Dark Days

by D. Randall Blythe

  Martin also had a couple of photos of Daniel taken from one of his social media accounts. He handed them to me, and I took a long, hard look at them. In one, Daniel sat cross legged on a dirty carpet in front of a half stack and Randall amp head, holding a black guitar upright on his lap. There was spray painted carpet tacked onto the walls of the room, and a few beer bottles in a corner. I instantly knew where he was, as I had spent a large portion of my life in rooms that looked exactly like it. Daniel was in his practice space. He was one of us, a musician.

  Looking carefully at these photos, Daniel looked just like countless lamb of god fans I had met over the years; hell, he looked like he could have been in lamb of god. Long blondish brown hair, a black t-shirt and jeans, facial hair, happily sitting in a dirty practice space holding his guitar in front of his rig—I had seen both Mark Morton and Willie Adler, our two guitarists, in that exact same position many, many times, even dressed precisely the same. But I didn’t recognize his face. These photos didn’t exactly look like photos of the person I had wrestled with; his hair was a bit darker and looked to be thicker and wavier than the stringy blond I dimly saw in my mind’s eye. I also did not remember the young man having any facial hair, but as someone who has grown and shaved off many different styles of beards since I started growing one, I knew that didn’t really mean anything. The different shade of his hair didn’t amount to much either; over the years, my own hair has been more colors than a warehouse full of house paint. Remembering my own youth, I took into account that young people’s appearances often change, and I tried to write off the differences in the photos as negligible, but for some reason I couldn’t. The young man onstage with me looked vaguely familiar, but the person in the practice space was a total stranger. I searched my mind, trying my best to match the picture of this young guitarist with something in my memory, but I could not.

  I am sorry you are dead, I thought as I stared at the photos, but I don’t recognize you, bro. I don’t know who you are. I wish I did, but I don’t. I guess I will find out sooner or later.

  Martin wasn’t all doom and gloom though; he informed me that lamb of god’s lawyer, Jeff Cohen, would be in Prague in five days; with him would be my wife, Cindy. Martin had worked it out with the Czech authorities so that Jeff would be able to visit me as some sort of legal consultant. Jeff wouldn’t be allowed to represent me in court, but he would be allowed to help my Czech lawyers with the case, as he was familiar with both myself and my rather specialized area of employment. It would be nice to see Jeff, but of course I was more excited about the arrival of my wife. I was allowed one ninety minute visit from a friend or family member every two weeks, and the visit had to be arranged far in advance. My family couldn’t just pop by the prison and ask to see me, neither could my friends in touring bands (although some tried, and were turned away—shout out to my hometown homies, Tony and Municipal Waste, for representing the RVA at Pankrác!); I had to write a request for them to be let into the prison, this had to be cleared, etc. etc. It was nothing like the movies; no guard was going to unexpectedly sling open a cell door and yell “Blythe! You have a visitor.” I was also allowed one large package a month, either delivered by a visitor or by post. I told Martin I would put together a list of things I needed which he could email to Cindy: cigarettes. Coffee. Candy. Writing utensils. Paper. Books. Sweet lord have mercy, books. I couldn’t wait to read something other than the insurance card in my wallet. It was killing me.

  Besides news, Martin had brought me three packs of Marlboro Reds, which the guard let me keep this time—totally random, that place. When I returned to my cell, I heard Felix’s voice float through my cell window from next door.

  “How was your visit with your lawyer? Good news, I hope,” he said.

  “Some good, some bad; but I guess that’s life, right? He did bring me some cigarettes. Would you like a couple?” I asked.

  “Of course! That would be brilliant. Hmm . . . how to get them over here, though,” he said.

  I couldn’t just cruise over to Felix’s cell and start passing out squares, and I didn’t have the necessary equipment to “play horse.” Playing horse was strictly forbidden; Felix had explained the activity to me during walk. It required a fair amount of string of some sort, as well as something that could be used as a weight. You tied the weight to the end of the string, stuck it out your window, and swung it side to side until the person in the cell next door could grab the weight. They then tied their own piece of string to your string, you tied whatever you wanted them to have to the end you still had, then they simply pulled it over to their cell. Drugs and other contraband were often passed from cell to cell this way, so if you got caught there would be repercussions—we weren’t even supposed to talk to each other through our windows, a rule everyone broke anyway depending who was on guard duty. So far Tom Selleck hadn’t yelled at me for talking through my window (unlike Bradley, the jerk), so I asked Felix if he thought maybe the guard would pass him some cigarettes from me if I asked.

  “Maybe. It will depend on his mood,” he said doubtfully.

  As I began to knock on our cell door, calling out I was almost immediately halted by a grumpy sounding Tom Selleck right outside my door. “Fuck off!” he yelled, without bothering to open the hatch in the door to let me ask him my question. I wondered if he had heard us talking about the cigarettes, and this was his way of saying no, or if he just didn’t give a crap about what was going on in our cell. Well, at least I’m not asking for a roll of toilet paper or medical attention, I thought. We had already been out for walk that day, so I apologized to Felix and told him I would sort him out some cigarettes the next day.

  After breakfast, I sat at our table thinking about the son of a bitch prosecutor and his likely plan to keep me in Pankrác for at least the rest of my favorite time of year, the summer. Right at that moment, that hot, humid, most magical of seasons in the American South was slowly passing me by thousands of miles away, and I wanted to be at home in Richmond, riding mopeds with my wife, skateboarding with my buddy Josh, and fishing in the James river with whoever wanted to go. I wanted to be at one of the beaches I loved so much down in Cape Fear, North Carolina, going surfing or fishing with my brother Scott, or just swimming in the ocean and looking at the pretty girls with my brother Mark. I wanted to take a trip up to the Blue Ridge mountains with Cindy, driving along Skyline Drive, then snuggling up in front of a campfire after the sun went down and the mountain air cooled. I wanted to go to my hilarious mother-in-law’s house in Northern Virginia and eat a bunch of homemade Chinese food and listen to her tell stories about growing up in China. I wanted to kiss my Grandma on the cheek and hold my cat Henry and go out to eat some fresh local caught shrimp with my Mom and wrestle with my nephew Lucas. I wanted to hang out at my Dad’s house and look at his latest woodworking project, and talk about books with my step-Mom Cheryl and joke around with my brother Andrew after everyone else had gone to bed. I wanted a lot of things, and as I caught myself getting madder and madder I reminded myself that people in hell want ice water. I needed to get my wanter fixed. Getting angry wasn’t going to do me a lick of good, in fact it would only hurt me. I have come to realize that useless, directionless anger is one of my greatest character defects, and when I indulge myself in it, I am remaining in a problem, not its solution. Anger is a natural human emotion, and it has its place and uses, but when I get mad, really mad, it can be frightening to others and myself. Winding myself up like the iron core of an electrical transformer always leads to an explosion, and I can’t afford explosions in my everyday life. I certainly couldn’t afford one in prison, so I decided to do something that always helps balance me when I am distraught or angry. I wrote a gratitude list.

  A gratitude list is simply a written collection of ten or so things you are grateful for in your life. I had been introduced to the practice by my friend Bill Griggs years before when I was doing a terrible amount of whining. Anyone can benefit from writing a gratitude list, and I
try to do at least two or three a week to this day. When you consistently and honestly take a look at the things you actually have to be grateful for, your perspective changes, and you begin to realize what is really important. Go ahead, try it. If you’re reading this and thinking that your life is so bad that you don’t have a single thing to be grateful for, I don’t mind telling you here and now that your priorities are all fucked up. Consider this a friendly kick in the ass from good ol’ Uncle Randy. You need get off the pity pot, put on your big boy or big girl pants, revaluate your situation, and give it a try. I’ll even give you the first two items: 1) I am grateful to be breathing (because if you’re reading this, I’m assuming you’re alive—that’s something), and 2) I’m grateful that that jackass Randy wrote about gratitude lists in that crappy, long-winded book of his, because I don’t want to remain miserable forever and this could conceivably one day help me pull my own head out of my ass. At least I got something out of all his rantings.

  I was definitely full of anger as I squatted on the pity pot that day, so I took out my journal and pen. This is what I wrote:

  Gratitude List, July 6th, 2012

  1. I am grateful that I am sober.

  2. I am grateful that I have a beautiful wife who loves me and is coming to see me in a few days. She is interested in my welfare and has been helping with my case.

  3. I am grateful that I have a loving family who must be very worried about me. I know they love me, even when they don’t understand me.

  4. I am grateful that the US and UK press seem to be on my side to my knowledge.

  5. I am grateful that I have a cool cellmate, Dorj, who has a good sense of humor and makes me laugh.

  6. I am grateful that Felix next door is cool and speaks English—thank God he is next door to help me out. I must return the favor.

  7. I am grateful that I do not lack money—even though this place is frustrating, I am not poor like some people in here. I will eventually get to order stuff.

  8. I am grateful that I am of good health physically and mentally. I must exercise both body and mind daily.

  9. I am grateful that my mind is spinning still in creative directions—I must focus it on these things and learn and profit from this experience.

  10. I am grateful for zazen (meditation). I must practice it more diligently.

  11. I am grateful that my fellow prisoners have been kind, friendly, and sharing to me, even though they do not have much. I must repay their kindness and good deeds in turn.

  12. I am grateful for the relative quiet of this prison so far. No drunks, no blasting music 24/7, no goddamned television driving me nuts. In some ways it is better than tour. I must take advantage of this.

  13. I am grateful that I have pen and paper and time to write. I must sharpen my skills.

  14. I am grateful I have a few cigarettes left. I should either quit or enact stricter rationing discipline. Probably quit, but even if I run out, I will make it no problem.

  15. I am grateful I get three square meals a day. Although not exactly the finest of cuisine, I definitely will not starve in here, even though portions are plain and small. That is a lot more than many people have in the world. I must remember this, and be grateful for food, clothes, and shelter—all of which I have.

  As soon as I started the list, I began to feel better. When I was done, I sat and re-read it a few times. One word in number fourteen’s entry kept on jumping out at me: discipline. If I was going to maintain a positive mental attitude, then I needed to enact some discipline. As I pondered the word, I began to hear a song from Black Flag’s classic 1985 live album, Whose Got the 10 1/2? At the end of the album’s twelfth track, “My War,” singer Henry Rollins screams, “Yes! Annihilate! Destroy! The discipline! I am the discipline!” He does this with vicious, bloodcurdling, utterly committed conviction in his sandblasted voice. “My War” has always been one of my favorite songs, and hearing it in my mind made me feel even better. I grabbed the paper wrapper I had saved from our roll of toilet paper and at the top of it I wrote THE DISCIPLINE in large block letters, underlining it. Then I began to write out a precisely ordered daily schedule of exercise, meditation, and writing. I decided I would regiment myself, do my best to adhere to my self-imposed schedule, and maintain the discipline. I posted this schedule on the tattered cork board in our cell using four dabs of toothpaste, stared at it a bit, then began doing pushups.

  The discipline would be continually refined and added to throughout my stay in prison. There were many days when lights out arrived before I had time to complete everything I had scheduled for myself for that twenty-four hour period. There were also days I slacked off, but I always picked it up again the next sunrise. The discipline kept me busy; it kept my body active, my mind sharp, and my morale up. I did not aimlessly drift through my time in prison, trapped in endless speculation about my fate. If I had, then I would have been a cloudy-minded emotional wreck. Discipline will save you when the chips are down. Discipline will temper you and turn you into steel when your ass is burning alive in the flames of life’s hard times-furnace. My discipline enabled me to keep a relatively clear head on my shoulders, and I am grateful for it to this day. My gratitude list had brought me my discipline; for me the two are inseparable. When I am being an ungrateful S.O.B., my discipline gets tossed out the window.

  After lunch, Bradley came to the door, scowled, and sternly said, “If you want shower, you must come now”—somehow that little jerk even made getting clean sound like a threat. Dorj and I gathered our tiny towels, soap, razors, and shaving cream, stripped down to our boxers, and followed Bradley two or three doors down the hallway to the shower. I could hear running water and laughter inside, and although I was a bit nervous about taking a shower in prison with a bunch of naked inmates (I am not shy at all about nudity, but we all know what happens in the showers in prison movies), I was really looking forward to getting clean. Bradley opened the door, steam billowed out, and Raymond Herrera and Scarface waved us a naked and cheerful hello. Dorj and I walked in, hung our towels and underwear on a hook, and began showering in the large, dim, and dingy shower room. As there were only two shower heads, the four of us had to alternate between scrubbing and rinsing, but everyone was very polite about it. No one hogged the water. It felt indescribably good to wash the dust and sweat from my body. I was just about as happy as one can be in a prison, laughing and scrubbing away, when I almost gave myself a heart attack.

  What is the one thing you know most definitely not to do if you go to prison? The one bit of knowledge you have gained from watching prison movies, the piece of advice that is drilled into every young man’s head as soon as he is old enough to really understand what long-term incarceration can entail? That one, singular, most important thing you are told not to do under any circumstances in a prison shower, as it will surely lead to the most horrific, painful, and humiliating consequences imaginable if you are an idiot and actually do it?

  You all know what I’m talking about. And yes, I did it.

  I dropped the soap.

  Twice.

  The first time I dropped the soap, I was standing beneath the shower head, blissfully rinsing away a thick mixture of dirt and lather when Scarface made some joke about Bradley, cursing in Czech about the stupid bachar and imitating his Napoleonic manner. I began to laugh, accidentally squeezing the white bar of soap in my right hand. The slippery bar shot upwards and outwards towards Scarface, and I stood transfixed, frozen with horror as I watched it fly from my grip. Time seemed to slow to a snail’s pace, and like a slow-motion dream sequence in some terrifying movie, the bar of soap hung glistening in the air for a long moment before landing on the shower floor.

  Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo . . . I actually heard my voice echo in my head, sounding like a 78 rpm record playing on 33. I do not believe my back has ever been straighter in my entire life as I lowered my naked body to the ground using only my legs, keeping the appropriate orifice aimed due south at all times in
a defensive maneuver designed to retain my honor. No one seemed to notice that I had committed this terrible faux pas, and I relaxed a bit. Mere seconds later it flew out of my nervous hands again, and I stiffly lowered myself down to pick it up once more. My God, I thought, they’re going to think I’m flirting with them. But once again, no one seemed to notice (or maybe they did, and I’m just not as cute as I was in my twenties), and I finished showering without any further incidents. After I was done, I grabbed my towel and dried off the best I could, which was not very well given the smallness and pitiful condition of the rough rectangle of cloth. There was no mirror in the bathroom, so I shaved blind, Dorj helping me by getting the spots I had missed. I decided to grow a goatee, as that meant less wear and tear on the single blade safety razor, which was basically useless after two or three shaves.