“Trust me,” I tell him, yanking the tray out and restarting the machine. “I’m done with all that—it brought me nothing but misery.”
But the truth is, I’m pretty fucking worried about how I’m going to keep away from everyone who’s gonna be all over me once I’m out. At least Marco has a halfway house set up—I’ve got no place to live except in the projects, surrounded by people desperate to get me back on the pipe.
Usually I don’t think too much about what I’m gonna do, but now it’s on my mind as I walk back to the dorm—down the long corridor, through the heavy doors, and up the stairs. Thinking of all the people I used to know, friends who aren’t junkies or crackheads, I can’t imagine how they’d react if I suddenly popped up saying I needed a place to stay. I haven’t seen or even talked to most of them in years.
The only person I’ve talked to is Anna. I called her a few weeks ago, after finally plucking up the courage. Considering how I expected her to react, she’s been pretty good about all this—paying the fees for my storage unit, putting money on my commissary account, and letting my brother and sister know what happened. But she hasn’t told Liam yet, so it kills me to think he has no idea where I am or why I haven’t been around. I’m desperate to talk to him, but Anna wants me to wait until she speaks to him first.
It makes me sick picturing him hearing that I’m in jail. I can’t imagine how he’s gonna feel about me—I just wish I could tell him myself. I wrote Anna a couple of long letters, trying to explain how I ended up here, my whole trajectory even going way back to our divorce, when Liam was young. That’s one of the hardest things about being in here, just dealing with how far I let myself fall. I’d become all the worst things anyone ever said or thought about me.
Once you’ve detoxed and can think straight, you’ve got to face up to all the shit you did and all the people you’ve hurt, with no way to escape the guilt and shame. Mostly I try to keep busy so I don’t dwell on it too much—which is why I’m taking every shift I can get in the kitchen. But it still rears up at me every so often, the things I saw and the people I was around and the life I basically accepted. You can’t ever erase any of that.
—
“ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER tray,” one of the COs tells me as I walk into the kitchen for the lunch shift. She’s taken to calling me “Lucky Charm”—like the cereal—because she thinks I’m Irish.
“Why don’t you tell her you’re Scottish?” asks my friend Jimmy, an Irish American guy who’s just about the only person I’ve met in here who isn’t a drug dealer, junkie, or wannabe gangster.
“It’s better than Braveheart,” I tell him. “That’s what everyone was calling me when I first got here. I hated that film.”
Jimmy laughs and makes one of his many Seinfeld references before heading off to his job with the cleanup crew. It was such a relief to meet him when I got moved to 5 upper, the kitchen workers’ dorm. He got busted out on Long Island for driving with a suspended license—the judge gave him a year, all over some unpaid traffic tickets—but he and some other guys ended up getting transferred to Rikers because of overcrowding in the local jail. Some of them seem freaked out to be here, but not Jimmy. He doesn’t let things get to him—unlike me.
“You’re quiet, but you sure don’t take shit,” he told me, right after I moved in and had to stand up to this asshole who wanted one of my apples. I told the guy to fuck off and he got up in my face about it, but eventually he backed down. I knew he wasn’t going to risk losing his good time by getting in a fight with me—and if I gave him an apple, he would’ve been back the next day wanting my phone calls or my sneakers, and they cost me ten honey buns.
One of the kids who works in intake had stolen them and I was the highest bidder—the Jackie Chan slippers they give you were killing my feet. Sometimes I feel bad picturing some poor guy getting released and finding out his sneakers are missing, but that’s how things work in this place. If a dirty cop doesn’t pocket your cash when he busts you, chances are you’ll lose a watch or a ring or something else while you’re going through the system.
But Jimmy doesn’t let any of this stuff faze him—I think people respect him for that. He doesn’t give a fuck about where anyone’s been or what they’ve done, just as long as they don’t bother him. Ever since meeting him, time has gone faster and there have even been moments I’ve almost forgotten I’m in jail. I actually look forward to coming back to the dorm and chilling out after a hard day’s work.
Tonight after my dinner shift, I take a shower, put on a fresh T-shirt and pants, wash my other set in the sink, and head to the dayroom with Jimmy. Even when he’s talking to me or playing cards, he’s got one eye on whatever’s going on in the rest of the dorm.
“Looks like the evening show has started,” he says, nodding toward the guys working out down by “the projects”—what everyone calls the area by the bathroom. Jimmy got my bed moved to the “Upper East Side”—the corner farthest from the toilets, with the only fan. The strip running through the dorm is “Broadway,” and the section next to the CO’s bubble is “Police Plaza.” There are always guys with their shirts off doing press-ups by the bathroom, trying to impress the trannies—but pretending they’re not.
“Did you see the one that got brought in today?” I ask him. “I swear he looks so much like a woman I did a double take in the bathroom.”
“Big lips, purple hair?” Jimmy says, sitting down at one of the tables and dealing a hand of rummy. “Yeah, I saw her. We’ve sure had a weird mix pass through this dorm lately.”
It’s true—gangbangers, trannies, skinheads, suburbanites, old farts, young punks, and guys from just about every corner of the globe. But the person everyone’s talking about is the jail’s new celebrity, Lil Wayne. He’s up in protective custody—kept away from anyone who might want to hurt him. Rumor has it he’s been buying up everybody’s phone time and rapping to some producer, making beats for a Rikers album. I don’t buy it, but every time I’ve delivered meals to his dorm he’s been on the phone.
As Jimmy lays down another run—he almost always beats me—we talk about his kids and how his ex-wife is dealing with him being locked up. When he asks me about Liam, I tell him how much it hurts that I let him slip out of my life, and how worried I am that he won’t be able to forgive me. There were times I saw him when I was really fucked up, but he always treated me like I was his dad—he didn’t ever act out or confront me. That’s what’s on my mind all the time lately: how much I must’ve hurt him and how I’m gonna deal with that when I see him.
“You’ve got to keep yourself clean if you want to have a relationship with your son,” Jimmy says. “If you relapse, it’s not gonna happen.”
“I know,” I tell him. Jimmy doesn’t let me get away with feeling sorry for myself. That’s how he is—no bullshit, no whining. Man up and move on.
Just as I’m dealing another hand—after finally winning for a change—a young Jamaican guy comes up and asks, “Yo, Jim, can I get one of your calls? It’s my mom’s birthday and I already used my phone time talking to my girl.”
“Sure,” he says. “Let me finish this game and I’ll set you up.”
We each get a couple of phone calls a day, but Jimmy rarely uses his so he’s always trading them or giving them away. That’s one of the reasons everybody likes him—the Mexicans make food for him, he’s always getting asked to be on somebody’s card team, even the big gangsters come to him for advice. The other night, one of the older Crips was almost in tears, upset about all the young gangbangers running around with their bullshit and swagger, disrespecting people.
That’s the crazy thing about Rikers—some people act like it’s cool to be here, bragging about whatever they did on the outside. It’s like a finishing school for criminals. If you got busted for dealing, you’re guaranteed to meet a better connect. If you’re in for shoplifting, you’ll learn how to beat the store detectors. If you boosted cars, someone will teach you how not to get caught. Everybod
y comes out of here even more embedded in a life of crime—and it doesn’t seem like there’s any attempt to give people better options.
—
JUST BEFORE AFTERNOON count on the Fourth of July, two mess hall guys wheel a cart into the dorm and start handing out small tubs of ice cream with a Stars and Stripes flag on the lid. We all hurry to line up like they’re giving out hundred-dollar bills. Everything you take for granted on the outside has a whole different value in here, so pretty soon people are trading their ice cream for phone calls or envelopes or stamps. I give mine to a kid I know who’s just come in, only to see him trade it for a stamp. I don’t mind—I’ll get more in the kitchen later—but I tell him he should’ve gotten a stamp and an envelope. It won’t take him long to figure out what things are worth.
Since our dorm is on the far west side of the island, we can see the sky above Manhattan, so everyone is talking about watching the fireworks once the sun goes down. Last year I watched them from the roof of the projects, high on dope—so broke I was getting drugs on credit, promising dealers I’d pay them back once my house sold. But it took forever to close, so it got pretty scary with dealers threatening me, adding interest to the money I already owed. Everybody was coming after me—drug dealers, banks, credit card companies, fucking Time Warner—and by that point I’d pushed away anybody who could’ve helped me. The last person who even tried was Susan. Apparently she emailed Anna a few weeks ago, asking where I was.
I told Anna it was okay to let her know I’m at Rikers, but I’m surprised Susan still cares about me. The last time we saw each other was just after I’d gone out to Coney Island Hospital to detox—one of many attempts to get clean—and when I got home, there was a foreclosure notice stapled to my door. It seemed like it was a done deal, but Susan convinced me I should try to sell, so I pulled it together enough to clean the place up, plant some flowers in the yard, and throw a coat of paint on the walls. I remember she came over the day of the open house, but it took a while to actually sell, so I was really drowning in debt by the end of last year. After everything she’d done to help me, I couldn’t ask her to lend me money, and I didn’t want her to know how bad off I was. Seeing her was always a painful reminder that I’d lost her—I didn’t want to put myself through that again. Then once the closing finally happened, all my promises to myself that I’d get clean went out the window. The worst thing in the world for a junkie or a crackhead is having money.
I’d thought about going back to London or Scotland, but I’d lost my passport and my green card, and trying to replace them felt too risky. I still had open warrants, so I doubt I could’ve gotten out of the country anyway. I was basically trapped at Joe’s place, with no one to turn to and nowhere else I could go. I thought that was just the way it was going to be, and I was going to see it through until I ran out of money. Then I got arrested and dumped here, and now I’ve got to figure out what I’m gonna do once I get released.
Jimmy and I have been talking about getting an apartment together, maybe somewhere in a different part of Brooklyn. He knows people who can help us find a place—it’s tough if you’ve got a criminal record—and I’ve got money for the deposit, so hopefully it’ll work out. He wants me to go into business with him, scrapping cars, since I’ll have my driver’s license and he won’t get his back for a while. I told him I’d think about it—I doubt I’ll get work as a photographer. But I can’t wait to be able to take pictures again.
I’d love to be able to photograph what it’s like in here. Not just the shitty parts about being locked up, but there are times when you can still appreciate the way flashes of lightning illuminate the dorm or the sun comes through the slats of the windows. Like tonight—the sunset is casting these bands of orange and yellow light across the walls and the shadows of people passing by make it look almost like a painting. There’s a breeze coming in, so the dorm has cooled down and everyone is in a pretty upbeat mood waiting for the sky to get dark. Once the fireworks start, even though they’re way off in the distance, we all crowd into the corner where you can see them, the occasional burst of color leaving long trails in the sky. It almost feels like we’re out there enjoying it with everyone else, except we’re not having barbecues or drinking beer or lying on blankets in the grass, so pretty soon the reality of where we are kicks back in. As people drift off after the fireworks end, you can tell the mood has changed. It’s quieter than usual when the CO shouts, “Lights out—it’s bedtime. No talking!”
—
THE FIRST TIME I get a call for a visit I’m at work in the kitchen. “MacIndoe!” the CO yells. “You’ve got a visitor. Find someone to cover for you and get back to your dorm.”
They never tell you who the visitor is, but there’s only one person it could be: Tracy. She’s been writing to me and told me she was going to visit sometime, but I thought maybe she’d changed her mind. I don’t particularly want anyone to see me in jail—and I’m really not sure how I feel about seeing her.
After I got arrested, I blamed Tracy for a lot of the shit that had happened to me, especially since I was on my way to meet her when I got stopped by the cops. I was glad that she was finally out of my life, so when I got her first letter, I was angry at her for tracking me down. But she kept writing to me and I hadn’t been in touch with anyone except Anna and the odd phone call with Joe, so I was feeling pretty isolated at that point. Eventually I wrote her back, she sent me her number, and then I called her. And that’s how Tracy got back into my life—after me vowing I’d never see her again.
Once I get to the dorm, I’m escorted with about eight other guys to the visiting area, where dozens of inmates are waiting in a long corridor, a few complaining about being there for hours. A guard hands me a basket and tells me to change out of my uniform into a gray jumpsuit and a pair of plastic flip-flops, then tells me to take a seat and wait for my name to be called.
Some people sit there silently, clearly bored, others are going on and on about who their visitor is, the talk rising and falling with the noise from an old telly mounted on the wall. As names are called, prisoners come back and change into their uniforms—a few waiting to pick up packages left by their families, which have to go through a separate search. I sit there so long I’m starting to think Tracy must’ve left when a CO finally calls my name and number.
He leads me into another area where I get strip-searched in front of other inmates. An overweight guard orders: “Lift your balls…turn around…squat…pull your ass apart…spread your toes…open your mouth…stick out your tongue….” As I’m going through all these humiliating motions, all I can think is: What the fuck do they think I’m going to smuggle OUT of jail?
After I get dressed, I’m led into the visiting area—a big open room with a play space for kids and a bunch of tables. I spot Tracy, give her a hug, and sit down opposite her at a small table. She told me she’d been to rehab and moved into a halfway house, and she does look a lot healthier. She’s got some color in her cheeks and she’s not as painfully thin.
But I’m still wary of her, so I don’t really know what to say.
“How are you doing?” she asks, a huge smile spreading across her face.
“I’m alright—apart from being in jail.”
“Well, it’s good to see you, you look great.”
“I doubt that.” Even with the crappy mirrors in here, I know my hair has gotten thinner and I’ve put on weight. “But you look ten times better than the last time I saw you.”
“Getting clean has been really good for me,” she says. “I’m such a different person now. It’s like I’m learning how to live again, focusing on what’s important—I really wanted you to see how much I’ve changed.”
As she’s talking about how great recovery has been for her, I try to block out the fact that she’s out there, free and happy about turning her life around, with no idea what it’s like for me in here. So I’m trying to appreciate being out of the dorm and seeing different faces, only half-listening
to her go on and on about why I should get into a program.
“I really think you should sign up for some kind of rehab when you get out,” she says. “You’re not going to be able to do this on your own.”
I know she means well, but sitting here in a jail jumpsuit, it’s hard to listen to her tell me what to do—especially since I was on my way to meet her when I got arrested.
“Listen, after spending the summer in jail, the last thing I want is to be locked down in some program, being told what to do and when I can do it. Maybe I’ll go to some meetings, but I’m not gonna spend another four months stuck somewhere talking about how much I fucked up when what I really need to do is get on with my life.”
Tracy just looks at me for a minute, not saying anything, but it’s obvious she doesn’t want to let it go. “So what are you going to do when you get out? You can’t go back to the projects—you know they’ll drag you down just like they did before.”
“I’m not going back there. I’ve got a friend in here who’s going to help me get an apartment.”
I’m starting to get irritated—I really don’t want to get grilled about my plans or what she wants from me, so I change the subject and point out a guy I know who’s talking to his parents. The dad’s wearing a suit and tie and the mom’s dressed like she just came from church. This kid went to a good school in Manhattan but he acts like he grew up in the ghetto. It’s strange seeing people with their families, realizing that they have these other lives outside of jail.
We’re only allowed an hour for visits, so considering how long I waited, it goes by pretty fast. I tell Tracy about my daily routine and all the different people I’ve met in Rikers. She tells me about the women in her program and how hard she’s trying to turn her life around. She’s made it clear that she wants to get back together when I get out of here, but as much as I want the best for her, I can’t see that happening. Our relationship went south pretty much right after I met her, but I’d already let her move in, thinking she’d help cover my mortgage—which she didn’t for most of the time she was there. “I can forgive, but I can’t forget,” I’ve told her, but she doesn’t want to hear it, and I don’t have it in me to be totally blunt.
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