by Brother Dash
The vehicle slows and turns right at a fifty foot high flag pole. They drive a quarter of a mile down a steaming hot asphalt driveway. Chase winces from the bright afternoon sun. The smell of fresh cut Kentucky bluegrass and compost, seep into the vehicle. They approach a small traffic circle in front of a one story brick building. As the car stops, Chase reads the sign on the aluminum awning:
F.C.I. JESUP
Federal Correctional Institution
Jesup, GA
“I hope you ain’t here to check in. Hahahahahaha…whooo. That was a funny.”
His fat jowls jiggle with his deep belly laugh. The car idles.
“You can’t park here. Go to the visitor parking lot,” Chase says with a Brooklyn bluntness; he points at the red arrow…For Visitor Parking Go Here. The chatty cabbie circles the jeep into an open space. The lot is adjacent to a stadium sized parcel of freshly mowed grass. It is surrounded by two sets of 18 foot high chainlink fences. In the middle of the field is a prison guard tower; three clusters of grey barracks are in the distance. Chase exits the vehicle. He adjusts his black NYC logo cap and circles to the front of the car.
"Just wait here. I should be no more than an hour," Chase says.
"Yup, yup, yes suh young man I'm a man of my word. Extra twenty bucks like we agreed. Willy Ray Sykes will sit right cheah an' wait for ya’, yes suh, yes suh” the driver says. "I-I-don't know how dey do up norf, but round here a man's word is his bond. That's right. Man, you know…I remember I had this gentleman a li’l while ago. He was from Phil-delph...wait no, he was from Chicah—go—uh…wait a minute…no,no he was from—“
"You can finish the story when I get back," Chase says. The driver's face purses up at Chase's abrupt tone. Chase doesn't have the time, nor the inclination, to indulge the foul odored man and his tangents. The two hour flight from New York is for a very specific purpose and not for chit-chat. An incarcerated man flicked his finger on a domino that initiated a series of events. And those events have threatened the very existence of Chase’s world. Chase needs those dotted rectangles to be stood up again. And left standing.
Chase's rubber bottomed soles scrape against the gravel as he walks from the visitor lot towards the main building. His pace is deliberate and focused. After waking up in Rayne's bed that next morning, feeling her lungs breathe against his own, smelling the buttery aroma of her earthy plaits, he knew what had to be done. Eugene’s threats and warnings have held him in suspended animation for over six months. But the costs are rising. The price is too much to bear. Chase has decided that he has to defy explicit instructions not to contact the man on the recording. The recording that Eugene played for him in the cold, damp halls of The Anatolia restaurant. He must appeal to the only person who can cut the thread that is unraveling the fabric of his life. And that man is a prisoner by the name of Angelo Bam Hickson.
Chase walks through the automatic doors into an immaculate reception area. The chest length circular desk is manned by a single uniformed lobby officer sitting at a computer screen.
“Hi, I’m here to see—“
“I.D.,” the officer says without looking up.
Chase pulls out his driver’s license and places it on the counter.
“New York? Who are you here for?”
“Hickson. Angelo Hickson,” Chase says.
"Bam? Hmm. He doesn’t get many visitors.”
The officer taps through two screens on his computer and scans down. He compares the I.D. to Chase’s face and looks at a name on the screen.
“Okay you’re on the visitor list. Hand please.”
Chase extends his arm.
“No, the other side. Just like you’re going to a club,” he says and stamps the back of Chase’s wrist with a UV light sensitive hand stamp.
“Sign here. Your wrist will be checked by another officer upon entry and exit of the visitation center,” he says.
Bam Hickson is the most notorious of Jesup's prisoners. His convictions for fraud, forgery, larceny, extortion, bribery and racketeering are not his only crimes, nor are they his only skills. Bam is a purveyor of relationships and those relationships extend even into law enforcement. The officer points Chase in the direction of the metal detector. Chase stands behind a mother with two toddlers and a baby. At the front of the line, a tiger tattooed woman in sheer white leggings, red heels and a neon yellow tube top, is arguing with the visitation officer about the appropriateness of her clothing. Her surgically enhanced, and ballooning cleavage apparently has too much spillage going on. After ten minutes, mostly due to tattoo girl's southern hissy fit, everyone is allowed to shuffle through.
"No hats," the burly balding officer says to Chase in a gruff voice. "Toss it here. You can retrieve it when you return." Chase complies and follows the line down a hall to a locked door; he gets buzzed through. He enters a room with seven round tables surrounded by dark green plastic chairs. All are filled with friends, loved ones and lawyers for the men in khaki jumpsuits who have numbers for names. Chase stands at the entrance scanning the room. He sees a diverse group of prisoners but not the one he is looking for. A guard taps Chase's shoulder. He points Chase in the direction of a cordoned off area. Chase walks up to the officer standing guard at an eight foot high, ten foot wide, grey divider. It hides what is behind, from the rest of the room.
“You waiting for some special invite or are you gonna get your ass back here?” a familiar baritone, with precise diction, echoes from behind the divider. The guard gestures for Chase to pass through. As he enters, his eyes are met by the blue-green irises, chiseled jaw, bald head, and salt and pepper scruff of one, Angelo Bam Hickson.
“Well?…Plan on standing all afternoon? Take a seat,” Bam says.
His bold voice rockets through Chase's chest. It is a cocktail of James Earl Jones, Vincent Price and Dwayne The Rock Johnson. A deep, bold, confident flair.
“Well…look at you. Broad, rugged shoulders. Arms like tree trunks. You look good. No hair though, I see. I told you you would end up joining our tribe of chrome domes one day. Bald men unite,” he says, thrusting his solid ham fist in the air like a Black Panther salute. Bam's voice blares like a rallying cry from the film, Braveheart. Chase forces a grin.
"You have really grown. But I suppose, what? Seven, eight years is a long time to grow up?"
"Nine this summer," Chase says.
"Nine? Well, I’ll be goddamn. I been out of the loop longer than I thought."
"It took me a while to find you actually," Chase says. Bam looks perplexed for a moment before realization hits.
“Oh, of course. I wasn’t in this prison. I was transferred out of Macon about six months after you got your release. Two years later I got parole.”
"So you were out?" Chase says.
"Oh yes. Only for a bit though obviously considering my current surroundings. But I had a glorious time, a glorious time," his voice trails as he smiles. His oversized head leans back. Bam is large in width, though not particularly tall. He has the heft of a middle aged retired NFL running back. It makes him appear taller than his five foot seven inch frame would suggest. But to Chase, and everyone else, Angelo Hickson is larger than life itself. Bam couldn’t be a more appropriate nickname.
“Ah, well, I digress. You didn't fly all the way down here to shoot the shit,” he says.
“No, I didn't. And I mean I would have come sooner. Or reached out or uh—“
Bam holds up his hand.
“You still can’t spit stuff out? After all these years you still worry about reactions. Don’t let fear of another person’s response hold power over you. What are my two favorite letters in the English language? Do you remember?“ Bam pauses. Chase thinks for a moment and then half-chuckles as he recollects.
"F and U,” Chase says.
"Exactly. F,U. Middle finger to the goddamn world,” Bam says, slamming his fist on the table. The guard standing outside the divider pops in.
"Did I ask you to stick your pink pecker in here?" Ba
m says. The young guard freezes with his mouth open and fumbling for words. “Well?" Bam says.
"Sorry Bam, I thought maybe you needed some assistance," the guard whispers. Bam glares and the guard returns to his post.
“Still running things I see,” Chase says.
“I do okay. So why are you here, boy? When I handed you that Chase Michael Archibald driver’s license, passport, social security card, et cetera, et cetera I also gave you that long speech about restarting your life and never looking back. I’m in your past and that’s looking back. Remember that?”
“Of course I do. And I appreciate all that you have done. Bam hunches at the side of the table and whispers, “Hey, did your real name come up or something?"
“Well, yes and no,” Chase says.
"You know I don’t like guessing games. Crap or get off the crapper.”
“Okay yes. Bam, I know you didn't want me come down here. You were very clear and angry.”
“Clear? Yes. But angry? I wouldn’t say I was angry. I was clear that you were to throw your old name away and forget about it. No more Tevarus Huxley. None of your old life. The alcoholic, passive-aggressive father. The bipolar, drug addicted mother. And most importantly, that thing with the little white girl that got you sent up in the first place. You know Chase, I gave you something people just don’t get in this world. I gave you a clean slate.”
“Bam, I know and I’m in your debt. But when Eugene played that recording of you getting upset about me not following the plan, I—“
“Plan?” His freckled face wrinkles up. “What are you talking about? Recording? Eugene? My son Eugene?"
"Yes, Eugene played the—“
"He contacted you?"
Chase’s face contorts. “Bam, Eugene’s been in contact with me since last Summer."
“In contact? As in, on-going? Last summer?” Bam slams his arm on the table. The crash is so loud it hushes the murmur of a dozen conversations on the other side of the room. The boyish guard who Bam dismissed earlier peeks his head in. Bam meets his sheepish gaze with a lion's stare. The young man recoils.
Bam's lips curl and ripple. His brown freckles dissolve into his ruddy, yellow complexion. Chase stares at Bam’s hairy knuckles. They ball up into a pair of mallets. Air gushes in and out of his redbone snout like an albino bull. He strains to compose himself.
"Eugene visited you?” Bam says through a clenched jaw.
“Yes, he said you sent him," Chase says.
"I sent him?"
“Bam, he played me a recording of you getting upset about how I wasn’t following through with the plan.”
Bam lifts his eyes to the duct work above. He taps his left toe and presses a finger against his temple. He returns his gaze.
“Hmmm. And I bet this so-called, recording, wasn't played when you first met him last summer. It was played after you decided not to follow this supposed plan?”
“That’s right. But why is this a surprise to you? You have no idea what I am talking about do you? You didn't send Eugene? You didn't come up with the idea for me being a donor?"
“A what? A donor? Why would I care about you donating blood?”
”No, not that kind of donor.” Chase leans in, covers his mouth and whispers, “A sperm donor."
"A sperm donor?” Bam blurts.
“Shhh, shhh, come on Bam, sheesh,” Chase says.
“Oh stop being a prude. And a donor how? What are you doing? Squirting in a cup?”
"A cup? No, no.” Chase leans in again. "The plan is—“
"Stop whispering goddammit. I run this place. Speak your mind."
Chase straightens up.
"Okay, the plan is for me to well…not squirt in a cup but squirt in them.”
“Them? Who the fuck is them?”
“The women,” Chase murmurs.
“Impregnate women? That’s it?” Bam says.
“Well, you make it sound so basic, but uh, yeah…basically.”
Bam’s wheels start turning.
“Let me guess. This was my idea and I was going to kick your ass if you didn’t do it? And you owe me your life because I protected you when you was in the joint. And when you got out, I made sure you had money, a house and the start of a career by creating Chase Archibald. So you owe me. And if you refused to do this scheme, I, was going to expose your true identity as Tevarus Huxley, an ex-con from Savannah, Georgia. Tevarus who never got a college degree, never lived in Boston and was convicted of probably the worst crime you can be convicted of. Does that about sum up his little plot?”
“Yes," Chase says with a lowered head.
“Okay, I want to know the whole deal. The specifics. Start from the beginning. What was the plan? Who was involved? And how in the world do you make any real money from it? I know that boy wouldn't do this without some big pay off."
“Okay. It was last summer after a DJ festival at Brooklyn Bridge Park. I was with my best friend Tanaka. He was competing in the battle and…” Chase gives Bam a detailed account of Eugene’s plan, the cryptic note in the park, the strong-arm tactics, the various women and all of the key players in the saga. At certain points in the story, such as when Eugene crashed Chase’s birthday party or when Eugene played the audio at the restaurant, Bam erupts and stomps about and pounds the table. Bam asks more about Jenae and Devantay when Chase brings them up. He gives a screw face when Chase mentions Andrea's involvement.
“Hmm, something doesn’t seem quite right about that one. You might want to keep an eye on this Andrea person,” Bam says.
After forty minutes of discussion Chase says...
"And then the driver dropped me off here."
“Mmmhmm,” Bam nods and folds his hairy, Popeye forearms across his chest. He leans back and scans Chase's face like a finger reading the page of a memoir. Chase’s memoir. It is as if he can see the eighteen year old who was paraded into Macon State Prison, Georgia’s highest security state prison. Chase had the fragrance of fear. It was an enticing aroma to the sadistic criminals in cages he was being tossed in with. And it was Bam that protected Chase. And he asked for nothing in return.
“Well, someone’s been a busy beaver,” Bam says.
“Yes, I guess I have, these past few months,” Chase says.
“No, not you. I am referring to Eugene.”
“But Bam I don’t understand. If you didn’t even know about this how did he record you getting mad at me?”
“He didn’t. You fell for the okie doke. He didn’t record me getting mad at you. He recorded me getting mad at him.”
“I don’t understand,” Chase says.
“You were like a son to me when you were in prison, Chase. And you’re still like that for me now. I would never act that way towards you. But you weren’t the first young blood I helped. There was a guy before you. He wasn’t someone that I created an entire new identity for like I did with you, but I helped him out with a pretty sweet gig as a stock broker at a brokerage in Manhattan. Smart guy, he just wouldn’t have been able to land that gig on his own, so I had to…work my magic let’s say. Anyway, against my better judgment, I used Eugene as my representative to get the necessary paperwork for the dude. But Eugene starts going behind my back and pressured him to get involved in some insider trading. If he got caught that could have landed him right back in prison and an investigation would have started into how he got the credentials to be at the firm in the first place. I can’t have that. Not for the dude and not for something that could lead back to me. So I had Eugene come down here for a nice little father/son chit-chat. He brought his fat friend with him too. Chubbs, must have been recording me, sneaky bastard. They must have done some major editing though Chase, because I never even mentioned your name. This thing had absolutely nothing to do with you. The recording had to sound a bit off to you. You couldn’t tell something wasn’t right about the audio?”
“No. I mean…I guess there were some spits and sputters in the audio but I didn’t think anything of it. Bam,
so much was going on. I was scared. I thought I disappointed you. I thought you would think I was ungrateful and then maybe…well…” Bam rumbles over to Chase and grips the back of his neck.
“Look at me. I would never do anything to hurt you. You are an incredible young man with gifts you have not even tapped into yet. I saw that in you,” Bam says, poking the middle of Chase’s chest. “That’s why I protected you. And I see it in you now. Look at all you have accomplished since you got out and with no additional help from me. You did it all on your own. I would never ask you to do anything to jeopardize that. Look at me. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Yes I do,” Chase says in a hushed tone.
“Good, good, very good, “ Bam nods and pats Chase’s shoulder. “I obviously have a hole in my operation that Eugene exploited for himself. He should never have known where to find you. Hmm. Gotta think, gotta think.”
Bam pauses and leans back. The echoes of children visiting their fathers, and the occasional walkie talkie static from a guard, are the only sounds that reach their ears.
“So what about this woman of yours? This Jenae. Does she know about Tevarus? Or your best friend…what’s his name? Hiraka?”
“Tanaka. No he doesn’t. Jenae doesn’t know either, but she has been acting moody. I think she feels something.”
“Probably. Women always know something even when they don’t know shit,” Bam says. “So no one knows the full story? Not even that Andrea chick?”
Chase shakes his head. “Just Eugene. Oh wait and maybe Man-Man’s cousin. The last woman I told you about, Rayne Chimes? She said Man-Man tells her everything. But she didn’t seem to care about my past. She got all therapeutic on me giving me philosophical advice.”