by Wahida Clark
“Excuse me, bitch, but around here we're going to call you Butterfly. You don't want nobody to confuse you as being Spanish, because the Spanish boys will have you in a world of trouble.”
Damn, Butterfly thought. How am I ever going to make it out of here? It was bad enough she was gay, and it was even worse that everything had a shade of racial tension with it.
“But Sosa said he’d protect me,” Butterfly said to herself but aloud.
“Sosa?” Buffy asked, and it jolted Butterfly out of her inner-cognition.
“Sosa, he said he used to be here and was a shot-caller.”
“Sosa! Gurl, he came back?” Buffy asked with added amazement. “My God, they’re gonna tear the compound up because of you, let me tell you.”
Chapter Three
He had to conquer the world...
To touch the weights, and feel the steel in his hands. The power his body produced to lift 405 lbs. went through Atwaters’ mind as he unracked the weight and took it slowly down on his chest. The weight felt good, and he was getting his mind and body right because he was preparing to go home . . .
18 long ass years . . . Imagine that. Not hour glasses pouring sand through a moderated hole . . . but years, draining the life out of him. And he pushed the steel and the 405 lbs. came up with ease and it was money and payback that his heart and soul craved! To prove his worth, value, mettle!
He was so focused that he could not hear the raucus round ‘about of other guys lifting weights. His future, was again, on the chopping block, and he was going to have the opportunity to put it down. Shit . . . Somebody had to pay for robbing him of 18 years . . . 18 precious years that he could never ever get back! And he racked the weights and hopped up and curled 135 lbs. on his arms until he felt them swell and he threw them down and he could see something of a visible future where the stakes were high and he’d have his foot on the fuckers necks who buried him alive for 18 precious ones.
And his mind was intent on delivering that justice . . . but something was missing from the picture. And it was an intrical part. And his mind was searching it for what it was when his concentration was interrupted.
“Atwater, come here,” Old School said once he had gotten Atwater’s attention.
Old School was an old-timer from Chicago, who was well-respected, and he had a life sentence to serve. No matter the life sentence or the time he had already served, he looked considerably good for his age.
Atwater went over to him and they shook hands and embraced as only gangsters do.
“Islam – Moor.” Old School paid Atwater the greetings of the Moorish Americans. A religious group who were like the Nation of Islam, but who followed the teachings of Noble Drew Ali, and Atwater was not only a lowly member, but he held rank as the Assistant Grand Sheik.
“That’s my Atwater,” Old School said proudly. “How’s your wife Shonda?”
“She’s doing well. She’s been riding out with a brother for these eighteen years, which seem like eighteen different lifetimes.”
“It hasn’t been wasted, young blood. You understand that it’s direction that gives vision and mismanagement that leads to collision.”
Atwater looked admiringly at Old School. “You still speak in riddles, old man.”
“It’s not the riddle that’s spoken, but the decipherment once it’s broken. I can place wisdom kike a dessert before your face, but what you choose is according to your taste.
“I’ve helped you elevate your game. Your wife is now an accountant of a reputable accounting firm. And she has you to thank for that.”
“Islam; and I have you to thank.”
It was music to Old School’s ears. For one to be grateful and appreciative when somebody taught him something said a lot about his character.
“Game’s to be sold, not told,” Old School said. “I’ll life out in here. I just want you to pass the game on to those who are receptive, selective, and a little deceptive. What I teach you ten years back about your right to choose who you walk with, be it friend or foe?”
“To always exercise that right and to keep from allowing no-gooders to get under me.” Atwater answered by rote.
“Right. Because lames are always looking for some protection. That’s what they make gangs, organizations, and armies for. It’s a sort of protection program, because real men stand on their own two feet. But they use the gangs, organizations, and armies to make themselves feel like real men; and it’s because they can’t think outside of the box. When a gang begins to exceed it’s usefulness, then cut it loose.”
Atwater could never fully digest that teaching. “I feel you, Old School, but what about loyalty?”
“You are loyal: loyal to ya’self, your ambition, and your success. Those fools are on autopilot to crash. You’d get run over trying to stop them. The only loyalty they understand is a face you put on to deal with them. You’re in a whole other class. And what I teach you about classism?”
“The Haves and the Have-nots.”
Old School had to smile at his pupil; he had learned his lessons well. And without showing his true satisfaction, Old School asked, “And at what time do you tie your fate with the Have-nots? “
“At no time. Pimping ain’t tender – dick and kindheartedness. The mack has to accumulate funds at the expense of a woman’s virtue. But along with her virtue goes his own sense of humanity.”
“Don’t tell me you still pray?” Old School tested Atwater more.
Never that, Old School. I don’t pray, I prey.”
“Calculation, misinformation, and mass manipulation is what rules the nation. You can never pluck a flower till after you’ve given her a mental orgasm.
What you wear, drive, and speak does all of that.”
One of Atwater’s friends who was working out interrupted Old School. “Atwater, come on, man. You still gonna do squats?”
Old School and Atwater ignored him as Old School said, “You see how a Have-not thinks? He thinks everything is brute force and physical strength. All these fools out here lifting crude instruments when the master chess players have aircraft carriers posted in front of a new victim’s shores. New countries with new slaves to play to the master’s tunes. But game’s to be sold, not told.
“I told you, Atwater, to elevate your pimping, and I’m, quite impressed at what you’ve accomplished. But I want you take it one step further. Remember that a tender dick ain’t got the apple sauce to pimp.
“I’m about to continue upon my journey. I entrust I’ll be seeing you.”
Atwater laughed from the trance Old School had him in, the trance he was already in when he was plotting his future.
“All right, Old Man. Much love, and I’m gonna take this pimping to a whole other level – that’s my word.”
“Your access has been granted.”
Chapter Four
The SHU Had Its Way Of Offering Solace
Butterfly felt like more of an animal trapped inside a cage than a beautiful insect. As she looked around the cell, she felt she was going to be a victim of a degenerative disease or worse. Her skin crawled now that she had woken and realized this prison wasn’t a nightmare but a living reality.
The cell itself was suffocating, with minor accommodations of a metal shower, a washbowl, and toilet that was some sort of hybrid stuck together. The two-bed bunk was as comfortable as sleeping on a concrete slab.
Butterfly had spent one day in the SHU with Buffy, and after they did their best to clean everything, the cell didn’t seem as nasty.
Plus, Buffy was so fun, funny, and adorable with his big lips and Buck Roger’s teeth that the time flew by. Butterfly had taken an instant liking to him, and Buffy spent the majority of time telling Butterfly what to expect once she was released to the compound in his overly pretentious and feminine manner.
“Let me tell you,” Buffy said as he smacked his lips and spoke with a pronounced and unnecessary lisp that made him sound as if he was sucking on a lollipop. “I don't ca
re what anybody tells you about Schuylkill. It’s the bomb out there. It's a rack of fine ass niggas who are most definitely going. I had to come here to take a break.”
“You never told me why you're back here,” Butterfly asked, excited from the stories Buffy told.
“Gurl,” Buffy said, and as always, it was followed by a smack of his lips. “It would be easier to say why I ain’t back here. Let's just say I got caught in a compromising position. I was hunched over getting stuffed like a bell pepper with a yard of dick in the recreation bathroom.” They laughed.
“You got caught?”
“Yeah and that ain’t it.” He smacked his lips again. “Lieutenant Muncy who usually never gives a fuck, got all saintly, and he got the nerve to call me a black faggot, so I smacked that asshole in the face. They about snatched a bitch out her panties and dragged me here.”
“You're crazy!” Butterfly laughed.
“These scrapes on my legs look like rug burns, as if I slept with King Mandingo himself.”
Butterfly had to hold her stomach because she was laughing so hard.
“Gurl.” Buffy smacked. “Let me tell you. From the other jails I've been to, this place is okay, let me tell you. There's some fine ass niggas out there, like T Roy, Banks, Eddie, Milk, Atwater, and Lazy Eyes. That's just to name a few, let me tell you. Don't sleep with nobody that's been with Britney Spears ‘cus that bitch got the hee-bee-gee-bees.”
“The what?”
She smacked her lips. “HIV. Hello!”
“Oh my god!” Butterfly said, thinking how horrible it would be to have HIV, or worst, AIDS. And she would have thought she had one or the other if her DC jail results didn’t come back negative for both.
“Don't sound so shocked, bitch. You better be EXTRA careful, or you'll get more than a sore ass.”
“How do you protect yourself?” Butterfly asked.
Buffy looked as if he’d been asked the dumbest question in the universe. “Go to the chapel, make a wooden cross, and get a spray bottle full of holy water, let me tell you, because ain’t nothing under God's green earth gonna keep me from getting some dick.”
Butterfly laughed all the more. “You've completely lost your mind!”
“Other than that”—She smacked—”you can try and use latex gloves and a lot of prayer. Because most of the time ya ain’t gonna wanna mess with a wee-wee that can fit in a finger of a glove, let me tell ya. Sometimes I like it when I can't sit down for a couple of days.”
“I know what you mean . . . something that lingers!” Butterfly couldn't agree more, as they slapped hands in full accord. All she could think about was Clayton, because he was well-endowed.
“What?” Buffy smacked. “Listen to me, little sister,” Buffy said on a serious note. “Be careful out there. Not only with your health, but with your heart, let me tell you. Don't get ya head involved ‘cus some guys are too pussy to be seen with you in public. They won't even acknowledge you. But it's the life we have in here and in the free world, let me tell you. Don't even mess with nobody if you can't control your emotions, because it will get you messed up. Plus, that's how a lot of people be getting stabbed. And you look psycho-ish.”
Buffy said seriously, because he could sense that Butterfly was unstable just by looking at her.
Butterfly laughed. “What! No I don't!”
“Please. What kind of medicine they have you on?” Butterfly didn't answer. “That's what I thought. How many times have you tried to kill ya'self?” Buffy asked, seeing scars on Butterfly’s wrist.
“Too many to count,” Butterfly answered matter-of-factly.
“Gurl, what is it? You hate the isolation, the ridicule, or the fact that you're always a secret in your lover's life? I already know, let me tell you. But ya's a crazy bitch because you tried to kill ya'self.”
Butterfly laughed as Buffy continued. “I ain’t never went that far. I love dick too much, let me tell you.”
They were interrupted when they heard the COs bringing somebody down the hall, which was announced by the CO's tolling keys.
Buffy ran to the door to see if he could peep down the hall through the crack in the door, and he could barely make out the image of Fats, who was coming down the hall.
“Stephens, make sure my cellie packs me out. I don't know if I'm going back to the compound,” Fats said to the guard who brought him to the back and he was hoping his cellmate would send all his property to him in the SHU.
Somebody in another cell screamed, “Ya bet not go to the pound again, ya hot bitch!'
Fats ignored the guy screaming and said to the CO, “You see what I mean? I need all my property.”
“Fats, is that you?” Buffy screamed, because he loved him some Fats. Not only was Fats funny and fun to be around, Fats smuggled drugs into the prison.
“Hey, Buffy,” Fats said warmly.
“What the hell you doing back here? Don't answer that; I already know.”
“Did you see Bad Breath Britney out there?” Buffy asked.
“Hold up. Let me get in my cell first.”
The COs put Fats into an empty cell as they kicked his bedroll in, closed the door, and uncuffed him through the trap. He waited till the COs left before he resumed his conversation with Buffy. It required talking over other inmates' conversations, who screamed from cell to cell as they trafficked property underneath the doors by using strings torn from bedsheets, and they used toothpaste tubes to launch the line.
The whole time the COs were putting Fats in his cell, Buffy was telling Butterfly who he was.
“Gurl, we done came up! Fats is my baby. He be having wine, cigarettes, cocaine, heroin, and whatever else you like.”
“What! That's what I need right now, something to calm my nerves.”
“Oh, I hope he brought something back with him. Anything.”
“How would he bring anything back here? They stripped searched me,” Butterfly asked.
Buffy looked at Butterfly, green as could be. “You don't know who Leester-Keester is?”
Butterfly looked confused. “No, who's he?”
Buffy shook his head. “It's when you hide something in ya ass.”
“My God!” Butterfly said as Buffy laughed.
“Buffy!” Fats called.
Buffy ran back to the door.
“Fats?” Buffy called him for the fifth time, and he was getting agitated because Fats ignored him.
“Buffy, I got something for you. You have a car?”
“Of course I do,” Buffy said, running over to his bed and ripping his bed sheet. He tied a small toothpaste tube to one end of the string. And to Butterfly he said, “Baby, I told you we're going to Venus tonight.” He danced with glee.
“What he got?” Butterfly asked.
“Bitch, how the hell do I know?” Buffy said sarcastically and laughed.
“Fats, I'm sending the car down,” Buffy yelled.
Fats went to the door to steer the line in. Buffy had to try and try again to get the toothpaste to land in front of his cell door, but the shit seemed nearly impossible after more than six tries.
“Damn, bitch, take your time, ya non-driving muthafucka.” Fats laughed.
“Fuck you Fats!” Buffy fumed. “Dammit, I'm gonna chip my nails. Ya damn near gotta be Danica Patrick to drive this shit down the hallway.”
“Right there! It's in front of my cell. Hold up!”
Buffy looked over at Butterfly because they were about to get higher than kites.
“Pull the line!” Fats hollered back.
Buffy pulled the line in till the small package of goodies had arrived.
Butterfly ran to the door to see what it was. It was two pin-sized cigarettes with a striking match.
“What is that?” Butterfly asked.
“Let me see,” Buffy said as he unraveled it to see a mixture of marijuana, heroin, or crack. Who knew?
“We know there's weed in there. But we'll figure out the rest once we're high.” He laughed.
And with much affection, Buffy yelled, “Thanks Fats!” And then he turned his attention back to the items at hand.
He turned the shower on and put a towel under the door to trap the smell from going outside the room. And when they blazed, it became a puff-puff-pass rhythm between the two of them until their faces and heads felt heady and numb and good!
They both wanted to get fucked, but they resolved to crawl into Butterfly's bed and hold each other, wishing the other was a man, or at least a real one.
But Butterfly's dreams took her deeper into a trance. And as her head started to spin, she coughed and ran to the toilet because she thought she would vomit. She felt truly high! But when she got to the toilet to vomit, nothing came out, and Buffy laughed all the more.
Butterfly's mind was drug-induced, and her vision was watery, dreamy, and languid. And while sitting on the ground next to the toilet, Buffy's laughing sounded distorted and heinous, and his face seemed almost sinister. Butterfly leaned back onto the toilet and the high felt good and mesmerizing. She crawled back into the bed and after a second, she felt her mind drift back to when she was a child in elementary.
“You're a sissy: nanny nanny nanny . . . you're a faggot and you act like a girl,” a group of kids teased, but it had the rhythm of a song, and Butterfly was the innocent kid who was backed against a wall and she felt trapped!
“I'm not, I'm not. Stop it!”
But they wouldn't, no matter how much she screamed. And she didn't know if she was fighting to free herself from the corner that the kids had backed her into, or if she was struggling to be freed from the nightmare she had collapsed into. Once she realized that she couldn't escape from the corner, she covered her ears. She noticed she wasn't the beautiful woman that she had grown to be, but she was a boy with pants, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt on, and she hated the feeling of being in that body! It was nauseating, and she fought against the teasing, the kids, the dream itself.