"You clumsy idiot," Sharon shrieked when I spilled her coffee on the livingroom carpet. Her cup had been sitting on the floor, next to the sofa. I ran andgrabbed something to clean it up, but then she screamed at me, "Not mygood towels!" She stormed into the kitchen and returned with a rag. "Forget it,"she said, "Just get out of here!"
Fortunately, my dad ran a carpet cleaning business on the side, so there wasn't a stain that would serve as a constant reminder of how awkward I had become.
It was also my first year in junior high school and the beginning of my problems in gym. I was always the last kid picked for teams, and the one who drew the most moans when I was finally chosen. I was as klutzy on the field, baseball diamond, and basketball court as I was in my own living room. To make matters worse, I had to shower with everyone afterward. I was nearly sixteen before I sprouted pubic hair.
I was shooting hoops by myself, when he snuck up behind me and took the ball. He did a quick lay up and tossed it back to where I was standing fifteen feet from the basket.
"What's you doin' out here?" Slide Step said playfully. "You don't know nothin' about this game."
"Sure I do," I said smiling. "Just 'cause I'm not very good-doesn't mean I don't know nothin'." I took a shot, and to my surprise it landed in the basket.
Slide Step looked up, grabbed the ball as it swished from the small chain link net, and tossed it back. I used to play Around the World in my driveway back home. We had a hoop over the garage. I took another shot, and it landed again!
"Oh, two in a row!" Slide Step said, smiling. He tossed the ball back to me. "Watch out now!" This time I missed, and he grabbed the ball and slowly bounced it as he walked behind me another six or eight feet from the basket.
He took a shot and missed, the ball hit the rim and bounced back. I grabbed it, dribbled forward and did a quick lay up. He came behind me and grabbed the ball as it dropped from the net. He passed it back. I was smiling, because the three out of four shots I just made-was about six times my normal average.
I bounced the ball forward, and he moved in to block me. That's where I usually got flustered. I could make a basket or two if I just took shots from anywhere around an imaginary arch in front of the hoop-but I didn't play well when someone was coming after me, checking and blocking. I turned my hack to him and nervously leaned forward, so he couldn't take the ball. He got behind me and reached around, as I tried to go right and then left and then right again. He wasn't giving any; his hips were right on my butt.
A couple of guys going up the stairs to 10 Building stopped to watch us play. I leaned forward, backed my butt into him and then quickly turned to my left, taking a wide hook shot with my right arm. The ball swished through the net! The guys on the stairs laughed. So did Slide Step. It was a lucky shot, but I wasn't sure they knew it.
Slide Step retrieved the ball and passed it back to me. He stood just inside my imaginary arch, shadowing me as I moved right and left again. He quickly reached around and snatched the ball, bumping me in the process.
"Foul," I yelled. He took the shot and easily landed the basket, slipping around me grabbing the ball as it bounced from the net. I reached out my hands, but he ignored me. "Foul," I repeated.
"What?"
"You fouled me," I said.
He took the shot and landed it. "That wasn't a foul," he said. He looked up and smiled at the guys on the stairs. He tossed me the ball, "but you can have it, anyway."
My brother taught me to bounce the ball in between my legs to transfer it from my right to the left hand. It was the only trick I knew. I took a stride back and then bounced it perfectly between steps, smiling broadly. I was starting to feel cocky. Slide Step's eyes twinkled with delight, and the guys on the stairs laughed. A few more had joined them.
"Uh oh," Slide Step said playfully, "You better be careful, Little Squeeze, or I'm gonna have to haul my dogs out here in a second."
I jumped up in the air and pushed the ball with both hands toward the basket. The ball missed the basket entirely, and the guys behind me howled. Slide Step caught it in the air, before it ran loose in the yard.
He dribbled behind me, turned and then moved backwards toward the hoop. I tried to block him, but he just kept backing into me, like I wasn't even there. "Don't foul me," I said, but he kept on pushing. "You're fouling me," I said.
"No I'm not," and he moved right, faked left, and in a flash was behind me dumping the ball into the basket.
He came out and did it again, leaving me standing there, looking foolish. The guys laughed again and the crowd had seemed to grow. Slide Step stepped out, moved in, and easily slipped passed. This time, the ball hit the rim and bounced behind me. I went to grab it, but as I turned around, he was already on my tail and easily recovered it, grabbing it in midbounce from my feeble attempt at dribbling.
After making the basket, he let me take a shot or two, but then he started backing into me again. I tried to hold my ground, but I was no match for his weight. He stopped, turned, and bounced the ball between my legs-retrieving it behind me and then slamming it in the basket. The onlookers howled.
I stood there for a moment, staring. He came up and rubbed my head. This made everyone on the stairs laugh even more. I could feel my face getting red and I walked off, angry as hell. How could he do this to me in front of everyone like that?
No one had explained to me that Streetball had as much to do with theatrics as anything else. It wasn't winning so much as it was about humiliating your opponent.
"Oh Lord," Slide Step said, shaking his head. "Come on back, Timmy."
I wasn't having it. I marched up the stairs and the guys moved out of my way, but their amusement was only intensified. I stopped at the top landing and turned to face him. I could feel my rage boiling up from the new sneakers Slide Step had just bought me.
He looked at me and his face got serious-his eyes darting, for an instant, to the guys who were standing there. His look said, "No, don't do it!" But it was too late; the rumble was already causing my head to vibrate. I struggled for the words.
The inmates were silent.
"You ... you ... black bastard!"
Slide Step dropped his head, and shook it.
I turned and stormed into the building. I couldn't help it. It just slipped out of me. When I first said "You ..." a hush came over the crowd of convicts standing in the gallery. And as soon as I said, "Black Bastard," there was a ricochet of "ooooohhhs" from the balcony. "Someone's got an ass whippin' coming now," I heard one of then say.
I ran up the stairs and down the hall. At the officer's station I turned left down the corridor that led to the individual cells. Mine was the last one on the left. The guards had moved me after Slide Step and Red beat up some guy who was messing with me in the dorms. I don't know how the guards knew about that-but they did. I wondered why they didn't do something, after I was raped, but there was no way I could talk to them about it.
I slammed my cell door and sat in the chair, opening the locker to block my view from the hall. I knew I was in big trouble, but I didn't care. I had disrespected him in public, and now he had to do something about it. If he didn't, his own manhood would be called into question.
There was a knock at my door. I jumped at first, but chose to ignore it. I was surprised he got up there as quickly as he did. He knocked again.
"Open the door, Tim," Slide Step said. "I know you're in there."
"No," I said.
"Open the door!"
"No!"
"C'mon," his voice softened. "Let me in."
I knew not to challenge his authority, especially in front of the other inmates.
"C'mon Timmy-open the damn door."
"Uh uh," I said. "You're gonna hit me." I started to cry.
"I'm not going to hit you, just open the door." He sounded sincere, but I didn't trust him. "C'mon, Timmy. Have I ever hit you?"
I was afraid to let him in, but I didn't know what else to do. I would have to come out sooner or la
ter, so I opened the door.
He rushed in, pinning me back against the chair. The locker slammed into the wall and made a huge bang that echoed up the hall. Terrified, I let out a breathless whimper, but before I knew it, he stuck his tongue deep inside my mouth. He was kissing me, passionately, as the tears continued down my face. We climbed under the bed, to hide from view of a passing guard, and Slide Step fucked me for the first time.
16
Blemished Masculinities
Her name was Beth and she was tivogrades ahead of me-I in the seventh and she in the ninth. The kids called her Pizza Face.
When it first happened, I didn't have time to think. Three or four girls had her pinned against the lockers. "Break it, Break it, Break it," they taunted. They were trying to get her to pop a zit, the size of a boil, on her cheek. The others were cheering them on.
I felt sorry for her, so I pushed the girl closest to me. "Why don't you leave her alone?"
The girls backed down and retreated up the hall. Beth looked up at me and smiled. Embarrassed, I shied away. We only had five minutes in between classes and what I needed from my locker (which was next to hers) could wait.
That afternoon and for several days following, she greeted me with the same fluttering eyes, I started to regret helping her and was embarrassed by the teasing I was getting from the guys.
Finally, I told her, "Beat it, Pizza Face."
I can still see that look on Beth's face, which said I'd done something worse than anything those girls could have ever done. And every pimple I have gotten since has reminded me of her.
We were sitting alone at the back of the day room. Most everyone else had gone to chow. The midday news was on TV. President Carter was trying to end a thirty-year war between Israel and Egypt by inviting both sides to Camp David. The last remaining inmate got up to leave.
"Now if they at war," he said. "Why would a motherfucker want to go camping?"
Slide Step looked over at me and shrugged. He was sitting sideways, next to me, in the orange rocker. When the man walked out Slide Step placed both of his hands on top of mine. It was the first time I noticed how different he was when no one else was around.
"Can you handle my having feelings for you?"
"What?" I said. I felt myself blush.
He was smiling, but his eyes were serious, which made me feel even sillier.
"What do you mean?" I repeated. I thought he might be playing with me.
"I mean, just that. Can you handle my having feelings for you?"
I didn't know what to say, but I enjoyed the way his hands felt resting on mine. They felt warm and comforting, like Slide Step had been to me.
"I'm talking about caring for you," he said.
Unsure of myself, I started to laugh. "I thought we were talking about: I take care of you and you take care of me. That's the deal, isn't it?"
"No, that's not what I'm talking about. I want to know if you can handle feelings."
I looked up at the ceiling and then away. I was immature for my age, but it still never occurred to me that love was a possibility between two men. I grew up in the suburbs, in a working-class neighborhood, where I didn't see many blacks-much less queers. And I was still struggling to come to terms with all that had happened to me since I got here.
When I was younger, I attended Catholic School, at least until Sharon took a belt to one of the nuns who used one on her son-Sharon's Irish/German temper getting the best of her. After that, we were kicked out of the school, as well as the Parish, which was fine with me because it meant I didn't have to be told how wicked and vile my sexual thoughts were. And if my thoughts were so unnatural, how could there be feelings?
"Is that possible?" I asked.
He dropped his head and sighed. "Oh yes." He said it as if they were already there. He looked up and smiled. He wasn't making fun of me.
I had heard that when men went to prison for a long time, their boys often became their wives, so I guessed it made sense that these guys would develop feelings too, but I wouldn't know what that felt like. I had never been in love before.
I smiled at him with a goofy grin. "I guess so, sure."
He studied me and shook his head. "Nah. I don't think you can."
His right fingers were caressing the top of niy hand. He dropped his head and let out a long-winded, high-pitched "woo." The sound echoed off the walls of the empty room. The guards, as usual, were tucked away in their station on the other side.
Slide Step got up and tussled my hair. "We'll see, little squeeze. We'll see."
He walked out of the room and up the hall toward his cell. His head was down and slowly shaking. There was a playfulness in his swagger, a slow deliberate rhythm, as he twirled his key on a long string back and forth around his finger. That walk was how he got his name, and I stared after him as he disappeared, wondering what he meant by having feelings for me.
Anita Bryant came on the TV, the beauty queen-turned-spokeswoman for the orange juice industry. She was accusing gays of recruiting children into being homosexual and the news was covering a boycott of orange juice. A few months earlier, someone had pushed a pie in her face. I remembered it because it was a banana cream pie, which was my favorite. The news showed a bumper sticker that read: Kill a Queer for Christ.
I thought about my dad and wondered if he would be more upset because Slide Step was black, or that I was a fag. But it's not like he would ever know about it. He hadn't come to visit me, and I had been away for a couple of months by then. I hadn't heard from anyone, and I was feeling abandoned and alone.
Always seeking attention was the frequent note on my report cards from school. I craved it because I wasn't getting any at home. At least that's what a guidance counselor once said. I needed someone to notice me, to pay attention, and to let me know that I mattered. I wanted to be taken care of, looked after, and for someone to make me feel safe. I wanted to stop the world from spinning and told I was OR I would have given anything to bask in the glory of someone's affection, to see their face light up when I walked into a room. Even at age seventeen, I still wanted someone to be proud of me, to want to be with me, and I desperately wanted somewhere to belong, to feel like I was finally home. But Slide Step was a man, a black man, and this was prison.
An inmate named Manley walked into the room and told me that Slide Step had asked him to look after me-to make sure I didn't get into any trouble. I'm sure he was more concerned about others than he was about nee. Manley was a heavy-set black man, but manly he wasn't. He was in his thirties and weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds. He was wearing kitchen whites, which helped explain his weight. He was good natured and jovial, with a pockmarked face. He offered me a cigarette and then tossed me a pack.
"Let's hit the commissary, kid. Slide Step says you need a few things."
At first, I wondered if Slide Step wanted me to do something with him, but later on he told that I was too old for Manley. "Too old?" I was the youngest boy at Riverside.
"He likes 'em much younger than you," was all Slide Step said. "But don't worry, he's harmless. I just don't want you walking around by yourself, until it's well known that you're riding with me."
The grapevine would spread word quickly, but Slide Step wasn't taking chances. As my man, he was responsible for my safety, and he had already sent one guy to the infirmary.
"As soon as everyone sees you two walkin' the yard together," Manley said, "They'll know what time it is. If anyone tries to press you, just tell Slide Step, and he'll take care of it. But don't worry, nobody's gonna fuck with you, because if they did, it'd be the same as if they were fucking with Slide Step."
Slide Step, I'd learn, was well respected, and everything in prison was about respect. You either had it or you didn't, and even when you did, it was frequently tested. There was a pecking order in prison, and inmates were constantly checking to see where they fit in. The boys were given the same level of respect as their man, and the man was obligated to protect them.
The price for this protection meant that the boy gave up his independence (if he ever had it in the first place). Among other things, he no longer had control over his own body, which meant he had to put out sexually. But considering the alternative, it seemed the least damaging way to survive. "At least you only have to do it with one," Manley said, "rather than with anyone who can catch you."
This was true. It definitely could have been worse for me. Manley said that some men shared their boys with friends while others made them turn tricks by forcing them into prostitution. Over at the Reformatory there were boys who were owned by entire gangs, and they were forced to have to service the whole lot of them. "The man calls the shots," he said, "and the boys are expected to obey."
The quality of a boy's life was dependent on his man. So who your man was made all the difference. It seemed to go beyond sex, as if some of them took as much pleasure in dominating another. Perhaps it was their way of dealing with the frustrations of being locked up and told what to do all the time by the guards. Some men made their boys do all sorts of things. Back when I was staying in the dorm, Bottoms had to do his man's laundry and make his bed in the morning and anything else his man didn't feel like doing himself.
"Some men beat their boys," Manley said, as we arrived at the commissary. "While others, like Slide Step, spoil them." To the right of the commissary door, a price list was taped to the wall. An inmate clerk filled orders from the goods stocked on the shelves. Manley pulled a stack of tokens from his pocket and winked at me. "Your man is also responsible for commissary. So whatever you need, Slide Step's got you covered."
Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison Page 13