"How are you?" She smiled.
"Fine," I said. "And you?" I was surprised to meet anyone this gracious.
"Very well, thank you." She read through my folder. "A Photo Mat, huh?"
I nodded and looked down at the floor. "It was pretty stupid, I know."
"Congratulations on your high school diploma, Tim."
She called me, Tim, and I almost beamed inside. It was a simple thing, but it felt so nice to be called by my first name.
"Have you given any thoughts about what you'd like to do next?"
"Not really," I said. "But I don't want to be in the kitchen."
She grinned. "Nobody ever wants to work the kitchen. Do you have any skills?"
Prison jobs varied anywhere from 41 cents to a dollar a day. So if your haircut came out lousy, or your eggs were burned and green-it was probably because some asshole had overstated his qualifications in order to get one of the better-paying jobs.
"I can type."
"Really?" She looked up at me.
"Uh-huh. I took it up in seventh grade."
"How well do you type?"
"About sixty words a minutes, without errors. Faster if I'm allowed a few." I was exaggerating a little, but I really could type.
"Can you write? I'm starting a prison newspaper, and I need writers."
"I keep a journal," I said.
"OK, I'd like to see a sample from you."
"On what?"
"Well, I don't know. What do you like to write about?"
I didn't know what to say. I blushed at the thought of what I'd like to write about.
"What?" she said.
"Oh, nothing," I said. I hated that I blushed so easily. "Can I think about it?"
"Sure. Can you get something to one by this Friday?" And with that, I bounced from her office. The prison newspaper! But what would I write about? I wanted to write about her-how she talked to me like a real person and how that made me feel. How nice it was to be called by my first name and how it was to believe that I was human again, in that little interchange. And that's exactly what I wrote about. I wrote about what a difference it made to be treated with dignity in a place that didn't seem to value it much. I wrote about how it elevated the spirit and how much that meant to me. I'm sure it wasn't well written, but she hired me anyway.
"Hood rat!" Paul said. "What the fuck is a hood rat?" He was incensed. "And I ain't from Hamtramack either. I grew up in Wayne."
Wayne was the town next to mine. Paul and I would have gone to the same high school, had he not dropped out and gone to prison. "How dare that motherfucker!"
"I don't know what I'm going to do, Paul. He looked like he was about to hit me."
"Listen, I'll take care of it," he said. "Don't you worry about nothing."
"Yeah right," I said. "What are you going to do? Blow him?"
"He's not my type," Paul said, "but don't worry, he's not gonna bother you again."
"You talk a lot of shit for someone who weighs about 120 poundssoaking wet."
"I'll kick your bony ass," he said.
"Oh now you're a big fitckin' man. If you're so fuckin' tough, why were you Taylor's boy?"
"Because I was raped," he said to me.
I didn't know how to respond.
"And because I'm gay," he said, finally. "That's why."
I stood there foolishly, wishing I hadn't said what I had.
"And like I said, pretty boy. You're not gonna have to worry about Moseley. Trust me. I'll take care of it at lunch."
As we walked to lunch, Moseley was waiting for me in front of the chow hall. They alternated the order the units were called to the chow.
"Wait here," Paul said and he walked up to Moseley. "Can I talk to you?" he said.
Moseley looked down at him without responding.
"Seriously," Paul said. "It'll only take a minute."
The two of them walked off, and I could see Paul talking to him in an animated way, with his hands making all kinds of gestures, but since they were going in the other direction, I couldn't hear what they were saying. As usual, Paul was doing all the talking. A moment later, they turned around and started to walk back. Frightened, I quickly went inside the chow hall.
The line split into two sides as it approached the metal serving trays. I inched my way to the left, and Paul came up beside me. Moseley went to the other side.
"It's taken care of," Paul said.
"What?"
Moseley was now getting his food directly across from me, and though he knew I was standing there-he wouldn't look at me.
After we sat down, I asked, "What did you say to him?"
"Don't worry about it."
"No! What did you say?"
Paul refused to tell me until we got back to our unit. I could tell by looking at him, that he wasn't going to budge. Not knowing was driving me crazy.
"Ever been to New York?" I asked, changing the subject.
"I went to Chicago once."
I was still thinking about the article I read in the prison library about the gay discos. I remembered how the guys in picture didn't seem like queens at all-they looked like Paul and me-though they were older.
"Ever go to a gay bar?" I asked.
"Nah. I wasn't old enough. Shit, I turned eighteen in here. But I'd like to, though. Gays are the only people in the world that have to go out and find their own tribe."
I remembered how I responded to disco music the first time I heard it. And now, how surprised I was to learn that it had originated in gay clubs. I wondered if it was some kind of weird subliminal mating call that drew gay men to New York.
The other two inmates at our table got up and left.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Paul leaned over and said, "I told Moseley you were about to go to The Man."
"You told him I'd snitch!" I nearly shouted, outraged that Paul had put me in jeopardy.
Several inmates looked up from the other tables.
"Why did you do that?" I demanded.
"Because he ain't gonna do nothin', that's why. He's leaving in a few weeks, and he's not about to do anything that will get his Correction Center pulled."
"So you made me out to be a snitch?"
"No, I didn't make you out to be a snitch. You didn't snitch on anybody. I just told him that you were about to."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"Nope. Listen Tim, around here. It's not what you do. It's what these motherfucker's think you're going to do. Perception is 99 percent of the law. It's not how you act, it's how they think you're going to act. How you carry yourself is 99 percent of reality."
I stared at him, not knowing what to think. "What about his friends?"
"Well, I'm gonna teach you how to play on these motherfuckers," he said.
"Play them?"
"Play on them," he corrected.
"Play on them for what?"
"You have to learn how to work these motherfuckers. Turn the shit around on their ass. It's the only way to survive in here. Especially if you're a young, pretty motherfucker like you or me."
Paul paused for a second and stared at me.
It was a lot to take in at once, and it was pretty shocking for me to see someone my own age who was as wise as Paul was. I also felt encouraged. He not only knew how to work the system, but he knew he was gay and was open about it.
"Listen, I didn't make up this game. These motherfucker's did, and so I'm just a player in it and I don't have a choice. Not if I don't want to keep getting pounded like a piece of meat. It's play or be played, so fuck 'em baby boy, you play on these motherfuckers to get some control."
He took a bite of his macaroni and cheese and smiled at me.
"Listen, I can sit around all day long feeling sorry for myself. Pissin' and moaning about how unfair it all is-but it ain't gonna change a fuckin' thing. After chow, I'm still sitting up in this motherfucker and in this situation. But hey! We're not talking about a bunch of PhDs around here either. Fuck, half th
ese guys can't even read. I know I'm smarter than they are-so how do I turn it around on their silly ass?"
I knew he was right, but I still didn't know how to play them. For Paul, it seemed deeper than just defending himself-it was as if his whole identity was at stake. Or perhaps it was his dignity. If Paul had nothing else, he had his self-respect. He was proud of who he was, and that was worth learning how to play the game.
It was consistent with what Black Diamond had said, about having to learn how to work it if I didn't want have keep happening what's been happening.
Paul was right. I hated being the one getting fucked all the time. Plus, I wanted to know how he learned to accept himself.
Paul's hair was straight and long, and he kept it pulled back into a ponytail. His cheekbones were high, and his chin dimpled. He had both a feminine and masculine edge.
I was different from him. I wasn't proud of who I was, and I still felt responsible for all that happened to me. My secret fantasies had drawn me to prison in the first place-but I was too young and dumb to see the reality that laid ahead. Shame and guilt continued to haunt one.
Up until then, sex had remained an unpleasant obligation. I did it because I had to in order to survive. Yet some parts of me, liked it, which only added to my seventeen-year-old confusion. I could never say out loud that I enjoyed any of it. Some parts of it I liked, but I never thought I would be able to admit it to anyone. Paul on the other hand seemed to adapt easily to prison life. Confident. Self-assured. He knew who he was and what he was doing. He was in control.
When it came to being fucked, I still hated it, even with Paul, though I only did it once with Paul-to please him. With Slide Step, I rolled my hips, because it eased the pain, and gave me something else to think about other than his battering-ram dick. It was always painful, especially when he first entered me, but Slide Step went slowly and the pain eventually eased. He enjoyed it, and I wanted to please him because of the attention lie showed me afterward. Paul didn't like it when I rolled my hips. He preferred it if I just lay there. It was more difficult for me without the rolling notion, and it forced me to be present with the uncomfortable pressure.
"Relax," Paul kept saying.
"I am," I said, with hardly enough air inside of me to speak.
Paul stopped, and for a brief second could sense his frustration. He kissed me on the neck and ran his nose through the curls of my hair. It mixed with my sweat and tickled my ear. But it was no use. I was still too tense and shifted under his weight. I had no meat on my bones so my hip cut through the blanket and felt pinched on the concrete floor. It also gave me flashbacks of Moseley and Nate, Loud Mouth, and Red.
"Shh," Paul whispered, "and just relax." I felt him twitch inside me. "Shh," he repeated, and for a moment the ache almost went away.
I didn't want to get fucked, but I felt I had to please Paul. And besides, I looked forward to his blowjobs. Paul delighted in giving them to me, and I enjoyed receiving them. All in all, it was a fair trade. Or at least the fairest of those I had received to date.
To get through sex with Rock, I would pretend he was someone else, but that only worked a few times. I'd slip free of my body, allowing my consciousness to drift someplace else. Anyplace but in the present moment. But Paul made me want to stay present. Unlike all the others, he doted on me, which made me want to be with him. He was interested in me, and he worked hard to please me. For the first time, someone was pleasing me, and I wanted to feel it.
Paul said I was the only person he had ever been able to cum with-I don't know why that was, but he said coming had never before been that important. He never asked to fuck me again, and when I offered, he said that was OK. It made me feel guilty, knowing how much he liked it, but it never stopped me from accepting his continued blowjobs.
My favorite time with Paul was usually after sex-when we cuddled on the floor, under his bed and talked.
Paul's parents were abusive. We compared notes, and the stories of his childhood made me feel grateful I grew up in the house I did.
"I started running away from home when I was seven years old," he said. His eyes stared off into nowhere as he spoke. It took him some time to confide in me, but he eventually shared that his older brother had been abusing him-sexually.
"I was sent to Star Commonwealth for Boys at ten years old, and BTSBoys Training School when I was twelve." He said it like he was proud of it, almost sitting up taller with each graduation to the next level of incarceration. "I came to the joint at seventeen." But then he started to shrink again. "My mom was violent and beat me, and my dad was hardly ever home. Out drinkin' somewhere or getting laid by some whore. When he did come home, he was always drunk, and then he'd get verbally abusive." "Like how?"
He shrugged.
"How?" I repeated, wondering how his father compared to mine.
"I could take his punches," he said, softly. "But when he called me a queer, his little cocksucker-it was like he'd punched my lights out without having to lift a finger."
I wanted to ask him how he knew Paul was gay, since he didn't act like it. But I could tell it would have been useless to probe. Paul kept that part of himself at arm's length.
Instead, Paul shook it off and slid his face down my stomach-the sharp bristles of his stubble scrapping my skin.
"It's why we have to go out and create our own families," Paul said.
He was lying on my chest again, and I stroked his back and caressed his long wet hair. The smell of spent sex hung heavy in the air, trapped under the bed by the blankets used to conceal us.
The springs of his bed above were familiar to me now. The squiggly curves reminded me of the lines my mother used to make on the side of the cakes she baked. When I was a young boy, I remembered she'd let me lick the spoons and the mixers, until my belly ached from too much sugar. She was so good in the kitchen that my aunts used to tell her she should open a bakery. Mom made the cakes, and my Aunt Patsy was known for her pies.
"Do you think you'd ever like to have kids," I asked.
"No way," he said.
"Why not?"
"I'm not into pussy for one," he said.
"Ever have it?"
"Yeah, but the girl I had it with wasn't the best example," Paul said. "And besides, I wouldn't want to bring a kid into this world, no-how."
"Why not?"
"Who'd want to bring a kid into this rotten world?" He kissed my belly. "Anyway, I've already got my baby."
I smiled, and stared back up at the springs.
"I'd like to have a kid," I said, "and I think I'd like to learn how to bake."
29
The Oracle
I was amazed that one word could be worth so many points.
"Mongrels?" Sharon said. "What the hell are mongrels?"
"I don't know. I read it in the newspaper." Mayor Hubbard told some New York paper he didn't think whites should have to live with blacks because it would lead to mongrels. "Whatever they are, it's worth 117 points."
"It is not, "Sharon said. But it was, because the word spanned two red premium squares, which meant you tripled the score, and then tripled it again, plus I had a double letter count on "G". (13 x 3 x 3 = 117).
"And," I said, now nearly gloating, "Iget 50 bonus points for using seven letters in a single play!"
I loved Scrabble!
"Go to bed," Sharon said. "It's past your bedtime, anyway." But that was only after she challenged my word and forfeited a turn.
"It doesn't say I have know what it means. It just has to be a word."
"Well, just get your ass in bed," she said.
It took a long time to fall asleep that night because I couldn't stop smiling. I learned a valuable lesson-that even if I didn't know what something meant-it paid to study the rules of the game.
Sharon was pissed, and for once I had finally beaten her!
We decided to name the prison newspaper The Oracle. Spaulding, our editor, had found the word in Webster's Dictionary. He read us the defi
nition and everyone agreed it was perfect because it reminded us of Miss Bain. An oracle is a person (as a priestess of ancient Greece) through whom a deity is believed to speak-a person giving wise or authoritative opinions.
Spaulding had worked closely with Miss Bain to pick the team of five reporters, an assistant editor, and me. I was hired as the administrative assistant. I'd never held a real job, much less one with a title, so I was especially excited to take part in the project. Four of us were white, and four were black.
When Miss Bain first assembled us, she handed everyone brand new journals and said that we each brought something unique to the paper. She wanted us to share our unique experiences, something no one before had ever asked me to do. She told us Warden Handlon wanted the paper to win an award for prison newspapers and that he instructed her to hire the best and brightest at MTU.
Josh, the white guy I knew from Riverside, was our legal writer. He was studying to become a paralegal and worked in the law library. I hated him for setting me up with Rock when I first arrived at MTU, but I wasn't going to let that stop me from advancing myself.
Spaulding was also white, and the oldest among us, had worked on a newspaper at Jackson prison. At twenty-four, he was older than most inmates at MTU. No one knew why he was there, since MTU was for inmates who were under twenty-one. The rumor was that he had snitched while on the North Side of Jackson. Warden Handlon believed that anyone who had served time in Jackson didn't belong at MTU, since its focus was on younger inmates who still had a chance of reforming. But Spaulding was a college graduate, and his experience on the newspaper must have had something to do with him joining us. Miss Bain said that Warden Handlon was the type of man who once he set his mind to something, like winning the National Penal Press Award, he'd stop at nothing to accomplish it.
Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison Page 27