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

by T. J. Parsell

  "Miss Kiley said he was mad at me for filing a grievance. Why would he care?"

  "Grievances are one way his bosses measure how well he's running the facility. While he's penalized for them, they are one of many factors that indicate how he's doing. He keeps expenses low, he always looks for bargains, and if you suggest he spend money, it better be worth it."

  "Well, he could just say that," I said. "He didn't have to yell at me."

  "He probably yelled at you to keep you in your place," she said. "It's just his style. I wouldn't take it personally."

  I knew she was telling me this for my own good. She didn't have to risk speaking out against the warden, but it reflected who she was; a brave person with a lot of integrity. I savored every minute I could hang out in her office and would have stayed the whole day if she had let me. I wondered if she hated being inside a prison as much as I did.

  "I like what I'm doing," she said. "And I'm learning a lot from Warden Handlon."

  "Really?"

  "He's a legend in corrections," she said. "There's a lot you could learn from him, by studying him."

  There was that word again-study. It seemed the theme of the moment. Paul was telling me to study the inmates, to see what I can learn about themand now Sherry was saying I could learn by studying Warden Handlon.

  "But I hate him," I said. "And do you really think he likes black people?"

  I knew it was a cheap shot, but Sherry made me feel I could speak openly. Handlon was a member of the local country club, and he'd lived in Ionia where there weren't any blacks. Those who worked in the prison commuted from Lansing or Grand Rapids.

  "Warden Handlon has the ability to see the future," Sherry said. "He knows what it takes to get by. And whatever his personal feelings might be, he's going to be part of that future."

  I looked at her and nodded. "But don't you think that he's prejudiced?"

  "No I don't. He's led the department in hiring minorities. He's recruited down south to bring more in, and he's the one who interviewed and hired me."

  "How was that? The interview, I mean?"

  "He got all up in my personal business, for one," Sherry said, laughing. "Asking all kinds of questions he shouldn't have been asking."

  "Like what?"

  "Like am I dating anyone? How come I'm not married? Do you have any kids?"

  "You can't ask those things?"

  "It's not really relevant," she said. "It was like the guys on The Oracle making a big deal about your lifestyle. Anyway, I get along with him pretty well. He never talks to me like he does the others, because I respect him and I have his respect."

  "How does that work?"

  "Well for one, when he tells me to do something I don't agree withinstead of arguing about it, I say, `I'll do this, but I don't agree with you.' I never argue with him and I always do what he says. Some of the best lessons can be learned by doing something you don't want to do."

  "Like not sharpshooting at his meeting?"

  "He's been a good mentor to me," she said. "He's had more wardens come up under him than any other warden in Michigan. So I hope to keep right on learning. I have a future too, you know."

  I looked at her and was amazed.

  When Paul told me he couldn't be my man because he was gay, he was speaking to the misunderstandings of masculinity and power in prison. As gay men, we'd never have power over anyone, not even ourselves. Miss Bain challenged that notion. Here she was a woman, in a man's world, applying her intellect to get ahead. And she was doing this by taking on a mail to help teach her what she needed to learn.

  In that moment, I had no doubt she'd one day make warden, even if she was a woman, in a man's world and fighting the odds. There was a lot I could learn from her. Paul was right: I needed to pick someone and study him. Only it wasn't going to be a man. I decided right then it was Miss Bain. She was who it was that I was going to study.

  "It's all about a power trips and head games," Paul said. We were in the day room a few minutes before lockdown, watching the eleven o'clock news. "It's the same shit that pimps use to season their ho's."

  "How do you know these things?" I asked.

  "Taylor taught me," he said. "They use fear and intimidation, or they pretend to be your savior. They trick you into believing they're the only ones who can protect you-care about you. I'm sure if you were still with Moseley-he wouldn't let you come near me, because he was afraid I'd wise you up. Keeping you isolated was how he kept you in his control."

  I nodded, remembering how Rock once threatened he would kill my entire family if I ever went to the guards and snitched on him. And judging by how he looked at nee at the time-I believed him.

  "That's just part of the game," Paul said. "They break you down firstlike brainwashing. It's what they did to Patty Hearst." He nodded to the TV.

  A major event dominating the news was the Jonestown massacre. Jim Jones, a cult leader, had convinced 912 of his followers to commit suicide by drinking Kool-Aid laced with cyanide. The commentators were making a connection to Patty Hearst, the newspaper heiress who had been kidnapped by terrorists and brainwashed into robbing a bank. They called it the Stockholm syndrome in which captives became sympathetic with their captors.

  "You know," Paul said. "It didn't happen exactly the way you think it did."

  "What?"

  "Slide Step. When you first arrived at Riverside."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "It's the oldest game in the penitentiary. It's called the Underplay for the Overlay. Slide Step set the whole thing up."

  I felt my heart drop. As much as I loved Paul, he had to be making that up. He was jealous of Slide Step, that's all. "Get the fuck out of here," I said.

  "Oh he did," Paul nodded. "He had his eyes on you the moment you hit the yard. Taylor and I were standing next to him when you came in with the other fish."

  "You're a fuckin' liar," I challenged.

  The guard flashed the lights and shut off the TV. It was time to return to our cells.

  "Why would he do that? It doesn't make sense," I said, refusing to believe any of it-was this Paul's way of manipulating me? For the first time, I looked at Paul skeptically.

  "He wanted you to come willingly into his fold, grateful to him for rescuing you. Who wants a wife that's resentful about being there? It's easier to control you that way."

  "But Slide Step didn't control me!"

  "Look Tim, Slide Step has been doing time longer than you've been alive."

  "He's not that old!" I said. "He's only thirty!"

  "If you count his time in juvenile hall."

  I was angry with Paul, because I didn't want to hear this even if it were true, which I refused to believe.

  I went to my cell and kicked the locker door. It made a loud crash against the wall and resonated out into the hall. The noise reminded me of the first time Slide Step kissed me, and how relieved I was that he wasn't going to hurt me. At least not how I thought he was going to hurt me. But now I wished he would have beaten me. If Paul's story were true, a beating would have been easier to take.

  The snow outside my window came down heavily. I could barely see the chow hall through the small windowpanes as they frosted over. I'd wedged pieces of toilet paper inside the cracks to keep the wind from blowing inside.

  Sitting alone in the dark, I thought about something else Paul had said. "Inmates are always looking to destroy whatever good you had left. They're jealous that you've been able to keep something hidden away. Or maybe it makes them feel better-knowing they can take from you what's been stolen from them. But fuck 'em, you just don't let it happen. And the best way to do that is to walk around like you're immune to whatever goes on here. So if someone else is getting hurt, you look away, or better yet-you laugh about it to keep others from turning on you. It's play or be played-It's just the way it is."

  In A-unit, because there were bathrooms inside the cells, they locked us in at night. It was comforting to know that at least for the
next ten hours, no one could get into my cell. I chose not to believe it. Slide Step cared for me, and that was real. It was as if by telling ine that story, Paul was taking from me that one thing I had hidden away. I hugged my pillow and slowly fell asleep.

  31

  Go for the Grab

  "Can I open that one, first?" I said, pointing to the long, gift-wrapped package at the back of the tree.

  Sharon reached in and handed it to me. The tape on the end hardly looked tampered with, but I quickly ripped it open before she could notice it. It was the new tripod for my camera, which I wanted to set up right away.

  "Let me have that one," Bobby said, pointing to the gift nearest him.

  We knew what everything was because we had been peaking at them for weeks.

  "Sharon," my dad said, "have them open this one here." He nodded to a four foot box that was brightly wrapped and next to the hall. To THE KIDs, it was labeled, LOVE SANTA.

  We posed for a picture in front of it, waiting for the delayed shutter of my camera before we tore into it.

  "Iget the blue one," Bobby shouted.

  "I already called it," I said, "You can have the green."

  "Well, I'm notgetting stuck with yellow," Billy protested.

  Connie, we already knew, would get the red one, which none of us wanted. We knew that the Ford Motor Company windbreaker jackets were all the same size. The funny thing was, we hadn't opened the package yet.

  "Well, you sneaky little bastards," Sharon said.

  For prison inmates, Christmas is the quietest day of the year. It's probably the one day when there weren't as many fights or violence because everyone is in the same frame of mind. Sad. Even the Muslims, who didn't celebrate Christmas, seemed to struggle not to think about being locked away from family and friends.

  "Same shit, different day," an inmate said, trying to pretend he wasn't depressed. When the black phone on the wall behind the guard's desk rang, the entire cellblock went quiet. People on the outside don't realize how important a Christmas visit to an inmate truly is.

  A Christmas carol, played on a radio, could be heard faintly a few cells away. The staff was kept down to a skeletal crew, so movement throughout the prison was limited. Short-staffed, they did away with lunch, so breakfast came late, and dinner was served early. Dinner included a generous portion of processed turkey roll with cranberries and stuffing and mashed potatoes. Dessert was pumpkin pie with whip cream.

  The guys in the kitchen sold spud juice off the back dock. Inmates who skipped the processed turkey were cooking up in their units. The commissary ran extra items, so you could order things like canned ham and sausage and fresh fruit. They even let you spend extra money from your account, and the money allowed in from visitors was higher than usual. (Normally, visitors were allowed to give you up to $15 in tokens, but on Christmas you were permitted $20.)

  Because inmates were depressed during the holidays, the administration loosened things up a bit. Shakedowns were minimized, and guards turned a blind eye to minor rule infractions. Spud juice and drugs were in high supply.

  Paul and I had a drink together and smoked a joint. The joint was the width of a shoestring, so I wasn't going to get very high, but my resistance was low-considering how clean my system had become-so I experienced a pleasant buzz.

  Religious groups came in on holidays, but most inmates didn't bother to meet them unless decent offerings had been brought along. The Mexicans liked to go for the plastic rosary beads. They'd wear them around their necks for a few days, like it was jewelry. Most groups brought Bibles and other religious artifacts, which couldn't have interested us less.

  My parents sent money for a small TV. It was $128. A 12-inch Hitachi, which made my time go by faster. Unfortunately, they cut the power off at 11:30 on weeknights, and at midnight on weekends and holidays. You could purchase a rechargeable battery in the store, which would buy you a couple of hours, but at a cost of $45, it was out of my price range. When I got Jake to buy it for me, Paul was proud of me for working him, but he looked disappointed at the same time. I opened Paul's present, and I understood why. It was an extra battery.

  I gave Paul a rug for his cell and a Cheap Trick music cassette I had ordered from the store. "No pun intended," I said.

  "I'll give you a pun," Paul said, smiling.

  I hadn't taken Jake on as my man yet, though he and I were still discussing the possibility. I held off making a decision, because I wanted to be with Paul as much as I could.

  Just then, the phone on the wall rang and the guard answered it.

  "Parsell!" the guard yelled. "You have a visit!"

  I looked at Paul, stunned.

  I didn't know who it was that was out there. My family hadn't seen me in several weeks, and I was starting to think that even Christmas wouldn't bring them around.

  Paul looked at me and smiled. "Go for it, Squeeze."

  Prison officials, recognizing the need and importance of maintaining contact with loved ones on the outside, granted us up to four visits a month. Seeing family and friends helped maintain emotional stability and avoid disciplinary infractions. I doubted I had much emotional stability left hidden inside, but a visit was most welcome.

  Visits kept inmates connected to our previous lives and the world we left behind. The visiting room held up to hundred people, but even with over eight hundred inmates, it was rarely filled. Weekends and holidays were the busiest time, and if it got crowded, we would be limited to just one hour.

  The room was long and narrow with rows of chairs that faced each another. When visitors arrived, you were permitted to hug once, and then once more when they left. All other contact was prohibited. On the wall, inmates had painted a mural: a watermill with childlike butterflies and a sun with a happy face. Considering all the roughnecks who were housed there, I wondered who had thought to paint butterflies or put a smile on the sun. Maybe the mural was done with visitors in mind, to help put them at ease.

  A guard sat at a podium with a stack of visitor passes spread out in front of him. When your time was up, he would politely walk over and hand you one. Visitors had their hands stamped, on their way in, with an invisible ink so that on their way back out again, the guards could check it under an infrared lamp. Inmates usually stood at the bars and watched as their guests walked back out to freedom. It was always a painful moment, for everyone, and even the toughest thugs had difficulty hiding their sadness.

  Bobby had just arrived at M-R and Dad and Sharon had gone to see him first. My Dad looked great-much younger since he had stopped drinking. Sharon looked the same.

  "We only have a few minutes," she said. "We have to get home because we have company coming by the house tonight."

  Even though I was getting better at hiding my emotions, I must have shown disappointment, because Sharon's tone changed for a second. "What took them so long to get you out here?" she asked.

  "I had to shower." It was common for inmates to shower before a visit, even if they took one earlier in the day-to wash away any prison smells.

  "Well that's what took so long," she said. "It's your own damn fault."

  "It is not," I protested. Even on Christmas she was looking for a fight.

  I looked to my dad for help. He was staring off at some people on the other side of the room. "What's he in for?" Dad nodded across the way.

  "I don't know," I answered, wondering why they weren't more interested in their own son.

  In the row behind my parents, an inmate sat with his family. There were six of them in total, and the youngest reminded me of myself, when I first went to visit my brother. I remembered how Rick used to brag about what went on in there, much in the same way this inmate was now holding his family's attention. I wondered what that boy would take away from the visit and whether he'd romanticize his brother's experience the way I had. Would he be forced to learn the hard truth like us?

  "Well, anyway," Sharon said. "How are you doing?"

  "Good," I said. We sat there
awkwardly for a moment.

  "Well, you look good," she said.

  "My face keeps breaking out."

  "I can see that," Sharon said, nodding. "How's the food?"

  I changed the subject. "How's Bobby doing?" I didn't want to talk about the fucking food.

  "He's OK, I guess, but it's a damn shame. He didn't need to get ten years."

  "He should have taken a plea," I said.

  "It's not right," Sharon said. "Your brother is the one who should be over there."

  "That's enough," Dad said.

  "We'll it's true, damn it. If Bobby would have just told them who he was with, he never would have been sent to prison."

  "Now God damn it, Sharon. We said we weren't getting into this here."

  Once more I was reminded that this was the home I'd return to after prison, and again my spirit sank in despair. What kind of future was that? And what difference would it make if I told them right then that I was gay? Sharon would probably have loved it. Something else she could hate me for. Mostly, I worried about how Dad would respond. He was always concerned about what others thought of him and my being gay would be a lot for him to handle. He hadn't been around that much anyway-and even when he was-he wasn't really present. But he was all I had.

  "You have to tell you parents," I remembered Paul say. "It's the only way to accept yourself."

  "I accept myself."

  "Look, all I can say is that when I told my parents, it didn't matter what they said. I was finally taking over my life. It wasn't until then that I could start to be proud of who I am."