‘Writing and creativity make sense to me.’
‘There are many authors who have done drugs and done well. But, on closer examination, they did drugs to address inner turmoil and when they looked back after doing drugs they saw they had natural writing skills regardless of whether they did drugs or not.’
‘I’ve had inner turmoil.’ The wolves.
‘It’s something you need to figure out.’
I inhale deeply. ‘At times of extreme stress, I heard wolves howling for me to come out and party,’ I say, shifting in my seat, worried I sound crazy.
Clasping his fingers, he stares as if he wants me to continue.
‘Over time, I figured they represent my raver friends all combined into a strong force. Certain rave music also triggers the wolves. If I stayed in on a weekend, they howled so loud for me to come out that I couldn’t sit still or rest and, more often than not, I’d follow their call and find a party. When I got to a party and was with my raver friends, getting high, the wolves shut up and left me alone.’
‘And what of the wolves now?’ he asks in a low tone.
‘After my arrest, I didn’t have time to think about them, but, talking to a friend about drugs the other day, I felt them trying to resist his advice. Even today with you, some of the questions I’ve asked were derived from their influence, which must mean there’s still a part of me that wants to party. I feel like I’ve become a new person because of everything that’s happened since my arrest, but another part of me is struggling to accept that and I’m afraid of that part.’ Having never expressed this to anyone, I stare, tense, my breathing shallow, heart beating rapidly, hoping his guidance will make a difference.
For a few seconds, he contemplates in silence. ‘You need to go back, way back, and ask yourself what you were telling yourself from the ages of 12 to 25. How old were you when you first started to hear the wolves?’
I lean back. ‘Early 20s.’ My feet shift and lock themselves around the legs of the chair.
‘That’s when your personality solidified and you chose certain paths in life. There was something about you, you were not happy with, and perhaps you filled that gap with the wolves.’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve always been happy-go-lucky. In school a lot of boys grew bigger and taller than me and I felt inadequate until I caught up. I got mauled by some of the rugby players, but nothing major. As I grew, I preferred the company of girlfriends. From a young age, I was always a wheeler-dealer and that drive got stronger, much stronger, into my early 20s.’
‘Why do you feel you were driven to acquire material things?’
‘I guess I had something to prove. I set out to conquer Wall Street with 100 per cent faith in my ability. I believed my destiny was to make it big in the financial markets. I equated success and material stuff with these goals. I was immature.’
‘So, you were mesmerised by external things and you didn’t give much attention to your inner core. There’s a part of you that wanted attention, and material things would generate that. You have to realise the essence of a person has nothing to do with being attracted to money and things. Look at the Dalai Lama. He looks like a regular old fella. But he’s very charismatic. You need to find your internal self and you need to ask yourself, What person do I want to be? Drugs aren’t going to do that for you. Not peyote or mescaline or LSD. Hallucinogens may fit into certain cultures, but in our culture they don’t make sense.’
‘Does all the alcohol and nicotine consumption make sense?’
‘Wasn’t that a scene you were part of?’
‘No,’ I say loudly. ‘We were counterculture. We dressed outrageously. Our music sounded like signals from outer space. We were rebellious. We sneered at mainstream, including mainstream drugs. We were out to shock.’
‘Is this the wolves talking?’
He’s right. Wishing I could take back my words, I laugh.
‘You wanted attention,’ he says.
‘I got attention.’
‘But it didn’t work out. Everything you did was a step on the path that brought you here.’
‘That’s true.’
‘With increased mindfulness, you can learn from the previous negative things you did and determine what things are going to be beneficial to you. You’re able to start afresh.’
‘I agree.’
‘Now, let’s discuss your thought journal. When you were in class, you applied breathing at the end of each sentence and you did well, but when your buddy instigated a play fight you got mad. Instead of getting mad, you can train yourself to concentrate on your breathing, just like you did in class.’
‘You’re right. But it’s easier said than done.’
‘Absolutely. But you need to think about breathing and be able to analyse your thoughts in uncomfortable situations. When you take a deep breath, you get a useful response and your adrenalin doesn’t pump in as much. I see progress in your thought journal throughout the month.’
‘Good.’
‘Do you realise anxiety has driven you all your life? You need to become adept and to learn to listen to your anxiety. To know when things make sense and when they stop making sense. For homework, I want you to not only listen to how you talk to yourself but also notice and write down when anxiety causes you to cross the fence into irrational thoughts. And remember to breathe: long, deep breaths. Make Darth Vader noises, if you have to.’
Having discussed the wolves, I return to my cell feeling lighter, unburdened. He’s right about anxiety throughout my life. When it rises to a certain point, I get confused and make terrible decisions. I recall it from teenage shyness to, as an adult, a fear of flying. I wonder what’s causing it or if it even has a cause. My mum suffers from anxiety and depression, so perhaps I have a genetic predisposition. Instead of looking back, perhaps it would be more productive to focus on managing it. Surely prison has crushed a lot of anxiety out of me. The most stress I ever had was when the SWAT team smashed my door down and my first days in jail. Situations like that must have strengthened me for life. Having adjusted to prison, surely I’ll experience outside as a much safer place, so what’s to be anxious about? But circumstances can change dramatically and anxiety can manifest for many reasons, not all of them dependent on external factors. To succeed in life, I must gain more knowledge about my inner self with the help of Dr Owen. It’s giving me a sense of control over something I was clueless about before my arrest.
47
Outside the chow hall, I’m shocked to find Two Tonys fuming, as if ready to kill someone, his face contorting, eyes darting.
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask, worried about my friend.
‘Write my DOC number down in case I get sent to the hole,’ he says, unable to stand still, his jaw muscles flexing.
‘Why?’ I ask, dreading losing him to lockdown.
‘It’s nothing,’ he says, teeth clenched.
‘It doesn’t sound like nothing. Are you expecting something to jump off?’
‘I’m gonna grab a shank and stab Ken,’ he says, eyes ablaze.
Ken. I should have known. ‘What’s he done now?’
‘I gave him batteries last week and he said he was gonna return them today, but he never did.’
Relieved the issue is small, I ask, ‘Is stabbing Ken and going to the hole worth batteries that cost a dollar?’
‘That’s not the point.’ Two Tonys turns away from me. ‘It’s the principle. If he feels he doesn’t have to pay me, then he’s disrespecting me in front of everyone. I go by the old code. I’ll show this motherfucker not to fuck with me.’
I take a few steps and face him. ‘You’re emotional right now. I think you should take some time out. Sleep on it and see how you feel tomorrow.’
‘If the motherfucker’s not gonna pay, I’m just gonna get angrier. I need to take care of it,’ he says, panting.
‘You know he’s on psych meds, heroin and crystal meth. He might not be thinking about the batteries right now. He’s a l
ittle out there.’
‘He’s definitely out in left field, but I’m out there as well.’
‘He’s left of left field.’
Two Tonys laughs.
‘Working in finance,’ I say, ‘I learned that a loan officer has to perform a credit analysis on applicants. That means looking at the work history of the person, tax returns, debts and repayment history to see if someone’s a good credit risk. Down the road, if that person defaults on the loan, the heat for that falls on the loan officer for giving the green light to someone who was a bad credit risk.’
‘I see what you’re saying,’ he says, nodding, scratching his chin. ‘If the guy rips off the loan company, his bosses are gonna put it on him for lending to an untrustworthy motherfucker.’
‘Yes. The loan officer must take responsibility for misjudging the credit risk.’
‘So what you’re saying is, I’ve got to take responsibility for giving this fuck-up Ken my batteries?’
‘Something like that.’
Two Tonys stares at me, his smile expanding. ‘You’ve got a good point. I can’t put all the blame on Ken. I tell you what, though: I’ll never lend that motherfucker anything again.’
I watch Two Tonys settle in his cell. I head for my room, grab a pack of batteries that cost $1.35 and go to Ken’s, where I find him and his cellmate, Cannonball, lying on their bunks in their boxers, their sweaty masses – resembling two giant hairy slugs – radiating a tangy body odour.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ Ken turns his Walkman down.
‘I’m gonna give you a pack of batteries for free,’ I say.
‘Why the fuck would you wanna do that?’ He hardens his lips and his huge moustache twitches inwards.
‘To give to Two Tonys.’
He sits up, snatches the batteries and smiles in a devious way.
I leave, thinking: It’s 50–50 whether he’ll pay Two Tonys or just keep the batteries.
After breakfast, Two Tonys shows up at my cell. ‘Ken gave me my batteries back. I know never to put myself in that position again. I’m so glad I talked to you last night or I might have done something I regretted. Thanks for being my friend.’
‘Don’t mention it. You’ve helped me loads. That’s what friends are for.’
Hugging him, I feel like I’ve become the son he never had.
48
In July 2006, George enters my cell while I’m doing a headstand in boxers because it’s so hot. ‘Since my outburst in your cell with She-Ra, I requested new meds and they’ve switched me from Prozac to Celexa.’
With him ogling my behind, I drop down and stand up, tickled by the sweat reversing direction on my body. ‘You’re deeply disturbed, Jeeves, but it’s good that you’re doing something about it.’
‘I have to. I have to be the big person in our relationship because you certainly don’t want to address your issues, such as your closet shower exhibitionism.’
‘How can an exhibitionist be in the closet?’
‘I’m talking about how everyone knows you take a shower after yoga, so they come and chat with you in the shower.’
‘It’s true! That’s been happening lately. Even Ken tried coming in my shower yesterday!’
‘There you go!’ George says, his face flushing. ‘You exude invitation! You should have been in the Royal Navy, with little sailors soaping each other down under the facade of saving water.’
‘Jeeves, I thought you were trying to address your fantasy world.’
‘I can’t help it!’ George shrieks. ‘You scream out, “Take me! Take me!”’ He steps closer.
‘Back off, Jeeves!’ I yell, holding my arms out, unsettled by his predatory expression.
‘I’m gonna have the psych call you to Medical, so we can explain our relationship to him at a deeper level.’
‘What relationship?’
‘Don’t give me that!’ George sighs theatrically. ‘Your mouth says, “No! No! No!” but your eyes say, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”’
‘I think they need to double your Celexa.’
‘I’m not crazy! You are! You should see yourself on the rec field, doing yoga with your butt stuck in the air. You get more traffic walking by you than the outdoor urinal.’ George trembles and starts crying.
Worried, I step forward. ‘I think you’re on the verge of a nervous breakdown, Jeeves.’
‘I think you’re right,’ he whimpers. ‘Will you give me a hug?’
Before I can respond, he wraps his arms around me and won’t let go. Trapped, I struggle against his sweaty, hot, hairy round body. He kisses my face. Squirming but unable to break his grip, I feel his tongue enter my ear. A revolting sensation redoubles my strength. I raise my arms within his and break his grip.
‘Stay where you fucking are or else I’m gonna start throwing punches!’ I bark, pointing at him with my left hand, my right fist cocked at shoulder level, ready to launch at him.
He cowers near the toilet, sobbing, and runs off. Noticing my skin is coated in grease, like condom lube, where he touched me, I grab a bar of soap.
Hearing my name called for mail, I shrug off George’s outburst and rush to the control room, hoping for news about Jade. I rip open a letter from my sister and start reading as I walk across the yard. Karen writes that upon meeting Jade she was impressed by her intelligence and friendliness. She agrees that Jade would be a good match for me, which makes me smile, but cautions that the wedding is still going ahead, which makes me sad. Karen says that Jade apologised for not staying in touch, but she’s been busy with wedding preparations, as it’s only months away. I’m running out of time! Although she feels that Jade is making a mistake marrying Theo, Karen chose to keep that to herself when Jade described Theo’s mistreatment, as she didn’t want to dampen Jade’s wedding excitement. Jade pledged to contact me soon.
Even though the news is unfavourable, it feels good to have the uncertainty surrounding Jade’s situation lifted. It hurts to know she’s getting married so quickly, but I’m convinced the marriage won’t last. It could be one, two … five years down the road, but maybe I’ll get a second chance. Not wanting her to suffer, I feel guilty for anticipating misfortune with Theo. But instinct tells me that he’s only acting like a model fiancé.
49
I’m walking to the chow hall, telling Shannon and Weird Al how much I’m looking forward to my parents’ visit in two days, when Frankie grabs my wrist and pulls me aside, his face taut, danger flashing in his eyes. ‘Englandman! Hammer, an old Aryan Brother on Yard 1, has put out a green light to have you smashed for blogging about people doing drugs and using real names.’
I swallow hard. A green light means Hammer will reward any white inmate who attacks me. While my pulse soars, I swivel my head, scanning the yard for hostility. ‘I never used real names.’ I can’t believe this is happening just before my parents’ visit.
‘You’re not dumb enough to use real names. Hammer’s full of shit. Did you write about people doing drugs?’
Frankie’s gaze bores into my skull. Although I’m under interrogation, I appreciate him being the first to warn me. Sex play aside, he cares about my safety. As the green light was issued to the whites, I wonder how he even knows about it. ‘I wrote about prisoners shooting up with needles made from commissary items. I thought that was interesting.’ Although I never mentioned names, half of the accusation is true. There’s no easy way out. Shook up, I stare at Frankie with a plea for help.
A prisoner scared for his life can ‘check in’, which involves snitching out the threat in return for being locked-down and moved to a different prison. But ‘snitches get stitches’ and, having established close friendships here, I rule that out. If I’m locked-down, I won’t be able to see my parents. If I’m moved to a different prison, the special visits approved here will be void. I’ve brought this upon myself. I need to face it head on, if I’m to stay and get visits.
‘You should never write about drugs, Englandman,’ Frankie says, shaking his
head. ‘In case anyone starts any shit, I’m gonna sit with you in the chow hall. It’s the whites with the problem and I can raise a lot more homies than them. I’ll have my people go to war, if need be. I’ve got your back, Englandman. I’m ready to dig my bone-crusher up,’ he says, referring to a giant shank buried on the yard. Touched by his plan to sit with me, I follow him to the chow hall. The convict code dictates that members of separate races stay out of each other’s disputes, yet Frankie is backing me up on an issue among the whites. He knows I’m in way above my head and he’s putting his life on the line for me. Because he’s an ‘OG’ – an original gangster – an army of young Mexican-Americans respect him and will back him up if things escalate. I’m an easy target, but his presence will make people think twice.
Indoors, I take my tray to a table. Frankie sits by me, covered in tattoos, a résumé of two decades of violence, showing he has killed and will kill, his body flexed as if ready to spring up, his head still, eyes roving, watching everyone. Things are so tense around us, I can’t eat. I flinch every time someone draws near and brace myself to be stabbed. The urge to leave is overwhelming.
‘Let’s go, Frankie.’ I give my tray to Slingblade and take Frankie to my cell to show him a printout of what I wrote:
Rig Builders
Recently, the traditional methods of procuring syringes haven’t been working, so some prisoners are making their own from store items.
There are three ways prisoners obtain syringes that I know of. Firstly, stealing them from Medical, where they’re commonly used for insulin injections. Secondly, ‘keystering’ (smuggling) them in through Visitation from a visitor’s body, anus or vagina to a prisoner’s anus, carefully wrapped in balloons, cling film or condoms. Thirdly, via the mail system, concealed in cardboard greeting cards delivered by the US Postal Service, using envelopes with bogus return addresses.
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