On the Art of Having Nothing

By Ryan M. Moser — FROM THE INSIDE

Thirty inches long. Twenty-two inches wide. Eighteen inches high. Stainless steel with two hinges and seven cubic feet of storage space. Rusted. My prison footlocker holds every possession I now own, but nothing from my past. When it dawns on me that I can fit my entire life into this metal box, I get depressed. I open the lid to see my dull reality many times a day: Ramen noodles, the Tao-te Ching, a picture of Jennifer Lawrence, books of stamps, my tablet and headphones, state-issued t-shirts, Playboys, packages of refried beans and tuna. All of the conveniences of prison and necessary holdings of a convict.

Most inmates will agree that the items in our footlockers are valuable far beyond explanation. I had a cellmate who has kept a four-leaf clover he found on the rec yard for ten years now, and he would be heartbroken to lose it. It’s his connection to the wonders of nature and a reminder of freedom. Another acquaintance inventories his food items from the canteen with a daily religious fanaticism, convinced that his self-worth is somehow dependent on the amount of peanuts and chips and Crystal Light packets he owns; these are his only belongings and he covets them with zeal. My best friend is a harmless stage-four hoarder — he refuses to throw anything away and can barely close his locker lid. It’s overflowing with Q-tip boxes…