The bus rattled over potholes and cracked asphalt, the sky above a uniform gray that made everything inside feel heavier. Three men sat along the bench, each clutching a small item they’d been allowed—one concession in a place defined by absence. The diesel fumes mixed with nervous energy. None spoke at first. Time stretched endlessly. Their lives had been reduced to numbered cells and routine.
The silence finally broke when the man near the aisle leaned forward, asking casually, “What did you bring?” The older inmate lifted a small box, revealing paints and brushes. “Paints,” he said proudly. “If I’m stuck here, might as well make something.” The second man pulled out a deck of cards. “Cards,” he said. “A hundred games. I’ll have time for all of them.” Then the third man, grinning broadly, held up a pack of vitamin gummies. The others stared.
“Seriously? Gummies?” the card player asked. “What are those for?” The third man tapped the label. “Energy, mood, confidence… better life.” The absurdity of it broke tension instantly, and the bus filled with laughter. It was the first reminder that life here, though bleak, still allowed small, human moments of levity.
Days on the block became routine. Meals, counts, and locked doors repeated endlessly. Yet humor turned into currency, something shared and cherished quietly in whispers and shouts. One night, a man shouted, “Number twelve!” and the cellblock erupted in laughter. A moment later: “Number four!” The repetition, the familiarity—it was part of survival, a shared code that turned mundane confinement into something bearable.
The new guy asked his cellmate why. “We’ve been here so long,” the older man said, “we numbered the jokes.” That’s when the third man decided to join in. He stood up and shouted, “Number twenty-nine!” The laughter that followed was unlike anything he’d heard. The novelty, the timing, the recognition—it ignited the room.
When it finally quieted, he asked, “Why was that so funny?” His cellmate wiped tears from his eyes. “We’d never heard that one before.” In that instant, the new guy understood something profound. Prison humor was more than laughter—it was survival, camaraderie, and a way to reclaim some small sense of identity in a place designed to strip it away.
From that day on, the bus of three men became more than strangers with regrets. They were a small unit, navigating numbered jokes, painted walls, and shuffled cards together. And the gummy vitamins, once mocked, became a symbol of optimism, of choosing laughter and energy even when the world outside—and the one behind bars—felt completely unchangeable. Humor, he realized, wasn’t trivial. It was a lifeline.
