"Chow! Chow time! Chow! Chow!" my heart jolts in anticipation. The Sergeant's initial announcement for dinner time is quickly echoed by the surrounding inmates in a mesmerizing chain reaction. "Chow! Chow! Chow!"

 

My stomach churns with hunger and my mouth salivates like a ravenous Rottweiler reacting to a bell chiming in one of Pavlov's famous experiments. Living in such a pleasure deprived environment, the dopamine boost from sugary food is comparable to a hard drug. Like pigs waiting to be lead through a maze of electronically controlled gates and trap doors to reach their feeding ground, we rush to crowd around the locked exit door leading to the chow hall. Finally, a resounding *CLACK!* pops the door open and we pour outside into the breezeway of the cell block and form a single file line until further instructions are given. 

 

After several minutes of waiting in line, daydreaming about spending time at the beach with my family, my wishful fantasy is interrupted abruptly. "Take off!" barks the guard, the stark reality coming back into focus. "Left foot on the line!" I look down at my black rubber Crocs trudging over the concrete and make sure my steady marching gait doesn't stray from the guiding yellow line painted along the ground. "No talking!" 

 

We reach the opening of the gloomy building known as the "Chow Hall." Again, we wait in a single file line until further instruction, this time under the blazing Miami sun. After what feels like an eternity, the Sargent finally motions us in. 

 

We plow inside and form yet another line, this time along the wall, leading up to a small slot where food trays magically pop out of. A guard standing by the slot makes sure that only one food tray is taken per inmate. For further security, each inmate scans his ID as he grabs his tray. If anyone tries to scan twice, an alarm goes off, notifying the guard. Food is a hot commodity in here and everyone is always trying to get extra or to trade undesired items. However, speaking is strictly prohibited inside the Chow Hall. The line becomes a whispering cacophony of offers and demands, "noodles for cornbread," "salad for potatoes," "tool meat for cookie." 

 

As I grab a tray from the slot, a medium sized cockroach crawls out from underneath it. Too hungry and too accustomed to critters everywhere, I proceed, unfazed. I grab a soapy plastic cup and fill it with lukewarm watered down purple juice from a massive six foot steel vat. Following the guard's directive, I file into the first of four rows of steel tables bolted into the slippery, oily cement floor. 

 

Feeding the inmates is a speed operation, we have exactly four minutes to stuff down as much of the food on the tray as possible. I enter into an animalistic trance, wolfing down the food without fully chewing it. Like a Chinese factory worker, I scoop the food into my mouth while simultaneously swallowing the food that is already in my mouth. 

 

On good days, we are served a banana as dessert. This is a hot commodity back at the cell block, however, no food is permitted to be taken out of the Chow Hall. I glance over my shoulder to make sure the Sergeant isn't watching me. Then, in a swift maneuver, I slip the banana into my shirt through the neck hole and stick it under my armpit. Initially, this practice used to really stress me out, making me sweat profusely with the feeling that I might get caught by an officer performing a routine random pat down search. By now though, I am a professional banana smuggler and my confidence is through the roof.

 

The allotted four minutes pass. "Walk and eat! Walk and eat!" the Sergeant growls. Instinctively, I stand up and continue to gorge the food as I make my way to the dirty dishes window to drop off the tray. I swish the purple juice in my mouth and swallow hard, forcing down the remnants of food lodged in my teeth and throat. Keeping the banana firmly tucked under my left arm, I drop my tray and head out of the Chow Hall, nonchalantly strolling past the officers standing guard at the exit. I make it through undetected... Victory is mine.