Racehoss

by Albert Race Sample

  “Yessuh.”

  “You do whut he tells you an you bet not let them nigguhs be a usin ‘at place fer no whorehouse neitha.”

  “Yessuh.”

  As I was about to leave, “I’ll call in there an tell the inside picket boss to let you out wit the rest uv them buildin nigguhs in th’ mornin.”

  I ate breakfast on the short line the following morning, and afterwards I went upstairs to my new workstation. I walked into the little office, sat down and began looking over the paperwork piled on each of the two desks. Hanging on the wall behind the larger desk was Mr. Meabs’ master’s degree in physical education from Southern Mississippi.

  The floors were already shining from last night’s clean up so I got the feather duster and started dusting off the library books. It was getting pretty close to eight o’clock.

  When he topped the stairs and entered the auditorium, I stopped dusting and spoke. Britches nut high, he kept right on strutting like a blind rooster, as if he didn’t hear me. I followed him, stood in his doorway, and waited for him to get settled at his desk before giving him the warden’s message.

  He started searching through the clutter of papers on his desk. Without looking up at me, “Who’re you?”

  “Racehoss, Mr. Meabs. Yesterday the warden told me to tell you to put me on Ol’ Sonny’s job.”

  With a noticeable lisp, “You got a GED or high school educashion?”

  “No sir.”

  “Can you type?” still avoiding eye contact.

  “No sir.”

  “Can you run a pichur show proyector?”

  “No sir, but I kin learn.”

  Finally, he looked up. Clearly startled by the unsightly red scar across my face, he stared at it a moment, looked down at his desk and started grumbling about all the paperwork and typing that had to be done. “What in the heck I gon do wit shumbody who ain’ got a educashion, can’t type, and can’t run a proyector? I sure wiss th’ warden would taw to me and lemme be in on choosin shumbody to work in here.”

  I spent practically the entire day in the auditorium, and he hadn’t said another word to me. Since I didn’t know what routine he expected, I went to him and asked. He was in a little better mood.

  “Well, Racehosh, th’ main tang is keep th’ auditorie spic an span, cawse we can’t nebber tell when th’ warden migh’ come up here and look awound.”

  “You don’t have to worry bout the auditorium bein clean. I’m gon see to that. Do you mind if I use the typewriter to practice on after we close up the auditorium?”

  “It’s awrigh’ wit me. You knee to get th’ otay from th’ warden to ‘tay up here atta count time.”

  I knew the typing would take some time to learn, but I figured I could get the hang of running the projector between now and Friday night. After Mr. Meabs left, I unlocked the projector room, crawled up inside and examined the equipment. I went back to the office and got a sheet of paper so I could draw a diagram of how the machine was threaded before I took it loose to practice rewinding and threading it. I did this every evening after he left. By the time our Friday night show time rolled around, I ran the projector with ease.

  Each night after all the activities were over, I cleaned up the place and lugged the old Royal typewriter downstairs to sit under the picket to practice so I wouldn’t disturb the white cons. It was coming slowly. I’d hunt and peck on it until two or three in the morning. I dropped all attempts at holding my hands like typists do, and used just the index and middle fingers on each hand. In a few weeks I could type faster than Mr. Meabs, and he used all of his fingers.

  Occasionally he let me “hep” in the office stapling papers, removing paper clips, and sometimes filing. Bit by bit I became familiar with the office routine, started studying and eventually got my GED.

  My typing was good enough now for me to type all the reports as well as manage the office in his absence. Mr. Meabs started showing up at nine o’clock instead of eight. Then ten, eleven, two, etc.

  In the meanwhile Hollywood had suckassed Big Devil into believing he could help make us better. And got permission to formulate the Brotherhood: a self-improvement program held every Saturday night. We “changed” so much it became Big Devil’s favorite rehab program.

  First hour—Fellowship

  The star sissies served unsweetened poly-pop in paper cups Hollywood had panhandled from Foots. While the band played (“UUGH!”) Okinawa sang “Cum Back Baby” and “Blind Man Standin On The Corner” (“UUUUGH! ARRRG! BOOOOO!!”).

  Second hour—Role-playing situations between the cons and bosses. Tonight, I played the role of Mr. Meabs. I had worked around him long enough to mimic his fast-paced lisp to perfection. The audience was rolling in the aisles with laughter. After my performance the night lieutenant, who sometimes sat in on the meetings, came up to me and said he never laughed so hard in his life and was still laughing as he walked downstairs to his station in the messhall.

  Monday morning before he left, he ran into Mr. Meabs and told him in jest he didn’t know he had a convict twin, “Ol’ Racehoss kin sound jes like you. Sadday night at Brotherhood I laughed so hard I cried when he imitated you.”

  Mr. Meabs came straight to the office. “What’s this I hear bout you mockin me Sadday nigh’?”

  “I wudn’ mockin you, Mr. Meabs. We role play at the meetings all the time. That’s the main part of the program. I just showed how you won’t speak to none of the convicts. And how I—”

  He cut me off and told me “Nebber” use him as a subject again and stormed out. Working in the office with him after that was hard. He sulked and pouted like a little boy, and hardly spoke to me. He started monitoring my work to the point of harassment, searched for dust along the windowsills and examined every piece of paperwork. When he found a mistake he wouldn’t let me correct it. Instead, I had to do the whole thing over.

  The PIP (Point Incentive Program) Quarterly Report time had rolled around. We were graded quarterly for work, conduct, attitude, and “other” program participation. The amount of points we earned had a definite bearing on our being considered for release on parole. If we didn’t have eighty points during the previous quarter and came up for parole, the case wouldn’t be considered. The PIP was tied into just about everything, and side-hustle points could be obtained for attending Alcoholics Anonymous, church, singing in the choir or playing in the band, and being a trusty. Those who failed to maintain the eighty points were kicked out of GED classes. In addition, there would be no job promotions and making trusty was out of the question.

  I stayed late several nights in the auditorium typing the 470 individual forms, getting them ready for mailing. It took almost a week, but I had them ready by the first day of the month ending the quarter. During that week Mr. Meabs spent little time in the office. All the cons on the camp had been PIP rated, except me. The third day after our reports were due, the warden got a phone call from the Walls Education Department inquiring about them. He called me to his office and chewed my ass out.

  “Warden, they ready, except for my sheet. They won’t accept partial reports, all I’m waitin on is Mr. Meabs to grade me.”

  “I don’t give a damn whut the holdup is, y’all betta git them damn reports off to them Walls! I’m sick an tired uv them people houndin me bout it!”

  “Yessuh, Warden.”

  Mr. Meabs didn’t come to work until late that afternoon. As soon as I saw him, I reminded him about my rate sheet. He hardly slowed down long enough for me to talk to him. “I be back tomorrow and gray you.”

  The next morning I placed my form on his desk, on top of the stack. He couldn’t possibly miss it. He didn’t show. Later that day Big Devil sent for me.

  “Fuck it!” I went back to the office, looked in the files and pulled the last quarter’s report. I had 110 points out of a possible 300. I circled the same ratings he gave me before, signed his name and got the package off in the truck mail.

  He came to work on time for a change t
he following morning. Soon as he walked into the office, “Where you PIP forms?”

  “Mr. Meabs … the reports are gone. I mailed them off yesterday.”

  “Who grayed you?”

  “Mr. Meabs, the warden was on my ass. He called me out to his office again about them reports.”

  What I said seemed to shoot right over his head. He had one thing in mind—getting even and getting rid of me. “Who grayed you?”

  “I did. I copied my last quarter grades.”

  “Who shined ‘em?” putting the lid on my coffin.

  I swallowed down some air, “I signed ‘em.”

  “You mean you forge my name?”

  “Yessuh, if that’s what you wanna call it.”

  He had me, and we both knew it. Everybody knew the warden’s rule, “If you git run in, you git punished.” It didn’t matter if the con was in the right or not. In less than fifteen minutes, I was standing in front of the warden’s desk. Mr. Meabs said I was impudent, forged his name, used my own judgment, and didn’t consult him.

  “Ol’ Racehoss, I thought you wuz doin a pretty good job up there. But, guess I wuz wrong,” he said and took a chew of tobacco.

  Big Devil and I had done this tango before. As many times as I had to face him over the years, I learned the hard way how much he hated it when a convict locked eyeballs with him; but as mad as I was about being “run in” for what amounted to nothing, I did it anyway. Knowing he was holding all the cards and the longer I speared him with my eyes the longer my punishment would be, I cast them to the clock on the wall, not wanting to overload my ass. After he spat tobacco juice in a bucket next to his desk, “You know my rule, Ol’ Racehoss.”

  “Yessuh,” I said and looked over at Mr. Meabs, who lowered his eyes.

  Big Devil phoned the inside picket boss and told him to send the day duty officer out to his office. “Boss Tetus, take Ol’ Racehoss roun there an put his ass in ‘at pisser.”

  I lasted eighteen months on the job.

  On the way, “Whut th’ hell ja do, Ol’ Racehoss?”

  “Nuthin.”

  As we approached the compact building just outside the backgate, “How you doin, Boss? Got any empties back thar?”

  “Sho Boss. Hell, ain’ been nobody back thar in a week.” Interrupting himself for a second, “Take off yore clothes an git up on them scales.” I stepped on the scales and he ran the weight balance back and forth a few times before, “A hunnert an forty-two pouns,” and recorded it on a door card.

  “Well, Boss, I best be gittin on back, he’s all yourn.”

  “Yeah, well, cum back an see me when you got sum more bizness. Okay, les go Ol’ Racehoss.”

  After passing a couple of cells, “It’s been a while, ain’t it Ol’ Racehoss?” Silence. “Contrary bastard, ain’tcha? You stayed out a whole lot longer’n I figgered you would. You got the whole hotel all to yoresef. Which room you wont?” He opened and closed a few of the doors, took a brief look inside, “Whew!” while holding his nose. “They all th’ same, which un you wont?

  “Okay, if thas the way you feel bout it, I’ll jes put you way back heah in the last un. That way, if we git sum more customers, you be outta everbody’s way,” he wisecracked.

  When we reached the last cell he unlocked the solid steel door, stepped inside and unlocked the inner door. “Git on in thar so I kin hurry up an close this stankin thang.” I stepped up inside and my eyeballs jumped to grab the last flicker of light before he sealed the 4 X 8 tomb. The concrete slab jutting out from the wall for a bed, a four-bit-sized hole in the center of the floor served as a commode. No electrical outlets for lighting, total darkness. A cup of water and a biscuit a day and every sixth day a full meal. I knew the routine. Solitary and I were no strangers.

  But, I had grown soft from being out a year and then working inside for the last year and a half. I didn’t expect to be put back in here, especially on some bullshit. When I worked in the fields it was a refuge, a place to get away for a few days to rest. To go to solitary from the fields was honorable, to go from a job was a disgrace.

  If the boss could have seen through my back, he would have seen the tears streaming down my face. The slamming of the two steel doors still rang in my ears. Sitting naked on the slab in pitch black silence, I hung my head as the tears bounced off the floor onto my feet. Other times, I took a seat and sang all the songs I knew over in my mind. But this time I felt like I was smothering, buried alive. I lost all track of days and nights on my indefinite sojourn.

  The steel doors flung open. Squinting from the stabbing light, I saw Big Devil and a boss standing in the doorway. Big Devil glared at me and I returned the favor. I knew why he was here, to taunt me like a chained dog. “This nigguh don’t want no talk. Hell, I’ve got a mind to go huntin.”

  “How long you gonna be gone, Warden?” the boss asked.

  “Aw, I don’t know, two or three weeks maybe. I might even take a whole month off,” he added just to fuck with my head, then slammed the doors. He knew I knew the “Big Devil creed” about solitary: “Nobody lets the cons out that he puts in, except him.”

  I didn’t give a damn if he ever came back. I’d stay in this shithole til I rotted before I sucked ass with him. I lay down on the slab with my teeth clenched so hard I thought I had lockjaw. I dozed off but bolted upright, gasping for breath.

  Sweat poured. Gritting my teeth, I hugged and rocked myself, trying to squeeze back the consuming fear, trying to keep from going off the deep end. What if something happened? A fire, flood, war—would they remember to come let me out so I could run too? Tears flowed. I panted for the thin air and squeezed myself tighter and tighter. Mouth dry, thirsty, tired, hungry, angry. The pressure from the walls was closing in and I leaped off the slab.

  I hammered my knuckles and banged my head against the unyielding concrete. Then the sudden sound of rushing water demanded my immediate attention. Frantically I felt along every crevice and seam, hoping not to find water seeping in. Louder and louder. I got on my knees and held my ear over the floor’s hole. I started scratching the hole. Nothing. Covering my ears with my hands, I discovered the source and listened to the blood rumbling up and down my fingers. My heart pounded like an African drum, throbbing so hard my chest vibrated to the beat. Faster and faster.

  With the agility of a panther, I sprang up and ran around the walls. Then rolled on the floor like a ball. With outstretched arms, I clung onto the low ceiling by my nails. I mauled myself, scratching and tearing my body. All the miles and miles of rails I rode, this was how far I’d come, not far. My world had shrunk to the size of a matchbox, where I could spread my arms to touch the walls and raise them to touch the ceiling. I knew I’d reached my row’s end and was nothing more than an empty-hearted outcast. Weeping bitterly, I wished there was a place on my body that would release some of the pressure. Like a dying dog, I had already peed myself.

  Slumped, exhausted on the slab, I covered my face with both hands and cried out, “Help me, God!! Help meeee!!”

  A. Ray. Of. Light. Between. My. Fingers. Slowly uncovering my face, the whole cell was illuminated as if a 20-watt bulb was turned on. The soft light soothed and I no longer was afraid. The most beautiful, loving peace swept over me. Engulfed by a Presence, I felt It reassuring me. With the quickness of a shadow, It comforted me and made my tears flow back into my eyes. No pressure any more, I breathed freely. The air went from the stifling stench of human waste to flower-like freshness. I had never felt such well being, so good, in all my life. Safe. Loved.

  I stood against one wall, viewing my wretched self sitting on the slab, and screamed out, “No! No! No!”

  And the Voice within talked through the pit of my belly, “Don’t you worry about a thing. But you must tell them about me.”

  Unlike a command, it was a sweet, gentle asking. I said “yes” with all my heart, yet I wondered with uncertainty, Who am I to do that? I’m nuthin but a lowly convict. Who do you want me to tell? No answer.


  I lay back on the slab and folded my hands underneath my head, absorbing it all. There was nothing to see, but I knew Something was in there with me and it had to be God. I hardly got the words out of my mouth and He was there. Staring at the rolled-back ceiling, I gazed at the stars and fell asleep watching the heavens, repeating what I knew were the words of God.

  There was no more darkness in the cell or in me. I slept peacefully and hungered not. I paced blissfully in the soothing light. Never before had I felt so totally loved. That’s really all I ever wanted. The biggest need in my life fulfilled in an instant. And I loved God back. My capacity to love was restored and He proved I wasn’t without feelings, I wasn’t dead. Blackened by the soot of evil, yet reclaimed … and I was enlightened from a dead level.

  He unlocked the shadowed prisms of my mind. Through feelings, every thought was crystal clear. My life winded down before my eyes like the film in a projector set on reverse. He made me glad to feel love again in my heart for Emma. This was the first time I ever looked at the situation and took into consideration that she had her problems too. I just happened to have been there, and glad I was.

  I realized I was just as guilty for blaming her as she was for blaming me. He took that yoke off and sent all my regrets into exile; they became painless memories.

  He never left me, He sat beside me, He held me in his arms. The caring was so magnified, such a loving touch; there aren’t enough words I could ever say that would even come close to describing the feeling. I didn’t care if they ever let me out. So when the boss opened the door, I hesitated.

  “Betta brang yore ass on frum thar befo that warden decides ta throw away th’ key!”

  When we reached the front, I stepped up on the scales to be weighed again. He was stunned, “One forty-seven!” He rechecked the door card. “Hell, you wuz in thar twenny-eight days an gained five pounds!” He said somebody had been slipping me food, but did not pursue it and let me go on to my tank.