by Lexie Ray
“What kind of meeting?” I asked, my suspicions—and curiosity—raised.
“AA,” she said. “Alcoholics Anonymous. Of course, we’re not terribly anonymous here in prison, but it doesn’t much matter. We don’t get much privacy anyway.”
“I don’t have a problem with alcohol,” I said, my hackles raised.
“Says the woman who spent the first two days in prison in solitary because she binged on so much hooch that it made her have screaming hallucinations,” Marlee said serenely. “That’s denial, Wanda.”
“You know, I’m pretty tired, sugar,” I said, having to fight to keep the acid out of my voice. “I think I’m going to lie down for a while.”
“You’re avoiding your problem,” Marlee said.
“There’s no problem to avoid!” I shouted, at the end of my rope. I didn’t like these suggestions and innuendos. I didn’t have a problem with alcohol. I didn’t. I flopped down on my bed and rolled over to face the wall, away from Marlee. One little incident with prison hooch and I had people assuming I was alcoholic. It made me defensive and irritable.
Then again, I had lost the memory of two whole days because of it, some voice inside me whispered. I’d thought I had sex with Johnny French again. I thought I was explaining myself to my son. I thought I was talking with Cocoa, whom I hadn’t seen since she left the nightclub. What had all of that been?
“Wanda, tell you what,” Marlee said, putting her arm on my shoulder gently. “I’m sorry we got off to the wrong foot. If you promise to just go to one meeting with me, I promise to never mention this again to you. I know that it can be a sensitive subject. I know that very well.”
“What if I don’t want to go to a meeting?” I asked, my pillow muffling my voice.
“Then I’ll keep bugging you about it,” Marlee said cheerfully. “What do you think is the root of your alcoholism? Family troubles? Men troubles? Women troubles? I started drinking shortly after the rape, so there’s no mystery there. It’s a lot easier once you pinpoint what made you start drinking. You want to talk about it?”
No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to talk about anything related to drinking unless it was where and when I could get my next buzz.
“One meeting,” I said. “One meeting and you won’t bother me again?”
“That’s the deal.”
“And I don’t have to talk or do anything stupid?”
“You can sit there with your eyes closed, if that’s what you want to do,” Marlee said.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go to one meeting. Is that enough to get you to stop talking about it?”
“Yep,” she said happily. “The next meeting is Tuesday afternoon—you just missed today’s. You have a week to figure out if you want to say anything. A week to look forward to learning more about your disease.”
“Super,” I lied. “Let’s stop talking about it, now.”
The next week passed by in fits and starts. I felt extremely irritable, like Marlee or Pitt were about to assault me at every turn with accusations of alcoholism, but they both stayed blissfully silent on the subject. I wondered if Marlee told my corrections officer that I’d agreed to go to a meeting.
Instead, I had a meeting with Pitt to talk about the activities I could get involved with.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said, folding his hands over my file as we sat in his office. “Not about what you’re in here for, what you did or didn’t do. About yourself. Your past.”
That made me uncomfortable. “There’s not much to tell,” I hedged. “Pretty typical upbringing, I guess.”
“What’s a typical upbringing to you?” Pitt asked.
I shrugged and shook my head, thinking about it. “I don’t know. There just wasn’t anything special about it. I did the best I could for myself. That’s it.”
“This isn’t meant to be an interrogation,” he said, “and I’m not trying to pry. I’m just trying to assess where you’d work best here at the prison, and what other service you might benefit from.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s easy, then. I really like cooking and I’m good at it, too. I’d do really well in the kitchen, I think.”
Pitt hesitated. “Wanda, the thing is, we need to be able to trust the inmates who work in the kitchen the most,” he said. “You don’t really inspire a lot of confidence after your stunt with the hooch.”
Shit. That drunken night was going to haunt me. I started to curse Willow and her brewing prowess until I remembered that she was locked up in a maximum security facility. From what I heard, that was no fieldtrip. Inmates there had to stay in their cells for nearly the entire day.
“What else could I do if not that?” I asked. “Cooking’s what I can do.”
“What are your other skills?” Pitt asked.
I pressed my lips together. I could run a brothel. I could turn a trick. But I don’t think that’s what he wanted to hear.
“Really, cooking’s it,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m a one-trick pony.”
“What did you do for work before you came here?” Pitt asked.
“That’s kind of why I’m here,” I admitted. “It wasn’t legal.”
“Well, let’s try to ferret out the legal skills you might have gleaned from it,” he said. “Did you manage people?”
If we were being totally honest, Cocoa did most of the managing. I was her manager, though, and I kept the bouncers in line and the entertainment lined up.
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I did. Sort of.”
“Management experience,” Pitt said, writing it down. “Perfect. What else? Did you organize things? Keep files? Anything like that?”
“I managed the money coming in,” I said. “Is that something?”
“Yes, of course,” Pitt said. “Money skills. Excellent. Now, talk to me about your education. Any time in college?”
I snorted. “I dropped out,” I said. “So zero college. Barely any high school.”
“I bet you’d be interested in our GED program,” Pitt said, making a note in my file.
“What’s that?”
“GED,” he said. “It’s the equivalent to getting a high school diploma, once you complete the program and the tests. Would you like to do that?”
Back in my youth, street smarts had been much more important than book smarts. I’d never seen a need to get my high school diploma, which is why I dropped out to pursue … other matters. But there was something interesting about getting the equivalent of my diploma now. I figured prison was the place to do it. What else would I be doing instead?
“Okay,” I said. “Sure. That sounds good.”
“And once you get your GED, you can start taking other courses,” Pitt said. “We have accounting classes, business classes, anything you’re interested in. There’s also a pretty good creative writing class that’s really popular with the rest of the inmates. We can see if there’s any room for you in that.”
“I don’t do creative writing,” I said, shaking my head quickly. “I don’t really do any writing.”
“There’ll be some writing involved for the GED,” Pitt said. “Who knows? You might figure out that you like it.”
“We’ll see,” I said doubtfully.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Pitt said, tapping his pen against the desk. “I’d like to start you off in a position in the commissary. You said you’re good with money and numbers.”
“Yes ….”
“There would be no money changing hands,” he said. “It doesn’t work like that. There are accounts for inmates’ money, but it’s all virtual. Like a bank account.”
“I understand.”
“There aren’t many inmates with that kind of skill set,” Pitt continued. “Try working at the commissary. If you can prove yourself there, maybe we’ll think about moving you to kitchen. I know that’s what you really want, but you have to sort of prove yourself, Wanda. Prove that you’re not just someone who gets wasted off of hooch and makes scenes.”
&n
bsp; I flushed. I would never, never escape this. “I’m um, going to a meeting with Marlee,” I offered. Anything to keep him from mentioning my transgression again.
“That’s wonderful,” Pitt said, sounding genuinely pleased. “That’s a good first step, Wanda. Just get yourself there. You’ll see. AA has changed lives. It changed my life.”
“You, too?”
Pitt nodded. “It’s a pretty stressful job being a corrections officer,” he said. “Maybe not as stressful as being an inmate, but pretty close. I was relying on alcohol too much to relax, and my family was suffering.”
My eyes fell to the photograph of the happy, smiling family on Pitt’s desk. Every family had its problems, it seemed.
“Admitting there’s a problem is the first step,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve made it.”
I held my hands up. “I’m just going to a meeting to see what it’s all about,” I said. “I’m not sure that there’s a problem at this point.”
“That’s fine,” Pitt said, the beginnings of a smile curving the corners of his mouth upward. “You just get yourself to a meeting. See what you think.”
“All right,” I said, trying to tamp down the squirming feeling inside of me. I’d do anything for some more hooch. There had to be someone else brewing it somewhere. It was a big prison.
Most of all, it made me uncomfortable that both Marlee and Pitt had taken part in AA. It was like a strange, secret club. I didn’t want to belong to it. I didn’t have a problem. I really didn’t. I just liked drinking, that was all. Was that a crime, or a disease? Surely not.
“Work at the commissary starts Monday after breakfast, at nine,” Pitt said. “And you’ll start going to GED classes in the afternoon, after lunch, at 2. You’re about ot get pretty busy, Wanda.”
“It’s good to be busy,” I said. “Better than sitting around all day, like I have been doing.”
“That’s the spirit,” Pitt said. “You could check out the library, too.”
“Reading’s not really my thing, either,” I said. “I’m a numbers woman.”
“It takes all types,” he said, ushering me out of the office.
“How’d it go?” Marlee asked once I returned to the cell. “You in the kitchen?”
“No,” I said. “Commissary.”
“Hey,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “That’s pretty damn impressive, Wanda. How in the hell did you swing that? The commissary’s a good job. Girls would kill to get that. A lot better than cleanup crew, at least.”
“I’m good with numbers,” I said. “That’s all. As soon as he heard that, he wanted me in the commissary. I’ll start that Monday, along with GED classes.”
“Very nice,” Marlee said. “And Tuesday you’ll go to a meeting. You’re getting involved. That’s good.”
I tried not to cringe at the mention of the meeting. “Yeah, really good, sugar.”
“Aw, don’t worry,” Marlee said, misinterpreting my discomfort. “If you don’t like it at the commissary, I’ll see what I can do about pulling strings to get you into the kitchen.”
“What would I have to do in return?” I asked suspiciously.
“Help me with my food budgets,” she said cheerfully, as if I should always expect a caveat with whatever she offered me. “They’re hell. I always get the numbers mixed up and the prison administration pissed off at me. If I wasn’t so good at cooking, they’d fire my ass.”
“Sounds like a deal,” I said.
Work at the commissary started off just fine. Marlee walked me there after breakfast to show me where it was. I’d never had any reason to go there with my lack of funds.
Another inmate was there—an older woman with a shock of white hair and a pleasant face, her eyes magnified behind thick glasses.
“You must be Wanda,” she said pleasantly. “I’m glad I’m getting some help here. It’s too much work for just one person. I’m Cheryl.”
“Nice to meet you, sugar,” I said politely. “I’m happy to be here.”
“You’re good with numbers?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Each item has a price,” she said, waving her arm at the shelves of snacks and other sundries. “It’s just like working at a store, only no money ever changes hands. You deduct the price of each item from each inmate’s account. That’s the only way anyone gets anything—through their accounts. There might be certain inmates who try to take advantage of you since you’re new. But don’t let them. Just tell them that they can only purchase things using their account. And there’s a limit—two hundred dollars per month per inmate. The system will help keep track of that.”
“I think I understand,” I said, looking at all the items. There were snacks like beef jerky, candy, cookies, and all manner of chips and pretzels and popcorn. The commissary seemed to be running a little short on coffee, which seemed to be a popular thing to buy. There was a whole shelf devoted to Willow’s precious noodle packets, and it made me halfway miss her. I was sure I just missed the promise of her hooch even more.
Besides the food products, there were tubes of toothpaste, toothbrushes, hairbrushes, combs, shampoos, soaps, cups, bowls, plates, stamps, and stationary. Stationary was a pretty idea, but I didn’t think I’d have anyone to write to on the outside. Officers would probably shred anything I tried to write to Johnny French before it even reached his office.
Another shelf had games on it—checkers, chess, dominos, and decks of cards.
“We do inventory about every week, on Friday,” Cheryl said, distracting me from all the things I couldn’t buy. “We figure out what to order, and how much we should order. Besides that, it’s just like running a store. You ask an inmate for her number, enter it in the computer, and deduct the amount of the item from her account. As simple as that.”
“I think I understand,” I said. “It sounds right up my alley.”
At the nightclub, I kept the girls’ money in a safe in my office. As they needed it, I made a notation of how much they were asking for to make sure everyone was getting her fair share. It was a good system, I thought, especially in the beginning, after some girls complained of others stealing their wages. Sure, there had been issues with my system. But I couldn’t think of a better way to do business, particularly since the girls were living and working there.
I helped Cheryl put more items on the shelves, particularly the coffee.
“We all need a little caffeine to help us get through our day,” she said, smiling.
I preferred alcohol to coffee, but I didn’t say anything. With my luck, Cheryl would be in AA, too, a member of the club I wanted nothing to do with.
Inmates started lining up outside of the window, and Cheryl threw open the shutters.
“Open for business,” she announced.
She manned one computer and I watched her enter the items, fetching what she told me to fetch. I was sure that I understood the system, watching her enter the numbers before turning around to retrieve the item.
“Ready to work on the other computer?” she asked. “We’re getting slammed here.”
I glanced out the window to see that it was true. Inmates shifted from foot to foot, the line winding down the hallway.
“I’m ready,” I said, feeling confident.
My first customer was Tama, of all people.
“How much for that ass?” she asked, leaning against the counter.
“Not for sale,” I said coolly. “Name your item or move on.”
“I’ve named my item,” Tama said, her eyes shining in a way I knew all too well. “I’m waiting for you to give it to me.”
“I’m not interested,” I said.
“What about for a little hooch?” she asked slyly. “I heard that loosens you up quite a bit.”
That gave me so much pause that she cackled.
“Move along,” Cheryl said, eyeing us.
“You just come and find me when you’re ready to make a deal,” Tama said, raising her eyebrows suggestive
ly as she walked away.
My hands shook as I took the next inmate’s order, having to ask her to repeat her number after I entered it incorrectly. It wasn’t fear, though. It was desire. I wanted that hooch bad enough to seriously consider pimping myself out for it. Wasn’t that what I’d always done, after all? As soon as I figured out that I could use my body as a means to an end, that’s what I’d done.
If Tama could actually get me hooch, maybe I’d consider it. That’s how thirsty I was.
“Good job today,” Cheryl told me as she locked up the commissary and we walked to the guard’s station to turn in the keys. “What the deal with you and Tama?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I don’t know why she’s so interested in me. I’m not really into women.”
“It’s hard to be in here for so long without physical contact,” Cheryl mused. “Most women who sleep with each other here aren’t into other women. They just need some sort of affection, some connection with another human being.”
I wondered if I’d ever reach that point—giving it up to another woman for free. There’d have to be something in it for me. Sex was always like that for me. There had to be a tradeoff. Otherwise, why waste my time?
I went to the cafeteria and sat with Willow’s friends out of habit. They seemed to tolerate my presence, even if they didn’t talk to me. I didn’t mind. I liked enjoying Marlee’s food without having to talk to anyone else.
Tama plopped down next to me.
“Find somewhere else to sit, sugar,” I said. “That seat’s taken.”
“Nobody’s sitting here,” she scoffed. “I have as much right as anyone else to it.”
“My cellmate’s going to sit there as soon as she fills her tray,” I said, hoping it was true. Marlee usually ate in the kitchen, but she sometimes floated around the cafeteria, getting feedback from inmates about the meal. She’d sat by me a couple of time “to cool her heels.” She was on her feet a lot all day, preparing the food.
“Well, I’m sitting here now,” Tama said. “Let’s talk more about arrangements. I know you’re interested. I saw your face at the commissary.”
“That face was about the hooch,” I said loftily, “not your cooch, bitch. Get out of here.”