Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison

by T. J. Parsell

  "Don't tell him," Connie whispered.

  After my parents were divorced, we went out to Camp Dearborn with my Dad, Sharon, and her two boys, Bobby and Billy. Bobby was my age, now almost eight, and Billy was a year younger. We no longer had money for things like crepe paper costumes, ice cream, and french fries at the canteen. I stopped competing in the Talent Show. It wasn't the same going there by myself. We ate our meals at the trailer that Dad had rented (the Bank repossessed the big Marshmallow), and Sharon even washed out our straws to save extra money. Bobby said I couldn't sing anyway, and when I tried to argue with him, he asked if I wanted to fight about it. Ricky was away at Boys Camp for what would be his last time.

  Connie said Bobby was mean because his dad used to beat him. I didn't care. I wished I could've beaten him too, but he was tough and mean like his mother.

  Sharon and I didn't get along well at all. Particularly since I told her what my mom had told me to say. "My momma says she don't want some old broad hitting me! She said she's my momma and if there's any spanking to be done-she'll do it -NOT YOU!"

  I stood there with my fists balled at the sides, matching her stare glare for glare.

  I didn't know it was possible to see anyone get as angry as Sharon got. Part of what made her mad was that my mom was actually older than her.

  Sharon's eyes turned as red as her face as she let out a low rumble that seemed to shake the entire trailer. "Dale," she yelled, back to where my Dad was sleeping. "You better come get him, before I kill him."

  Bobby came running in, and Sharon yelled at him to go back outside.

  I was terrified to say anything else, so I just stood there trembling, waiting for Dad.

  Ricky had been living with them for a couple of months, but Connie and I hadn't been told we were moving in with them for good until just then. Mom said later, she didn't have the heart to tell me, and Dad just thought we had known about it.

  Mom couldn't handle us alone anymore. She was studying for her GED so she could get a job with the phone company. In the meanwhile, she worked as a cocktail waitress at the Dearborn Lounge and always came home late. When Dad offered to take us-Mom said OK.

  Sharon was the exact opposite of my mom. She screamed and yelled and always seemed mad about something, especially when Dad disappeared for days at a time. Connie said Dad was still heartbroken over Mom's affair. And that Sharon's ex-husband used to beat Sharon up as well. "That's why she's mad all the time," Connie said.

  I guess in fairness to Sharon, I was like any other young kid in my situationshe was replacing my mother, so I hated her and I never cut her a break. It probably skewed my perceptions of her.

  Dad still only came to camp on weekends, and most of that time was spent sleeping. At night, he sat around the campfires with my aunts and uncles laughing and drinking. "You kids go off and play," they'd say. They didn't like us hanging around when there was so much for us to do there. The camp was ideal for them, because they didn't need a babysitter. There were now twenty-eight of us kids, counting Bobby and Billy and my variOUS Cousins.

  At the paddleboat lake, there were all types of boats you could rent for a quarter, and each family got two free for every week they stayed in the park. I loved the ones that were shaped like a bicycle. It straddled two pontoons and was faster than all of the others. I used to get on it and pedal as hard as I could, pretending that my hat would catch wind, like in the Flying Nun, and carry me away from there.

  I just wanted to be back home with my mom.

  5

  Chain Reactions

  On Saturday nights, the camp held teenage dances on the tennis courts next to the canteen. Only a few of my cousins were old enough to go, but that didn't stop the rest of us. We hid on the hill and watched from the shadows.

  They looked pretty silly there, especially when they slow-danced, the way they hugged each other and pivoted like they were wind-up toy soldiers. When the beat of the records picked up, they looked even sillier, thrashing their arms about with their thumbs extended, like they didn't know which side of the road they wanted to hitchhike down.

  Diana Ross and the Supremes, Petula Clark, and Simon e?' Garfunkle filled the hot summer air with music that was cool andgroovy and spoiled only by the sounds of the electric bug zappers that surrounded the canteen.

  We threw small pebbles at the electrified metalgrid andgiggled as it buzzed. No one could see us hiding unless it was a full moon, and even then it took the glow from the bug zapper's ultraviolent lights to be seen.

  Ricky said they were called "ultraviolent" because of the way they vaporized flying insects.

  When I arrived at the County Jail, it was just after 6:30. There were twentythree of us who were transferred downtown. We entered the receiving area joined together by a chain. Our wrists were affixed, every few feet, by handcuffs that were welded to the shackles. We were placed in the first of four holding cells along the right wall. There was a control booth in the center area and a matching set of bullpens on the opposite side of the room. The deputies sorted prisoners based on whether we were sentenced to prison or to county jail time. Sentences of a year or more went to the state prison, and sentences of less than a year either stayed in the county jail or were sent to The Detroit House of Corrections.

  The holding cell was dark and crowded. There were over thirty of us, in a space that was large enough for maybe fifteen or twenty men. It reeked of urine. There was a sink and toilet attached to the back wall and an open partition that provided little privacy. There was no toilet paper in sight. Some of the inmates where yelling to the holding cells across the room and others where just yelling. I prayed it wouldn't take long to get us through intake and into our own cells. I was hungry and regretted not eating the stale bologna sandwich they gave us earlier at the Hospital/Courthouse.

  As soon as the bars slid shut on our cell, the metal gates to the loading dock opened, and another group was led in on chains. There must have been thirty of us in the pen, but only four of us were white. I sat on the floor, with my back against the wall, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I absently chewed my nails as I tried to pretend it was all routine, like I'd been through before and wasn't fazed, but I was too afraid to look up and see if anyone noticed. It was hard to think with all the noise. The large metal gate opening, inmates yelling, electric cell doors opening and closing, and the sounds of heavy chains crashing to the floor. An inmate kicked the metal tab on the wall, and the toilet made a whoosh as it flushed the rust-colored water down the filthy suck-hole at the bottom of the stainless steel bowl. It continued sucking air long after the water receded and then spit back, noisily, water that was just as filthy.

  A deputy came to the front of the cell, "OK, Listen up. When I call out your name, step to the front of the cell."

  "Hey Dep! Can I ask you somethin'?" a stocky black inmate pleaded.

  "Williams, Johnson, Taylor," the deputy read from a clipboard, holding a pen in his right hand as he went down his list. "Miller, Hughes, Jackson."

  "Yo, Dep!" the black man persisted, "Please! I have a quick question."

  "Walters, Parsell, Pierce." He looked to his right and yelled, "Open Five!" Two deputies came over and joined him. All three of them were white.

  I followed as each man stepped from the cell. The deputy with the clipboard checked off our names. The other two deputies motioned us to the right and ordered us to line up, turn in and face the holding cell with our backs to them.

  "Officer! Please, just one quick question."

  "Close five!" the deputy yelled, not looking up. The gate jolted forward and closed on Holding Cell Five. "OK Maggots, let's go."

  They led us past the other cells and into an open area. There was a counter to the right with stacks of blue plastic bins and to the left a long cinderblock bench. The deputy told us to take a seat and to remove our shoes. My shoelaces were still with my other belongings that were taken at the courthouse, including my carton of cigarettes.

  One at a time
, we were called into the next room where there was a black curtain tacked to the wall, opposite a large Bell & Howell camera. The deputy handed me a letter board that read, Wayne County Jail. My name was spelled out in tiny letters. March 3, 1978, was indicated below.

  "Hold it just under your chin," the deputy ordered.

  I'd seen this a hundred times before, in the movies, but it felt chilling to see my name written along the felt grove. I was startled by a loud thump and dropped the board. The plastic letters scattered to the floor, but I couldn't see them because the large flash had temporarily blinded me.

  "Oh Jesus," the deputy said under his breath. "Why the fuck don't they put these on a chain?" He came out from behind the camera and kicked the letters off to the side. I flinched, half expecting him to hit me. I guessed he could tell it was my first time.

  After he reconstructed the board and took a profile, he led me to the next room where he placed a thin white piece of cardboard on an easel at the edge of the counter. He clamped a metal frame down to hold it into place, squeezed a dab of ink from a tube and used a small roller to spread it evenly across the smooth surface of the template.

  "Relax," he said, ordering me to stand behind him, "and let me guide your hand."

  He took my index finger and rolled it, left-to-right, onto the inked surface and then repeated the same motion onto the marked section of the cardboard. He captured each impression with a swiftness and precision of someone who'd been doing this a long time. When he was done, he handed me a piece of tissue, which was barely large enough to clean one hand. He didn't seem to care. "Have a seat out front," he said.

  Next, I was handed a blue storage bin and told to take off my clothes and place them inside. The deputy pointed to the bench where two black inmates were sitting naked. A third nude inmate was standing up, his back to me, with his arms stretched to the side.

  "OK, good," a deputy in front of him said, as the prisoner complied with each command. "Now open your mouth and lift your tongue ... OK ... Good. Run your fingers through your hair ... Shake it ... Good ... Lift up your balls ... OK ... Turn around and bend over ... Spread your cheeks ... Wider ... OK. Let me see the bottom of your feet. Good ... Have a seat on the bench."

  The deputy ran through his routine like the one who had taken my fingerprints. As if he was working at The Fisher Body Plant-just putting in an eight-hour shift as the endless stream of chassis came down the line. The first inmate sat down, and the deputy pointed to the next. "Open your mouth," he said. "Lift up your tongue ... Run your hands through your hair ... Good ... Lift up your balls ..."

  I could feel the blood draining from my face. I was afraid to take off my clothes, especially in front of everyone, but I didn't have a choice. I couldn't pass on the shower and take an F for the day, like I used to do in gym class on days when I wasn't sure I'd get through a shower without a boner embarrassing me. One time, when a kid looked over and noticed, he called me a fag. I wanted to die. So on school days, I'd jerk off right before I caught the bus, hoping it would relieve enough pressure to get me through the mornings, but gym wasn't until second period, which was usually enough time for my balls to regenerate and spring my shaft to an unmanageable attention.

  When I was at risk of failing the entire semester, I tried to relieve myself in the bathroom right before gym, but there wasn't enough time in between classes, and people kept coming in. I was afraid they'd look between the cracks of the stall or from the shadows on the floor and see what I was doing. A couple of times, I slipped out of first period early, but there were always one or two guys in the bathroom, sneaking a smoke. So I kept failing gym and had to retake it. It was a stupid requirement for graduation.

  So at the county jail, taking an F wasn't an option, and even worse, I was too hungover that morning to do anything before I left for court. I was hoping my hangover would get me through it, but it was awfully late in the day. I was really frightened, because there was now a lot more at stake than just being called a fag.

  I set the bin down and slowly took off my clothes, hoping the deputy would finish with the others and take them away before it was my turn for the humiliating butt check. I was down to my underwear when he ordered the other three into the showers.

  As they walked off, three more naked inmates carrying bedrolls and clothes brushed past heading out toward the bullpens. I tossed my underwear into the bin and sat back on the bench, cupping my shriveled source of embarrassment with both hands.

  The other deputy stepped away, so I was left there, sitting alone. Goose bumps rolled over me as if a cold chill had swept the room. I shivered slightly, but my face felt warm.

  Three more inmates were led in, handed blue bins and told to take a seat on the bench. I scooted over, hanging on for dear life. I clenched my chattering teeth, but my heart was pounding, "Please God, GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"

  6

  Safety in Numbers

  On an Easter morning, when my dad was a kid, he got up early before his brothers and sisters were awake. He ate the ears off everyone's chocolate Easter bunny. Everyone's that is except for my Aunt Diane's.

  Aunt Diane got blamed, but my Dad got caught, because he was the only one who wasn't crying.

  There were several televisions located throughout Camp Dearborn. They were locked up, during the day, in large wooden cabinets. Our whole clan gathered around the TVs at night to watch our favorite shows: Wagon Train, Tarzan, and Batman & Robin.

  Around the big Totem Pole, during the day, we fought over who got to play Wagon Train's Chris Hale or Barnaby West and who had to be the scouts that went out looking for Indians. The older cousins liked being the Indians, but we had to stop playing because they started taking the game too seriously. On TV, the Indians would capture the scouts and torture them, leaving them tied up in the desert to dehydrate and wither away.

  "Where's Billy?" Sharon asked, as she rustled us up for dinner. She had made Sloppy Joes, which were Billy's favorite.

  Someone had tied him to a tree and forgot about him. When we found him, he was blindfolded and gagged with two red Indian bandanas. Sharon got mad, and we weren't allowed to play anymore, even though the real reason it happened was because Billy squealed on Ricky and Donny for stealing watermelons out of the creek.

  After a few summers, we got bored with these games and sought out more exciting adventures. Given the size of our clan, we developed quite a reputation as we grew older. Cousins Donnie, Marty, and my brother Rick were all teenagers now, but they thought the dances were too square. As we hid on the hill, they used their slingshots and took turns nailing kids in the butt. Bobby and I brought along our peashooters, but they didn't work as well. When Rick took out one of the bug zappers, the camp counselors were on to us.

  Occasionally, someone would chase us, but we rarely got caught. One night, when cousin Jamie got nabbed by some kid who tried to take him back to the canteen, the kid ran away quickly when he saw how many of us there were.

  Meanwhile, our parents spent nights around the campfire bragging about their own youthful adventures. Like the time Dad and Uncle Ronnie went down the street in the middle of the night pushing cars into the road. People didn't lock their cars back then, so they slipped the gears into neutral and shoved each one down the driveway. When they were done, they banged on a door at the end of the block and then ran into the woods, where they watched in laughter as each house alerted the next and a string of porch lights lit up the neighborhood.

  My favorite story involved my Dad putting a bag over his head and robbing the neighborhood paperboy, who happened to be his half-cousin. "I know that's you, Dale!" the kid bellyached, as he handed over his money. "I'm telling your Mom."

  They laughed hysterically every time that story was told, as if they hadn't heard it a hundred times before. I guess everything sounded funny when you were happy and drinking. In spite of their own craziness, my family always had a good time when they were together.

  Of course, we kids tried to copy our
parent's pranks. One of my favorites was to go around at night unplugging trailers. It was especially fun to peep through the window to see what the people were doing. Like when they were playing poker-we'd watch as they raised one another back and forth and then, Boom, just as they were about to show their hand-we'd pull the old plug and run.

  For a longest time, I wanted to be a lawyer when I grew up. Perry Mason was my favorite show on TV. I wanted to be just like him. My Dad said you had to be smart to be a lawyer, but since he never finished the sixth gradeand most of my family had no schooling beyond high school-we didn't know how long it would take in school to become one. Some folks had TVs inside their trailers, and I remember watching from the window while Perry Mason, played by Raymond Burr, cross-examined a witness to elicit a lastminute confession. All of the show's hour-long leads would come down to these last few critical moments, when Perry would have the witness quivering on the stand. His secretary, Della Street, or Paul Drake, his private eye, would hand Perry an envelope then, just as the witness was about to confessBAM ... we'd pull the plug. "Oh Shit! You dirty little bastards!" Off into the darkness we'd run.

  A lot of our pranks weren't as much fun if we weren't chased afterward. In fact, being chased was one of the most enjoyable things we did together. I liked the rush that came with it-my heart pounding and the shortness of breath. It made my whole body tingle. Like ridding a roller coaster or watching a scary movie-it made you jump, but then it made you laugh, and you wanted to go again.

  There were several pavilions, where groups held family picnics that included a variety of games and prizes. We'd sneak in on the fun and share in the ice cream, watermelon, and potato sack races. Since the camp supervised most of the activities, over time, we got to know the games pretty well. Once, after cousin Rusty won several prizes in a row, including the dance contest, someone wanted to know whose little boy he was, and his cover was blown. We didn't get into too much trouble, though, since it was Uncle Ronnie's idea in the first place. That night, we heard our parents laughing about it.