I stared out the train window, my apprehension growing with every mile that I ventured deeper into a strange, barren, alien landscape punctuated by the burned out shells of empty buildings and carcasses of abandoned cars . “This may not end well,” I texted my brother.
“Where are you?” he texted. “Kabul?”
“Worse,” I responded. “New Jersey.”
Only minutes before I had been in my favorite hotel in Manhattan where the front desk manager explained apologetically that despite my reservation there was not an available room anywhere in the city. He told me he had found a lovely room for me in Jersey, only 30 minutes away and that when I came back the next night they would comp my room for me. “New Jersey?” I kept saying.
“It’s the Garden State,” he said hastily and then I was on my way to Penn Station.
On the free shuttle from the train station to the hotel I was surrounded by tough looking women and screaming kids. I kept looking for the garden, but the landscape in this part of the Garden State was pretty bleak. When we arrived at the hotel I saw it: a spindly tree with a bed of sickly petunias around the base. “Good heavens,” I thought bleakly, “I’m at the Biltmore.” Clearly, what passed for a garden in New Jersey was middling by South Florida standards.
I never actually saw any more greenery, but I forgot about gardens as soon as I entered the hotel because something was very odd. Unlike the usual business hotel, populated mainly by men and women in suits, this lobby was filled with women and children.
The clerk handed me my key. “We offer a free continental breakfast,” he told me. The woman checking in next to me poked me. “Get there early,” she said gravely, “or the Pop Tarts will be gone.” She was a big woman with bigger hair and had several little kids with her. The clerk gave her a dirty look.
“Does the hotel have room service?” I asked and the clerk shook his head.
“No, but there’s a KFC down the street.” He lowered his voice. “But don’t walk there afer dark.” He cleared his throat. “We also have a free shuttle running every half hour,” he continued.
I brightened immediately. “To the mall?” I asked. He gave me a funny look.
“No,” he said. “To the prison. Welcome to Rahway!”
The big woman looked at me kindly. “I’m Kenya,” she said shaking my hand so hard it hurt. “I’ve never seen you before. First timer?” she asked. “What’s your man in for?” and I fled.
A quick Google search told me that Rahway is the location of a massive, maximal security state prison for some of the most dangerous, violent criminals in New Jersey. I read that it was the site of a lurid 1970’s documentary called “Scared Straight,” and now I remembered the name: Like all kids in that era, I saw the film in high school and was traumatized for weeks after. As it turned out, my hotel was the closest hotel to the Big House and was populated mainly by women (and their kids) coming to visit boyfriends, husbands, sons and brothers.
It was a long evening. I decided against walking to the KFC and dined instead on Diet Coke and Fiber One bars, listening to the happy sound of the kids in the hallway who were involved in a door-slamming contest. Later, I could not sleep because the woman in the next room was apparently enjoying an enthusiastic conjugal visit with the local soccer team.
The next morning, I met Kenya coming out of the room next door. “Hi Sweetie,” she said. “Going to breakfast?”
In the elevator down, she told me her boyfriend didn’t do it and that he had been framed but that she and the kids would be coming from South Jersey to visit every month for the next five to seven. I asked how many kids she had and she paused. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Boris cheats so much I’m not sure which kids are actually mine.” She laughed uproariously and poked me hard in the ribs. I nodded, speechless.
I met several of her friends in the breakfast room; apparently this was an informal sorority of women who met each other on a regular schedule. Kenya’s friend Amber brought me half a Pop Tart. “Soraya got the other half,” she said, glaring at a woman with more piercings than teeth who glared right back.
Kenya came to get me; “Boris wrote me a song,” she said, she pushing Amber aside so hard that she almost fell over. Kenya wanted my opinion of the song, so she sang it for me while Amber, Soraya and Tiffany sang the chorus: “I’m sick of all your cheating,/ I’m sick of all your fibs,/ your love is like you stuck me/with a shiv between the ribs.”
“What do you think?” she asked anxiously.
“It’s lovely,” I said weakly. “I’ll think of you every time I hear it.”
Kenya walked me out to the shuttle bus that would take me back to the train and the City and gave me a hug. It felt like she was giving me the Heimlich. “Will I see you next month?” she asked.