by sam paul
Finally there are the young kids like me—the dumb fucks that did something stupid, usually for drugs or while on drugs, and they have landed in the pokey for minor offenses or felony drug offenses. Most of them/us got popped for burglary, possession or other things drug-related. We are the people that have no friends or family with money to get out, or our probation violations keep us here on a no-bond.
Here’s a typical section of conversation that I transcribed the other day while I was talking with a young meth-head white guy in here. Other than my occasional head nod or “uh-huh” he talked non-stop about shit like this for hours:
“.dude, I totally knew it was over the day we were riding in the car, cruising down the road listening to tunes going to visit HER fucking family. I’m like jamming along, cruising, gearing up for a round of “unfamiliar boyfriend in the house with her folks,” doing her a fucking favor right? Right. And so we’re right in the middle of Jane’s “Summertime Rolls”. Yeah that one. You know the part where it builds up to the climax right? And you know I only say ‘climax’ because I have actually had sex to this song and actually climaxed while it peaked. So we’re cruising listening and the song is building and right as Navarro is about to hit it, I mean jam the fucking notes right down our throat while the volume is cranked and do you know what she fucking does? She reaches over and she doesn’t turn the stereo down, no she turns the whole fucking system OFF. I mean sheesh, right? Bitch, fight with ME or whatever but you gotta respect the goddamn song. I’m talking major karma violation right? Right. I don’t care what kind of girl-shit she’s got going on. If it’s some B.S. Elton John top 40 shit, then FUCK YEAH turn that shit off and bring on your fucking feelings baby, I’m SO there for you, but in the middle of “Summertime Rolls?” I don’t think so. We’re talking a totally different class of song. Whether we’re going to visit her family or not, you gotta respect a fucking song like that. I mean I came all over two titty-dancers faces to that song man. If you don’t have the love, then you don’t have the love, and then you don’t get the love. You know what I’m sayin’ man? Fuck yeah. And everything just went downhill after that. Man e-v-e-r-y f-u-c-k-i-n-g t-h-i-n-g. I could hardly even look at her the same way. You gotta respect the tune man. You gotta, because music is in the air. Like a spirit. If you are pulling it out of the air then you can’t just cram that spirit back in a box like you didn’t summon the motherfucker. Damn that bitch.”
It goes on and on and on and on. Cruel and unusual punishment comes to mind, but what else do I really have except time to listen?
This is my third trip to the animal cages now and most people I talk to say they would rather be locked up in the Government Building with the hard-case criminals awaiting murder trials than have to stay in New Holland again. I don’t mind it too much anymore. The first time I was here I mostly just had to learn to adjust to the noise. Even asleep the place is buzzing with as many decibels as any of the loudest concerts I’ve ever seen, and there is always some cage that doesn’t sleep during the night and likes to play a loud game of dominoes or cards. I’m pretty good at dominoes, but when you play dominoes with the brothers you have to slam the black rectangles on the table as loud as possible and scream out your points along with a pointed insult to the other person or team in order to be taken seriously. I’ll catch myself laughing sometimes at the shit-talk that comes from my mouth. I like these late hours the most though. I generally stay up reading or writing letters to Jenifer while trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts and voices that keep obsessing me.
After reading through the Bible again for the second time, I’ve pretty much memorized and written detailed analysis of the Bible passages concerning trials and tribulations in the book of Job. My first inclination was to manipulate the passages and send them in a letter to my mother but I nixed that when I realized I must have deep issues of my own to deal with if I’m only using the Bible to try and make her feel guilty. The older black men think it’s great to see such a young man studying the Bible and some of the younger guys make fun of it since everyone turns to the Bible out of desperation as soon as they draw their “go directly to jail card.” It’s practically a cliché and the term is “Jailhouse Religion,” only calling upon God to be merciful when you’re in a desperate spot. I’m not too happy with Him right now so people can think whatever the fuck they want.
An old black man came into the cell the other day and after all the initial fears and comforts were taken care of he started to interact with the tank. He said his old lady and him got into a fight, which apparently is quite common. He said “She gets up in the middle of the fight and goes into the kitchen and starts cooking up a mess of meat. I’m talking bacon and sausage and hamburger. Everything we gots in the fridge. The whole time I’m lying in bed thinking what the fuck is going on? That bitch don’t never cook for me.” Next thing he knows, she comes into the bedroom screaming at him again, only this time she’s got a frying pan filled with all the boiling grease from the meat she was cooking and throws it on him in bed. He lifts up the blanket off the bed and catches most of it, getting a little burnt in the process, he pauses here to shows us some of his burns, and slams her against the wall. Yadda yadda yadda, next thing he knows, the cops come and he’s getting hauled off to jail. Fucked up.
There is no music anywhere, just the ambient noise of life in an endless row of cages. The echo of shit-talking conversation and dominoes slamming on the metal tables pop up sporadically. Like clockwork, the black guys watch Soul Train every Saturday morning at 11:00 a.m. With every TV in the animal cages tuned into the same station and each TV turned up as loud as it can go, the entire warehouse gets an odd echo-y stereo effect. It’s usually around the time they serve the special Saturday meal of bologna and white bread. I can’t eat that shit anymore but some people gobble it up like it’s the last food on earth. I guess in a way it is the only food on earth at the moment unless I can start eating steel and concrete. My stomach just can’t handle the cheap crap they feed us anymore. Some of the guys like to build a small fire under the stainless steel tables and fry up their bologna like it’s a Saturday barbeque. Soul Train day is actually alright in a weird way, a little manipulative and contrived but it puts off a positive vibe that kind of radiates through the entire jail the rest of the day. The dominoes slam a little softer, the card players talk a little less shit and tensions seem to ease up for a little while.
Unfortunately, while I watched, there was a guy killed in the cage directly across from us. It was just some minor skirmish that might have turned into a decent fight but didn’t get that far. While the guys were squaring off and doing that whole testosterone pre-fight bit where each person talks shit and they bump chests, one guy shoved the other and he slipped on the wet floor in his shower shoes and hit the back of his head right on the corner of one of the bunk beds. A spasm of nerve endings and he was dead before he hit the dirty concrete and hardly even bled while his body just lay there, quiet and still. Everyone backed away quickly and pretended asleep. Next thing I knew there were cops everywhere in their black storm trooper gear lining everyone in that cage up against the wall and beating out some answers. Turns out the guy who died only had about a month left to do on his very first misdemeanor charge. It’s a fucked up world sometimes. Guilty until proven innocent.
There is a lot of stuff that happens in this world that is turning out to be just plain wrong. How could I have been sheltered from all of this? If you can’t see it in here, then you can’t ever know how it is. Is the goal to rehabilitate or to annihilate us? In Jesus’ name I claim the justice promised in Luke 10:18.
Ever heard of the bad ass named Rasputin who dwelt among the Russian royalty before their first revolution? When things turned bad they stabbed him, hung him, poisoned him and drowned him because he was such bad ass that he just wouldn’t die. That’s the gist of it anyway. I’ve met a few fuckers in here that look about THAT tough and one of those guys in another cage acr
oss from ours has some sort of beef with me that started with him making kissy faces at me through the bars and trying to punk me out.
When somebody calls you some name or tries to gain verbal power over you it’s foreshadowing their physical domination and attempt at physical power. There are only two choices in here: flight or fight. The first choice is that you can smile and take the verbal assault, maybe even laugh it off, but that means somebody in your cage knows they can get away with the same thing and might try and punk you out. That means they feel like maybe they can make you their bitch. And if you are somebody’s bitch they can take your food, take your blanket or even force sex if it gets too crazy. I’ve seen enough male rapes and sex to warp me for life. They ALL started out with something innocent like borrowing a bag of chips or some Cro-magnum motherfucker making kissy faces through the bars like the gorilla across from me.
Your second choice is to stand up to the guy, no matter his size or the crazy look in his eyes. You might have to fight and you might get your ass beat or even killed, but people will learn that you are not going out like a bitch. You’ve got to convince them that they can fight you and that maybe they’ll probably win but you’re going to hurt them in the process and then you’re gonna be back and you’re not going to back off until somebody’s dead. I’m just hoping I don’t get stuck going to court the same day as Grape-Ape because he is fucking HUGE and I’ve said enough serious shit back to him where he feels like he’s got to stand up for his reputation now. We’ll see. I’ve only had a few minor skirmishes in the jailhouse and I’ve made out alright, nothing too serious.
It helps that I’m in better shape now than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m way too skinny but I do a thousand push-ups a day, lift the water bag weights we’ve fashioned out of plastic bags and I practice throwing combo punches using different styles. There’s this black Muslim in here that works out with me and he’s always pushing me beyond my limits when we work out. He’s short but stocky and strong with his own set of crazy eyes. We’re cool though. Most of the black Muslims are fine with the white devils since we’re all being persecuted in the same boat together. While you’re locked up, unless you have “White Pride” tattoos all over your body, you’re not a devil, just a potential devil. We greet each other with an “Asha-llama-lake-a” (forgive my phonetics) and get along just fine.
He saw Grape-Ape talking trash to me one day and liked the way I was able to spit smack right back at him without flinching. He even got into it with the guy for a minute, reminding him about us all being persecuted together or something to no avail. My Muslim buddy just kind of shrugged his shoulders after a while, it wasn’t his fight, but later on he asked me if I wanted any of his kin-folk to “talk” to the guy. As much as I would like to have the black Muslims take the guy out for me, there’s no way in hell I want to be in their debt in here. I very politely refused his hint of an offer. My best guess is that Jumbo is getting out soon anyway and if by fluke we do end up in a cage match together I won’t be here towrite. Or I’ll have a murder case. Either way I’m dead, so if it comes down to it, I fight.
3AM—How many months now? Grape-Ape has been gone for a while, released back into the fury of the world some time ago. I just realized that I am no longer afraid of the dark. I can no longer remember the time of my life when I was afraid of what might be lurking in the darkness. I’ve seen darkness in the hearts of men, men walking boldly in the daylight that could cool the very sun. At night the rats scurry above my head and the spiders still drop onto peoples’ faces as they sleep. They crawl down their shirts and bite them on the stomach or legs giving people those vicious welts. Nighttime has become something to embrace. A time when people sleep and I can creep around and look. This is when I am powerful. I know in my heart I could cut up the bottom of a person’s foot with a razor. I could get them in the neck if I needed to or even take an eye out lickety split-split-split. If I cut them on the feet it will humiliate them. When your feet hurt, you hurt as a person. You lose your confidence because your foundation is ruptured. I could kick Shaq’s ass if I cut up his heels and toes enough. It’s the equivalent of taking a baseball bat to the knees over and over and over. A Mexican showed me how they make their shivs down south. Take two safety razors (instead of one) and melt the blades side by side into the end of a toothbrush. That way your weapon will slice the flesh into pieces side by side. “Ain’t a doctor in the world that can stitch that kinda cut up,” he says. “That, or a sock full of dominoes, will ring their bell. Heh heh.”
No, the dark is my friend now. It is in the dark that I can feel silence and a sliver of peace amidst the chaos. I can sit here all alone and write in the dark, watching the people’s stomachs going up and down up and down up and down up and down.
I’ve made friends with a very intellectual black man in here named Charles. Charles is older than me and very smart. He’s a jazz piano musician and has played with all sorts of people that are pretty high up in the North Texas music scene. He buys packs of ‘real world’ menthols and I bum them off of him on occasion. We read about the same amount of books and know a lot of the same shit. He’s a crack addict and just like me, his own demons sent him into this downward spiral that landed him here. The crack must be pretty fearsome stuff to break a man of his caliber.
For some reason, I was just thinking about my neighbor Frank. Or I should say my parents’ neighbor. Frank was my first gainful employer. I used to mow his lawn for five dollars a pop. I negotiated my own deal and when I was 12 it seemed like a good agreement. Frank was a lawyer and the immensity of his yard, the miniscule wage he paid me to mow it and the way he would walk around and critique how I neglected to cut a blade or two here and there should have clued me in the nature of lawyers right then and there. But at 12, five dollars was a shit-load of money. Like the generation that got caught in the loophole of the seventies and will never have to apply for the draft, I was left out of that mythical allowance business I’ve heard tales of taking place in distant lands and counties. Frank was/is Jewish so I’m sure he thought that he was giving me valuable work experience or else giving me a hard lesson in negotiating that stereotypical Jewish people will never be able to get out of their genes.
On the outside I was the typical bumbling gangly white kid in suburbia with seemingly no worries and issues of import, but on the inside I was an intelligent prideful creature going through the stubborn phase that most men never quite break out of—the “never ask for directions phase” and the “I should be able to kick someone’s ass” phase that’s mostly brought on by the onset of testosterone and pubes. My lawn mowing job eventually leveraged me into a semi-lucrative baby sitting job with his wife, Sue, a beautiful woman who seemed to be his one true weakness. Sue was a stubborn Catholic woman, whom he adored, and while I knew them she blessed their family with 2 boys (eventually more) named Adam and Elliot.
Frank and Sue came home from a jaunt out of the insanity of parenthood one evening and he tried to get me to learn a minor history lesson by quizzing me as he counted out the large sum of money required for my babysitting services. When you are desperate to get out of the house and I’m the only babysitter around, you must pay the fee. He asked me who Horatio Alger was or more specifically what a Horatio Alger story was. I said I didn’t know and once he knew that, he said that if I could tell him what a Horatio Alger story was he would take me out to any restaurant in Dallas that I wanted. On the surface this seemed like a pretty sweet deal and the first thing I did when I went home that evening was look up this person from America’s past. It was an interesting story too. An old tale of rags-to-riches/streets-paved-with-gold sort of story for which America is famous.
The point of this is that when I babysat for them again and the topic came up I just couldn’t quite bring myself to let him know that I found all this out. There was something about the way the challenge was presented to me or that smug look on his face or something that made me want to play dumb.
The way he would ask me, as if he was already expecting that I still wouldn’t know the answer, pissed me off. It was as if he was just waiting to give me that smug look again and even if I told him that I did know, there would be a smug look of imparted wisdom. Lording that damn meal over me just didn’t sit right.
I’ve been sitting here by myself chewing this over and over in my head as if there was some important clue to my character in this story from my past, but I think I know now what it was that made me keep my knowledge a secret. It was my pride and the fact that I felt disrespected.
I will always look fondly on that time but it isn’t for the right reasons. I should have been the good older neighbor boy. I should have answered his questions and been curious about his life. I should have been his son in training until his children could suckle at the teat of his wisdom. I should have had the inspiration to follow in his footsteps, maybe even become a lawyer, right?
When I was pulled into court the other day, I saw Frank through the thick glass doing a day of probation work, nodding and planning with the other legal system workers. His eyes met mine; instinctively, I mouthed the words, “Help me,” to him. Knowing that a high dollar lawyer of this caliber knew me and was there created the sense of home that I could be set free. Desperate excitement flowed through me as I stood thinking, “This is my fate, this is my reward, my redemption.” Until he turned and walked away. Denied.