Sleepers

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “You brushed me,” K.C. said.

  “So?”

  “Nobody touches me,” K.C. said. “I ain’t like you and the rest of your fag friends.”

  Michael swung a hard right at K.C., landing it flush against the much taller boy’s jaw. The blow, one of the hardest I’d seen Michael land, barely caused a flinch. Michael looked at me in disbelief and, for a moment, it was almost funny, like something out of a James Bond movie. But K.C. wasn’t in on the joke and, as we knew all too well, this was no movie.

  K.C. looked to be about three years older than Michael, perhaps eighteen, with broad shoulders, bulked arms, and a crew cut so close it showed little more than scalp. In the few months that he had been inside Wilkinson, K.C. had already razor-slashed another inmate, done time in the hole for his part in a gang rape, and spent a week in a straitjacket after he took a bite out of a guard’s neck.

  He rushed Michael and they both fell to the floor, shirts and skin sliding against spilled food. K.C. threw two sharp right hands, both landing against Michael’s face, one flush to the eye. A circle of inmates formed around them, quietly watching the action, a few holding trays and eating the remains of their lunch. The guard, less than a month on the job, stood off to the side, his face a blank screen.

  I held my ground and scanned the circle for other members of K.C.’s crew, watching to see if any weapons were passed over, waiting for one of them to make a move and join their friend against Michael.

  K.C. was rubbing a fistful of meat against Michael’s face, grinding it into his eyes. Michael shot a hard knee into K.C.’s groin and followed it with a short left to his kidney.

  “Your fuckin’ life’s over,” K.C. said, putting his hands around Michael’s throat and tightening his grip. “You gonna die here today, punk. Right on this floor.”

  I tossed my tray aside and jumped on K.C.’s back, punching at his neck and head, trying to loosen his hold. K.C. let one hand go and turned it to me, swinging his punches upward, brushing my shoulder and side. The reduced pressure allowed Michael to take in some fresh breath. K.C. swung his body at an angle, his open hand against my chin, trying to push me off his back. He rolled over with me still clinging to him, his strength taking Michael around with us. I landed on top of the spilled tray, my shirt wet and sticky from the gravy, meat, and potatoes spread across the floor. K.C. was now all flailing arms and legs, kicking and punching at us both with a wild, animal-like intensity. I covered my face with my hands and kept my elbows slapped against my sides, blocking as many of K.C.’s kicks and punches as I could.

  Michael did the same.

  The crowd inched in closer, sensing that what they wanted to see was about to take place—a bloody finish to the battle.

  A sharp kick to the throat stripped me of wind and a wild punch to my jaw forced blood out of my nose. Voices in the crowd, fueled by the rush for the kill, cheered K.C. on.

  “Finish him!” someone from behind me shouted.

  “Kick him dead!” another said.

  “One and two belong to you!” still another screamed. “Step back and just watch ’em die.”

  The shrill sound of a police whistle brought the shouts to an end.

  The crowd parted to let Nokes walk past, each inmate staring at him in silence. Nokes held a can of Mace in one hand and the thick end of his baton in the other. He was chewing a piece of gum and had a cigarette tucked behind one ear. The back of his shirt was streaked with sweat. His eyes moved from me to Michael to K.C. The three of us stood facing him, our bodies washed head to knee in food and blood.

  Nokes stood in front of me and took the cigarette from behind his ear, put it to his mouth, and lit it with a closed matchbook. He took in a lung full of smoke and let it out slow, through his nose, his closed jaw still moving to the gum.

  “All these months here, they haven’t taught you shit,” Nokes said. “You’re still the same fuckin’ clowns you were when you walked in.”

  Nokes turned from us and faced the inmates behind him. He scanned their faces, running a hand through his hair, cigarette still hanging from his lower lip.

  “Back to your seats and finish your lunch,” Nokes said to them. “There’s nothin’ more to see.”

  “That go for me too?” K.C. said, rubbing his hands against the sides of his pants.

  “No,” Nokes said, turning back to him. “No, it don’t go for you. I want you back in your cell. You’re done with lunch.”

  “Me and you finish this some other time,” K.C. said, looking over at Michael. “Sometime real soon.”

  “Maybe at dinner,” Michael said, watching K.C. walk out of the lunchroom.

  “You two get any lunch?” Nokes asked, stubbing out the cigarette with the front end of his boot.

  “I got to smell it,” Michael said. “That’s better than eating it.”

  “How about you finish it now?” Nokes said.

  “I’m not hungry,” Michael said.

  “I don’t give a fuck you hungry or not,” Nokes said. “You eat ’cause I’m tellin’ you to eat.”

  I started to walk past Nokes, back toward the lunch counter to get a new tray. Nokes put a hand against my chest and held it there.

  “Where you think you’re goin’?” he asked, his voice louder, playing it up for the inmates watching.

  “You said to get lunch,” I said, confused.

  “You boys don’t need to go back on line for food. There’s plenty to eat right where you standing.”

  I stared at Nokes and tried to imagine what had been done to him to make him this cruel, had driven him to the point that his only pleasure came from the humiliation of others. I more than just hated him. I had passed that state months ago. I was disgusted by him, his very presence symbolizing the ugliness and horror I felt each day at Wilkinson. I thought there wasn’t much more he could do to me, do to any of us, but I was wrong. There was no limit to Nokes’s evil, no end to his torment. And now we were about to take one more plunge into the hellish world he had forced on us.

  Michael and I didn’t move.

  The inmates were pointing and whispering among themselves. A few of them giggled. The guard in the center of the aisle held his position.

  “Let’s go, boys,” Nokes said, smiling now, his anger having found an outlet. “There ain’t much more time in the lunch period.”

  “I’m still not hungry,” Michael said.

  Nokes immediately brought the back end of the baton down against the side of Michael’s head. He quickly followed it with a level blast across his face. The force of the shot sent blood from Michael’s nose and mouth spraying onto Nokes’s uniform shirt.

  “I tell you when you’re hungry!” Nokes shouted, swinging the baton again, this time landing a sharp blow to Michael’s neck. “And I tell you when you’re not! Now, get on your fuckin’ knees and eat.”

  Michael dropped to one knee, a shaky hand reaching for a fork, his eyes glassy, the front of his face dripping with blood. He picked up the fork and jabbed at a piece of meat near his leg, slowly bringing it to his mouth.

  “What the fuck are you waitin’ for?” Nokes asked me. “Get down on your knees and finish your goddamn lunch.”

  I looked beyond Nokes at the faces of the inmates staring back at me, their eyes a strange mixture of relief and pleasure. They had all been at the edge of Nokes’s baton, had all felt his fury, but none would ever move against him for the sake of two prisoners they barely knew. Nokes could have killed us on the floor of that lunchroom and no one would have said a word.

  I went down on my knees, picked up a spoon, scooped up a potato slice, and put it in my mouth.

  I looked up at Nokes, his shirt drenched and tinged red, his face splattered with Michael’s blood.

  “Eat faster,” Nokes said, swinging his baton against the base of my spine. “Don’t think you got all fuckin’ day.”

  Nokes walked between us as we ate, smiling and winking at the other inmates, stepping on the pieces of food we were ab
out to put in our mouths.

  “Let’s go,” he said, pulling the top of Michael’s hair and slapping his face. “Nobody leaves here until you clowns are finished with your meal.”

  Nokes walked to the edge of one of the tables and rubbed his boot on top of a crushed slice of bread. He took a cigarette out of an open pack in the front of his shirt and put it in his mouth. He lit it and sat on the side of the table.

  “There’s some bread over here,” Nokes said, blowing two smoke rings toward the ceiling. “Can’t have a good lunch without a slice of bread.”

  Nokes spread his legs, looked down at the bread, took in a deep breath, and spit on it. He took another drag of the cigarette and wiped at the sweat and blood on his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Now, how about you boys crawl over here and get yourself some?” Nokes said.

  We were on our knees, chewing our food, our bodies trembling more out of shame than fear. Each humiliation plotted by Nokes and his crew was meant to be a breaking point, to make us crack and finally give in to Wilkinson. We were too young to know that the break line had been passed the minute we entered the prison walls and we were much too stubborn to understand that nothing we did or didn’t do would allow us to defeat Nokes while we were still behind those walls.

  “I don’t see either of you scumbags crawlin’,” Nokes said, finishing the cigarette and dropping it down on top of the bread. “Don’t make me come drag you on over here.”

  We went down on our elbows, rubbing against the gravy that was spread across the ground, our faces inches from the food and dirt. Michael’s nose was still bleeding and the swelling on his face had forced one eye to shut.

  “That’s it, now you’re startin’ to listen,” Nokes said. “Show the boys here how to do a good crawl. Show them you know how to follow my rules.”

  “It’s one o’clock, Nokes,” Marlboro said, standing behind us, his voice filled with smoke. “Your lunch shift is over.”

  “I’m not through here yet,” Nokes said. “Got a few more things that need cleanin’ up before I can leave.”

  “It’s my tour now,” Marlboro said calmly, walking past us and moving closer to Nokes. “I’ll clean what needs cleanin’.”

  “Stay outta this one,” Nokes said. “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.”

  “I stayed outta too many as it is,” Marlboro said, putting a cigarette to his mouth and lighting it. “This one I’m gonna stay in.”

  Nokes jumped down from the table, his face as red with rage as his shirt was with blood. He walked up to Marlboro, standing no less than five inches from the taller man’s face.

  “Don’t fuck with me, boy,” Nokes said. “I’m warnin’ you.”

  “Fuck with me, Nokes,” Marlboro said in a calm voice. “I’m askin’ you.”

  Nokes continued the stare-down, his eyes locked in on Marlboro. None of the inmates moved, their attention focused on the first visible break in the wall of guard unity. Michael had stopped chewing his food, tossing his fork to the ground, too humiliated to care who would win the battle shaping before him. I held a spoon in my hand, rolling its head against my thigh, my eyes on the floor, wrapped in the silence around me.

  Nokes took a deep breath, letting air out through his mouth, and shifted the weight on his feet. He slapped the baton against his open palm, measuring Marlboro, the crease of a smile inching its way to the sides of his face. Marlboro stood his ground without a change in expression, content to let the pressure of the situation percolate at its own pace.

  Nokes was the one to back down. His smile faded and he let his head drop so his eyes didn’t meet Marlboro’s.

  “You eatin’ into my shift,” Marlboro said.

  “I’ll get out of your way,” Nokes said. “For now.”

  “I take what I can get,” the black guard said, walking away from Nokes and over toward us. “Just like you.”

  Marlboro helped Michael to his feet and looked over at me, the soles of his shoes sliding on the slippery turf smeared with food, spit, and hardened gravy. He nudged his head toward the guard standing in the aisle.

  “If you through standin’,” Marlboro said to him. “I could use some help.”

  “What do you need?” the guard said, his eyes darting, checking to see if Nokes was clear out of the room.

  “Get the boys on their way,” Marlboro said, pointing to the inmates at the tables. “They’ve seen enough to last till supper time. I’ll take care of these two and what needs cleanin’ up.”

  The guard nodded and began to clear out the lunchroom, one table row at a time. The inmates moved with a quiet precision, eager to leave now that the threat of violence was at an apparent end.

  I stood next to Michael and Marlboro, watching the inmates exiting the hall, the three of us knowing there would be a price to pay for all that had happened on this day. Sean Nokes was not the kind of man to let a slight go by or leave an act of torment unfinished. He would go after Marlboro through the system, use whatever clout he could muster to make life difficult for the good man with the bad smoking habit. But he would save his true wrath for me and Michael. We both knew that. What it would be, what it could be after all the horrors that he had already initiated, was something neither one of us could envision. All we knew was that it would happen soon and, as with everything Nokes planned, it would be something we would never be able to erase from our minds.

  Summer 1968

  15

  JULY 24, 1968, was my last full day at Wilkinson.

  Two weeks earlier, a five-member panel of the New York State Juvenile Hearing Board had determined that a period of ten months and twenty-four days was enough penance for my crime. A written request had been forwarded to the warden, with all necessary release forms attached. Also included in the package was the name of my designated control officer, the four days in August I was scheduled to report to him, and a psychological profile written by someone I had never met.

  The thick manila envelope, sealed with strips of tape, sat on the warden’s desk for three days before he opened and signed it.

  “The cook makin’ anything special for your last day?” Tommy asked, walking alongside me in the yard during the middle of our morning break.

  “If he really cared, he’d take the day off,” I said. “The food in here has been killin’ my insides.”

  “Two cups of King Benny’s coffee will set you straight,” Tommy said. “No time flat.”

  “It can’t happen soon enough,” I said.

  “Don’t forget us in here,” Tommy said, his voice a tender plea.

  I stopped and looked over at him. He still had the baby weight and face, but had changed in so many other ways. His eyes were clouded by a veil of anger and, in place of a swagger, there was now a nervous twitch to his walk. His neck and arms were a road map of cuts and bruises, and his left kneecap had been shattered twice, both above and below the main joint.

  It was the body of a boy who had done a man’s prison time.

  “I won’t ever forget you,” I said, watching the anger briefly melt from his eyes. “In or out of here.”

  “Thanks, Shakes,” he said, picking up the walk. “Might help knowin’ that one body outta here gives a shit.”

  “More than one body, Butter,” I said. “You’d be surprised.”

  “It’s gonna be a bitch,” Tommy said. “These last coupla months.”

  “It’ll be over soon,” I said, passing a grunting trio of weightlifters. “By the time the Yankees drop out of the pennant race, you’ll be home.”

  “Nokes say anything yet about you leavin’?” Tommy asked.

  “There isn’t much more he can do,” I said. “Time’s on my side now.”

  “Until you’re out of those gates,” Tommy said, “there ain’t nothin’ on your side.”

  16

  I SAT IN my cell, quiet and alone, in my last hours as an inmate at the Wilkinson Home for Boys. I looked around the small room, the walls barren, the sink an
d toilet cleaned to a shine, the window giving off only hints of nighttime sky. I had folded the white sheet covering, wedged it under the mattress, and laid against it, my legs stretched out, feet dangling off the end of the cot. I was wearing white underwear and a green T-shirt in the stifling heat.

  All my prison issues, except for a toothbrush, had been taken away by the guards earlier that afternoon. In the morning they would be replaced by the clothes I wore on the day I first arrived at Wilkinson. A sealed white envelope containing four copies of my release form rested against one of my thighs. One was to be handed to the guard at the end of the cell block. A second was to be given to the guard stationed at the main gate. A third was for the driver of the bus that would take me back to Lower Manhattan.

  The last copy was to be mine, the final reminder of my time behind the bars of Wilkinson.

  I reached over, picked up the envelope, opened it, and fingered the four copies of the form. I stared at them, my mind filled with the images of pain and punishment, humiliation and degradation it took to get these forms in hand.

  To get back my freedom and send me on my way.

  I had walked into Wilkinson a boy. Now I wasn’t at all sure who or what I was. The months there had changed me, that was for certain. I just didn’t know how or in what way the changes would manifest themselves. On the surface I wasn’t as physically ruined as John, or as beaten down as Tommy. I wasn’t the lit fuse Michael had become.

  My anger was more controlled, mixed as it was with a deep fear. In my months there, I never could mount the courage that was needed to keep the guards at bay, but at the same time I maintained a level of dignity that would allow me to walk out of Wilkinson.

  I don’t know what kind of man I would have grown to be had I not served time at the Wilkinson Home for Boys. I don’t know how those months and the events that occurred there shaped the person I became, how much they colored my motives or my actions. I don’t know if they made me any braver or any weaker. I don’t know if the illnesses I’ve suffered as an adult have been the result of those ruinous months. I’ll never know if my distrust of most people and my unease when placed in group situations are by-products of those days or simply the result of a shy personality.