This Life

by Quntos KunQuest

  It is said that prison preserves the inmate like a time capsule. Gary Law is no exception to this. He’s aged well. After 37 years of incarceration, no feature remains of the 16-year-old who had to fight his way off death row. However, as a benefit of healthy choices, G is a surprisingly fit, dark-skinned, robust version of his old self. The only things about him that betray his age are a carefully groomed salt-and-pepper beard, his old-school shag haircut, and the contrasting depth of his striking blue eyes.

  As G talks, Rise’s mind drifts. He can see the sun set beyond the second-story window. Where G stands in front of the window, his face and torso are partially silhouetted in Rise’s vision. When G moves slightly to the left or right, the sunlight flashes directly into Rise’s face. The winking effect can be strenuous on the eyes, but the occurrence is … stimulating.

  “You understand what I’m saying,” G asks, penetrating Rise’s thoughts.

  “Yeah, I feel you,” Rise replies dismissively.

  “You see,” G complains. “That’s what I’m talking about …”

  Rise drifts back into the heat of the sunset. The sky is ablaze with reds, pinks, whites, and the hottest yellows. His mind naturally begins to concoct lyrics.

  I watch the sunset

  Through my second-story window

  Blue sky. Kinda cloudy out.

  Penny for your thoughts…

  He looks to the sky for more insight. The horizon is pitch-black, jagged and severed along the shadowy treeline. A reddish pink is predominant among the sunset.

  “Rise! … Rise!!!”

  “Huh?” Rise jumps and almost falls out of his swivel chair. “What’s up, G!”

  Gary Law doesn’t like to be ignored. He leans over the desk, all up in Rise’s grill. When G gets excited it’s hard for him to talk around his dentures. The result is a small spray of spittle with every word, which Rise catches in the face.

  Rise looks up as Sergeant Angelwing and Major Mercury walk into the classroom, along with Captain Casper, whom most prisoners call Big Will.

  “Big Will,” G says, a ready smile plastered across his face. “How y’all doin’ this evening?”

  Rise trains his face to stonegrill, hiding from G more so than the officers. Doesn’t serve to show this man he respects how much disdain he feels to see G shuffle every time security comes around.

  “Making sure you not hidin’ out in here with one of my female officers,” Big Will says. “The two of you ain’t hangin’ around tryin’ to trap, huh?”

  “C’mon, Big Will,” G tucks his head a bit, frustrated. “I told you that was a’ isolated incident. The women in this building are some of the most professional officers you have.” He tries not to look at Sergeant Angelwing, but can’t help to steal a glance.

  What’s up wit’ this, Rise wonders as Sergeant Angelwing writes he and G’s names down on the stickout count. He especially doesn’t like the way Major Mercury is watching him.

  “Okay, you can go back to whatever you were doing,” Big Will says as he and the other officers leave the room.

  “What up wit’ that?” Rise asks.

  G holds up a finger, careful to let the security guards move out of ear shot. “They found Bolo yesterday in the Literary Arts office, hugged up with Ms. Green. Walk right down on ’em.”

  “Oh, so that’s why Bolo’s in the dungeon,” Rise says. “I just got word this morning he was sending for me. No one said why.”

  “They walked Ms. Green down the walk in handcuffs,” G says with some consternation. Ms. Green was one of the club’s sponsors, and a friend. He turns his attention back to Rise.

  “What’s your problem, son? I’m tellin’ you something’ you need to listen to … You’re a leader, youngster. Not because I see it in you or because you’ve managed to educate yourself in those cellblocks. You’re a leader because the people chose you. Because they identify with you. The eyes of those hardheads watch your every move. The old ’victs respect your mind and your jacket. But, you gotta get it together. You wander off at times. I’ve watched your eyes and noticed you checking out in a crowd, surrounded by well-wishers—and snakes. Rise, you’re gonna have to stabilize yourself. Stay focused. You remember a while back, I spoke to you about the zeitgeist?”

  “Yeah, the spirit of the times.” Rise just wants G to know he’s paying attention. If only barely. Still chewing on the Bolo situation. Wrestling, a bit, with G’s code-shifting.

  “Okay, well the spirit will tend to suck you in and thrust you into position. Whether you’re ready or not. Irregardless to what you want. The zeitgeist is upon us, now. You need to be aware of this.”

  Now, Rise is listening. “What are you jibbin’ ‘bout, G? I told you. No movement without me. Okay. Now I see. You had an agenda from the moment you broke the door seal.”

  Gary Law knows his people. Reads well. He smiles inside at Rise’s selective alertness. The boy is a dreamer. Often times the same thing you come to love about a person becomes the thing you hate. The very thing that draws you, if not watched, will push you away. Choose to accept a person, gotta take the good with the bad.

  Gary Law forges on with the reason he actually came to speak with Rise. “The Skies Over Gaza has been taking the initiative to unify the heads of various inmate clubs under one board. The purpose being to concentrate energies and resources towards one goal: parole eligibility. As it stands, a Louisiana life sentence means life. The decision has been made to take over P.C.P.A.” G watches Rise closely for his reaction.

  “You mean the chess—”

  “Yeah. The Prison Chess Players Association.”

  “Why?” Rise is the picture of composure.

  “Because it’s a rat’s nest and a haven for predators. Not to mention, in the past they have been a constant opponent to any efforts to unify inmate organizations.”

  “Uh huh, I see.”

  “Okay …” G falters a bit. “So I know you see the logic in that, but—”

  “But you already knew all that prior to today,” Rise interjects. “So, why the take-over?”

  “The chess players have become our main disturbance. They’re causing too many problems with our efforts to unify this prison population.”

  Rise ponders this. ”What kind of campaign would it be?”

  “Bureaucratic,” G is quick to answer. “No muscle.”

  “Why am I just finding out about this?” Rise wrestles with this. “More importantly, why am I being told after the decision has already been made?”

  “Rise, now, remember, for all your influence, to most of the guys you’re still just a youngster.” G shows some chagrin here, but presses. “S.O.G. operates on a need-to-know basis. And, to be honest, until the decision was made you didn’t need to know.”

  “Then why tell me now?”

  “Because, you have been selected to participate. Security will definitely try to protect them. But against who? You and a few others aren’t known for this type of maneuvering. They won’t see you. Plus, afterward, the club’s presidency will be your post.” G watches, still.

  It’s times like this that Rise is reminded that Gary Law is not one of the broken ones. Far from it. For decades, G was one of the most respected voices on the prison farm. A known revolutionary. In the 60s and 70s sense of the term. Dreadlocks and rough rhetoric. Not to mention buff from powerlifting, and known to throw his weight around.

  His plight was well known: falsely accused of a murder he didn’t commit. The whole incident undeniably connected to the southern school desegregation program. Amnesty International recognized him on its list of political prisoners. But his support on the streets was feeble at best. Never really mainstream. Over time, the community he spoke for so powerfully allowed his memory to fade. Had some notable mentions in a few books. A couple soul songs, lamentation and a cautionary tale. For all that, he was practically alone.

  The turning point was his late 80s campaign to gain a pardon from the governor. All of the evidence of police tam
pering and collusion, witnesses to the hours-long beating he suffered during interrogation, and only 15 years of age at the time. It was all laid before the state’s governor and pardon boards on petition to correct the injustice. The legal lynching, they called it.

  They ultimately denied him. Worse, the governor told the newspapers they denied him because after decades in prison, G still hadn’t earned a G.E.D. No one mentioned that during that time officials wouldn’t allow him to enroll in the prison’s education program. That he’d had to educate himself in those death row cells they’d refused for years to release him from. That he was only still alive because of a moratorium on death sentences in the late 70s. As if a downgrade from death to a life sentence was lenient enough for the likes of him. After all that, G changed his tactics. Adopted a new strategy. Stopped openly fighting a system bent on crushing him.

  No. Not one of the broken ones. Far from it.

  Rise gives him nothing. “Okay, G.”

  “Do you know what this means?” Gary Law asks him.

  “Yeah, it means you all have finally decided to deal me in,” Rise says matter-of-factly.

  Gary Law stands and looks directly into his eyes. He holds his gaze for a moment. “The zeitgeist,” he says. As he turns to go, he adds, “The spirit of the times, my boy. The spirit of the times.”

  Rise is left to listen to his own thoughts. He hadn’t sought out S.O.G. They came to him. The spirit of the times? Maybe a sign of the times. He can handle this.

  He rolls back from the tan and chrome desk in his swivel chair. The desk’s metal compartment drawer squeaks as he pulls it toward him. He pulls his notepad off a small stack of mathematics papers he needs to grade. Cuffs a pencil out from among the thumbtacks, staples, and paperclips.

  He pulls back up to the desk. Lays his notepad open to a fresh page. Props his left elbow on the desk as he leans forward, places his index finger on his temple, his thumb at his jawline. His grandfather used to focus in this position. It’s a reflex for Rise.

  He strums the desktop with the fingers of his right hand and rotates the pad so the paper is almost upside down. He’s left-handed.

  He picks up the pen and begins to write:

  We stood I and I

  Two men beneath the sun

  Free minds in a captive land

  Conscious

  He spit when he spoke

  And a spray of his spittle did touch my lips

  I’m overcome by

  My sense of awareness

  He gave me truth.

  Rise

  Have you any passion inside left

  For this rugged ride

  Your proof of purchase ain’t at issue

  Perfect your walk. Be your…

  Wages of labor recompensed

  From this system of servitude that we’ve been

  Toilin’ under…

  Trigger my journey over.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Don’t be so foolish

  And hold on to—these games you like to play.

  ’Cause I’ve been takin’ my time.

  To make you feel comfortable enough

  To say what you gotta say.

  Do you have something that you would

  Like to tell me, girl?

  ’Cause I’ve been

  Obsessin’ about you

  Wonderin’ what to do

  Over and over to

  Finally get through to you

  I see how you look at me

  Your eyes are sayin’ what you really

  Wanna do wit’ me

  And I… I’ve been

  Thinking about you.

  HE WAITS ON THE SHIFT to change. Of course, the C’ster would never admit it. Not to nobody. But he is really feelin’ Sergeant Havoc. It’s a real trip to him how his whole mindset changes when she works the dormitory. Lately, they’ve been havin’ him twisted. Because she’s been assigned to another dormitory way on the other end of the walk.

  Lil Chris being the G that he is, he violates and walks down to the other end. Stands on the dormitory ledge. Just to get a glimpse of her. His problem is biological. He’s barely over 20. Hormones bouncin’ all over the place. Shit on the inside workin’ against him. His problem ain’t discipline. It’s scientific. He has a biological need to get his swerve on.

  The dormitory ledge is full, from one end to the other, with young cats and old ’victs. Some sittin’, some standin’ up. Some stand in the yard. Some are on the ground, leanin’ up against the elevated walkway as she passes by.

  He sees Sergeant Havoc look out on the thick sprinkling of bodies in the prison yard. Some tall. Some short. Some slim. Some big. Some are strikin’ poses with their shirts off. Some still filthy from the day’s field labor. Some stand by themselves, tryin’ to be seen. Some stand in a crowd, tryin’ not to stand out.

  Wait, did she just see him looking at her? Where he’s standin’ here by the iron pile? Shirt off? She turns her head away, real quick-like. Trains her eyes straight ahead.

  Somewhere in the background someone calls her name. Others, too, are sayin’ hello or some other lame shit. Anything to get a smile. She turns her head back for a sec to quiet ’em down. A slight head nod. A smile or some shit.

  Right now, his wheels are turnin’ up there. He follows her trek and sees that she’s assigned to his dorm tonight. He’s got 12 hours to say whatever it is he has to say. He chews on this when she steps into his dorm to relieve the officer on duty.

  Lil Chris walks in the dorm pulling his shirt over his head. He struggles to keep his composure. He already filled out a pass to go to the gym and left it on the desk. His intention had been to go out on the yard and watch Sergeant Havoc walk down the walk, see which dorm she’s in. Then come back to pick up his pass and head out. Believe, he couldn’t get back to his dorm fast enough when he found out where she would be for the night.

  She sees him standin’ in the back of the throng surroundin’ her desk. Waitin’ for her to finish fillin’ out the logbook so she can sign their pass for the night’s outing. She steals a few glances at him as she looks up to give or receive the small slips of paper.

  Damn, look at her eyes! What the hell kinda color is that? Ah nawl, I got to get at her, Lil Chris thinks to himself. She go’n just have to send me. Tonight, girl. Tonight, I’ma speak my mind.

  All the other men have cleared out.

  “How you doin’ Sarge?”

  “Fine. What’s up with you?” She returns.

  “I’m straight.” A little too emphatic. Damn! “I mean, I’m cool. Just another day in the joint,” He recovers. “So you chillin’ wit’ us, tonight?”

  “Yeah,” she smiles. “I’ll be here with you, tonight.”

  Did she just give him a little under-eyed glance? Boy, that’s cold. I know she just didn’t do me that, Lil Chris thinks.

  He’s tongue-tied. Damn. All he can manage to get out is, “Uh-huh.” Come on, soul!

  Sergeant Havoc leans back in her chair and folds her arm across her chest. She looks up at the C’ster and says with a straight face, “You stay out of trouble, tonight, ah … Mr. Lil Chris.”

  He smirks. “Anything could happen at any time ’round this muthafucka.”

  “Yeah, you right about that,” she says with a smile.

  The door swings open for callout. Lil Chris leaves without a word goodbye.

  They are all crowded at the entrance gate to the main prison’s gym. Some have come to work out. Some to play ball. Some to shoot pool. Some are here just to congregate and hook up with they boys from the other yard.

  However, the main thing on e’rybody mind is checkin’ out this new cat from off Walnut and Hickory side. Most of the pocket conversations goin’ on are whispered impressions about big boy with the nice flow and the fresh fish complex.

  Lil Chris don’t even notice all the frequent hawkin’ and peekin’ aimed at him. If he does, he’s gotten used to it and ain’t paying attention. He has this environment all figured ou
t now. Roughly two months in. He sees that 80-percent of these cats don’t want no part of trouble. The majority are cowards and the few solid dudes remaining are really focused on givin’ their time back and touchin’ the streets.

  There are a few real threats and he understands that he just has to keep his circle small and his grass cut. In other words, as long as he limits his number of associates and keeps his business in order, he’ll be good. Whatever is for him, good or bad, bring it. As long as he can see it approaching, it’s not a problem.

  The old ’victs tend to say that this ain’t “penitentiary,” it’s “pay attention.” Lil Chris is the proverbial kind of G that everybody knows. So, in this sense, he’s in his element. Got his footing. Ready for whatever. Got a feel for them, now it’s time to make sure they feel him. Huh?!

  At the moment, he’s standing on the wall with his two rolldogs, PowwWoww and Wayne. The three of them are cut partners. PowwWoww to his left and Wayne to his right at work call. They state down: state-issue blue jeans, brown brogans, and blue button-downs. Most of the cats with time in wear free-world clothes. Basically the same type of work gear, but state issue is just that. It’s manufactured in prison, by prisoners. Even a state-issue white t-shirt has a distinct look.

  Such being the case, Lil Chris and his folks are uncomfortable as hell. But whatever comes easy for a go-getter. They all face forward, a brick wall against their backs.

  For his part, it ain’t what he got on. It’s how he wears it. Lil Chris got his afro picked out, his blue button-down riding open, white t-shirt hanging, and he’s sagging his jeans so hard his belt is on his thighs. His pant legs bunch over the top and around the heel of his loose-laced, untied state bros. As usual, he’s g’ed up from head to toe. His face oozin’ self-confidence. And he’s only two months in? Standin’ there lookin’ like, “Dammit, I’m fly.”

  The keyman comes to open the gate. After a few others, he calls for Lil Chris’s housin’ unit to walk through. It’s time to get his shine on. Once again.