that and a few fresh oranges, I feel almost as important as those rich people who buy ten-dollar smoothies. But I know I'm drinking something better than what their money 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've got nothing. So I offer Johnny a noodle soup packet I bought from the canteen in exchange for his sandwich. I return to my house and, using my toothbrush handle, meticulously scrape off the innards: the egg and mayo. With bread, I have my final ingredient: yeast. 

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

Day five arrives. Finally, it feels like a good day to be me. At breakfast, I nod over to Walter. He knows what I mean: the hooch is ready. We'll meet at my house after lunch so dinner tastes better. The food in here makes me miss my hospital bed. In what feels like no time at all, yet forever at the same time, I spot Walter by my door. We fist-bump, and he takes a seat on the bottom bunk. Carefully, I remove the towel and loosen the knot. The smell alone could give us away. As Walter stands by 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 didn'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 sat on his altar above me, he was convinced he knew me better than I knew 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 glance at Walter as he slowly turns 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 blow. “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 out loud 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 assessing him, the nurse alerts the unit guard of his “extra-jovial demeanour.” Walter triggers a unit-wide inspection: one by one, each house is frisked for contraband. Within thirty minutes, two guards arrive at my door. They ask if I have any unauthorized items. I say no. I step outside as one guard waits with me while the other starts searching my cell. 

“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?”

Author’s Note: To protect privacy, all names and identifying details have been changed, though all accounts are real and drawn from my experience as an external independent decision-maker presiding over disciplinary hearings for BC Corrections (2021-2023).

Explore the Terms: To better understand the institutional terms used in this story, you can explore my Beyond the Bars Prison Glossary.

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Meet Harpreet: Harpreet Ahuja is a lawyer, human rights consultant, and social justice advocate driven by the conviction that systems need reimagining. Her work explores the intersection of law, policy, and lived experience—and tells the human stories behind injustice. Harpreet is based in Vancouver on the traditional, ancestral and unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, and publishes on her website.