"Even here in prison we are not unaffected by the globalization of big corporations. Recently, the canteen where we purchase our personal hygiene items and snacks, was privatized. In other words, the Department of Corrections handed over the operation of our local shop to a food conglomerate--Keefe.

Keefe, like MCI, has managed to wrangle a monopoly on inmate business. Keefe, however, is in the particularly lucrative position of paying its inmate employees prison wages (approximately 40 to 45 cents per hour) while charging us noncompetitive market prices (99 cents for a roll of Scott toilet tissue). Overnight the prices for identical items has surged. But the stranglehold of a monopoly surprises no one.

What is surprising is that Keefe is more rigid and unyielding than the bureaucratic DOC. When the Keefe computer failed to read my correctly filled-out, perfectly flat, untarnished bubble sheet, the computer became an insurmountable obstacle between me and the toothbrush I ordered, but could not have. Now, since I am allowed only one toothbrush in my possession, I am still muttering quiet thank-yous that my old worn one hadn't fallen on the floor, in the toilet, or yet, been used to scrub a drain. But what if that toothbrush hadn't been holding on by a last tired bent bristle?

I have a job so I'm ineligible for a free toothbrush from the state. And it would be another ten days before I could again beg Keefe. Standing in the cramped canteen, I envisioned being hauled off to segregation--the Hole--or even the inpatient psychiatric unit ("Acute") in a paper gown after freaking out over a formerly 44-cent and now 75-cent toothbrush Keefe would not sell me.

Peering through the distribution window, I could not get it into my thick skull that the person in charge of the computer understood the problem. I was absolutely certain it was all just a failure to communicate. I had the money. They had the toothbrush. I could see it. Let's do business. But Keefe says if the computer makes an error-tough.

I kept redigging the same ground and trying to coax a smile out of the computer operator. I tried to establish some recognition in those blank eyes of the shared humanity of personal hygiene.

'I mean, I've got to brush my teeth-right? A toothbrush is essential, non-negotiable equipment, right?' Nothing.

'You agree, I filled out my form correctly? It's just a computer error--no big deal?'

The people behind me were increasingly restless, shuffling and mumbling. Some were angry I was taking so long. Most were indignant and alarmed that the only response from Keefe was "No exceptions. No returns. No add-ons. No toothbrush."

Finally it came down to a choice. I could either accept the order without a toothbrush or refuse the entire order and get nothing (no deodorant, no toothpaste, no soap and no chocolate donuts). Either way, no toothbrush for me.

After my canteen rage subsided, I was overwhelmed by despair. DOC is imperfect, but its very imperfection makes room for the human beings in its care. The computer is also imperfect but it leaves no room for people to breathe.

For the first time I understood why some people are desperately afraid of globalization and multinational conglomerates. It's not even about making money and wielding power anymore. We're all subject to some implacable computer printout." (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, February 26, 2004).

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. She is serving a 90 year sentence as an accessory to the murder of her parents in 1985. This column is from a series, published under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'