Prison Time

by Shaun Attwood

  A friendship blossoms and we learn more about each other. He’s one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, but during bouts of depression Jack can’t write. His face tightens and his eyes radiate suffering. He meditates to alleviate his mood swings.

  Jack insists I enter the Writer’s Digest annual short-story contest, which I’ve never considered, as I doubt I have the skill. The prospect makes me uncomfortable. Entries have to be typed. I use having no means of typing as an excuse not to enter. Jack offers to type and print my entry on a computer he has access to as a programs clerk. Touched by his willingness to put his job on the line, I write a humorous short story, ‘Pee Tested’, about getting called to Medical for a random urine test for drugs. I don’t expect anything to come of it, but I eventually receive a letter:

  Dear Shaun,

  One of my most enjoyable tasks as editor of Writer’s Digest is passing along good news to writers. This is one of those fun occasions. It is my pleasure to tell you that your manuscript, ‘Pee Tested’, has been awarded Honorable Mention in the Memoirs/Personal Essay category of the 75th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. Enclosed is your Certificate of Achievement to honor your accomplishment.

  This year’s contest attracted close to 19,000 entries. Your success in the face of such formidable competition speaks highly of your writing talent and should be a source of great pride as you continue your writing career.

  I congratulate you on your accomplishment and wish you the best of luck in your future writing.

  Respectfully,

  Kristin D. Godsey

  Editor

  Writer’s Digest

  Although I haven’t won, I’m the 50th runner-up out of 19,000. The award erases the lack of faith I had in my ability to write anything other than blogs. In 2004, I had been contacted by a literary agent who had requested chapters for a potential autobiography; with no background in writing, I had struggled but eventually managed to send her some. After months of going back and forth, the agent had confided in my family that I’d never be a writer.

  Jack introduces me to literary magazines such as the New Yorker and insists I start submitting stories to them, again offering to type them up. For research and preparation, I devour thick yearly anthologies like Best American Short Stories. I subscribe to various literary magazines and the New York Review of Books.

  Enthused by my Writer’s Digest accomplishment, I have a spurt of short-story writing. I’m so focused, I sometimes skip chow. Time accelerates. Every day, I wake up energised, wondering how long the spurt will last. Over three weeks, I burn through my stockpile of pens and paper and have to borrow more. I end up with seven stories of average length, about 4,000 words. Exhausted, I hit a mental funk, spacey but happy with the results. I submit the stories. Through Prisoners Abroad, my mum enters one called ‘Amazing Grace’ into the Koestler Trust Awards programme. Suffused with a sense of purpose, I wonder if writing, as opposed to the stock market, is my calling in life.

  39

  Dr Owen’s office is quiet. No classical music. On his desk is an article about Susan Sontag: ‘Melancholy Minus Its Charms’. I hand him a journal of my positive and negative thoughts. ‘I noticed that I bounced between happy and sad until the weekend, then my happiness went off the scale. I think I was manic.’

  Dr Owen’s eyes protrude as he reads Saturday’s entry:

  Overwhelmingly, inexplicably happy. Feel as if I can accomplish anything. Have written for almost eight hours. My mind is racing with ideas. Creativity and the right words are flowing naturally. I haven’t showered, done yoga or talked to anyone other than ushering a few visitors out. Time is flying. The announcements of rec beginning and then ending (a two-hour period) seemed like ten minutes. I thought I was hearing things when rec ended because time couldn’t possibly have gone so fast. I’ve accomplished a lot today and I am extremely satisfied. In comparison to recent happiness, I am way off the scale. Why can’t I feel this good every day? I feel like I could walk to the chow hall and back on my hands – and maybe even fly!

  He stares at me. ‘When you reviewed these thoughts after you wrote them, what did you think?’

  ‘I thought, Oh, no! Now I’ve got multiple personality disorder, because Saturday’s thoughts seem like they were written by a different person.’

  ‘Some writers, when they’re feeling great like that, achieve tremendous insights. What was the quality of your writing on Saturday?’

  ‘Words fell into place. My sense of humour was up. I liked what I wrote.’

  ‘The reason I ask is because when you are at negative or positive emotional extremes your critical ability goes down.’

  ‘That’s true. A lot of what I wrote was rubbish, but I judged my production on things that bubbled up that looked great, things that I couldn’t have written if I wasn’t in such a good mood. I simply edited out the rubbish when I’d calmed down.’

  ‘Your sudden energy interrupted what you usually do in the day: yoga, taking a shower and dealing with people. What did forgoing those things mean to you?’ he asks, his eyes locked onto mine, tilting his head forward.

  ‘That was all secondary stuff. Most important was my writing.’

  ‘Is this energy you experience the same as the energy you utilised when throwing raves?’

  Staring up, I pause. ‘I never thought of it like that. It could be. Throwing parties, I switched into a high-energy mode. But it wasn’t happy energy that led me to drugs. It was depressions, relationship break-ups, and negative emotions and events. I wanted to get so high that my stress didn’t matter. When the high first hit, it felt great and I’d do more drugs in the hope of keeping that feeling going, but I’d usually end up taking things too far. Looking at the amount of times I overdosed or had car crashes, I’m ashamed of my behaviour. I wonder why I kept intentionally pushing myself into the danger zone for so long. It’s like there was something wrong with me that I still can’t figure out. I wonder if I’ll always be like that. Thinking about the insane things I did scares me.’ Why could I never say ‘no’ to the wolves?

  ‘You have to watch your swings. It seems that you don’t think of yourself as interesting when you’re not manic,’ he says, raising his hands. ‘You need to polish your thinking style and be able to weigh the consequences of your ups and downs. You have a high state of denial. That’s something you must remedy if you want to have a normal life.’ He throws his arms up and I jump as he yells, ‘I like the highs! I can walk to the chow hall on my hands!’

  I laugh. ‘Here’s the rest of my homework.’ I hand him a page.

  What I learnt from yoga about being perfect and my connection with the universal: the universal force is the source of all power. We can do nothing unless it enables it. The ego resists this truth and we believe we have our own power – which is a fallacy. We are unfulfilled until we discover our inner connection with the universal force. Upon discovering it, we flow with good or bad events, conscious of the dance of the universal force, the power behind all happenings and moods.

  ‘Is that what you were looking for?’ I ask, worried the answer – derived from yoga texts – makes me sound crazy.

  ‘Yes. Yoga means union, everything, good and bad, dark and light. Whether studying Tao, the yin and yang of Chinese philosophy, or Christian theology at the mystical level, all paths lead to union with the universal, including observance of the eight limbs of yoga. Such awareness doesn’t demand perfection. Whatever occurs is allowed to occur. The problem is: the mind interferes. The monkey mind. It doesn’t stay still. It behaves like a restless monkey grabbing at objects that aren’t there. The flow of the mind is the essence of many esoteric doctrines.’

  ‘I understand that, but reading it and understanding it are different from being able to apply it.’

  ‘It always is. You have to work at it. Look at ascetics, people who have isolated themselves from others. Not bums with their cheap wine and oblivion, but renunciators with their books and bags. Isn’t
that an expression of intellectual energy? Although it has good and bad to it, it seems to enhance the path for some folks.’

  ‘So where am I on that spectrum? I’m channelling my intellectual energy into writing, but I’ve also spun out of control like a bum into drugs.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. My opinion has little to do with it. It’s your image of yourself that’s important – your insights, your judgements. Can you imagine yourself five or ten years from now?’

  ‘Yes. I have a long-term goal to be an author, to get my story published and the stories of other prisoners. That’s why I try not to waste a single minute in here. I’m happy knowing I’m moving in the right direction.’

  ‘But goals change. And rest is important. You need rest to be able to apply yourself to achieve your goals. That’s where mindfulness and self-awareness come in. If a Tibetan Buddhist monk lost his legs, he could still achieve his goal of making a journey around the Sacred Mountain. He would do it slower than most, but he would be mindful and self-aware. If your goal is to throw the best rave parties in the Valley—’

  ‘No! Never again!’ I say, slapping the table.

  ‘Let’s just assume that at one time it was. If you’d been mindful of the bigger picture instead of being excited by one thing and forgetting everything else, then you would have been more aware of the unintended consequences of your actions. Consequences that put you in here.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘For homework, I’d like you to keep up the thought journal and consider the difficulty you have with good intentions. As the old saying goes, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Most folks don’t think about the consequences for themselves. With your physical practice – your asanas – I’d like you to be more mindful and to consider your bone and muscle alignments. You should also meditate to control your monkey mind.’

  In my cell, I wonder why getting told to rest by Dr Owen made me uneasy, as if he were scratching a sore. I’m open to his advice, yet partially resisting. When it comes to work, I pride myself on my ability to completely focus on a project. I enjoy channelling manic energy into big achievements. As a stockbroker, slogans like ‘Lunch is for wimps’ appealed to me. In the session with Dr Owen, I wanted to yell, ‘How dare you challenge my work ethic!’ But, on reflection, I can see a strong unhealthy force that pushes me to work extremes. It’s separate from the wolves, but over time it leads to them emerging. I seem to have the wolves under control, but not this second force, which worries me.

  Pondering the session, feeling as if I’m on the brink of a discovery, I charge up with excitement. Realising I’ve never searched my soul so deeply before, I credit Dr Owen for shining a light on my inner self. But how can I measure progress? I want results, but, unlike a physical illness, I have no way of measuring it, such as symptoms being cured. Dr Owen said I have to work at it and cited the legless monk making a slow journey. What if I apply my manic energy to this task? Then I’d be using a potentially unhealthy force for a positive goal. Delighted with this little breakthrough, I resolve to keep trying to understand myself even if it takes a lifetime.

  40

  A burly white property officer wheels a squeaky cart across the yard, observed by prisoners, his presence raising the hopes of some, others watching enviously to see who gets what. He stops below my cell. ‘Attwood, get your ass down here!’

  I rush to the end of the balcony and down the stairs, expecting a few new reads, excited to see what’s arrived.

  ‘How many books is a prisoner allowed?’ he asks, his brows arched menacingly above dark sunglasses.

  ‘Seven.’ Is he going to confiscate books from my cell?

  ‘Attwood, the 47 books in here are all for you!’ he says, pointing at the cart. ‘You have so many books, I could classify them as contraband and the prison would destroy them.’ He juts his jaw and chews tobacco in a circular motion, as if to magnify the threat.

  Stunned, I swallow. ‘I have no control over how many books people send,’ I say quickly. ‘They’re coming from my blog readers.’ I stare hungrily at the piles of books in the cart.

  He spits brown juice onto the dirt – splat. ‘I hear you share your books with prisoners and your donations are filling up the library.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, aware of inmates clustering to eavesdrop.

  ‘Here’s what I’m gonna do for you, Attwood. I’m gonna look the other way and all these books are gonna disappear real fast. Got anyone who can help you?’

  I wave over Two Tonys, Shannon and She-Ra, and am quickly joined by others.

  ‘Guys, please help take these to my cell and help yourselves to whatever you want to read.’

  Watched by the yard, we carry piles of books like a trail of worker ants. As the property officer wheels the cart away, I’m left with prisoners browsing books like it’s Christmas. They select some and rush off to read.

  Only one person remains, taking time to study jackets and first pages. ‘I just love the smell of new books,’ Two Tonys says, sniffing a copy of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe.

  ‘Me too,’ I say, wafting pages, intoxicated by the scent of paper, ink and glue. ‘What do you think about all these books – Updike, Murakami, Rushdie, Bret Easton Ellis … and your favourite, Tom Wolfe?’

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ Two Tonys says, adding Wolfe’s book to a pile. ‘I’ve been doing time since I was a kid – since 1958 – in and out, in and out. Thanks to these books, this is the best I’ve ever had it. There was a time in my life when the fucking TV meant everything to me. I used to call it my wife because it mind-fucked me every night. Now I’ve got these books, I don’t even turn the motherfucker on. These books are keeping me alive, keeping me from fucking dementia. From this cell, I’m travelling the world. Whether it’s Murakami taking me to the Gobi Desert where the Mongols and a Russian are torturing Japs, or Tom Wolfe taking me to a five-bedroom townhouse on New York’s Fifth Avenue with green marble floors, or Robert Fisk taking me to Tora Bora in the mountains of Afghanistan with Bin Laden and the mujahideen – I’m there, bro. These books are getting me out of the fucking cell.’

  The next day, I find Two Tonys in his room, chatting to an old Mexican-American prisoner with a weather-worn face – tall, bespectacled, soft-spoken, covered in ink.

  ‘Pico, this is my friend, England. He’s a good dude,’ Two Tonys says, rising off his bunk to shake my hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Pico here saw I was reading your book, The Great War for Civilisation,’ Two Tonys says, ‘and he’s wondering if you want to sell it to him.’

  ‘It’s a good read,’ I say. ‘A blog reader sent it to me for free, so I can’t sell it. You can have it.’

  ‘England’s got a good heart,’ Two Tonys says, tapping his chest.

  ‘That’s real nice of you, England,’ Pico says, his eyebrows rising. ‘Are you sure I can’t give you anything for it?’

  ‘No need. I’ve got to keep my book karma intact.’

  ‘I like you, England,’ he says in a serious tone. ‘Listen, if anyone ever fucks with you, you tell me.’ Pico extracts a bandage from his pocket and wraps it around his left hand. Holding a fist out, he says, ‘Look, I’m always ready to go. I don’t give a fuck who it is. I don’t give a fuck what time of the day it is. I’m always ready. I’ve got your back.’

  Taken aback, I say, ‘I appreciate that, Pico.’

  He leaves with the book.

  ‘You just made a good friend with that one,’ Two Tonys says, sitting down on the bunk.

  I sit on the chair. ‘Why? Who is he?’

  ‘He’s Old Mexican Mafia. All the Mexican-Americans listen to him. He’s one of the most dangerous motherfuckers you’ll ever meet. He’s doing life for murders, and while he was in the joint he shanked two guards to death in Cell Block 4. The cops tortured him for years. They denied him medical and he lost a kidney.’

  ‘Why’d he kill two guards?’ I ask
, leaning forward, wide-eyed.

  ‘Him and some others were high. The guards busted them, so him and his homies cut them to pieces.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I say, rubbing the front of my neck.

  ‘Yeah, he’s a killer, but he’s a sincere guy, an old convict. No one disrespects him. He’s a good fella to have in your corner. Now, out of the books from yesterday I’m really excited about this one,’ he says, picking up The Great Thoughts by George Seldes.

  ‘What’s so good about it?’

  Two Tonys flips to the introduction. ‘It’s right here. Blaise Pascal: “Man’s greatness lies in the power of thought.” And Marcus Aurelius Antoninus: “Our life is what our thoughts make it.”’

  Delighted he picked Aurelius, I say, ‘If you like that quote, you’ll love his book, Meditations. It really inspired me. It focuses on keeping the mind strong in difficult circumstances. It’s ideal for prisoners.’

  ‘And here’s Emerson: “Great men are they who see that spiritual is stronger than any material force, that thoughts rule the world.”’

  ‘It’s powerful stuff,’ I say, impressed. ‘I need to work more on my spiritual side.’

  ‘These quotes are making me realise I’m wasting my thoughts hating on people. For me to lay up and hate is like having a goitre on my neck,’ he says, pointing below an ear. ‘Sometimes I just lay on my bunk, looking at the wall and ceiling, thinking about motherfuckers I hate. It’s a goitre that keeps growing and growing, and I’ve got to cut it off. I’d like to get it surgically removed, but there ain’t no surgeon in the world with a scalpel sharp enough to cut this fucker off.’