A sub-contracted hazmat team has cordoned off the entire school unit with plastic, tape and orange traffic cones. It’s hardly a surprise to learn that asbestos has been drifting down on all of us for years. Splattering on the concrete floor when thunderstorms open up and rain leaks in streams into the cavernous hallways. Twenty years down the road, we’ll all be filing claims with infomercial attorneys such as Jacobs, Jacobs and Kirschbaum for contracting mesothelioma. They’ll probably turn us away saying, ‘Hey you’re the suckers who signed up for hazardous duty.’ As a result of the decontamination project, class has been re-routed to the old package room at the far end of the south corridor. The principal has granted permission for us to borrow chairs from his wing and wheel them down on a heavy cart. He offers a few of his workers to help with the move, but Chulo insists on taking charge of setting up shop in our temporary quarters.
The morning started off rough. A confiscated stinger forced a cease of operations and then a facility lockdown. Since hot water can be used as a weapon, the faucets in the common areas eke out only lukewarm dribble. The inmates can order instant coffee through commissary but there’s minimal comfort in sipping piss-poor caffeine in see-through plastic cups. The more mechanically-inclined prisoners know how to rig up two wires lifted out of someone’s TV or headphones and secretly plug them into an outlet when the officers are busy taking bets on the Patriots. The electrical current will heat up the liquid when the homemade stinger unit is dropped into a cup. I can’t blame these guys for not wanting to eat cold soup, but when an all-thumbs crook takes a stab at it, it can short out the circuits for an entire housing unit, which in today’s case happened to be the food workers block. Counselors were summoned to the kitchen to fill in so feeding would not be interrupted. Three hours of sweat shop labor followed. Here’s the drill. On go the latex gloves and the hair net. Steam tables are pulled into two long lines facing one another and the assembly begins. The doggie-dish container begins its mad journey with a slap of watery baked beans dumped out of #10 cans into hotel pans. Pass fast. Add two slabs of mystery meat we think is slimy bologna. Pass. Two slices of wheat-less, tasteless bread. Pass. A scoop of purple, corn-syrup jelly and another knob of oily peanut butter. Pass. A bag of chips. Pass. One spork. Slam shut. Stack. Repeat process. After the first hundred, the temperature in the room has noticeably elevated as the Blodgett convection ovens heat up for afternoon chow. Sweat pools down the spine and the dream team begins to malfunction. Spoonfuls of beans spatter on the floor. Bread is flung and misses the tray completely. The line comes to a halt.
“Hey, do you think the gentlemen would prefer to have the crusts trimmed off their sandwiches?”
“Fuck you, Slater,” chimes in the harried kitchen crew. But the humor breaks the impasse and the line starts up again. There’s camaraderie in this chore as nurses, teachers and counselors all work side by side. Once the meals are stacked, taped and labeled for delivery, we roll the Cambro units to the respective blocks. A plastic garbage bag is knotted to the crates of jungle juice that are pulled along behind. By the time the food and beverage arrives at the customer’s door, half the drinks have tipped over and spilled. The cutting-edge architect who designed this prison in the mid-fifties never thought about door-to-door delivery to two-thousand caged customers. The newer facilities have traps that drop open so trays can be handed in horizontally. Not here. I always find myself apologizing profusely as the container is tipped vertically and crushed through the square opening. Molasses and watery barbecue sauce dribble down the doors and onto the floor.
Now here I am sticky and over-heated walking alongside a rolling palette of chairs, trying to regain my composure. Chulo manhandles the cart to our designated space and angles it into position as I unlock the door. The room serves multiple purposes but has no real function, doubling as a secret break room, a place to sort incoming packages and a dumping ground for broken furniture. Empty cartons are stacked in one corner. Several old Dunkin Donuts coffee cups are on the table. Chulo senses my discouragement and goes into action. For someone who was removed from the real world at nineteen years of age, he has very strong organizational skills and knows how to step up with initiative. He procures antibacterial spray and paper towels from the cart and starts washing down the tables and chairs, methodically scrubbing away any invisible contaminants.
“I know what goes on in here. This stuff is dirty,” he warns. I reach to lift a blue plastic chair from the stack but Chulo hustles over.
“I got you. I got you,” he says, and will not let me do what he perceives as a man’s work; or more correctly stated, a male inmate’s job. While he is arranging the chairs, I begin to sort out the homework and handouts. The sterile room has no accoutrements and the acoustics are horrible. Every sound echoes painfully. The din from the adjoining blocks is muffled but provides a relentless backdrop of competing noise. Chulo pulls the door closed. I note that there is a telephone in the corner and two rovers stationed in the hallway.
“I bet your family worries about you working here,” he says. It’s a neutral statement set out as bait. I let the ambiguity lie there.
“Nothing to worry about,” I reply. He smiles.
“We all talk in here. That’s what we do, like a bunch of girls. And I know you’ve got their respect, Miss A, but there’s always a knucklehead or two that will fuck things up. You gotta be tough with these guys. Send a message if you have to.”
“I haven’t had any problem,” I say. When Chulo turns his back to scrub down the table top, I go over and release the door knob so that the door is once again ajar.
“I hear you but like I said, guys talk. The simplest thing, like you speaking to one guy after class or giving him extra help, and next you know he’s telling everyone that you like him and he’s in with you, you know?”
“Are you referring to anyone in particular?” I ask.
“Listen, I’ve straightened out a couple dudes who got the wrong thoughts in their head with you being a female and all. You treat us fair like human beings, but some of these guys are crazy and interpret what they want.”
“I certainly can’t control their thoughts.”
“No, but I’m just sayin to be mindful.” He has something or someone in mind. After a year of working in close proximity, we have learned to read each other well. If Chulo had not chosen to gun down two rival gang members, he could really have excelled in life. Even with English as his second language, he is articulate and has a good bead on people. He claims that comes from studying human nature at its worst for over twenty-two years.
“So, who should I watch?” I ask point-blank.
“That Willis dude. I see him in your class and he’s a smart guy. He talks a good talk, but I hear him back in the block on the phone to his people. Be careful is all I’m sayin’.”
“I think you’re wrong about him. Maybe there’s a little testosterone quarrel going on here.”
“I look out for you because I like you. I’ve never been able to talk to a woman like I can with you.”
“That’s because you haven’t been around a woman for two decades. Anything looks good at this point,” I tease.
“Miss A, I’m serious. The other counselors are alright but they’re like girlie-girls and look down on us. Some are straight-up bitches. Everyone can see that you are real and don’t judge us. But that kindness can be twisted in the wrong guy’s mind.” I start wiping the dry erase board with a rag but the permanent marker does not come off.
“You have some of that spray I can use?” I ask. He comes over with the bottle and a clean cloth and playfully dabs at my cheek with it.
“You’ve got some food or something on you.” The touch is a trespass. I react by dropping my eyes and scanning my shirt for stains.
“We had to stand chow today,” I say apologetically as a way of an explanation.
“You’re blushing. I can see it. Why you be blushing?” he laughs.
“I’m not blushing. I’m sweating,” I reply.
“But you looked away. Why, Miss A?”
“You’re seeing things, Mr. Diaz. Let’s get this finished up.” I can sense that he is taking his time and is certainly in no hurry to get back to Cell # 318. Chulo pulls a Polaroid out of the elastic waistline of his pants and holds it out.
“Have I ever shown you this?” he asks. It’s a photograph of a young Latino man with long hair, vintage nineteen-eighties or so, dressed in a silky blue graduation gown and holding a diploma aloft.
“Yes, I’ve seen this before. It was taken when you received your GED. In 1992, wasn’t it?” I say. He nods proudly. Since then, he has accumulated an increasing stack of certificates in computer repair, culinary arts and most recently, as a certified nurse’s aide and hospice worker.
“How can you not be cocky about that?” I say. It’s his turn to flush now. After all, he’s Chulo, the rooster.
“I’d like for you to see me someday outside of here. Who I really am, you know? Your kids and husband or boyfriend or whatever, they don’t need to worry. We could have some fun over drinks and shoot the crap, you know, like regular people do. I told Mr. Snyder and Mr. Hastings the same thing. Would you do it?”
“Meet up with friends after work? I do it all the time,” I respond generically.
“Hey, maybe you can be my ride outta here,” he jokes.
“What year will that be?”
“2026.”
“I’ll put it on my calendar,” I say. He does a little Puerto-Rican salsa right then and there with a grin as innocent as a schoolyard boy. I shake my head. When he sashays up closer, my stance straightens but I certainly do not anticipate the embrace that he places around my waist, then slides up to my shoulders. It is firm and close. I can only imagine what this must feel like to a man who has been without a woman for all but one year of his adult life. I stiffen up immediately.
“Just this once,” he whispers. “Just one hug.” I decide it’s wisest and safest to placate him and so I reach around and give him a brotherly pat with both hands on his back, then step backwards.
“We’re done here,” I announce and walk out of the room ahead of him. We maintain some benign banter as we wheel the cart back up to the warehouse, but I can’t decipher what he’s thinking. He’s always had my best interests at the forefront and has faithfully acted to protect me from harm. One hug is all. After everything he’s done to make my job easier, it would be suicide to rat him out. And that’s just not what people do in here, least not the strong ones.
#
A car is making its way down the gravel drive. I hold my breath. About halfway down the two-hundred yard road, travelers usually spy the private property sign, realize that they have mistaken this for a state park entrance and use the shorn circle of grass near the cedar gate as a turnaround. But after a slight pause, this vehicle keeps coming. Though it is close to the dinner hour, it is still plenty light and soon the bumper of a big Ford pick-up glints through the maples at the second bend. I have three guns placed at planned lookout spots throughout the house. One 20-gauge sits in the front coat closet with a box of pheasant shell in the hat basket beside it. The loaded .22 automatic rifle rests comfortably with the safety on in the blanket chest by the second-story dormer and my pistol nests in a basket of photo albums near the bed. I watch and wait with my thumb hovering over speed dial. I chose this cape for this one factor alone. Location, location, location. Next to nothing and near no one.
It is a lie, what I told Chulo about getting together with co-workers all the time, a bluff to throw him off track. I keep close to home by choice. They say in life that ninety percent is what happens to us; the other ten percent is how we respond to it, and that we cannot worry about what we can’t control. I don’t know if it was Mark Twain or Woody Allen or Joan Rivers who made that up, but I have sweetened the odds in my favor. Here in a remote stretch of farmland just south of Brigham and thirty-eight miles from my workplace, I have created a rural alcove as my domain. There is no name on the mailbox, no listing in the yellow pages, no approaching stranger that can’t be spotted by Rio, Brindy or Vera, my free-roaming police dogs. Every night is a three-dog night in my bedroom where the trio of scouts circles my bed, ever on alert. I hear the call go up now, the shepherds barking wildly as they tail the truck like wolves running down a slow calf. The driver parks the rig and steps out undeterred by the canine frenzy at his feet. With both a sigh of relief and a register of surprise, I see it is Hastings out of uniform in a short-sleeve linen shirt and camel-colored slacks. He waves as I swing open the door.
“What the hell…?” I call out.
“Hey girl. Thought you might like to accompany me for dinner. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?” he asks brightly. I shake my head. I’m barefoot in a batik sundress with not a blush of make-up on. A snap of my fingers sends the dogs to their bellies in the grass. My fingers and palms are stained blood-red.
“I’ve been weeding the strawberries and am pretty settled in now. Plus I’m filthy,” I say self-consciously. A fact easily observed on bare legs caked to the shins with dried mud. Red flares from nettles pepper my arms.
“Well, that works out perfectly because I brought the dinner here. Go take a shower and I’ll pour us some wine,” he replies. I start to protest but this is Hastings, my close friend and not a person who is easily swayed in negotiations. I back in to the cool interior and he follows. When I return in twenty minutes, the meal is spread on a faded bedspread under the red maple. How perfectly adolescent and sweet! A cloud of jasmine emanates from my wet hair and my skin radiates after a fierce exfoliation with lemon sea salt. I scoot onto the blanket beside him.
“How is it you’re free on a Saturday night? Aren’t there soccer games or things to grill or a lawn to mow?” I ask, taking the plastic goblet of Riesling. “Thank you,” I add.
“There always is, but I had to get out of there.”
“I’m sorry. Are things in a rough patch again?” I ask. Hastings (aka James outside of work, though I can’t classify him by any other name) leans back and takes in the phenomenal view from this hillside. The acres of agriculture roll back from the main road. Geese are gathered in dark clots debating whether to scrounge for sprouted seed or look for a good launching pad. Seems the seasonal clocks are all off. Sparrows sang all through the deep winter when the persistence of sun teased the thermometer to stay above freezing. The flocks congregated way back in November as usual, but never came to a consensus about the departure time or flight pattern and have stayed huddled in Norfolk Valley ever since.
“You have no idea. It’s not a spell or a stage. It’s like living with a child. A totally immature and anxious one. Allyson needs me for stability and to make all the decisions and keep things running smoothly. She can’t do shit for herself, but she’s worse than the girls. She gets so stressed by life that she always trying to control everything. Problem is she doesn’t have a clue to what she’s doing.”
“Is she still on her medication?” I ask. A seed pod falls from the catalpa tree and lands in the tub of potato salad. I lift it out and toss it to the tree line. He shakes his head.
“Well, what can I do to help you?” I ask with genuine concern.
“Not a thing but this. I feel calm around you. Things make more sense. I love my kids but I swear to God I can’t take her theatrics anymore. She went into a downspin this morning and started sobbing that she wasn’t worth the food she ate. Her self-esteem is shaky and she is so needy. Complains that I am never home when I’m working double shifts to keep her happy and forgive me Christ, there’s days like today that I’d rather be in a shithole prison that at home.” He turns towards me and props his frame up on one steady elbow. “Elise, do you think love is only for a time and a season?”
“That’s a trick question. I can tell,” I say. “I believe in soul mates that are meant to be together. And if you are lucky enough to find that person, there is no desire to be with another.”
“So, you’ve found yours?” he asks. I nod.
“Then why are you alone?” he asks, dismayed.
“Sometimes circumstances prevent that relationship in the physical realm. But in the parallel universe where our minds and hearts dwell we are together. Always.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me. You deserve to have the experience of being loved in the present. We all do! Who is this lucky guy?” he asks.
“You silly man! No one you know. A friend from back home.” James looks at me quizzically and then decides not to pursue that line of questioning.
“So basically, you’re in love with an invisible man. Well, I can see one significant benefit with that arrangement. It sure eliminates a lot of arguments,” he teases. I slap him warmly on the shoulder. The sun settles behind the horizon and the coolness of evening creeps up from the dank earth. I allow James to vent, fall silent and vent again. Another glass of wine for both and we wander off onto other topics - books and hiking and philosophy and nutrition and politics and pretty soon the creep of dew has dampened the ground cover. This isn’t the first time he has thought to try to kiss me, but it is the first time I have allowed him to linger and find a rhythm with my tongue. James stands to his feet, takes my hand and pulls me up. I lean down to gather up our leftovers.
“Leave it. I’ll come back for them,” he says firmly.
I should not have been surprised then when he leads me past the den and straight back towards the bedroom. At any point, I am free to pull up short or turn back. When he lifts me up onto the bed in a kneeling position, I hesitate.
“James, this is not what your marriage needs,” I say in a firm voice.
“This is exactly what I need. Will you let me love you, Elise? You can’t really prevent it because I already do. And have.” I smile and cup his handsome, yearning face in my palms.
“Yes, but you can love me from afar and not cause harm to anyone else,” I suggest. But all he has heard is the one-word affirmation. He deftly peels the sundress off over my head and then pulls me against him. His hands run along my back in massaging pulses over ribs and shoulder blades and collar bone. They wander through the hair that has tumbled in a wet sheath down my back. And then he pushes back to undress himself while maintaining unwavering eye contact. It isn’t until he has lowered himself on top of me that he asks again.
“Is it alright?”
I can’t convincingly say yes or no. I have no ready answer but I find my hands reaching up and pulling him downwards. I’ve never felt the hard weight of such a powerful man before and though my lungs are hard pressed to expand, he rests there only a moment before his urges take him on a crawl down the length of me. ‘Beautiful. Amazing,' he whispers at each stop along the way. And then he is quiet as he stops to worship at the most sacred of thrones and suddenly I am the one that is vocal, crying out in a howl that these rafters have never heard. Not once, but again and still he lingers between my thighs kissing and nuzzling me. I squirm to relieve the intensity that is somewhere on the spectrum between pleasure and pain. He senses the shift and climbs back up to hover over me face to face.
“I love you,” he says as he exacts a slow entrance, pushing deeper and deeper. It is a tight fit that he explores carefully and then in faster repetitions. When he reaches his climax, his entire frame stiffens and he erupts in an alien moan. The dogs startle in the living room and begin scratching at the closed door. After several shudders, he releases and relaxes on top of me but does not withdraw. My legs are shaking uncontrollably and tears come spinning out of nowhere. I hold him tightly and run my hands over his perspiring skin. I tangle my fingertips in his coarse hair and kiss his forehead.
“Hold me. Hold me,” I moan over and over…….
I wake instantly, jerking my head up. A pinching pain shoots up the side of my neck. A small trail of drool has crept from the corner of my mouth and left a circle of residue on the throw pillow. The sensation of culminated pleasure still ebbs between my legs. I am on the couch alone with the reading light still ablaze and my worn copy of Lolita splayed page akimbo on the floor. The rocking sensation is nothing more than Rio kicking the couch in spasms of sleep. I jump up to check. There is no pick-up trick, no dewy blanket or picnic leftovers with an ant invasion. I am mystified and embarrassed by the source of my pleasure. Dreams like this are for adolescent boys. Though he is a virile specimen, James is a friend and I don’t consciously have a sexual interest in him. I swore to myself long ago that if I could no longer attach emotion to sex, than I would forfeit the pretense of making love altogether. That way, nobody else was involved in the eventual disappointment of hastily pulling on underwear and pants in an awkward attempt to cover up an empty soul. The handful of men I had taken to bed years after my ordeal remained just a few and then became none. It was a part of my life that had people known about it; they would have likely judged me rather than pitied me. The messed-up middle that resembled an erratic pattern of emotional starts and stops that I diagnosed as my own peculiar brand of A.D.D. or affection disconnect disorder.
For years after the attack, my body was buried along with my memory. When I finally rose up out of the tomb of amnesia, I didn’t lust because I couldn’t love. I was stuck in this limbo of loneliness unless I made some quick concessions, so I turned to what was more easily mastered. In much the same way I had determined to bring my dexterity of hands and feet back, I threw my focus into building up my libido. Sex was something I could do well and something others wanted, an act that required no telling of past history, no spelling out of future goals or matching up common interests. I could unleash a store of emotion in a howling, writhing wrestling match and then disengage into an indifferent sense of being in neutral. Men loved this non-committal un-coupling. We each pulled apart fulfilled. Him, lolling on my batik bedspread with a limp penis slick with victory knowing he could zipper up and be gone. Whether or not they called the next night, the following week or never again, it didn’t matter because it had nothing at all to do with them. I was using the one working part of me that elicited pleasure in others to keep people near enough to remind me that I still had a place among the functional living. Men were attracted to the seemingly docile woman who excused their trespasses, ignored their bad habits and asked no hard questions. They interpreted my quiet tolerance as the sign of a forgiving, centered soul. A few very seriously wanted to marry and start a family and begged me to consent. I didn’t tell them my fallopian tubes had been welded and fused into free-standing pipe lengths. The ovaries that caused such unwieldy sweeps of self-destructive depression each month had been relieved of their duty. I was not ever going to conceive. And even worse, I was sentenced to the lifelong solitary curse of only ever being able to love once. When proposed to, as I was on several occasions, I patted these gracious men’s hands and promised to think about it and then I shipped out. If their hearts were broken, I never stayed on to witness it. There was nothing I could offer them in the way of repair.
Because of one man’s ruthless folly, they all had to pay
#
Gemini reminds me of those hairless cats that often win the ugliest pet contests. Sphinxes, the sleek-bodied, bald headed ones with arched back and hips always dancing sideways. He is striking with his emerald green Asian-shaped eyes, thin dark eyebrow arches penciled in a pose of constant surprise, Botox-inspired cheeks or possibly implants. His skin is taut and shiny with abundant estrogen. His most prominent feature is the glossy smile he directs at everyone and anyone. Gemini loves to volunteer for any little thing and will parade on the balls of his feet, nearly rubbing his flanks on anyone within petting reach. He is a cagey feline among a pack of dogs, some of which loathe homosexuals. Others tolerate him with generic respect and look the other way for fear they might be accused of showing interest in the partially-confusing and not-quite- transgendered person.
Today, Gemini has volunteered to tell his story. He is from the Bushwick section of Brooklyn where as a child of six or seven, he had to hop over puddles of cat piss, garbage and blunts to get to the stoop of his grandmother’s three-decker brownstone. She was an old Puerto Rican woman that did nothing but cook and clean. She swept each landing, every stair, and waxed the faux-brick linoleum in all three kitchens. She buffed the banister railings and reached up under the raised window to spray ammonia on the pigeon shit so she could see the Chrysler building shining brightly through the haze. Her place was the showpiece in a neighborhood of crack dives and dens of iniquity filled with rubbish and whores. That’s where Gemini’s mother spent her days and nights smoking rocks unless she was called in to work. Her employer was his half French Creole/half Dominican father, a run-about who sold women for pocket money and usually came around once every couple of weeks to check on his sons. More like give them all an ass-whooping for what they may or may not have done in his absence and then crash drunk on the couch for a few days. Once he was gone, Gemini’s grandmother would wipe up any trace of him and they would go back to their normal routine.
She could keep the streets out of her house but she could not keep her grandkids from straying out to the streets. One by one they left and it was always back to the two of them, herself and Gemini left to the washing and cleaning and cooking and watching re-runs of Falcon Crest or Dynasty. But it was no Cinderella-in-the-making story. Gemini was a pretty boy and he soon learned his street value courting men curbside. He bought nice women’s clothing from boutiques on the Lower East Side and had his face done at Bloomingdale’s. Lots of men loved Gemini; many more loved having sex with him. He was a commodity that brought out ugly competitiveness in the dime-a-dozen female prostitutes that roamed that block. Eventually, Gemini settled into a steady relationship with a fashionable urbanite named Darwin who bought him flowers, jewelry and trips to Turks & Caicos and Curaçao. But Darwin also played with women. Gemini seethed with jealousy and fretted since his femininity was only window dressing. He ultimately made the big decision to undergo psychiatric therapy and begin hormone treatment so that he could become what his inner chemistry had always told him was. And then one day, Gemini was standing on the balcony of the rent they both shared near Washington Park when Darwin told him that he was leaving to marry a Brazilian woman who was pregnant with his child. Gemini was completely devastated, crawled on his hands and knees, wept until his mascara stained the carpet and when his emotional tantrum did nothing to stop his departing lover, he blacked out with grief. The next thing he knew he was looking down at Darwin whose face had turned blue from the pressure around his throat. Strangulation, such an awful-sounding word for something that was intended to be a bitch slap and then a forgiving hug. Twenty-eight years. Gemini hadn’t even heard the sentence the judge handed down because he was sobbing so hard. Three-quarters of that time had already whiled away in the company of men and in the center of attention once again, sought after either for a beating or a blow-job.
“So that’s the story of my life,” he concludes with a brandish of a flamboyant wave.
“I am impressed by your resilience,” I say. “Strength of character,” I add hastily for the benefit of those among the group who are still reading at a fifth grade level. “Okay, now I’m curious. What became off the issue you shared with us last week? Were you able to get an opportunity to address it?”
“Oh yes. So here’s my issue for any of you that don’t remember,” he says. There’s a tease of sarcasm and reproach in the way he addresses others. As if he half hopes that they will beg him for an encore and he can once again, jump and throw his arms around his big breasts in feigned modesty. Just in case anyone was absent, he repeats it for maximum effect.
“Every time we get in the shower, these guys come in that are not one of us. Or else, they purposely walk by so they can see in. One inmate in particular is constantly lingering there and I know it’s just so he can stare at my breasts. They gave us our own separate time in the bathroom for a reason. Just so this kind of voyeurism won’t happen.” In fairness, I would be hard-pressed not to gape at his monstrous, swinging rack but to solve any remote chance of a false claim of blatant misconduct, I avert my eyes whenever I pass by the steaming shower area and stand clear of the comings and goings-on in there.
We’re straying out on a precarious perch now. Most of the men in prison will claim to hate homos and refuse to be housed with them. There have been death threats against the transgendered inmates and a rumble of a targeted attack against their section of the block. His issue has been an ongoing and problematic one in my unit. Heterosexual men who claim they are ‘”straight to the gate” courting the transgendered and homosexual inmates whose lifestyle was solidly determined before they came to jail. Prison rape is an altogether different animal and one that is minutely managed. Gone are the days when staff turned a blind eye to the practice of alpha convicts dominating subordinates or exacting punishment by sexual assault. When inmates who were victimized in such a way were ignored, it was par for the course. Counselors and captains scrutinize the housing cards to determine the matchups in the double cells. Size difference, nature of crime, mental health issues and race. Anything that might put one person at the mercy of another. The admitted homosexuals are now housed on one side of the lower tier, some single-celled so they won’t frolic with one another. Consensual sex is still a violation that brings discipline, but with the overcrowding and guys sleeping in temporary ‘canoes' on the gym floor, the Department can’t place them all in single occupancy.
“So, inmate…” Gemini starts.
“Leave names out, please,” I interrupt.
“Sorry, Miss Abrams. So, this one guy has been hassling me. He calls out from the upper tier every time I’m out for Rec and says lewd things. He’s threatened to beat me up if I don’t do certain things with him. He’s basically stalking me.”
Like me, the other men hope he will limit his details. They respect Gemini but not his predilection for penises.
“So, I wrote the warden and the lieutenants and even the Commissioner and not one of the mucky-mucks in Administration answered my grievance. I took the advice of this group and Miss Abrams, which was to address the individual in an assertive way that would cause no harm or offend him, but that would get my point across. So I took this big bad self of mine over to his cell when his door was popped open and he was getting ready to go to the gym. He had his shirt off and was standing there in his boxers, so I hoped he was feeling kind of vulnerable. I did just what you said, Miss A and I confronted him directly and Sweet Mother of God, it worked. He’s backed right off.”
“Wonderful. That’s a great example of good healthy conflict resolution. If you don’t mind me asking, can you tell us how you how you worded your approach?” I ask.
“Oh, certainly!” Gemini is on stage now and takes front and center. He cocks his head, purses his painted lips, puts one hand on a jaunty hip and the other up in front of him with the pointer finger extended and circles it near his face.
“I said, does I has to take a shit so ya can lick it?” He looks to me for approval. The rest of the group is amused. A few of the guys have their heads down on the desk and are enjoying a genuine laugh.
“Well, that might not have been the exact words I would have chosen, but whatever works I say. Good for you!” I reply. I can’t translate this phrase into any equivalent in uptight white dialect but I get the gist of it.
#
The boys are all off-track this morning and pre-occupied with the fact that some unemployed schlub has won the largest jackpot payout in the history of the Lottery, over five hundred and ninety million dollars, for the second time. This get-rich-overnight idea has fueled the imagination of this something-for-nothing crowd.
“I’d buy a Jaguar,” Dent brags.
“No way. I’d go one better. A Bugatti or a Ferrari,” boasts Bowman.
“Guys. Are we ready?” I ask. They continue their side conversations without interruption. Clearly it’s going to be difficult to steer them back towards the planned material. . Maybe I can get creative and work the wayward dialogue into a meaningful lesson. What matters most to these guys is money and some of them have had more cabbage in their hands than the best Wall Street financier. I mean leafy green Grover Clevelands, stacks of them as evidenced in Facebook photos confiscated from envelopes in their lockers. In some ways, I can’t blame them for a lack of appetite when a minimum wage warehouse job at Kohl’s distribution center is the best carrot we can dangle. Their income is tax-free and disposable. They must laugh at my sniveling but at least I can sleep at night knowing the State Comptroller will be signing my next check and every two weeks thereafter. And while I’m slumbering away peacefully, a nocturnal war wages on to hold on to the profits. Drug money can easily blow away.
“Have you all heard the saying: Time is Money?” I ask. The circle of glistening foreheads and dull eyes stare back in motionless inattention. All the buzz and pre-class chatter has dissipated into instant apathy.
“Anyone?” Zimmer and Serge finally cave in and nod in unison.
“Do you believe that time and money are alike?” I repeat. Worse than pulling teeth; this is like teasing fleas from a poodle.
“Sure, our time is worth something,” answers Dent.
“So if you think about it, there are two things you can do with money. The first is waste it and the second is invest it. It’s quite simple really. If you spend it, you lose it. When you invest into something, the intent is to build up more. Now, let’s look at time in the same way. You can sit here and waste it or you can invest it and come away more of a person than you were when you started.”
“Here’s new math for you, “Rev chimes in, before anyone else can pipe up. “I say, that if you are not adding positive things to your life, then you are taking away from it.”
“Same principle expressed in a different way,” I concur. I should know by now if I don’t shut him down, an inch of inspiration will drag out to a country mile of melodrama. But it’s too late, he’s off and running at the mouth
“Gentlemen, my good brothers. I was once like you are now. Skeptical. Indifferent to change, but God got a hold of my heart and showed me my gift.” Rev looks at Bowman. “You, my young friend, remind me of myself as a boy.” His expression communicates compassion but there is an insincere ring to his voice. “I too was resistant, bitter, and unyielding. But now I am a man and…”
“Excuse me, Mr. Preacher?” I interject. Serge gets up abruptly, aligns his chair with the Rev and both men swivel their desks at a diagonal to face the younger guys at an angle of advantage. Apparently some bonding has taken place between them. They’ve assumed the superior posture of wise men lording over the others from their hypothetical pulpit. I’ve seen guys like them before, the ones who believe the mantra of their own voice is music in everyone else’s ears. Zimmer is probably a good fifteen years their senior, but he’s been dismissed from the power equation because of his perceived disability and obvious ethnicity. Jews just don’t cut the mustard behind bars.
“Hold on a minute, Miss A, if you don’t mind. I just want to finish my point.” He turns back to young Bowman. “Son, I see that the dark one still has a hold on your spirit. We can’t think like boys any longer. We must be men. I can share the wisdom I have learned in my time…”
Our non-verbal student in the front row has shown no sign that he’s been addressed or antagonized by the ingratiating bully. Until now, as Bowman slowly uncoils from his reticent crouch and rises to his feet, gradually locking his gangly kneecaps into an upright position.
“Wait. Hold up! Everyone be quiet! What’s this?” I say, smiling. “Please…I know something brilliant is brewing in there.” It’s unclear whether his silence to date is due to a language barrier, self-consciousness or plain old garden-variety indifference. The surly young man with acne awkwardly drops his head. His glasses have slipped down off the bridge of his nose and are cocked to one side. His fine dark hair hangs piecemeal about his face and an unmanicured growth of chin hair has long outgrown the confines of a goatee and spread out along the tendons in his thin neck. It appears that he detests shaving cream and soap as much as he loathes the company of strangers.
“Boys demand respect; men command respect,” he says slowly and deliberately before abruptly sitting back down. Whatever prompted him to offer this spontaneous truism seems to have fizzled as quickly as it flared. Bowman drops back into his chair in a crumpled heap.
“Fabulous!” I say with an exuberant flourish of my hands. “I knew something special was just waiting to come out at the right time. Still waters run deep, you know what I mean, gentlemen?” But no, of course they don't. The other members of the group are just as impressed as I am that the mute has finally spoken.
“And since you’ve brought that up, what is the difference between those two words? They sound similar but are very different. How do you define command versus demand?” Before Rev can command the stage, Mr. I Am jumps to his feet.
“If one of you all disrespects me, I will put my hands on you,” Noble says matter-of-factly.
“So, which is that? Command or demand?” I ask. The fact that he has hung in this group without any confrontations as long as he has is a testament to acquired patience or a med change.
“I don’t fuckin know,” he says.
Willis leans forward and lifts a strong arm skywards. The sleeve of his tans cannot possibly reach the maximum length of his limb. The wrinkled garment drops back from his powerful palm. Patches of vitiligo mottle his wrist and weave a glaring crochet-like pattern of reverse freckles down his forearm. The eerie collage gives the effect of bleached sperm swimming blindly through random blotches of dark ink.
“Your thoughts?” I ask. In another circle, perhaps a schoolyard gang, comments might have been made by the gawking pairs of eyeballs that have never seen a birthmark of serpentine dimensions. Maybe when he was a younger kid and defenseless to the taunts but not here. Here he is given a platform of respect.
“When someone demands respect, they are taking it from another. In other words, they are basically saying, ‘Give it to me.’ But when a man commands respect, others freely give it to him based on the way he conducts himself,” Willis says. His demeanor has the louder voice.
“Beautifully done!” I say. “And let me add that this change from boy to man has nothing to do with age in years. It is a mental transformation. You can be sixty years old and still be a boy or a twelve- year old who has already become that man. Agree or disagree?” I pose the question to the circle of males who are a sum total of half-men and misguided boys.
“In God’s eyes, we are all children. Each a boy in need of a father. Those of us who have made the leap to maturity can speak to the rest of you,” says Rev. “We can demonstrate what respect should look like and those who have yet to grasp it can look to their elders as spiritual examples.”
“Hey man, no offense, but I wouldn’t look to you for shit. You’re an arrogant hypocrite. Religion is nothing without sacrifice. What the hell have you done in here but swindle people out of ramen noodles and Jolly Ranchers?” says Zimmer.
“I’m not talking to you, old man,” snipes Rev. Zimmer places both hands on the arms of his wheelchair and springs excitably up off the seat. He takes a few solid steps in the direction of the speaker and lifts an accusing finger at him.
“Why don’t you man up and join the rest of us? Who died and made you king over us? I’m sick and tired of hearing how much you love your wife of twenty years who’s dying of cancer. And how you’ve stood by her when we know you’re a cheating shitbag. Your kids are going to bed without a daddy just like ours. You sleep with a thousand other dudes no different than the rest of us. And worse, you dragged your old lady out of a car because she owed you a lousy sixty bucks. I’ve heard you on the phone bitching her out. You’re a goddamn hypocrite!”
“Hold up, guys!” I shout, raising my voice to counter the increasing hostility in the room. “Do I need to call the officer down and get you all tossed out?”
“I’m not going to stay and try to minister to people who can’t accept the truth,” pouts Rev. He folds his arms across his chest and tries to convict them all with a withering look of reproach.
“The truth is, you’re a prick,” Zimmer fires back. The class erupts with a few Amen’s and high-fives. The Rev is unable to maintain his composure.
“I don’t have to stay and listen to this. Pearls before swine,” he says.
“You do have to stay unless I deem otherwise,” I state. “But I think it’s a good idea if you take a nice little time-out right now.” I scribble off a hasty pass and hand it to him. Rev is stunned that I have the audacity to choose him as the scapegoat here.
“What about him? He started it,” he blurts.
“He’s not your concern,” I say. “Now go, please,” I add sternly. He is the crestfallen boy whose ego has been held up on shaky props of insecurity. A tantrum is foaming up underneath his skin.
“Just so you know you’re losing a valuable resource. I’m here out the goodness of my heart. I don’t have to care. It’s not like….”
“You’re here for the same reason we all are. For making bad choices,” replies Bowman.
“Well, it’s your loss,” he shouts in a pathetic wail, his voice trailing off into a pitchy, childish squeak.
“It’s only for today. You’re welcome to come back tomorrow,” I say. Narcissists are never in the wrong, never on the giving end of an apology. He must save face at all costs.
“I wash my hands of you,” he spits, but his venom falls short of its mark. . Zimmer is not a bit flustered by the attack and smiles benevolently. He stands in all his glory in a yellowed wife-beater tank shirt that bumps and sags over a scrawny chest of white hair. Some religious medallion dangles near his navel on a chain that is many links too long. He puffs up what little sinew and muscle he can and struts a fancy moonwalk across the floor.
“Shit! My lawyer would be yelling at me right now. I better get back in that bitch,” he says. Zimmer scrambles into his faithful wheelchair and resumes the pose of an invalid. “Not good for the lawsuit we got filed.” Though no one asks, he’s quick to fill the lengthy pause with an explanation, eager to separate himself from the legal beagle inmates who spend their library time deep in the volumes of General Statute reference books and file litigation as often as they swap soups for services. Their cases against Department of Correction jam the volumes of pages on the judicial website. “I jumped off one of the State vans when I was on an Outside Clearance crew and crushed all my disks into powder,” he adds, winking. “I’m not saying I’m any saint, Miss Abrams. But I always took my time to go down to the Children’s Hospital and buy the cancer kids stuffed animals and shit. Yeah, I got money by illegal means, swindling insurance companies and Big Pharma, but I would never steal from a regular person. I have a heart. I see myself as a kind of modern-day Robin Hood.”
It’s getting harder and harder these days to make out the bad guys from the good ones.
#
I know I shouldn’t bring work home. Among other things, I can come up with two very logical reasons. First is the confidentiality issue should a page flutter out of my satchel onto the parking lot where visitors walk; and secondly, it would piss off every other state employee that doesn’t do his job at work, let alone outside of it. But how can I ask these damaged men to take up a pen and spill out old wounds in no less than five hundred words and then dump these confessions in a cluttered ‘to be shredded’ carton? Every single moment of paid time is already taken up with babysitting the basic needs of this helpless menagerie. It’s like one huge dysfunctional day care. That’s why I squirrel the journal entries into a folder and discreetly walk them out through the sally port. Other people have kids with soccer games and dance recitals and spouses to quarrel with. My evenings are spent drinking wine and weeding through the written overgrowth of perennial filth. The names change, but the games are the same.
I pull the first essay out of my briefcase. The author forgot to put his name on the paper, but I recognize the handwriting. Terran Willis is very prolific when it scribbling out detailed journal entries, like those one would expect from a young female who loves to pour out her heart on flowery pages of flowing penmanship. These girlish confessions surprised me at first, coming as they were from a brawling, brooding man, but they appeared faithfully and with unfaltering candor. This type of transparency is risky, especially in the company of boisterous men who think nothing of trampling sensitive issues underfoot and ferreting out snitches. He’s dared to do it, share street secrets with staff and not only that but the incongruent whisperings of a black inner-city man to a white woman. The assignment handed out yesterday asked the men to reflect on this question: How did I get to this point? The response he’s turned over to me approaches the length of a novelette, or at least, an amplified short story. The tale chronicled here is instantly revealing and riveting. I concentrate on the narrative with growing intrigue. It reads like a gritty, truer-than-fiction memoir that Oprah might have launched on her must-read list. The details are dirty and somewhat disturbing, but the plot is graphically clear.
The girl said he reached up under her skirt. She claimed he put his finger in her vagina. The boy who she blamed was nine years old. None of the other four teenagers either denied or confirmed this; they probably had encouraged him on a dare. Off record, they let the accusation stand. They were not allowed to testify because they were all minors. The accused however was taken to trial and without a court stenographer in residence, was charged with illicit contact with a minor and remanded to a juvenile treatment center. While waiting for a bed to open up in a facility, they kept this boy in state custody. Nine long months later, he was taken to Athens, Georgia where he celebrated his tenth, eleventh and twelfth birthdays. His mother, frantic with worry and fueled with rage, fought the system at every move. The wheels of the machine continued to roll, totally unconcerned with the woman who kept throwing herself across its dirty rails. Before her boy disembarked at the Boston’s South Station three years later, Berea Willis suffered a major coronary and dropped dead at the corner of Rambler Road and Centre Street just as the city bus was approaching. Young Terran was taken in by an aunt who slept all day and worked third shift emptying the bed pans of dementia patients. As bright as he was, which was determined by achievement and IQ tests, Terran Willis scored way behind his peers on the Mastery Test and was socially stunted. He stepped out into his newfound freedom with a label big as day flapping behind him, the unwelcome sign of Sex Offender pitched out in front of his every move. He couldn’t work because of it; he couldn’t sign a lease because of it. The only place where his hidden brand made no matter was in jail and Willis became of legal age there on a bid for possession of narcotics. Back on the streets, he upped his game and returned to prison to celebrate legal drinking age on a robbery sentence. He was good at running game, doing time, winning respect and so he mastered the art of being a criminal over the next fourteen years, most of which he spent behind bars. He never challenged the judges or the many sentences he received.
But through it all, he never stopped giving voice to being railroaded as a little black kid at the mercy of four white adolescents. Based on their flimsy tattle-telling, his life had been ruined. He wanted one thing only. He cried out for that sex treatment score to be removed since he swore up and down that in no way was he guilty of premeditating or perpetrating a sexual crime. For Christ-sakes, he didn’t even know what a vagina was at that age. All appeals had been heard; all grievances denied. He was re-arrested for his failure to register the few times he had been discharged. Willis was denied opportunities for early release because of these two scarlet letters: S.O. Sex Offender. Through his writing, Willis eloquently connected the dots that mapped a steady progression of rage. Now decades later, the wrath had mellowed into a steady pain that motivated him towards meditation and dialogue. He still took up the struggle every day, but resorted to the Bible as his two-edged sword and tried with the word of truth to cut through conscience. Still he had run into deaf ears, even though he had taken his plea all the way up to the Commissioner and the office of the Governor.
It’s undoubtedly a tragic tale, true or not. It’s difficult to know. These guys leach lies out every pore. Any solid truth is diluted with deceit and so much bullshit that what’s left is a standing pool of watered down waste. It’s a toss of a coin. True or false, or some combination of the two? I put down the homework paper and my red pen. There is nothing I can say in a few short notations that could address the length and breadth of the horrific treatment this boy had been subjected to. My stomach feels queasy. The dogs sense the unease and press closer, eager to take a walk. I decide to get in a good stroll and let the fresh air dissolve the sorrow I feel.
“Come on. Who wants to go outside?” I call out. The dogs jump and skitter to the door. The four of us head out on a brisk pace down the dirt lane. I try to dismiss the thought of this kid being set up, laughed off and screwed over. In a neurotic twist of conscience, it makes me feel ashamed to share the same demographic category as the little white bitch that took him down. But I mean it’s not my problem. We all have our back stories and reasons for straying off the straight and narrow. Although, I’ll admit this is a SNAFU of epic proportions. Situation Normal All Fucked Up. I know it well. I’m a card-carrying lifetime member of this crowd. Okay, fine. When Monday rolls around, I will delve a little deeper into this case.