"I spent the better part of yesterday evening fishing a bar of soap out of the toilet with a knitting needle.

The engineer who designed the sink-commode units that stand in our cells was not much interested in soap control. On a normal sink, if I remember correctly, there are soap spaces, indentations where a bar sits without falling back into the sink, or, in our situation, sliding into the toilet bowl beneath.

My roommate was washing her hands or the dishes when the soap plopped into the bowl. Since it was a small sliver of soap, we would normally just flush it away. However, the sink-commode units in our cells have installed security traps that make it inadvisable to flush anything at all down them. At the best of times this makes the commode a logistical dilemma since anything and everything will cause it to clog and overflow. At worst it means that the maintenance people have to be on 24-7 call because those who seek to call attention to their situation by plugging the plumbing hardly need to use sheets and blankets as they do at other facilities when toilet paper and a sock will do.

My roommate and I had no wish to overflow our toilet (we have just figured out the right combination of tapping, twizzling and kicking to stop the hot water from running and overflowing the sink), so we set to work to retrieve the soap, which has of course slid out of sight into the furthest crevices of the sculpted metal tubing. My hand wouldn’t fit so I had one of my dangerously brilliant ideas of using a knitting needle to spear the soap.

I speared the soap and split it into two goldfish slippery elusive objects that I immediately blamed my roommate for not catching. I have often found it helps to shout at someone else when I’m frustrated. Releases that inner tension. By splitting the soap in two, this brick-hard lye soap that never bubbles when you want it to, I had released a cloud of soapy foam. Now I couldn’t see the slithery goldfish. My roommate, a wise woman, remained silent on this point.

Together we hunkered over the silver bowl. I felt my way with the knitting needle trying to coax a slice of soap to the surface. When a tiny piece of white solid emerged around the bend, I would holler at my roommate, “Get it! Catch it! Quick!” This did not work the first hundred times.

The toilet bowl water was by now a bubble bath. “I think the soap has melted,” my roommate said. “No it hasn’t,” I hissed, “it’s still there. I can feel it.” With my spear in hand, and the delicate touch of an island fisherman, I once again raised a white blob. If we had been bringing in a trophy-winning swordfish or marlin from the deep blue sea, we could not have maneuvered with greater intensity.
“Hold it!” I screamed. “Move to the right.” “Gently.” “Grab it” and then it was in my roommate’s hand. The first piece.

No wonder fishermen drink.

So it continued. Finally, at last, both slimy pieces retrieved. Sweat poured off of me. The toilet was very clean and my roommate and I were giggly with relief. We cheered when we flushed.

Later that evening, I wondered if this would be one of those memories I look back on with nostalgia. I’m trying to picture telling my nieces and nephews the story of the day. Auntie E fished soap out of the toilet. Would they giggle? Roll their eyes? Would it help them stay on the straight and narrow? Would I have moments when I missed such an eccentric bathroom arrangement where reaching for the toilet paper is a contortionist act that frequently results in smashing one’s funny bone or when every flush is monitored closely with pleasing prayers?

I can remember not so long ago when the bathroom arrangement made me sob with fury and humiliation. Now it’s just another story–outlandish or useful–you pick. Like Moby Dick." (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, March 15, 2007)

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. This column is one of a series, published under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'