It’s Their House; I’m Just a Guest
Douglas Kent
Author Bio
Douglas Kent grew up in the northeastern United States before moving to Dallas, Texas in 1994. He still lives in the Dallas area with his wife, three cats, and one dog. “It’s Their House; I’m Just a Guest” is the first of three planned memoirs. The other books will detail his first marriage (especially the physical and mental illness his wife suffered) and his childhood (complete with alcoholism, schizophrenia, ants, and overflowing toilets).
Douglas has been an active force in the Diplomacy hobby for years, currently acting as Lead Editor for the flagship zine Diplomacy World, and in the past publishing long-running and award-winning zines such as Maniac’s Paradise and Eternal Sunshine. He remains his own harshest critic, and a constant source of self-deprecating humor.
“It’s Their House; I’m Just a Guest” has been described as “a more honest Orange is the New Black, less self-serving and more blunt.” Douglas Kent prefers the first reader comment listed on the back cover, from Jack McHugh: “Your paragraphs are too long.”
Description
Convicted of Fraud, Douglas Kent is sentenced to 46 months in Federal Prison. This amusing but accurate memoir recounts the time he spent in the Federal Prison system, from the day of his arrival at Allenwood Prison in Pennsylvania through his time spent in a Federal Halfway House in the Dallas, Texas area. Along the way he meets unique and amusing characters, navigates the prison bureaucracy, suffers through the prison medical system, and tries to survive this forced vacation in one piece and his sanity intact. At times funny and at other times emotional and harrowing, follow the ups and downs of low-security prison life and the tedious experience. Laugh, cry, and perhaps pick up a tip or two about how you might make it through your own incarceration should you be unlucky enough to be sentenced to a Federal prison term. The memoir also offers glimpses into other parts of Douglas’ life and what led him to become the person he is today.
Book excerpt
Aside from being a pack rat, Alan was a real slob. Since we could be punished for having a messy cubicle, it became my self-imposed job to sweep and mop the floor every morning, and to empty the trash can before I left for my work assignment. Alan worked in the kitchen, and generally didn’t get out of bed until after I had left, so he seemed fine with the arrangement. In exchange, Alan’s job was to use the floor buffer on our floor to keep the wax shiny. I think I only saw him do that once during the entire time we shared a cubicle, but I simply didn’t care enough to get into an argument. As long as I could keep the area tolerably clean without too much effort, I was willing to overlook his personal habits. The last thing I needed was stress with a bunkmate, or aggravation from the staff. I figured I’d just need to deal with it until a better bunk became available.
Alan’s lack of cleanliness was not restricted to leaving an inordinate amount of hair, trash, and food matter all over the floor and desk. He was just as dirty when it came to personal hygiene. Because he worked in the kitchen, Alan would usually spend the day in his kitchen whites, leaving his khaki uniform for visits or his days off. He’d work, getting all sweaty, and then come back to the housing unit. Without taking a shower, he’d strip down to his undergarments, pull on a filthy set of long-johns, and put the same smelly whites back over them. On those rare days when he did take a shower, I’d be horrified afterwards to see him put the dirty long-johns on over his supposedly clean body. There simply was no reason to live that way; the facility not only had free washers and dryers for inmate use, but they also had a prison laundry where you could get your clothes washed for you (in a laundry bag) within 24 hours. Most inmates preferred to go to the trouble of self-washing, as your uniform got less wrinkled, and you didn’t have to imagine what filthy clothes were mixed with yours. But Alan let his sweaty, stinky clothes fester in his laundry bag day after day, hanging from the hook by his bunk. I am sure he must have cleaned them once in a while, but I don’t know when. And I NEVER saw him exchange his sheets on exchange day. The man was pure filth. When the C.O. called him “a bit of a slob,” that was like calling a life sentence “a nice long vacation.”
When I would meet other inmates for the first time and I’d tell them who I was bunking with, I’d always get one of two responses. Either they’d roll their eyes and say “sorry about that, man” or they’d look at me in confusion. “Who is Alan?” they’d ask, and when I would try to describe him they’d finally exclaim “oh, the crazy guy!” I was starting to understand what they meant. It wasn’t just that he had no respect for himself – he also had no respect for me or anyone else around him.
Alan’s poor hygiene seemed to be getting worse over time. When he’d sit in the TV room, which was usually completely packed, people would do anything they could to avoid sitting within three seats of him. It got to the point that inmates were coming to me to see if I could try and talk some sense into him. Why Alan was all of a sudden my problem, I don’t know. Perhaps I’d lasted longer than anybody else without trying to kill him.