The Paddy Wagon, The Politician, and The Prayer

The Paddy Wagon, The Politician, and The Prayer

By Cole Smith

If you’ve never smelled the inside of a prisoner transfer van, be grateful. It isn't just a smell; it’s a taste. It’s a mix of diesel fumes, rust, and the sour sweat of ten men who haven't showered in three days.

They call it the "Paddy Wagon," but that sounds almost quaint. It’s a steel box on wheels. No windows. Just little holes drilled into the side to let in air—not light. The air tastes like old socks and exhaust.

I was in the back for what they call the “Tour of the North”—the milk run from Sudbury to North Bay to Penetanguishene. My wrists were raw from the cuffs. My ankles were bleeding where the irons had dug in. There are no seatbelts back there. Every time the driver hit a pothole on the highway, we all slid across the metal bench, slamming shoulders and knees into each other. Human pinball.

The guy next to me said he was in for scalping a man with an axe. He grinned when he said it. I just looked away, staring at the rivets in the steel wall, trying to make myself invisible.

My lunch was a stale sandwich in a brown bag. I tried to eat it with my hands shackled together, chewing slowly, trying not to look weak. That’s the first rule of jail, the one you learn before you even get processed: Wear the mask. Everyone is an actor. Everyone is scared. But if you let them see the fear, you’re finished.

The Intake and The Offer

When we finally rolled into Penetang, I braced myself. I’d seen the movies. I expected the screaming, the intimidation, the guards trying to break you down before you even made it to your range.

But the intake guard was a middle-aged guy who looked like he’d seen it all twice. He didn't bark. He just looked me in the eye—human to human.

“My job isn’t to make your stay any harder,” he said quietly as he processed my paperwork.

It was a moment of grace. But in prison, grace stops at the intake desk. Once you walk through those heavy doors into the unit, you’re on your own.

The Torture of "Normal"

I was assigned to Unit 4, Range 3.

My new home was a concrete box. My new roommate was a guy named Henry. He was in for gun trafficking, built like a fridge, with stick-and-poke tattoos fading on his arms. He looked terrifying, but the real torture wasn't violence. It was noise.

Henry had sleep apnea. Bad.

All night long, he sounded like a dying generator. Choking, gasping, snorting. Silence would hang in the air for ten seconds—just enough for me to drift off—and then BANG, a massive gasp would shake the room.

I was running on zero sleep. My patience was torque-stripped. The walls were sweating with the humidity of a hundred men trapped in a block. I would lie there staring at the cracks in the ceiling, feeling the rage build in my chest.

I needed out of that cell. And I decided I was the man to fix it.

The Failed Hustle

You have to understand my mindset at the time.

In my life before the arrest, I wasn't a manager pushing paper. I was a Lineman and a Wind Technician. I was a guy who commanded 44,000 volts. If a line was down, I put it back up. If a turbine was broken, I climbed 300 feet and troubleshot the problem until it worked.

I was used to having the tools. I was used to forcing a solution. I treated every problem in my life like broken equipment—something I could wrench on until it submitted.

I decided to use that same "fixer" mentality in Range 3. I wasn't going to wait for the guards; I was going to politick my way out.

I formulated a plan. I would approach the range "Bouncer."

For those who haven't been inside, the Bouncer (or Range Rep) is the inmate who holds the keys to the kingdom. He creates the rules. He is the only one allowed to speak to the guards on behalf of the range. You want to change cells? You ask him. You want to use the phone? You ask him.

I approached him like I was walking onto a job site. I was respectful, but firm. I had my speech ready. I explained the situation with Henry. I tried to negotiate a swap, thinking I could troubleshoot this logistics problem just like a switching order on the grid.

He didn't just say no. He looked at me with total disdain.

To him, I wasn't a capable tradesman solving a problem. I was a new fish trying to bypass the hierarchy. I was challenging his control. He shut me down hard. He made it very clear that I wasn't moving anywhere, and if I asked again, Henry’s snoring would be the least of my problems.

My tools didn't work here. My "fixer" mentality didn't work here. I walked back to my cell, stripped of my ego.

The Surrender

That night was the lowest point.

I sat on my bunk, listening to Henry choke on air. I looked out the narrow slit of a window. I expected to see the world I left behind, but all I saw was concrete and wire.

I realized then that I was powerless. I couldn't splice this wire. I couldn't wrench on this turbine. I couldn't hustle the Bouncer.

For the first time in years, I stopped trying to drive the bus. I stopped scheming. I stopped planning. I just sat in the dark, defeated.

I didn't pray in the traditional sense. It was more of a silent scream. A total surrender. I can't do this anymore. I have no control here. Whatever happens, happens.

I let go of the steering wheel. I went to sleep knowing I was stuck.

The Shift

The next morning, the lock popped.

A guard—one I hadn't spoken to—swung the door open.

"Smith. Pack your sh*t."

My stomach dropped. I thought I was being sent to the hole. I thought maybe the Bouncer had arranged a "lesson" for me.

"Where am I going?" I asked, bracing for the worst.

"Transfer," he said. "You're going to St. Lawrence Valley Treatment Center."

I froze.

St. Lawrence isn't just another cell block. It’s a treatment facility. It’s where you go to actually get help, to work on the sickness in your head, not just rot in a cage. It was the golden ticket.

I didn't ask for it. I didn't apply for it. I didn't manipulate it.

When I tried to force a solution by playing politics with the Bouncer, I hit a brick wall. But the moment I surrendered—the moment I admitted I was powerless and stopped trying to "troubleshoot" my life—the doors blew open.

The Lesson: Stop Banging on the Door

I see so many men doing exactly what I did in Range 3.

We treat our lives like a broken engine. We try to force our careers to turn over, force our relationships to run smooth, or "fix" our addictions with sheer willpower. We think if we just work hard enough, or talk smooth enough, or apply enough torque, we can control the outcome.

But you can't hustle the universe. And you certainly can't hustle your own healing.

The Bouncer taught me that I have no control. The Transfer taught me that sometimes, the best things happen only after you stop fighting.

If you are banging your head against a wall today, trying to force a door to open—stop. Step back. Own the fact that your tools might not work on this problem.

Sometimes, you have to pack your sh*t and let the transfer happen.