‘It’s funny you should ask that because my friend She-Ra recently called me the quintessential hermit. I certainly don’t come out of my cell very often. I spend as much time as possible reading and writing.’
‘Using phrases, you can redefine yourself and challenge your assumptions. You can redefine your language using yoga, by changing your thinking and thinking comfortably.’
‘How did I do on the personality test?’ I ask, eager for the scores.
‘Primarily, you showed an anxiety disorder, but also social detachment, which is an inability to socialise, not antisocial. In the subcategories, physiological stress shows and anxious thinking. Inability to relate to others. Your need for attention is high. Sense of importance is quite high.’
‘High enough for delusions of grandeur?’ I ask, attempting a joke.
‘No. Just high. Take the quite off. Your level of looking for cheap thrills is high. You have poly-substance abuse, anxiety and borderline tendencies. You have a fear of being abandoned.’
‘How high?’
‘High enough.’
‘If I have a poly-substance abuse problem, yet drugs are readily available in prison, then how come I’m not doing them?’
‘Your problem is in remission due to prison. Getting arrested was a slap to your head. You realised, Holy shit. What have I been doing? If you hadn’t been arrested, would you still be doing rave parties?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’d tapered that activity off, but who’s to say whether I’d get stressed out and party hard again. My life has been a pattern of that.’
‘You obtained a definition of who you were through partying. On drugs, your anxiety went away. You surrounded yourself with folks in similar situations and there’s generally no true bonding in those environments. The club drugs you did caused a cascade of neurotransmitters. With huge amounts of drugs in the system, the brain operates at another level. Studies of substance abuse have shown volumetric reductions in the limbic system and short-term memory areas.’
I’ve got some serious problems to sort out. ‘When I was asked to read at SMART Recovery, I felt I was drowning. All that existed was me and the booklet I was reading. I ended up gasping for air; my nose started running. I’ve only got like that in recent years. After I was arrested, at Towers jail, I volunteered to read a passage from the Bible in a packed room. I did it easily and coherently and was praised by the priest afterwards. Ask me to read in front of people now and I become a basket case.’ I shift in my seat.
‘Are you familiar with the “fight or flight” response?’
‘Yes. When you feel threatened, the chemicals in your body prepare you to either fight or run for it.’
‘What about the third response: freeze?’
‘Like the deer in the headlights?’
‘Yes. This happens with most primates. During freeze, all that exists is the world and the thing they’re looking at.’
‘Like the pages I was struggling to read.’
‘Yes. The situation seemed worse than it was. You needed to step back and breathe. You weren’t breathing effectively.’
‘But it was pages long and I was trying to get through it as quickly as possible to end my discomfort.’
‘Then you should have stopped for a deep breath at the end of each paragraph. Your discomfort was a state of mind. Your classmates were not going to beat you up because of the way you were reading. The situation was in control and you were not. You must learn to be able to say to yourself, I’m going to do what I can do today, no matter who is in front of me.’
‘OK, I’ll try. From looking at my results, can you tell me where my mental-health problems sit in comparison to an average person?’
‘If I told you that, I fear you’d use it as an excuse to think, That’s who I am.’
‘But I’m trying to learn about these problems, including doing a psychology correspondence course to help understand myself, and to get better,’ I say, hoping to impress him.
‘Do you think a medical student doing a correspondence course could successfully perform an appendectomy?’
‘No, of course not,’ I say, offended. ‘But at least I’m trying.’
‘I don’t want you to beat yourself up with labels. I want you to be able to say to yourself, I am perfect.’
‘Isn’t that egotistical?’
‘No. I would like you to consider that in the context of your yoga texts. Read about your connection to the universal. And for your homework, I’d like you to observe and to write down positive and negative thoughts. Don’t do another nightmare journal. I’m trying to raise your awareness of your thinking.’
‘You’ve begun to do that already by making light of my panic in the classroom.’
Enthused, I return to my cell and study a Siddha Yoga lesson in the hope of learning more about myself. It says that I’m a small part of something vast: the universe. Back when I threw parties, my ego was so large I thought the universe revolved around me. It’s clear that my attention-seeking was ego-driven, but I can’t understand my wild and reckless behaviour. Why did I get so deep into drugs? I could have got attention in other ways without living so dangerously. Staring at the bare cell, I feel disconnected from the universe. This airy-fairy new-age crap is dumb. Repeatedly, I tell myself that I’m part of the universe, but nothing happens. If anything, I feel abandoned by the universe. I recall being high on Ecstasy and feeling connected to nature and everyone around me; how breathing felt divine, as described in yoga. Why can’t I feel like that without drugs? Will yoga teach me to feel that way? I trust Dr Owen. If the sessions are able to continue, he has a good chance of getting to the bottom of things and helping me develop as a person. If I don’t decipher my nature, I’m doomed.
33
In the chow hall, Two Tonys and I are discussing One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Above us dozens of flies are stuck to strips of yellow tape dangling from the ceiling; some are dead, others twitching. Red pots at the bottom of each strip sway to the rhythm of air blasting from a fan rattling as if it’s about to fall apart, enveloping us in the stink of poison and the fragrant adhesive on the tape that attracts the flies. The insect zapper attached to the back wall is crackling non-stop.
‘Reading what Ivan endured makes me grateful for the conditions here,’ I say, looking around at the hundred or so prisoners cramming food, rushing to eat in the allotted time, half of them swatting away flies.
‘There’s always some motherfucker worse off,’ Two Tonys says, smiling. ‘At least we’re not being worked to death in Stalin’s Gulags.’
‘It was so cold their spit froze mid-air.’ I spoon lentils and bite a piece of bread.
An insect explodes in the zapper, attracting everyone’s attention.
‘Damn! Some big-ass bug!’ Bud yells.
Grim – a giant with flames, skulls and satanic symbols tattooed on his head and a patch where an eyeball resided until a cellmate stabbed it as he was sleeping – sits next to us. ‘Did you see the ambulance outside of Building 2 last night? Some guy blew his asshole out while taking a shit.’
Two Tonys’ face puckers. ‘Hey, Grim, I hope my slurping my fucking chicken noodle soup doesn’t interfere with your discussion about assholes and taking fucking shits. I’m trying to fucking eat. Do you mind?’
‘What’s wrong with talking about shits and assholes?’ Grim blows a fly off his food.
‘It’s not just that. It seems like every time I sit down to eat my fucking chow you come around and the conversation goes straight to shits and assholes and nasty stuff that’s unappetising to me. We don’t have to talk about splitting the fucking atom here, but we could at least have a normal fucking conversation.’
I laugh.
‘You’ve been down plenty years,’ Grim says. ‘You’ve heard worse than shits and assholes.’
‘Yeah. And I was in the navy for fucking years, keeping the Red Chinese from snatching your fucking ass.’
‘That�
�s before my time,’ Grim says. ‘If you’d fought on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, you’d get my respects.’
‘I was in fucking Blood Alley, Formosa. If Chairman Mao had got his way, you’d be speaking Chinese and eating noodles with chopsticks, motherfucker.’
‘I love Chinese food.’
‘You would, you bizarre-looking motherfucker. When you get out, I’m gonna send you to the coast for lunch with Francis Ford Coppola. But when you talk to him, don’t mention people taking shits and blowing their assholes out and you might get a bit-part in one of his movies – as a fucking monster.’
‘I can’t go to California,’ Grim says. ‘I’ve done too many repetitive dangerous crimes there.’
Laughter erupts around us, attracting everyone’s attention.
‘They just got busted having sex!’ a prisoner yells.
Through full-length windows, I spot a sergeant escorting two prisoners from a cell: Frankie and Mochalicious, a petite Mexican-American transsexual with purple lips, black shoulder-length hair and sculpted eyebrows fashioned with a 15-cent razor in the sparse style of Jennifer Lopez as seen in the latest issue of People magazine. Holding disciplinary tickets, they enter the chow hall. Our laughter intensifies and a torrent of abuse – revolving around whether Mochalicious was ‘swallowing swollen goods’ – pours down.
After chow, Frankie shows me the ticket:
Offence: B10 Indecent Exposure or Sexual Acts
I came upon cell D-8 on Yard 4 that had paper on the door window. There was a gap in the paper and I could see inmate [Frankie] who lives in C-9 standing while inmate [Mochalicious] was knelt in front of him. The inmate who lives in D-8 was manipulating inmate’s [Frankie’s] penis as if to get it erect. Inmate [Frankie] appeared to allow the other inmate to do this until I stopped them at approximately 17:47 hours. I verbally put the inmates on report.
The next evening, the prisoners are threatening to riot over foul-tasting spaghetti.
‘I’d sooner eat red-hot barbed wire.’
‘They’re serving us liquid shit, literally.’
‘I wouldn’t give it to my dogs or worst enemies. If we bury it all in a mass grave, it’ll show up on a satellite as a radioactive spot on earth.’
‘They should use it on Fear Factor,’ Two Tonys says, shaking his head at his tray. ‘They should be offering fifty grand to people to eat this shit.’
I pocket an apple, join the line of prisoners donating their spaghetti to Slingblade and sit next to Two Tonys, excited to resume our discussion about literature without Grim around. ‘I appreciate you introducing me to Tom Wolfe. A Man in Full is now my favourite work of contemporary fiction. There are few modern authors who hold my interest.’
‘Average authors are churning out junk food,’ Two Tonys says. ‘Compared to their hamburgers, Tom Wolfe’s books are Beef Wellingtons.’
‘My parents have been trying to get me to read more contemporary fiction. They sent me some Stephen King. I enjoyed The Shawshank Redemption.’
‘Stephen King’s running a fucking McDonald’s franchise,’ Two Tonys says. ‘He’s pumping out books like Quarter Pounders. It took Wolfe 11 years to write A Man in Full. Wolfe’s so fucking good, he’s got a war going with those other authors: Updike, Irving and that fucking thug Mailer. They’re jealous of his skills.’
‘Weird Al gave me some Tom Robbins books. What do you think of him? My writing turned surreal after I read two Robbins books back to back.’ After enjoying Jitterbug Perfume and Still Life with Woodpecker, I started describing things so bizarrely that a reader of Jon’s Jail Journal asked if I’d resumed drugs.
‘I’m not familiar with this Robbins guy. I’ll tell you something, though: he’s got to get up real early in the fucking morning to sharpen his pencil to be in the same league as Tom Wolfe.’
Grim joins our table. I brace myself, as he opens his mouth.
‘I saw She-Ra coming out of the shower,’ Grim says. ‘That girl’s got a big-ass schlong. Anyone ever notice that shit?’
I sit back and watch, keen to admire how Two Tonys handles the situation. I could listen to Two Tonys in his element all day long.
Two Tonys puckers, leans away from Grim and puts his apple down. ‘What is it with you, Grim? We’re over here, trying to have an intellectual fucking conversation about books we’ve read, and you’ve got to come along and talk about schlongs. Have you got some kind of fucking fetish for talking about schlongs and assholes when I’m eating?’
‘But it’s true,’ Grim says. ‘I’ve been down a long time and I’ve noticed that gay guys have bigger than average schlongs.’
‘Listen, Grim, I’ve been down twice as long as you and, I’ll be honest with you, I’m not in the habit of checking out men’s schlongs. And the fact that you’re bringing schlongs up while I’m trying to converse with my British friend, I’m finding fucking insulting. You wanna talk about schlongs, sit at a fucking child molester or sex-pervert table. This table’s for crimes of integrity, like homicides for motherfuckers who were asking for it.’
‘I saw She-Ra’s ass as well,’ Grim says.
‘Hey, Grim, you know my reputation. I don’t fuck with these gays, now or never. I don’t look at men’s asses. It’s a case of each to his fucking own. I can imagine taking you to a fancy joint like the Four Seasons. The maître d’ gives us a choice table and you wanna talk about the Guatemalan bus boy’s ass or the shape of the maître d’s schlong. That’s why I can’t ever envisage taking you to a five-star restaurant, Grim. You’re strictly McDonald’s. Drive Thru material.’
I laugh.
‘This spaghetti sauce looks like some Marines took a shit in it,’ Grim says. ‘Straight fucking Panama water.’
‘That’s because of your sick fucking mind,’ Two Tonys says. ‘Come hot-dog day, you’re gonna be seeing the hot dogs as schlongs and cock-heads. You’re stuck on phallic fucking symbols.’
She-Ra approaches. ‘Hey, guys! Who wants a table dance?’
‘Me and my Brit friend don’t,’ Two Tonys says. ‘But Grim’ll see you in a private booth. He’ll meet you at your cell later on.’
‘I was just telling the fellas about your big-ass schlong,’ Grim says.
‘Not that I asked for that info,’ Two Tonys says. ‘’Cause, to be real honest with you, I don’t give a fuck if you’re hung like the Incredible Hulk.’
‘Two Tonys, are you sure you don’t wanna see my swing set?’ She-Ra asks.
‘No, I don’t care to. But if the day ever comes when I do, I’m hoping you motherfuckers will snuff me out by smothering me with a pillow first. Like at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. After that, I’ll meet you motherfuckers in hell ’cause that’s where we’re all heading.’
34
I’m so happy I could kiss the guard handing me a letter from Jade. Hoping it answers the questions on my mind, I rush across the yard. I want its perfume to burst out and linger in the cell. I tear it open. No perfume. That’s odd. My stomach tightens. It says that shortly after the last visit Theo flew from London to America in a desperate attempt to win her back. She initially rejected him, but his behaviour changed. He proposed marriage and she said yes. My heart hits the cement floor and cracks into pieces. Stunned, I sit and read the rest. Her apology irritates me. When the shock wears off, I feel angry and betrayed. I snatch a pen and write furiously:
From my experiences in relationships, I know that when someone has the upper hand emotionally, and for some reason feels they’re losing the upper hand, the person’s ego feels the greatest challenge in the world. I’m not going to give up on you, because it seems to me that Theo doesn’t love you for you or accept you for you because the only thing that made him change his behaviour was the possibility of losing you, which isn’t about love, it’s about control. Him proposing to you isn’t based on how much he cares because he hasn’t cared until now. It seems he only cares about himself. You don’t deserve to be mistreated in this way. But, alas, love is blind and my analys
is of the situation will be rejected by you because of the hope that’s been raised in you by him by some petty expression of grief and some behaviour that is normal in the sense that this is how he should have been treating you during the last several years. He failed to give you the love and respect you deserve, and now he acts like a normal boyfriend, as he sees you gaining the upper hand, and you jump like a little dog through a circus hoop. Beware of the ego’s crocodile tears.
Wow, I’m sounding bitter. The bottom line is that I love and respect you as the beautiful, intelligent and witty woman you are. Theo doesn’t deserve you. You’ll find the right person eventually. If fate pushes us both together again somehow, which wouldn’t surprise me, then perhaps we can apply the brakes on our emotions synchronistically, so I don’t go making a fool of myself again.
When you visited, I opened my heart to you – against all of the reason and logic in the world. Hearts seem to know things instantaneously and then we clutter how we really feel with logic and sorting out our feelings and all that crap. I can’t say that I’m surprised by you stating how you felt at Visitation as being under the influence. You were under the influence. When you feel so good around a person so naturally, your brain releases hormones into your system. I was under the same influence. But we can’t explain away the sparks of love that flew between us.
I’m glad that you seem happy in your letter. I think I sound childish in this one. I’m tempted to rip it up. I’m trying to pretend that I’m not peeved, when really I am. Is that selfish of me?
Wishing you happiness.
With all my love, with bells and whistles and brakes on.
Prison Time Page 14