by Beth Harden
“Have a sparkling day!” he calls out. “Be safe out there!”
I lift a hand in a mocking salute and continue down past Medical, Commissary, and the Religious Services areas. These offices are all part of a network of little hives hidden in a honeycomb architecture of closed doors and immobile plate-glass. When mass movement is underway, swarms of bodies try to force their way into these sealed chambers.
“Hey Miss A! What up?”
“Mornin’ counselor.”
“Ms. Abrams. Can I just ask you about…?”
But before I can even acknowledge them, the men are brushed off and waved on by the rovers who view them as nothing but insistent pests. I walk faster, trying to project confidence, setting my eyes just above the heads of the prisoners who amble down the yellow line, nodding at each but connecting to none. Suddenly all passage is blocked by several lieutenants who use their rank and size to flag foot traffic to a halt. They wave me into the nearest open door, which turns out to be access to the admitting unit. Four members of the outside clearance work crew are suited up in their designated orange vests and are seated on a wooden bench trying on random boots.
“What size you wear, buddy?” asks Property Officer Packer.
“Eleven,” replies an older convict who looks like he’s been sucking up the dust and gravel of the Bay State since before the original colony charter was written.
“Let’s see…” says the officer as he scours the numbered shelves. “Well, nine and a half is your lucky number today,” he says and thumps down some battered steel toes on the counter. Suddenly the radio call for a lockdown comes through and now the frustrated workers are trapped in here as well. The Department of Transportation vans will have to turn back without them. This means a loss of a whole day’s pay, the equivalent of two soups and a honey bun. These are the inconveniences that become routine for those on both sides of this hazardous duty life.
“Stand back now!” orders Officer Packer. “No one’s going anywhere.” The metallic shudder of moving gates begins as they bump down the ancient tracks. From the bowels of the building comes the throttle of pounding feet and chaotic shouts. The K-9 dogs take up the chorus and shrill barking echoes down the hallway. Even on its most uneventful day, the atmosphere is charged with noise amped up on the throttle of unleashed testosterone, the driving energy on both sides of the bars. Power, and the struggle to take it back. A slew of uniformed guards converge on the mainline from every direction: the officer’s mess, the john and the visiting room. Some cross-fit champions close the gap in a few bounds; while others in less good shape waddle in a power-walk with radios slapping against their flabby thighs. Despite the pissing contests and flagrant competition among custody clan, when shit hits the fan they move as a choreographed team on a united mission. I’ve got your back is their pledge of allegiance in action. The group runs en masse down towards the scene of the disturbance. Under these circumstances, counselors head straight to the hall keeper’s desk to await instructions.
Inner control has activated the alarm and effectively closed off the four spokes that point like a compass to the far corners of the facility. North to the ticket block, south to the industries wing, each direction leading to an eventual dead-end. The inmates are herded back several paces from the gates and mill about expectantly. To them, a lock-down means that someone in their midst has dared to step out of line or step off the yellow line of obedience that runs down the center and has brought welcome disruption to the monotony of routine.
“Back up! Get the fuck back!”yell the rovers as each unit is safely secured and the stragglers are corralled away from the area.
“Hey, Packer! What’s going on?” I ask. The portly officer shrugs.
“Some kind of fight. Hold on…” The radio on his belt buzzes with instructions dispatched from Main Control and he turns his attention to the signals. “Yep, Code Blue.” The response time is noticeably slower if it is an inmate-on-inmate assault; the thinking being, let the two bastards exhaust themselves and get in a few good shots before breaking it up. It’s custody’s passive-aggressive way to settle past peeves.
“No wait! Now it’s a Code Orange,” announces Packer. Suddenly the entire place erupts into high gear. Staff is taught to be always on alert and ever vigilant. The moment one props a foot against a wall, drops his glance or turns her back might just be that one time the poor fool wakes up to find his or her skull turned into a cracked mosaic.
“Abrams, hang here with me. Grab the camera!” he shouts over the static of radio shatter. I allow the adrenaline of the moment to force my training to the forefront. While my brain instantly comprehends that there is no negotiation room in an edict built on safety-first protocol, there’s always that split-second of hesitation. The momentary doubt is an involuntary by-product of my traumatic past. Follow the last order given. The lieutenant made that clear from the very first day at the Academy. So rather than run towards the fray as all cadets and counselors are trained to do, I sprint to the captain’s office as instructed and return with the hand-held video recorder.
The explosion of decibels swiftly settles into a lull of uneasy silence. A stretcher with a lone defibrillator aboard races by with two frantic nurses pushing hard. I power up the camcorder and catch a grainy splice of the action as the medical team reappears with an officer strapped to a rolling gurney. Apparently he was caught up in the melee and took several hits to the chest and neck. Following close on its heels, an RN in scrubs pushes an empty wheelchair behind its intended occupant who refuses to use it and chooses instead to parade proudly down the corridor with hands cuffed and elbows in an escort position. A crimson wrap of sodden gauze is temporarily holding his face together. I train the lens on their movements as they make their way to the door of the hospital unit. There they are met by a battalion of guards with another video recorder in tow that will document the reception inmate 88463 will receive behind closed doors, unless it is inadvertently turned off.
The clock ticks off long minutes while we wait for the ‘all clear’ announcement. I settle my back up against the concrete wall, glad that I thought to tuck a water bottle in my briefcase. This prison was built a half-century earlier, its interior walls and window frames painted the same battleship-grey that coated the lockers and radiators of my grammar school and made me sea sick back then. I peer out through the squares of stationary glass to the far end of the concrete recreation yard. There is a baseball diamond surrounded by an impressive display of effulgent barbed wire four rolls deep, one for every risk level. It is the home field of the maximum-security team. The fallow ground was turned over to Bay State Officials by some old farmer who buckled under the pressure, threshed down his cow corn and handed over the deed. It’s doubtful he knew his heirloom holdings would be cultivated for sport and carved up not by cleats but by government-issued boots on the feet of violent base runners. A few hundred yards beyond the last outpost is a cul-de-sac of modest homes with their backs turned to this eyesore of a tax drain. A thin line of wispy cypress trees provides a visual screen of sorts. I watch a young middle-school girl roll sand under her sneakers as the school bus slowly shuttles its way through the flickering breaks in the trees. I was that girl once, kicking gravel pebbles into the culvert, tossing sidelong glances at the lustful boys who reached over the barricade of seat-back to pull my ponytail or press gum into my braid. A little girl who had no idea that the lurid reach of evil was only a lawn-span away, one hurdle over a gatepost; and that it would arrive only a few short years later, walking right up the flagstone path to leave its bloody calling card. I wish I could warn that neighborhood kid to choose her seat wisely, to be wary of slick boys whose address of residence could just as easily change to 612 Kennedy Drive, Hazen Correctional Facility overnight. That precious little preteen might just end up emotionally homeless and permanently camped out in confusion, afraid to lay her head back on a pillow and close off sight for fear she’d wake back up to a world that no longer recognized her. Just
like me.
“Keep to the side!” repeats the line of officers along the right hand wall as staff is finally given right of way. The stench of ammonia begins to seep through the facility. Word ripples out quickly. Hall worker Ruiz raced up to a rival King who was waiting in the med line and sliced his brow from hairline to jawbone rupturing his eyeball with a fisted razor. A swath of blood still staggers in bursts down the length of the corridor marking the victim’s retreat like a Hansel and Gretel trail for the cleaning crew to follow.
In the wake of the ordeal, I feel that all-too frequent loss of equilibrium, the immediate sensation that the earth’s geologic plates have shifted underfoot and threaten to tip me over backwards. When I have to act, I do so with the objectivity and cool composure that this profession requires. The amygdala, an almond-shaped trigger in the brain, does its job of sensing threats and sending out the alarm, but up in the pre-frontal cortex, operations are less efficient. The control switch is broken. The declination from this high point of arousal will be an uncontrollable and bumpy ride back down. I walk slowly towards my office intending to eat the oatmeal that must have cooled to the viscosity of wallpaper paste by now. An elderly black inmate with white stubble on both chin and cheeks is down on his knees swabbing up plasma with a spill kit. He bobs his head in deference to the female that approaches.
“You drive safely now, ma’am,” he says amicably. He’s been in here so long he’s lost sense of the sun’s direction or any tell of time.
“Hey, Mr. Davenport. Look up! It’s a good a day in the making.” I gesture to the stationery skylights that grant a geometric peek at the azure morning sky.
“Every day’s a good day in the land of the living,” he says in a hushed prayer-like voice. Is it institutional sanity or pure blind faith that makes a man squeeze this rasher of positive wisdom out of such mayhem? I think of the unnamed felon whose sight has been cut away. With nothing but a blood red horizon in view, he bit down hard on his pain and refused to give up the ghost or the name of his nemesis. If he ever does return, it will be as a man. But there is irrefutable truth in this elder’s prescription of gratitude. I am living proof of it.
“See you tomorrow,” I say to the kneeling patriarch.
“Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise,” replies the old man without looking up.
CHAPTER 3: THE WAY LIFE SHOULD BE
I am nervous before the start of every new class. It doesn’t make logical sense but by nature, anxiety is half-rooted in the hysterical. The feeling is reminiscent of the age-old dread of walking in a short skirt past a leering crew of construction workers, that same self-conscious swallow when vulgar thoughts start careening through their brains and erupt as whistles on lusty lips. When I started this job, my initial strategy was to stay seated behind the desk. It was a coward’s attempt to conceal my femininity behind the battered, monstrous piece of metal furniture; but after awhile, I felt stifled in my delivery. So I decided to stand periodically, even daring myself to approach the rank and file that sat dead-still with hands out for their homework assignments. Finally, I came out of my careful cocoon altogether, snagged a nub of chalk and took my place at the blackboard. No doubt the dozen pairs of eyeballs were still busy scanning rump, thighs and breasts each time I turned to scribble important concepts or challenge them to define words that were likely brand new additions to their vocabulary. Eventually, it didn’t matter if they were perusing my body parts. There’s no quelling the natural desires of men constrained to celibacy. There were no winners or losers in this peeping match. I get to see them at their absolute worst, stripped down, shower-less, stinking of cheap detergent and stale socks. The playing field had been leveled.
Today, the classroom is as swampy as a Roman bath house and likely there are as many infectious germs brooding on the worn surfaces of the mix-and-match chairs. Several squares of thin glass are cracked or missing altogether, allowing roaming insects to abscond and surrender at whim. Flies crawl freely along the halogen tubes in the overhead lighting. The men straggle in sporadically. While it is mandatory for the inmate to be punctual, it all hinges on the arbitrary decision of the officer on duty who may or may not be in the mood for complying on any given day. I watch carefully as each man enters the doorway and sizes up the other occupants in the room before choosing a safe seat. A dozen dynamics are at play in this simple move. Questions race through his mind. Does he owe any other dude money? Is there a rival set represented? Did that guy disrespect him just the other day? Are any of his boys in here? I do my best at flavoring the pot by mixing youth with age and black with white, but there is no sure way to know if the recipe will meld or boil over. It’s an imperfect science at best.
“Name?” I ask, as a tall African-American slows his swagger and postures in the center of the dirty floor. He does not look me in the eyes.
“Noble,” he replies tightly.
“Last name, I mean.”
“I AM,” he states loudly. “I am NOBLE I AM.” He speaks with unbending pride reminiscent of Alex Haley’s television tribe. I straighten up from the attendance sheet to regard him. He is dead serious and the urge to snicker at his bold announcement is quelled in the throats of his inferiors as turns his bulk and glares in their direction.
“Wow! Isn’t that also the name of the Old Testament god?” I ask. He gives me a scouring look of dismissal.
“I ain’t no Jew,” he hisses.
“If he was Hebrew, it would read backwards. It would be AM I Noble? Better question,” pipes in a balding older gentleman in a wheelchair who has just rounded the door jam and backed into his handicapped slot by the door. He is thin and wiry in frame, his face divided and dominated by a nose that looks as if it was snapped in a spar and has taken a downward plunge at the middle of the bridge before righting itself by tip’s end. It engulfs most of the pointed face below his sparkling blue eyes.
“And you are?”
“Mr. Zimmer,” he replies cordially.
“Fine. Take a seat, Mr. I AM,” I reply. Three other prospective students are already staked out along the far wall. One of them is monkeying with the window latch trying to angle the pane wider and allow more fresh air to dribble in. I wait until the remainder of participants have arrived and arranged themselves in a semi-circle formation around the perimeter. The reticence and distrust is palpable. Although rules require inmates to wear their full tans, I am sympathetic to the unrelenting humidity and allow them to stay in their dingy, short-sleeved tees rather than send them back on a pass to retrieve their over-shirts. The saving grace of this half-century old fortress is the more humane architectural decision which includes apertures that drop on heavy metal hinge to allow open air flow. Unfortunately, this barrack-type design of two-tier blocks prevents little exchange of oxygen outside the cells. I suddenly feel a draft and fasten the top button on my blouse. I read off the next guy with a stab at his last name.The mispronunciation is gently corrected.
“Ma-green-ee. Just so’s you know,” says Serge Magrini.
“My apology. I’m not up to snuff on my Italian,” I say. He puffs up a few degrees, swelling his upper torso with some forced pressure on his biceps and pectorals, pleased that I have identified his nationality. Not as easy a task as it sounds since Mr. Magrini has hazel eyes, dark auburn curls and a fair complexion. He’s a far cry from any Sicilian stereotype, no flinging arms, loud raucous bellow, stocky frame or swarthy machismo; not yet, anyway.
“If you ask around, I’m known as Pop. The cops and all the kids in here call me that. These days, we’re old at fuckin’ fifty, you know what I mean? One year from now, my sorry self will be down in the Old-Timer’s block,” says Serge. Is he indicating complicity in this generational thing? Do I look his age?
“It’s decent down in the Annex, my man. No young bucks down there to disrupt our reading. We’ve got the New York Times on the desk every morning. You’ll like it,” says Zimmer. Serge regards him with a sideways glance. The guy in the wheelchair looks to be ab
out sixty-five or seventy. Silver stubble has crept like underbrush across his Adam’s apple, his chin, his cheeks, spreads around the circumference of his chicken neck and on down to the nape of his dirty cotton shirt His knuckles are knobby with rheumatoid arthritis that has likely stiffened the major joints of his skinny hips and sharp knees.
“What you in for, bud?” asks Serge.
“Sales, Manufacture, Possession of Narcotics within 1500 feet of a School,” brags the elder man. “Oh yeah, and Assault on an Officer,” he adds, beaming. Not a bad resume for a crippled Jew originally from Jefferson City, Long Island.
“Serious? You know how to make that shit?” says Serge.
“Sorry to interrupt. We need to move on. I prefer Serge over Pop if that works for you,” I say. The two men comply with my request and settle back in their seats with a subtle nod of alliance. I pick up again from there and check off the remaining students by housing location. By the third session, I’ll have their surnames memorized and most of their numbers. My memory is eerie that way, a bizarre talent I acquired A.D. (After Damage); this penchant for recording digits in a photographic flash and then linking the numerals by affixing them with the face that will carry them for life. It’s my own little handy identity count, though I’ve learned to withhold use of numbers when I address them. There’s no faster way to alienate a crowd of skeptical customers than to separate them from their pride, be it a formal Christian one on their baptismal certificate or the nickname that is their calling card of the street. Everything rides on that name, their most powerful identifier.