by Lee Taylor
“Yes,” we all chanted.
Mandy said, “Don’t get ‘em started. They’re nuts over the Beatles or any group from England. That’s all they talk about. They’re obsessed. It’s been over a month since Beth and I took them to see Peter and Gordon, and they still haven’t gotten over it.”
“Are those pictures of Peter and Gordon? I love those guys,” Mary Ann cooed. “Can I see the pictures?” She stood up and walked over to us. Unlike Mandy and Beth who didn’t care about the British invasion, Mary Ann was excited over our rock’n’roll heroes.
“Sure. We met ‘em,” Sharon said. Mary Ann was amazed by our ability to get backstage. We told her about the ramp on the side of the building where the stars drove in and out and how we always sneaked back there to get autographs from Sonny and Cher, The Kinks, Chad and Jeremy and even Billy J. Kramer. We also told her about Ciscarama, a talent show for Chicago area schools and how we made the finals.
“They hold it at McCormick Place every year,” Sharon said.
“I think a friend of my sister’s was in it,” Mary Ann answered while she looked through our pictures, studying each one, smiling when she recognized somebody.
Lisa said, “Well, this year it was held on the same day as the Peter and Gordon concert and we got to go back stage when they were practicing.”
“And we saw them through an open door and Beth took the pictures. It was outta sight!”
“I would love to be that close,” Mary Ann said. She looked at the pictures one more time and listened to our stories asking us questions as we went along. She even confided in us that when she first saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan she wanted to marry Paul. I was stunned that somebody older than us thought like we did, about marrying a Beatle. I was also glad she was going to be a nurse and not be any competition for us. After all, she was the same age as Paul and that could be a problem. Mary Ann was so beautiful and so nice. I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.
Suzie couldn’t stop talking about her upcoming wedding. She was engaged to Mary Ann’s brother, and had brought over Bride magazine and a few brochures from restaurants and local florists trying to nail down her wedding plans. I tried to listen to everything she said so that when it came time for Ringo and me to be married I would be prepared.
Suzie wore an absolutely beautiful, wonderfully fab diamond ring. A simple setting of white gold with one big diamond sticking straight up from her finger. It sparkled blue and yellow with each of her movements. I wanted to ask her if I could try it on so I could pretend that Ringo had just proposed, but I didn’t have the nerve.
Beth’s baby loved Suzie. It was a mutual admiration because every time she’d look at him he’d just beam. They laughed and played all afternoon until Beth finally put him down for a nap and even then, Suzie had to help. I thought she would make a terrific mother someday.
Sometime in the late afternoon, it got so hot in Beth’s apartment that even the fans she had going in almost every room didn’t seem to be working. I was getting really tired; so were Lisa and Sharon. The three of us lay almost asleep on the living room floor. I drifted in and out of consciousness catching snippets of conversation.
“It’s so hot,” Suzie said, fanning herself with one of her magazines. “We thought about going to the beach later on, but the last time we were there we met some really weird guy who kept on following us around.”
“He gave me the creeps,” Mary Ann said. “We haven’t been back there since. The guy was such a weirdo. He kept staring at us. Every time I’d turn around there he’d be, watching.”
“I didn’t notice him as much as you did, but the guy even came over to talk to us. Mary Ann told him to get lost. She’s so good,” Suzie said leaning back on the sky-blue, mohair sofa.
“Yes, and he got really mad. Remember? Like we should’ve just invited him home or something.”
Suzie said, “He called us whores. A real nut case.”
“What a creep. Weren’t you scared?” Mandy asked.
“Not really,” Mary Ann answered. “What could he do at a public beach? He was just some ugly creep looking for girls. He smelled of whiskey. Really strong and I hate that smell on a guy.”
I opened my eyes and sat up. Mary Ann made a funny face as if she were smelling his whiskey breath that very minute.
She continued, “I just wanted him to leave so Suz and me could enjoy the sun, but he wouldn’t.”
Suzie said, “We left right after that and haven’t been back there since. He was too strange, with his stupid accent and that acne-scarred face. He even had some tattoos on his arms and fingers. What a creep! Maybe we’ll try Rainbow Beach next time instead of Calumet. Calumet’s getting too crowded anyway.”
“I like Rainbow better,” I said. “It’s bigger. There’s plenty of room for everybody.”
“Next time we’ll go there,” Suzie said, and gave me a big smile. “Maybe you and your friends can come with us. We’ll have a picnic.”
Lisa and Sharon woke up and chimed in that they would love to go to the beach. Anytime. From there, the conversation drifted back to Suzie’s wedding and eventually Mandy decided it was time to leave.
I thought about Mary Ann and Suzie while we drove home on that hot afternoon, thought about how nice they were to us. Suzie had a great smile…I liked her and I liked Mary Ann. They didn’t ignore us like most girls their age did. They included us in their conversations like we mattered. Maybe it was because they were nurses and had been taught to be kind to everybody, or maybe they wanted to be nurses because they were already kind to everybody. I didn’t know. Whatever the reason, I decided we had found the perfect girl to marry George. We just had to work on her a little. Maybe when we all went to the beach together I could convince her that actually George was just her type, and she should join our group. Maybe even come to the Beatles concert with us. That would be perfect. Then we wouldn’t need a chaperone, just Mary Ann. George’s new wife.
Thirteen
September 10, 1987
Mike knocked on my motel room door early this morning. I couldn’t get up so I gave him the keys to my car. Needed some extra time to talk to the girl in the mirror. Convince her that I was doing the right thing by staying.
After a couple cups of Jacked-up coffee she finally relents.
I grab a cab to Stateville from a cabby who wants to commiserate over visiting a loved-one on the inside. I let him talk while I chain-smoke the noise away, giving him a groan every now and then. Too nervous to speak. Too nervous to explain.
When I finally arrive at the prison, around noon, the lines are short for some reason so I get right in with hardly any wait. The guard, Henrietta, is there with wand in hand. I approach her and as soon as the wand comes close, the alarm goes off. She does her groping thing, only this time I smile at her, almost like I’m enjoying it. She and I need to be friends. There’s no telling what Captain Bob may try. I need one of these guards to be on my side.
“Next time you come in just come to the front of the line. You don’t have to wait,” she states once she’s satisfied that I’m not packing a .357.
I continue with my smile act, only she doesn’t smile back. “Thanks, the line can be pretty long sometimes. By the way, I like your hair today. Is that a new cut?”
She hesitates. Stares at me for a moment like she’s wondering what I just said. “No,” she says with a curt little voice and steps back, out of my way.
Breaking into her circle of friends could be a challenge.
I end up escorted to the red-brick building this time by Vivian and Captain Bob. We’re going to F-House where the main scene will take place. We walk through the guardhouse, across a small lawn area through an open doorway, up some cracked marble stairs to a landing with a staircase on either side and an arched walkway in the middle. The brown tile floor has been buffed to a glass shine. A guard stands in front of a green door-like gate just under the archway yelling something to a guard on the stairs. Their voices, mixed with the gen
eral noise from the many offices that surround us, is almost laughable. After the guard checks my badge, which he carefully studies as if I just dropped from the sky, he opens the gate. Then it’s down a short hallway, a flight of stairs and out an open back door.
F-house is the round four-story brick building to our left. There are a few trailers sitting outside in the courtyard and men and woman from the crew go about the business of setting things up for the scene.
I can feel the tension between the Captain and me. Probably more on my part. All he does is smile, like yesterday never happened. I’m thinking that I should be in New York City picking up bartender skills. This whole thing is stupid. Like I can do anything about what goes on inside Stateville. As if nobody on the outside knows about Speck’s hootch or the cookbook Mr. Mafioso is writing. The Captain has me pegged, all right. A first class fool.
For once, I should have listened to Mike.
I start up a conversation, “Vivian, how long has Henrietta been working here?”
“Henrietta? You mean the guard, Henrietta?”
“Is there another Henrietta?”
“Oh no, unless you know another Henrietta?” I stare at her for a moment. She gets the picture and goes on, “Let’s see, I guess she was here when I started. That would be three years this December. She’s a sweet woman once you get to know her. Loves silent movies and music. Plays the piano in the theater department at our local college and sometimes here, like at Christmas and such. She has real talent. Lives with her best friend, Maggie. It’s sweet. They’ve been best friends since they were teens. Never did get married, either one of them. I can’t understand it, what with all these good-looking guards around here. I keep trying to fix—”
I have to stop the woman before she spins out of control and realizes that Henrietta is a lesbian. I don’t know if she can handle that kind of truth. The more she talks the more I think of Gracie Allen, only with Gracie it was a routine. “Vivian, thanks. That’s more than I need to know, thanks.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
Captain Bob decides to talk. “That Jim Belushi sure is a nice fellow. Got to meet him this morning. You’d never know that he’s a big star.” The Captain is almost glowing with excitement. It seems that Mike has cast him in a scene where Jim Belushi and Arnold first walk into the prison. Captain Bob lets them through the gates. He can’t stop talking about meeting Belushi. “I think he’s better looking than his brother was and just as talented in a different way, a more serious actor. Don’t you think?”
I go along with his fantasy. “Oh, yeah, he’s another Marlon Brando—the rugged, Roman soldier type. Probably win an Oscar for this movie.” Personally, I don’t think Jim even comes close. That quick, quirky humor died with John, but I won’t mention that to the Captain. Need to ride out this distraction.
“I don’t know about that,” he reasons, “but he sure is a nice fellow.”
I’m wondering what game the Captain is playing. Toying with my emotions. I try to let it go and think about Jim Belushi.
The Belushi brothers seem to have one of those stage mothers who never gives up. The first time I met Jim he warned me about his mother and made me promise to keep her away from the set, said she made him edgy. Mike and I handled it with our good-cop bad-cop routine. Mrs. Belushi didn’t buy it and got on the set anyway. Jim had a fit when he saw her, but never let on to his mom that she was in the way. The good son, always treating her with respect. Since we’ve been at Stateville she hasn’t shown up. Don’t know why, but according to Mike, Jim does his best work without her.
To get into F-house, we walk through an open side door of the tunnel where a guard stands watching all the activity from the crew, both coming in and going out. Turning to the right this time, we continue walking through another open doorway into F-House. Instantly, the human noise factor revs up again. The entire crew has arrived and F-House is swarming with activity. They have virtually consumed the place with electronic equipment and cables. Captain Bob and yet another guard exchange nods as we walk to the center of the building.
Mike appears and joins us. “Wait till you see this place,” he says, excitement drumming up his voice.
Captain Bob says, “We stopped using this facility for awhile. Stirred up the inmates. Had one too many riots in here. Closed it down a few years back after the last one. But we need it again. Too crowded. Have it about half full right now. Those spots on the ceiling are from gun blasts to get the inmates under control. Lost a couple good men in that riot. Don’t want to repeat that action.” The ceiling is a mesh of steel girders and bars, spokes like a bicycle wheel jut out from the center with huge spot lights blasting their beams down on the polished cement floor below.
I stand at the entrance and look around at the half-empty cells lit up from the sun coming in through the windows that surround each floor. The silhouette of men standing in front of four stories of cells is a pretty frightening sight. Caged. One window. One toilet. Two bunks. Two shades of gray—light and dark. The noise is at the high end, both from the crew trying to work and the inmates yelling down at us. Like some nightmare you wake up from, still not sure if it’s real or just a dream.
The place has absolutely no privacy. There’s a gun tower smack in the middle with a paned glass room at the top, only the glass is cracked in a few of the panes. Not much protection for those three guards who watch our every move. The building must house several hundred inmates. Two in each cell, like some alien zoo.
“We’re painting some of the cells for a scene,” Captain Bob says and points to three painters across from me. I can tell right off that one of them is Speck. He’s joking around with a black guy while they paint the bars outside a cell. There’s a third painter inside, a white kid with glasses. He looks like Crew Cut, the guy who gave us all the trouble on the first day, but I can’t tell for sure.
“Isn’t that Speck?” I ask the Captain.
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s what’s considered a good inmate. A trustee. Sticks to himself most of the time. Don’t cause no trouble. He gets special privileges; one of them is painting. Gives him extra money to buy his junk food. The guy lives on that crap—chips, donuts, Fritos. Warden says he don’t take very good care of himself. Never exercises, just eats, drinks his homemade hooch and paints.”
“Is he pretty free to move around the prison as he pleases?”
“Depends on the work. Like I said, he’s a trustee. If they get their work done early, they can jerk off for the rest of the day.” He shrugs.
Mike throws me a look and I can see the concern on his face. I smile up at him like everything’s cool and he takes off to talk to the second AD, an assistant director he’s worked with before.
I’m mesmerized by Speck and his buddies. At one point, Speck reaches over and grabs the black guy between the legs and leisurely strokes his groin. The guys smiles at Speck, says something and they laugh. Then Speck returns to his painting.
“Like what you see?” Captain Bob whispers in my ear. “Man loves this place. Wouldn’t leave if we handed him the key. Gets all the sex he wants, day or night. Glad to see you came back. We’ll talk later.” He gives me that we’ve-got-a-secret look before he drifts off and joins the other guard sitting outside the doorway. The whole thing gives me the creeps. Maybe I won’t stick around, after all. I could just walk away right now, but somehow my feet are glued to the floor. Can’t move. Can’t think. Just watching. Staring. Almost as if I’m inside a movie. This isn’t real. All these years I’ve played my own Speck movie. His misery. His loneliness. His mind wasting from lack of stimulation. Yet he seems happy. Jovial, even. ‘Wouldn’t leave if they gave him the key.’
It’s strange to be so close to Speck again, standing not more than a few yards away from him. Watching him talk, laugh, knowing that he’s virtually free to do anything he wants inside these walls. The model inmate. A trustee, no less. A man hooked on junk food. A man the warden frets over, like, for some reason he wants Speck to st
ay healthy. Healthy for what? So he can get paroled? Go out and live the life of an upstanding citizen because he’s been a good prisoner?
Suddenly Speck turns and notices me, as if he heard my thoughts. He examines me. I glare back at the bastard, fearless. He looks away when one of his buddies calls to him. A nauseating shiver passes through me as I remember something my dad must have told me a hundred times, “Carly, you’re safe anywhere you go as long as evil doesn’t notice you. Once it does, the secret to survival is the ability to recognize its face and take immediate action.”
“It’s time for action,” I say out loud, but my voice drowns in another wave of white noise.
I shift away from Speck and head straight for the Captain who stands joking with the guard out by the side door. Captain Bob looks over to watch my approach. We exchange a look. A nod.
He knows I’m finally ready to listen.
Fourteen
We’re alone, the Captain and me, in the prison library.
“My dad was a guard here, and his dad before him. I come from a long line.” Captain Bob and I stand in front of a wall of framed photos of Stateville. Most of them date back to its construction: buildings going up, men in hard hats mugging for the camera, stacks of bricks, trucks filled with lumber, and piles of steel girders.
The library’s not very big, a lot of dark polished wood and beige walls. He points to the pictures and tells me their story. “My grandfather helped build this place back in the twenties. We got sixty-four acres inside the wall and more than two-thousand outside. The wall’s thirty-three feet high. We opened in March of 1925. Was never supposed to handle more than 1,500 men, but I’ve seen it go almost double. F-house is panopticon, circular, designed by an Englishman. The only one of its kind in the U.S.