Doing Time

by Bell Gale Chevigny

  His gray-headed body moved with surprising grace across the concrete floor. It bent, stretched, and darted side to side in terpsi-chorean display, belying the lines that crossed his face like cracks in a shattered windshield. From forehead to chin the sweat ran free down the crisscross pattern, causing him to wipe it clean after each volley.

  The game was handball. Two out of three games, at twenty-one points a pop for three cartons of smoke. He had lost a tough first game against the young Latino, Carlos, with a 21-18 score, and this second game was pumping repeat where he trailed by three at 16-13.

  Carlos’s next serve careened off the wall to the old-timer’s left, causing him to return it high center wall. He then watched helplessly as Carlos stepped up and buried it low in the right-hand corner for point 17. Disgusted with his return, he called, “TIME” and stepped off the court to the sound of hostile voices from a group of partisan Latinos. “Tu no eres nada, viejo!” “Tu necesitas aire, viejo, y no des-canso!” With the hostile shouts came hostile laughter, served in a way that made him smile, but only inside. Taking a green bandanna from his back pocket, he tied it Apache style around his forehead and stepped back on the court. “Serve,” he said.

  jimmy Ryan was his name and handball was his game. At age fifty-one he had spent the last twenty-two years moving from one “max” prison to another, and where some cons spent their time on any number of prison hustles, Jimmy used his handball skill to supplement his prison wages. Handball to him was like junk to a junkie, and insulin to a diabetic. It got him high and kept him alive. Sure, the money was a means of survival, but to Jimmy it was much more complex than a simple hustle for capital. He needed the physical and emotional output provided by a game of one-on-one. AH important was the drama and drain of competition, along with the crowd of back-slapping fans and back-stabbing enemies, looking for any edge to bet with or against him. Those were the things he fed on, the things that made Jimmy tick.

  Carlos’s serve was adequate but nothing to strike fear, and on point 17, it came knee high to Jimmy’s left hand. Although right-handed, Jimmy’s dexterity with both “smitties” was a talent honed long ago, and as Carlos moved right to control center court, Jimmy fired a return low to the left corner. Carlos’s attempt to reverse his direction came up inches short and the serve changed hands at 17-13. Friendly voices helped strike a balance. “Way to go, Pops!”

  “Take it easy on him, Jimmy!”

  “You da man, mighty whitey!” Recognizing the last voice, Jimmy looked in that direction and caught the wink in the wrinkled black face.

  Lucius “Hap” Lewis had been a rival of jimmy’s back in their Dannemora prison days, when integrated sports were administratively discouraged under a divide-and-conquer philosophy. On his way to becoming a handball legend, “Hap” (short for happy) caught a bad decision on a Dannemora court from a Harlem homeboy. With a shank in his hand and murder on his mind, the homeboy laid four inches in Hap’s back, consigning him to a life on crutches.

  Jimmy returned Hap’s wink and stepped to the serve line. “Where do you want it, kid?” he challenged Carlos.

  “Anywhere on the court, viejo. Anywhere, any way.”

  Jimmy’s movement was fluid. Bending over low he bounced the ball inches from the ground, and on the third bounce his right arm swung down in an arc, smashing the ball on a straight line to the wall. Like a rocket it ricocheted low off the wall and zeroed in on Carlos’s left ankle. Stepping quickly to avoid it, the kid managed only a feeble right-hand return to center wall. Jimmy followed the ball in and tapped it lightly as it came off the wall, The ball struck low and rolled back along the ground. 17-14.

  With a little smirk, Jimmy called, “Where do you want the next one, kid?”

  Embarrassed but still confident, Carlos replied, “Put it in my right hand, old man, so I can drive it up your nasty old ass.”

  The Latino cadre whistled and yelled their pleasure at Carlos’s bravado, and Jimmy used their display to make his move. Looking directly at Papo Nunez, he challenged, “Hey, Papo! You think that’s funny? You’re the Brooklyn Big Willie, you want some of this action?”

  Dismissing Jimmy with a wave of his manicured hand, Papo added, “Ju know I don need ju cigarillos, viejo bianco, play and lose.”

  “You’re smarter than you look, Papo,” Jimmy replied, knowing the slight was not lost on Papo or his posse.

  “Quepasa, man, you gonna play or bullshit?” Carlos prompted.

  Jimmy’s next serve was a repeat of the last, but the young Latino timed it perfectly. Stepping up and to the left he took it on a fly with his right hand and tried to hit a “kill shot” in the right-hand corner. The shot landed too high, causing an ample bounce, which Jimmy easily returned low cross court to the left corner, on an angle Carlos couldn’t reach. 17-15.

  The noise of the action had caused the curious to leave the shaded wall, and the crowd grew larger with black, brown, and white faces. Out of this Sing Sing melting pot the sentimental favorite among ebony and ivory was the old dude playing his ass off against youth and nature’s clock. “Do that shit, Pops!”

  “Slap that rubber, Jimmy!”

  “Yeah, man, you jinglin’, Jimmy!” Ever the showman, Jimmy acknowledged the fans with a “thumbs up.” Then, looking Carlos in the eye, he turned his thumb down. The crowd whooped and whistled at the gesture, while the Latino fans yelled insults of “Cabrón!” and “Mariani sucio, “ with ever increasing emotion.

  Fighting off heat and exhaustion with a mental image of a cold beer on a Rock a way boardwalk, Jimmy gauged the Latino temperament and stole a peck at his watch. It was 3:45 p.m. At 4 p.m. the loudspeakers would blare, “The yard is closed! The yard is closed!” causing each man to return to their cell for the prison count. It was all a matter of timing now. At 17-15, he was six points from a win and Carlos was four.

  White Jimmy’s mind drank brer and computed time. Hap Lewis made his move. Lasing closer to Papo Nunez, he picked up the pitch with ethnic taunts, and punctuated each with a menacing wave of his left ctutch. “Can’t no Rican play handball, man. Ain’t nuttin’ but mud walls and booty bandits in dey prisons. Paddle that culo for us ol* folks.” Hap’s gibes, when blended with the heol and waving crutch, were like yeast to a cake, and Papo and his posse’s tempers began to rise. Seeming to ignore Map’s folly, Jimmy wiped sweat from the ball and smiled ac Carlos, (lite, Papo, he thought, while he listened to Hap cut deeper into Latino pride.

  The serve was inches short of the short line, and Jimmy wasted a few more seconds before he served again. He stood straight up this time and served the ball high to Carlos’s right side. Too high to attempt a kill shot, Carlos sought to play out of position and get him. running side to side. The strategy caused a volley back and forth, until Jimmy caught Carlos coming in and lobbed a shot over his head just inches above his upstretched left hand. 17-16. The crowd’s roar of approval gave Hap a little boost.

  Hap cased the crowd to make sure no guards were near, and when satisfied, his gravel voice challenged Papo’s pride and pocket. Almost in Papo’s ear he shouted, “Man, spank that cuchifrito ass. Ain’t nuttin’ but chump change an’ scared money here.” Papo whirled on Hap with blood in his eye. “Ju got a big mout, wooden legs. What chu wanna bet? Whatcha got, eh?” Papo’s posse wanted his tongue, not his money, but they echoed Papo’s words like good soldiers. “Yeah, nigga, what chu got, man?” “We ain’t bettin’ no chitlins, motherfucker.” “Show money or shut da fuck up,”

  The crowd was enjoying both shows, the one on the court and the one on the sidelines. While Jimmy played one, Hap played to the other.

  With eleven minutes left Jimmy served again, and this time the ball went over the long line. Carlos laughed and chided Jimmy, “Qué pasa, viejo? That ball gettin’ too heavy?” Jimmy ignored the comment but allowed the crowd to see him take a few deep breaths as he wiped the sweat from his face. None of this was lost on Papo.

  Jimmy’s second serve was waist high with less zip, a
nd Carlos tagged it for a kill in the right-hand corner. Looking disgusted and drained, Jimmy walked slowly to the back court as Carlos’s fans clapped and shouted their approval. “Ju dead, viejo, now lay down,” Papo shouted.

  “DEAD!” Hap roared with derisive laughter. “Man lay four-to-one, ‘n’ I’ll bet dis hundred on the corpse right now!” He flashed the folded Ben Franklin in his sweaty palm.

  Papo saw the three figures, then it was gone. “Ju crazy, nigga? Ju no stick me up no four to one, man.” Every con within earshot listened in.

  “Crazy! Man, I be crazy if I don’t get dem odds,” Hap responded. “The dead man’s twice his age, he’s losin’, he jus’ los’ da serve, an’ da game’s almos’ over. It’s all your way. Ohh! Maybe you wan’ da odds too,” Hap teased.

  Caught on the short side of macho, logic, and the crowd’s stares, Papo said, “Ju got it, big mout’. Three-to-one.”

  “Bet! Bet!” Hap’s gravel voice roared, and they both slapped five to seal it.

  On the court Jimmy heard Hap’s “BET!” and watched the five slap seal. My turn, he thought, and he called to Papo, “Hey! Big Willie! It’s about time you found some heart. Now what about me? Can the player get a play?”

  “Ju show me cien dolares, viejo, an ju got it too.”

  “It’s in my stash,” Jimmy replied. “If I lose you’ll get it tonight.”

  Antagonisms aside, Papo and Jimmy were convicts whose word you could take to the bank, so the bet was sealed with another slap five, and the game resumed with Carlos changing strategy.

  Thinking he could take advantage of Jimmy’s weaker left side, Carlos walked across court to serve from right to left. Jimmy clocked the move as desperate, but glanced at Carlos’s feet and eased toward his left as the Latino went into his serve. The ball angled sharply to the left side, but Jimmy was already in motion and with a crisp left hand he returned it to the same spot that Carlos had served from. Carlos, who had moved to center court for control, was forced to lunge right. With equal parts skill and luck, his fingers just tipped the ball and it sailed in a slow arc to reach the wall and die: 18-16.

  Papo’s posse roared their pleasure, “Vaya, Carlos… vaya, mi ‘mano!” Whistles mixed with applause, and one homeboy, Chino, ran on the court to slap Carlos a “high five” support.

  Jimmy quickly took advantage of the move. “Hey! Whoa! Wait a minute!” he shouted, “You can’t run on the court stopping play with that bullshit.”

  Chino, still burning from Hap’s insults, shouted a litany of Spanish curses, and Carlos said, “The play was over, viejo. He didn’t stop shit, man. What about when you called time before and stepped off?”

  “The point is, he ain’t in the game, he don’t belong on the court,” Jimmy fired back.

  “All right, muy bien. You caught your breath now, viejo,” Carlos chided. “Let’s play.” Papo called Chino off the court, and the game continued with Carlos returning to his strong side to resume play.

  A peek at his watch showed 3:52 P.M. I need a serve, Jimmy determined. On the sideline, Hap thought, his ass shoulda been on a tightrope.

  With every ounce of energy he could corral, Jimmy waited and clocked the kid’s feet. When Carlos went into a low arc serve, Jimmy was on the balls of his feet ready to pounce. The ball shot low to Jimmy’s far right side, but the old-timer was on it. He scooped it up in a side-arm arc and sent it pumping cross court to the far left corner. Anticipating the return and angle perfectly, Carlos did not anticipate the ball’s bottom spin caused by Jimmy’s snap of wrist and fingers, and instead of an easy point, he lost the serve.

  Jimmy figured that with a series of serve changes he could freeze the score at 18-16, and maybe scare up a few more bets on tomorrow’s conclusion, but his plan went belly-up when Carlos killed a low return for point nineteen just as the speakers blared, “The yard is closed! The yard is closed!”

  Some cons caught up in the drama and personalities at play shouted, “Fuck you, throw the tear gas!”

  “Play it out!”

  “Count this!” shouted a guy grabbing his crotch.

  Papo, just two points short of a win with Carlos serving, shouted, “Rdpido! Rdpido!”

  But Jimmy, never so happy to have a fast watch, had a different agenda in mind. He walked over to Papo and motioned Carlos over also. “Carlos, you might get two fast points, but I doubt it. There’s no way I can get the five I need and neither of us can take a lockup for delaying the count. So we’ll finish this in the morning as it stands.” To Papo he added, “I’ll show you the hundred tonight, like I promised.” With no choice but to agree, they shook hands and dispersed.

  On the walk up to A Block, as Jimmy passed Hap in the tunnel, he heard, “You shoulda been a barber with your close shavin’ ass.”

  Without a hitch in his step Jimmy shot back, “And you should’ve watched your back years ago, so I could work the crowd today. Call a cab, we might need it.” He shot a thumbs-up, and disappeared.

  A Block was a large concrete warehouse of convict condos in a nine-by-six-foot single-occupancy design. Opened in the first quarter of the nineteenth century, its recycled stock of castaways lived in four double-sided tiers that stretched over eighty cells or two city blocks long. By 9 P.M., the din from the over seven hundred tenants had settled to a murmur, and another day was only a wake-up away. Freshly showered and shaved, Jimmy grated soap chips from a bar of state soap, while a low strain of Coltrane provided memories and escape. Birdland in the fifties was his favorite haunt, with Coltrane then and now his favorite genle.

  “Hey, Irish! They sell Tide in the commissary,” the voice on the bars offered. Not missing a grate, Jimmy replied, “They sell salami and cheese, too. You got any?”

  Vincent “Vig” Vigliano was a “Goodfella” who ran numbers and book for one of New York’s five families; but for the past three years he was an A Block clerk, a sometime shylock, and an all-time good man.

  “You want mustard with that order, OToole?” Vig joked.

  “Yeah, Pal, mustard and the hundred back,”

  “Mannaggia, la Madonna!” Vig exclaimed, smacking his forehead for effect. “You just gave it back two days ago. Whatta we doing here?”

  “Keep your Ballys on, Vig. I just need it to flash Papo Nunez. And since I’m locked in, I need you to be my flasher.”

  “Hey, hardon! Ya want me in a raincoat too?” They shared a laugh and Vig added, “I had a visit today from Barbara and the kids, but Louie told me you and Hap had some fun in the yard. Is that what this flash is all about?”

  Jimmy scooped the soap granules into a container. “Fun! I’d rather sandpaper a lion’s ass than do a repeat of today. But yeah, that’s the deal. The score is nineteen-sixteen his way, and he’s serving. Hap embarrassed Papo into a tough-to-get-three-to-one on the kid.”

  A low whistle sounded from Vig. “Nineteen-sixteen?” That’s playin’ it a little close ain’t it, maestro?”

  Jimmy gave a wee smile. “Ahh, you know me, pal. If it ain’t rough, it ain’t right,” and he added a wink.

  Vig gave a knowing nod. “I’ll go flash Papo, then make the sandwich.”

  “Grazie, Godfather,” Jimmy mumbled in fun and respect. Vig had taken a few steps when Jimmy called, “If you flash a little green of your own, don’t forget to tip the mechanic.”

  Still stepping, Vig called back, “You’re a schemin’ bastard, OToole. Ya sure you ain’t Sicilian?” His footsteps and words were swallowed in the concrete warehouse.

  Jimmy put up a pot of hot water, dropped a teabag in his cup, lit a Lucky Strike, and laid back on his bed. The hot shower had chased most of the ache from his body, but little pockets of soreness still remained. It gets harder every year, he thought. “While Coltrane and Elvin Jones dueled to the delight of Birdland’s patrons, Jimmy eased into a reflection on the day’s hustle and how it came to be.

  It was Hap who marked the kid as a possible route to Papo’s pocket two weeks ago, and as usual, the old hustler was r
ight. Jimmy had clocked Carlos’s play. He was young, fast, and cocky with two good hands, but his strategy and ball control were weak, with his serve just a notch above. At a time when Carlos was enjoying the fruits of a successful afternoon with Papo and his posse, Jimmy happened by. After exchanging greetings with Papo, he was happily surprised when Papo opened the door. “Qwé pasa, Jimmy? Ju wan’ to play Carlos? He’s good.”

  “Yeah, they’re all good at his age, Papo, but can he win?” Jimmy teased. That was all it took.

  Jimmy lay there with Coltrane in the background while his mind played back every serve, volley, and nuance of today’s games. He knew it was only a matter of regaining the serve and keeping it, but he also knew that “shit happens,” which was how Carlos had gotten the nineteenth point. He ran a few mock plays in his head and charted their probable result. Vig broke his reverie. “I saw Papo. Here’s your sandwich. Hap said to soak your feet. There’s a cab strike. Good luck mahana.” Then Vig was gone. If I had to depend on luck, there would be no mañana, Jimmy thought, as he reached for the sandwich on the bars.

  The ten o’clock morning promised an action-packed Sing Sing summer day. The humidity had disappeared into Mother Nature’s handbag, and the temperature was a comfortable seventy-two degrees. The crowd was slightly larger than the day before, and so was Papo’s posse. No words were exchanged between participants, but Vig and Louie cornered Jimmy to say that there was healthy action on the sidelines. Jimmy looked to the gallery of cons. “You had a busy night, I see. No wonder you dropped off the sandwich and ran. Tonight I want lobster tails.” Louie laughed, and Vig pinched Jimmy’s cheek, then both stepped off.

  It was not a pretty sight, unless you liked train wrecks and reruns of Ali v. Wepner. The 19-16 score was too close to do anything but attack, and Jimmy wanted to keep Carlos’s fans subdued and out of the game. The opportunity came early on Carlos’s first serve. After a low killer serve that Jimmy handled easily, an eight-shot volley saw both players scrambling cross-court. Jimmy literally dove for a low ball, and came up with a badly scraped forearm, and the serve. The play caused a trickle of blood, a roar from the crowd, and a gag order on Papo and his people. Jimmy’s face acknowledged nothing. In silence he walked to the serve line, giving thanks to the handball gods who sent him that shot, while Hap on the sideline just nodded and smiled.