We saw Papillon, which was French for butterfly, starring Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman. It was based on the true story of an innocent man, framed for murder, who was sentenced to life on the penal colony known as Devil's Island. After several attempts at escaping, he was hospitalized in the prison infirmary, where a trustee came onto the ward and placed a red carnation in the mouth of a young prisoner laying on a cot. I shifted in my seat as he ran his hand over the man's bare chest, across his stomach and into his underwear. I was terrified, as I watched this scene unfold, that my Mom could hear my heart pounding. It was the first time I felt a sexual stir; and it was something I would never forget.
When I was kid and visited my older brother in reform school, he told us stories of how older boys cut holes in the pocket of their jeans and then asked a newbie to help them get something out of it. They would explain they had sprained their finger and couldn't reach for it themselves. The unsuspecting fish would slip their hand inside the pocket only to find a swollen prick poking out from the hole. Ricky said that the longer it took a guy to realize what it was they were holding, the greater the likelihood they would have to service it later.
The thought of it was maddening as my mind vacillated between fear and curiosity. I heard stories about watching your ass when bending over to pick up soap, and about candy bars being left on pillows. Long before Ricky got sent away, Dad tried to scare us from a life of crime by telling us about the booty bandits inside.
Dad and Uncle Ronnie had served time in reform school, when they were kids, for stealing cars and breaking into a business. He said that when he was there, candy bars were left on the pillows of new prisoners, and if a guy ate it, someone who wanted it back would confront him later. If the fish had eaten it, he would have to give up something else in return, which usually meant a sexual favor.
"But that shit only happens to punks and queers," my brother told me. "To punk ass bitches that don't know how to take care of themselves."
I could never tell Rick how scared I was to be in prison, because I didn't want him to look down on me. How could I tell him how little I could fight? He must have known how much I relied on him as a kid. I think he even resented it at times, they way he always had to stick up for me. Perhaps that's why he had that look of terror on his face the night before I came to prison. I could never tell him how cowardly I felt or about the sexual thoughts I sometimes had.
"You don't want to be a punk," Rick said. "And you never want to be a snitch. Punks get fucked, but snitches get killed."
When he used to write to me from inside prison, he described daily life there. He told me about the fights and stabbings and about inmates who were set on fire. He described how he made a bomb by scraping off the sulfur from books of matches into a jar. He added nuts and bolts and bits of metal that served as shrapnel. And he told me about the rapes and gangbangs, and how a helpless newcomer was held down while several guys took turns fucking him. "The Bible says that the meek shall inherit the earth," he once wrote, "but inside these walls-they're doing their boyfriend's laundry." He said prison was a sea of restless sailors who were eager to assist the helpless land lovers gain their sea legs, as long as they were lifted high in the air.
The raw masculine barbarity of it all completely aroused my imagination. Yes, I was terrified, but at the same time fascinated. Prison sounded repulsive, yet my reactions made me wonder about my sexuality. Rick's stories gave me an adrenaline rush. My breath seemed to quicken, and my heart raced. Then cane the shame and disgust-the humiliation and self hatred that I was picturing myself having sex with a guy. I could never tell anyone what I was thinking. Why did I have to be so different? Is prison where I truly belonged?
We were in the north side card room. Chet and Taylor had brought the spud juice in a thick black plastic bag. There was a gray flannel blanket over the table. Red and Slide Step joined them a couple of minutes later. Chet dipped a Maxwell House instant coffee jar inside of the bag. The juice was a dark red color. Chet handed it to me.
"We don't use cups because the stain don't come out," Chet said, referring to the plastic tumblers everyone seemed to have.
There were prunes and orange bits at the bottom of the glass jar. The label on the jar read, GooDD TO THE LAST DROP. I took a drink and gagged, not sure I'd be able to drink more. It had a pungent odor; its taste was sharp and acidic. The guys laughed. They seemed to be studying inc, acting supportive and encouraging at the same time. I enjoyed the attention more than the juice, but the warmth in my belly was inviting. The burn that went down sent coolness back up. It was like stepping into a hot bath, and the feeling you get as the chill in your body rises up through your spine.
"You eat the fruit," Taylor said, "that's the best part."
I couldn't get past the bitter taste. It was sharp and caused shivers in the back of my neck, my eyes watered. There was no way I could cat the fruit.
"Where it at? Where it at!" a short skinny black man echoed as he entered the room, giving Slide Step a high five from the side. He extended his arm, pulled it back behind him and then brought it forward, slapping his hand. He was wearing an all-white kitchen uniform.
"Hey Ed," Slide Step said, slapping him back with the same sideways motion. "Where's your goblet?"
"Right here," hoisting his instant coffee jar into the air. "Now you didn't think I'd miss a party? Did ya?"
Taylor took Ed's jar and dipped it into the bag.
"But don't give me none of that fruit." Ed grimaced. "That shit is nasty!"
He grabbed a chair and sat next to me. "You must be Tim!" He looked down at my now half-empty drink.
I smiled at him, "You don't eat the fruit, huh?"
"No way, that shit will grow hair on your ass," he said. "Ain't nothing worse."
"NASTY," Chet chided, shaking his head with a hint of Louis Armstrong in his voice, "NASTY ASSEY!"
"Well, if it's anything like the juice," I said, "I'm not sure I want any."
"Oh, lie's talkin' about hair on your ass," Red quipped, "not the juice."
They all chuckled.
"Now you just leave this boy alone," Ed said, putting his arm around my chair. "This is my homeboy."
He picked up his jar and clinked it with mine. "Cheers!"
I took another swig, this time it only stung a little. Chet was sitting across from me. Slide Step was in his usual place, his back to the wall and legs crossed and propped on another chair, slowing nursing his spud juice.
"Why do they call it spud juice?" I asked. "Are there potatoes in it?"
"Nah," Chet said, "probably a long time ago. We use orange juice or grapefruit juice and whatever fruit we can get our hands on."
"But it can't have no preservatives," Taylor added.
"We add sugar and yeast," Chet continued, "and then let it cook for a couple of days. I'm not sure how they did it with potatoes."
"It's hard to get the juice anymore," Taylor explained, "since they started bringing in orange juice with preservatives and shit. So we have to rely on fruit, which there ain't a lot of around here."
Chet and Taylor had been friends for a long time. Chet said he began making spud juice in the late fifties, when he first started serving time. They considered themselves experts and called their operation The Senility Distillery.
"Had we been around during prohibition," Taylor boasted, "we'd a been 0.G.s."
"What's Oh Jeeze?" I asked.
"Original Gangsters!" Chet said. "We'd a given Al Capone a run for his money."
I smiled and looked down at my drink, which I had almost finished. I was starting to feel a little warm. It had been about six weeks since I had had any alcohol to drink. It felt nice. I was relaxing, something else I hadn't been able to do for at least as long.
"In a pinch, we've used tomato puree," Taylor said, "when there's nothin' else."
"Now that's some nasty shit!" Ed chimed. "Anyone want nay fruit?"
He had finished his jar, and there were a few pieces sittin
g at the bottom: a prune, a piece of grapefruit, and something else that looked dark and truly nasty.
"Let Tim try it," Red said. "He'll eat anything!"
"No, I don't want it," I said, shaking my head.
"Oh c'mon!" Ed looked over, "it's not all that had."
"Go ahead," Chet encouraged, "it'll get you goin'."
"What the hell," I shrugged, looking around the room for a garbage can. I could always spit it out. I took the jar from Ed and lifted it to my mouth, trying to shake a piece loose without putting my lips on the ring. I wasn't sure he'd want Inc drinking from his jar. Some of the juice spilled on my chin.
"Here," Ed said, taking it back from me. He grabbed the prune with his fingers and lifted it to my lips. I reached for it, but he motioned my hand away with his fingers, and placed it in my mouth. The prune had absorbed the juice and was soft and swollen. I bit down on it and felt a gag rise from the base of my throat. I ran over to the butt can next to the door and spit it out. The guys were laughing.
"Don't worry," Red said. "You'll learn to swallow."
Chet and Slide Step gave him a look. I wiped any chin with my sleeve and pretended I didn't know what he meant, but I did. I didn't like Red, and I was glad Chet and Slide Step was there. Ed seemed nice too, but I began to wonder if I was being set up. I was feeling light headed.
I sat back down, and Chet explained that he liked eating the fruit, but it took some getting used to. Taylor reached over and took the jar from Ed and lifted it to his mouth, letting the remaining bits of fruit fall onto his tongue. I watched his eyes water as he chomped down on them and swallowed. He shivered and shook his head back and forth like a dog does after a bath.
"Now that's how you get a good buzz," Taylor said. "That's the Whip!"
I looked down and noticed that someone had refilled my jar. I was beginning to loosen up. I took another drink, and the acidic taste seemed to have lessened. There were no chills this time, just more warmth going down into my belly.
Chet popped some fruit into his mouth and smiled. His Adam's apple contracted as he gulped it down his throat. He winked at me, "That's the do, baby boy, that's the do."
I tried another piece of fruit, and this time I didn't gag. It was as nasty as before, but at least I got it down. My jar was getting lower, so I turned my head to see what was happening in the pool room. I was hoping they'd fill my cup again.
Were they doing this because they got a kick out of getting the kid drunk, or was something else going on? Maybe this was why Chet was being so friendly. And it's probably why I had that stifled grin on my face. A smirk from the attention I was getting. The attention that I didn't want, but really did-glad I was getting it, but ashamed of it at the same time. But what about the others? I couldn't get a read on them. Maybe they just liked the fact that I was so young, and they thought of me like a little brother. Or perhaps I reminded them of themselves when they first got here. I really enjoyed the focus and attention. I loved their smiles and the kindness they were showing me. They listened to what I had to say, and they took interest in me. Something I didn't get much of at home. It filled a void and loneliness, and it was what I had longed for. It felt real nice in spite of my surroundings.
When I turned my head back, I noticed someone had refilled my jar. I could feel my heart pounding and my breath shorten, sending a swirl of energy around my chest. My hand was shaking slightly as I lifted my drink. I swallowed a piece of fruit, and it tasted smooth. My face and taste buds were numb, but I could feel that silly smirk on my face.
Chet asked me to step into the shower room to talk. He led the way, as I felt myself stagger up the hall. I thought I knew what was happening, but my head was pretty cloudy, even more so than usual. There was a dullness that was new to one, my face was completely numb, unlike any of my previous drunk experiences. It had nothing to do with the spud juice.
I had been drinking since I was thirteen, so of course I'd had different reactions to different booze. Rum and Cokes gave me the spins, and Tequila Sunrises gave me the pukes. But the buzz before the crash was always the same feeling. I loved to watch myself when I was drunk. It was like I could get outside of myself and watch what I was thinking on a big screen. But today, my vision seemed blurrier than usual.
"So you're gay, right?" Chet asked. He had been talking to me for a while, but this was the fist thing that registered. I hadn't heard anything he had said before this.
"NO," I answered quickly, "I'm not!" At least I tried to say it quicklyinstead my words came out slow and slurred. I wasn't even sure that I got the "I'm not" part of the sentence out or if I just thought I had.
"Uh-huh," he nodded. He wasn't buying it. "Then what did you think was going on? And why did you keep asking if there were any fags here?"
I couldn't say anything. There was a menacing quality to him that wasn't there before. It was as if I was talking to somebody I didn't know. And come to think of it, I really didn't know Chet.
"The picture of Bobbi last night, my classification notice, the party this morning? Did you think I was doing this because I'm a nice guy?"
"The picture? What picture? You mean that guy in woman's clothes?" There was a delay from when I said something, and when I heard myself say it. I think all that came out was a slurred "... picture ... fag."
"What are you talking about?"
The room began to spin. It was like everything in sight was rotating to the left, but then flipped back and turned again in the opposite direction. All I could do was hold onto the bench I was seated on and blink in disbelief.
"The classification document that I showed you last night," Chet said.
"What about it?"
"It said that I was sent here because of homosexual tendencies," Chet shouted. It was becoming clearer to me. "If you weren't gay, why'd you stick around?"
I felt trapped and cornered and didn't know how to respond. I remembered him handing me a piece of paper last night. Why didn't I read it? I looked at it a couple of times, but I was too distracted by Scatter. Did it really say he was brought here because of homosexual tendencies? Fuck! I wished I had read it. Of course Chet was being nice to me. He was interested in me! How could I have been so stupid? How could I not see what he was up to? I wished I read the clues that he'd been sending, like his friendliness, the free cigarettes and spud juice and conversations about family and looking out for each other. Until that moment, the bug in the hallway didn't register, the one that was calling him scandalous. Or what it meant when the guys kept calling him Mr. Wilson. I asked Slide Step what he meant and he said something about Dennis the Menace and about how Mr. Wilson was always nice to the kid. But I still didn't understand. Everybody could see what was happening but me. Or what about that picture of Bobbi-the guy in woman's clothes? How could I have been so naive?
Red! What about Red? Was he in on it too? Why didn't I pick up on all of those nasty comments of his? How could have I been so stupid as to think that Chet was going to protect me from them. Or was this what he was trying to say? Was Chet making a play to protect me? Was he trying to become my Man?
I looked up to ask him something, but he was gone. I was sitting there alone. In fact, the shower room was empty. I started to get up, but I couldn't move. It was as if I was so exhausted I didn't have the energy to get up. The room had stopped spinning, but I still couldn't move. There was saliva hanging from my bottom lip, which I wiped on my sleeve.
Maybe Chet was right. I am gay, but I didn't want to admit it. I still wasn't sure that I was. Even if I were, I didn't want anyone to know about it. Was that why I didn't see what was coming? I did and I didn't want to admit it? I was glad to be so many miles from home, a world away from where anyone knew me. Whatever happened in there was for me alone to know about. Who I became there and what I did inside would be sealed within these walls. It would be my secret alone. I would never see these people again.
Sitting there by myself, I thought about how freeing that would be-to be able to have sex
with men in an environment that permits it, someplace where in fact it's even celebrated. All of these strong, masculine men. I just wished they were younger, I wished they were my age, and then maybe I could get used to it. The only one that I'd liked so far was Scatter, and maybe Young Blood. They were my age and both of them were beautiful. I'd love it if somehow something sexual happened with one of them. I didn't know what was happening with Scatter. That guy sitting with him the night before was mean. Maybe he was Scatter's boyfriend. He could have been offended that I asked about fags. I was confused. The booze was good, and I thought it was cool that they got me drunk. Maybe something would happen with one of these young guys. My chest and my body tingled at the thought.
I wished Chet wasn't so old. At least he was white. He seemed to have a handle on how to do time. He's got money, he's got booze, and he'd been very nice to me. Perhaps that's how it worked. He takes care of me, and I take care of him. Yeah, that's it. He takes care of me, makes sure nobody hurts me, makes sure I have plenty of booze so I can check out any time I like, makes sure I have cigarettes and candy and whatever else they sell in the commissary, and all I have to do is take care of him-though I wasn't exactly sure what "taking care of him" would entail. Chet wasn't that had looking. If he first came here in the fifties, he must be in his late thirties. I just wished he were closer to my age.
Chet walked into the shower room and told me to follow him. I tried to tell him what I had decided, but I still couldn't get up, and now I couldn't even speak. For some reason my words were slurred worse than before. I couldn't understand a word he said. Suddenly, someone was at my side helping me to stand. The next thing I knew, I was standing in one of the dorms.
Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison Page 10