I waited for him to crack a smile, thinking he was joking, but he wasn’t. The following day, I was interviewed by the X- ray Tech herself.
Her name was Sylvia, small in stature, but big in words. With shoulder length black hair and a flawless olive complexion (obviously Hispanic), she wore no make-up and baggy scrubs, most likely to shun any thoughts of sexuality, but it didn’t work. I needed this job and had to keep focused on the interview.
As her perfect lips asked questions, I mixed the truth with what I knew she wanted to hear, hoping for a much-needed good impression.
“Okay, Hector (her Asst.) still has another week before he goes on S-time (no work 10 days before parole) you’ll be hearing from me.” Thanks to Dooby, in just a little over a month, I was in a dorm and in line for not just a job, but a good freakin job.
2 weeks had passed with no word when I ran into Hector walking the track, he’d been on S-time for a couple days and lacked any knowledge on the status of my employment. I began to wonder if maybe I’d failed the last hurdle (the interview with Sylvia). The very next day I received a work-slip to the X-ray Dept. Walking to the Medical facility for my first day of work, I was so happy, I could have done a freakin cartwheel in the snow. This time my experience in the infirmary was different, instead of waiting in that miserable line for medical attention, I was escorted straight back to the X-ray Dept., where Sylvia was waiting to give me the opening tour.
“Okay, your job is fairly simple, I take the pictures and you develop them. You’ll be expected to keep the floors swept and mopped and everything tidy. Oh, by the way, can you type?” Before I could answer, “Don’t worry, you’ll learn.” Next, she took me in the dark room; “When the door is shut, the red light on the outside comes on, which tells others you’re developing. When you’re developing, no-one, I mean no-one can enter.” “Not even correctional officers?” “Nope, no-one, any exposure of light will ruin the film.” So, there I was, the door shut, the outside red light on, all alone in that tiny room with Sylvia. I watched carefully while she went step by step through the developing procedure. “Okay, now you give it try.” With the room completely dark except for the faint glow of a power switch, she got behind me.
Smelling of bubble gum, I could feel her warm breath on the back of my neck. Something was developing alright, and it wasn’t an X-ray.
CHAPTER 18
Now May of 2003, with the snow months gone, the real beauty of the Tehachapi mountains was truly revealed. A constant subtle breeze kept the skies clear of any clouds and an orange blanket of California Poppy’s covered the meadows and hillsides divulging a new season. Truly nature at its finest, not only were the 4 seasons gorgeous here, but also seemed to aid the months in moving swiftly.
Things were going well at work making it my favorite place to be. Sylvia and I had formed what I would describe as a trusting relationship. Though it was kept on a completely professional level, we seemingly had become friends and often found ourselves consulting each other on personal issues.
Sylvia had pretty much given me free rein over the dark room allowing me to transform it into my own personal mini gym when not developing X-rays. There was closet filled with numerous sandbags assorted in weight. The handles on the bags easily slipped over the ends of a mop handle making the perfect curl bar.
Along with an extensive push-up routine, the sandbag curls quickly added size to my arms much faster than any pull-up bar could do on the yard. She also had a radio-cassette player that I toted from the office to the dark room, giving me tunes no matter what I was doing. Along with developing X-rays, my typing skills rose to around 40 words a minute, which I know isn’t great, but considering I’d never touched a typewriter before, it wasn’t bad.
This was by far the best job I’d ever had. I used to hate people that said “I love my job” because I thought they were freakin liars, but for once in my life I could say I loved my job and really meant it. When the yard was on lockdown, Sylvia would call me in just to free me from captivity. Yep, I loved that job, too bad it only paid 8 cents an hour.
At the end of the month, Dee came up for our first Tehachapi family visit. Though the rules were the same, the visiting quarters were set up completely different. Looking more like a cheap hotel, the worn-down 2-story building had apartments on both floors.
To the left of the structure was small playground rendering a rusty swing set and a sand box keeping visiting children occupied while their parents handled business. Though forbidden by prison policy, the layout made it easy to intermingle with other couples and even hang out in each other’s rooms.
On the yard, I’d heard tale of wife swapping and orgies occurring on family visits, (which I thought to be bullshit) but now I understood how it could be possible. Unlike Donovan, where each little apartment was enclosed and separated from others, this place was wide open.
Entering the one-bedroom apartment with the best intentions, Dee quickly became distraught.
Once the groceries were put away, we watched a little T.V. and soon after, made love. It was different this time, she was thin, and her body felt frail, though she tried to satisfy, her lack of enthusiasm was obvious. When done, we both laid there staring at the ceiling, and like times before, no words were said.
We watched a lot of T.V. that weekend and the few conversations we shared revolved around her wants and needs. Right before my eyes, I could see our relationship deteriorating. I wanted it to work out, but I knew with me being locked up, things would be difficult to fix. As the visit came to an end, I waved good-bye as the white van drove her away wondering if I’d ever see her again. These visits were designed to strengthen and prolong a prison marriage, instead of strength, I felt weakness, for the first time I doubted if our marriage would last.
As I returned to the dorm, I couldn’t help but notice a flyer on the bulletin board advertising “The Spring Bike Show, presented by the Protestant chapel featuring the Peacemakers biker fellowship.” I was aware of these so called “Christian biker clubs” and considered them to be bullshit. As far as I was concerned, they were nothing but a bunch of freakin wannabes that couldn’t make the grade in a real 1% club who hid behind the Bible when confronted. Later that evening while walking off dinner, surprisingly Dooby seemed excited about the upcoming bike show and explained the details.
The Peacemakers were a Christian M.C. (biker fellowship) from “The New Wine Church” out of Orange County California. Visiting 3 times a year, they would line their bikes up on the yard for all to see. While Inmates and convicts voted on the best bikes, the Peacemakers and their ole ladies would mingle with inmates preaching the word of God.
After the bike contest, they would join the general population for lunch in the chow hall, followed by a service at the Protestant chapel.
Almost everyone on the yard would squeeze into the tiny prison chapel, not because they were Christians, but to watch a few decent looking women sing worship songs, closing with a sermon from the club president (Pastor Bob). Well, I knew Dooby sure wasn’t a Christian, but he was a freakin pervert. For him, the show was all about the Harleys and the ole ladies. Shit, who could blame him, he hadn’t been laid in 15 years.
When the day of the show arrived, instead of going back to the dorms after breakfast as usual, crowds of all races lingered on the yard in anticipation. Though there was a definite buzz of excitement, I wasn’t feeling it. I’d been with the MONGOLS (real 1% ers) since I was 19 and wasn’t about to waste my time with a bunch of fake-ass bible thumpers. Like any other Saturday morning, I returned to the dorm, changing into my sweats, I headed to the back yard to workout.
The usually crowded workout area (except for a couple of black inmates) was abandon. After jogging a lap around the track to warm up, I started my routine with some dips. On my 2nd set, I heard the thundering sound of Harleys echoing through the mountain canyon. Though the familiar sound had been a major part of life for years, it had been a while since I’d heard it. My loyalty to the MONGOL
S (true 1% ers) made me try to ignore it, but it’s magneticity pulled me in. Like a sharp knife, my curiosity whittled at my pride, I couldn’t fight it, I had to see where the sound was coming from.
Rounding the corner of the dorms entering the front yard, I could see the small pack of bikes waiting at the gate to get checked in. Due to the un-supervised contact between the Peacemakers and inmates, hypothetically it would have been easy to exchange drugs, weapons or cash. This was why the small group endured 35 minutes of extensive bike searching, frisking and dope sniffing dogs before being allowed to enter the yard.
Finally, as the main gate slowly opened, the napping Harleys suddenly awoke with thunder. Excited inmates and convicts clapped and cheered as the 20-bike pack aggressively entered the yard. Though this wasn’t my club, the roaring pack made me smile with memories. I watched as they neatly lined their bikes up and dismounted.
This being my first encounter, I was aware they’d been here many times before, which explained their familiarity with specific inmates.
One by one I checked out each bike especially admiring the few that had been customized. The Peacemaker members were friendly and more than willing to brag about their bikes to those that were interested.
Dooby always meant well but had a habit of giving out a little too much in formation introducing me to Pastor Bob and a few others as JUNIOR the ex- National President of the MONGOLS. Surprisingly unlike most people, they didn’t seem to be that impressed, which I respected.
After a couple ours of mingling, the Peacemakers and their ole ladies joined the rest of the yard for lunch. With everyone packing into the tiny chow hall, the Peacemakers gladly grabbed their free plates of state food and with no prejudice shared tables with inmates.
Instead of the normal slop, lunch for that day had obviously been upgraded for the guests, consisting of a decent sized chicken breast saturated in a ketchup-based bar-b-cue sauce, a half of corn cob, a small square of cornbread and a dab of potato salad.
With my tray in hand, I scanned the overly crowed chow hall for a place to sit when in the far corner, Dooby’s flailing hand caught my attention. As I sat down, Dooby introduced me to Peacemaker R.J. and his ole lady Sharon. “Hey, how’s it goin” was all I said before I dove into that dry-ass piece of chicken. While R.J. and Dooby swapped bullshit, I stuffed my face.
After chow, we headed back out to the yard to check out R.J.’s bike he’d so proudly boasted about. “That’s mine right there,” acting interested, I listened as he described in detail the upgraded motor work he’d done himself. Though I braced myself for it, not once did he try to preach the gospel, and except for the lack of numerous f-words it was almost like talking to one of my MONGOL brothers.
After another hour of mingling, I was invited to follow the crowd to the prison chapel for what R.J. described as worship. Going to the chapel wasn’t my thing and attending church while in prison was frowned upon by convicts and considered to be sign of weakness. It was true that many inmates with questionable charges often hid behind the bible to avoid confrontation, but because of R.J.’s authentic conversation, I felt somewhat obligated to attend. I didn’t give a shit what others thought, my affiliation was no secret, and either were my charges, I figured if anyone had a problem with it, they knew where to find me.
Entering the chapel, I found it to be standing room only, lucky enough R.J.’s ole lady (Sharon) had saved some seats about 5 rows from the stage. Like I said before, church wasn’t my thing, being raised Catholic as a kid, my memories of church were that of sitting on a hard-wooden bench for 2 hours listening to a priest babble in some foreign language (Latin) I couldn’t understand, and not to mention being forced to submit to an angry freakin Nun every Sunday for catechism.
But on the other hand, I do recall getting drunk for the first time on a tall can of Coors beer at my Confirmation party (eight years old).
Now comfortably seated, within minutes, a 3-piece rock n roll band began to do some serious jamming. The lead guitarist armed with a Fender Stratocaster ripped it up. This wasn’t the way I remembered church, this was more like a mini concert. After the initial jam, the music mellowed, and numerous women took turns singing gospel songs with a rock n roll twist. I was impressed, these gals could freakin sing.
After the music, Pastor Bob took the stage. I found it intriguing how this long-haired bearded biker had his own approach on preaching the Word. This way of church was far more interesting than what I’d been subjected to in my youth, the whole experience was quite enjoyable.
CHAPTER 19
The summer 2003 arrived quickly bringing yet another season to the Tehachapi mountains. It was crazy how a place that was so cold only months earlier, had suddenly changed to sweltering days. During Daylight Savings Time, the yard stayed open later, which gave me plenty of time to walk off my dinner and enjoy the warm summer evenings.
Due to constant custody changes throughout the state prison system, Tehachapi State Prison received new inmates almost every day. With Dooby working in the watch office, he was privy to the new arrival list, which had its benefits. Not only would I get firsthand information on the arrival of any potential enemies, but also allies.
During an evening stroll, I heard Dooby call my name in the distance, waiting for him to gain, he approached out of breath. “There’s another MONGOL here, you got another brother here.” “Did you get a name?” “Yeah, Richard something, it was Mexican last name.”
As we headed in the direction of the gym, I wondered who it was, “Richard something” could be anybody.
Aware a bus had arrived from Corcoran State Prison earlier that day, I didn’t know of any other MONGOLS that were housed there, not to mention, I hardly knew any of the brothers by their real names. Dooby said this guy was a Mexican, shit, more than half the club were Mexicans. Whoever he was, there was a possibility he might not even be a MONGOL, maybe just an affiliate, or for that matter, just another prison liar.
Entering the crowded gym, I anxiously headed to the far side (the Mexican section). From the end of each row, I searched for a familiar face. Since I was a Wood and wasn’t housed in the gym, to boldly walk down a Mexican row looking from bunk to bunk, could easily be misconstrued as an act of disrespect. When I hit the 3rd row, about half way down, I saw him making his bunk, “TWEETY!”
Some years earlier (when on the streets), I had taken 13 hand-picked brothers (known as the California 13) to Tulsa Oklahoma to deal with a renegade chapter. Though the mission was achieved with no violence, these 13 brothers willingly traveled across-country in rented vehicles to support and uphold our MONGOL constitution, TWEETY was one of these brothers. Now, not only did I now have a MONGOL brother on the yard , but one I could trust and depend on.
Within a week, we got TWEETY moved into Dorm 8 (my dorm) which was quite convenient. During evenings we ate chow together and reminisced of old times while strolling the yard, and in the case of a dorm lock down, I now had a domino and spades partner.
Due to extensive prison overcrowding jobs became sparse. Getting a job, and one that paid, wasn’t only about having connections, but timing, it was all about being in the right place at the right time.
Though Dooby and I did our best exhausting all resources, we were futile in finding TWEETY a job. Maybe it was my constant bragging about how lucrative my welding career had been on the streets, and that I had learned the trade while incarcerated, that inspired TWEETY to enroll in a vocational welding class, even though it didn’t pay, it would keep him occupied and payoff after he paroled.
Having a MONGOL brother on the yard for the most part was great, but when it came to prison politics, there were some serious concerns. Not so much for me and TWEETY, but for the Mexicans. The issue was, I was a Wood and TWEETY was Mexican. The Mexicans ran a strict program, in case of a riot it was mandatory that they all stand and fight or suffer the consequences, which was what they referred to as “getting regulated” (an ass whipping) or worse depending on the situation
. Everyone on the yard knew TWEETY and I were MONGOL brothers and we’d fight side by side, but the concern was, what if the shit jumped off between the Woods and Mexicans? What would we do?
Even though we were MONGOL brothers, when incarcerated, prison politics had to be considered. The Woods didn’t seem overly concerned about this issue, but the Mexicans pressed hard for an answer. To me and TWEETY, the answer was simple. If it were a club issue, we’d handle it together, but if the unfortunate circumstance of a riot between the Mexicans and Woods were to occur, we’d fight with our own race but not against each other. Though understood this was still a complicated issue, our simple explanation seemed to suffice those concerned for the time being.
By September 2003, Dee returned for another family visit. The first half of the day seemed to go well until a discussion ensued about a new car.
Dee complained that the payments on the Dodge Ram were too much. Her idea was to trade it in on a brand new smaller sportier car, to make her payments more affordable. My answer was “Freakin ridiculous!” First and foremost, that was my freakin dream truck. You gotta remember, I sold my bike and along with a small savings, left her with about 15,000 in cash specifically to cover the truck payments during my short 28-month incarceration. The discussion escalated into a full-blown argument suddenly making Dee ill. “I feel sick and I wanna go home.” “Hey, for the next day you’re stuck here behind these prison walls just like me, and you aint goin nowhere.”
Like two-year old kid, she began to throw a tantrum; “I wanna go home, I wanna go home!”
Her extreme anxiety caused her to puke and hyperventilate, demanding I immediately call for emergency help. Reluctantly, I called the watch office from the room, and within minutes, an R.N. from the infirmary arrived. As Dee lay on the couch, the nurse took her vitals and found nothing wrong. “I wanna go home” Dee whimpered. Looking at me with a sympathetic smile, the nurse rolled her eyes and validated what I’d said earlier; “Sorry Mam, you can’t leave until tomorrow.”
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