Drip. drip, drip…

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Armed with a disposable BIC razor that comes in the prison “care package” (an oxymoron of preposterous proportions,), he deliberates the procedure. The exhausting process of getting warm water to the faucet begins. José pushes the button for a while with one thumb. Determined, with pelvis pressed against the front edge of the stainless steel basin, he shifts his weight from one leg to another. Periodically he switches to the other thumb. Every so often, he puts a finger against the trickle to check if it is tepid.

It’s a tedious process, but finally José with a J finishes shaving. His fuzzy little stubbles are gone, except for a sliver of coarse black bristles resting on the ridge of his upper lip. Dazzling, perfectly shaped white teeth appear almost incandescent in contrast to his rich, chocolate shake complexion. He pulls the hinged metal seat out from beneath the desk and sits with elbows resting on knees, chin propped onto one hand. He looks like he is setting himself up to absorb the warmth of a tranquil campfire.

Soon we begin to chat. I don’t know who starts, but we go on and on about everything from buttered popcorn to philosophies of the ages. José dreamily offers a monologue about being released from jail and making things right for his girlfriend and their three-year-old son. A tear rolls down his cheek. He brushes it aside with a finger. He conjectures about plans of returning to school and starting an automotive or electrical business of his own some day. He tells about his love for basketball and distrust for authority, his propensity for double cheeseburgers and disdain for pickled beets. In a moment of vulnerability, he delves into a confession about enjoying same sex encounters. The overcast sky relinquishes its vigil in time for dusk to announce its arrival.

Where’s my Sealy Posturepedic?

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

After chow, we return to our respective slots. The day is passing quietly. The second shift C/O begins the rounds for the afternoon count. As he comes into view, notepad and pencil in hand, I inquire, “Any chance I could get a mattress?” He glances up and stares past me, looking like he is gazing at TV, with no evidence that he is even awake. That is the extent of it. He drifts away into the ether. I cock my head over to the direction of my cellie and shrug my shoulders. “Is it me?” I whisper.

We both giggle and José interjects, “You can take my mattress for a while. I’m gonna stay up and do some stuff anyway.” Before I have a chance to react, the transfer is underway. When the heavy lump is positioned to satisfaction, he steps back and grins beatifically. He stretches his arms and spreads his hands, as though he has just performed a magic trick. I feel awkward about accepting his kind gesture.

“That’s nice of you, José,” I concede, returning the smile. “I’ll be sure to remember you in my will.” With an almost imperceptible wink, he swerves to step out of my way. I throw the sheet and blanket in place, and maneuver myself between them. José removes his navy blue, v-neck jump top, which is carefully tucked into the complementing, elastic-waist, non-hemmed, way-too-long jump bottoms. He faces the worn-out-beyond-use mirror over the mini sink. I had already applied a post card-size plastic mirror onto it, using the clear tape that came strapped to my VO-5 shampoo bottle.

The faucet in the sink is designed to work like a water fountain. It has a spring-controlled mechanism that shoots water into the air for fifteen seconds and then stops automatically. Our unit however, dispenses an almost non-existent dribble. It runs down the back of the sink and activates only as long as your thumb remains continuously, and painfully, pressed against the pushbutton trigger. How José plans to shave under these conditions is a feat that makes my anxious eyes wince yet eagerly anticipate.

Sully strikes again

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

“Stand by for chow,” blares the PA system. Electronic buzzers vibrate on door latches. Like starting gates at the dog track, they all pop open to release the animals. One of our neighbors flushes and their refuse fills our toilet. José and I almost collide as I hop up from my cozy cubby of comfort and he, down from his suspended steel stretcher of sleeping bliss. Everyone filters out to the landing in front of our rat holes, awaiting the queue.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” resounds a deafening roar from our beloved C/O Sulliman. One of his subjects has strayed from the first to the second level.

“Chill man, I’m jes borrowin’ a piece a papah.”

“You don’t belong up there!”

“Aight, dude. Chill. Man, you’re actin’ like a child, yo.” A couple of guys half-snicker. Most of us just hold our breath.

Sully stammers, stutters, and shakes all over. “Give me that ID,” he finally spits out. It’s amazing that he doesn’t lose his dentures. The unrepentant sinner removes the name badge from his chest while sauntering down the steps. Sully reaches out and yanks it from him. “You’re on lockdown for the rest of the week.” He fumes for a few more seconds and furiously calls out, “And the rest of you fuckin’ dummies are locked down for the rest of the fuckin’ day.” He goes slamming into the mod door, forgetting to signal its release. Then it buzzes; he pushes it violently with both arms and makes his exit. We all glance around at each other, some shaking heads, others emitting light laughter or quietly blurting hate comments.

Yuk! This is Sully!

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

This is that same stunted freak who greeted me when I showed up for admittance to the illustrious N-Nancy mod this morning. My bundle of belongings was bigger this time; a few days have elapsed since my arrival. I possessed my very own deck of chewed up playing cards, a bag of white cheddar popcorn, some toiletries, and an extra pairs of socks; mostly items abandoned by their previous owners. This time I knew just the right paper and just the right crack to use. My little friend was not at all impressed. He jolted the door open and stormed into the hall, huffing and puffing. “Put your stuff down over there.” He nodded to a small visitor’s cubicle behind me. I placed my pile on the square, Formica-topped table.

The first thing of mine he grabbed was a Tupperware-type, compartmentalized container. It held breakfast, which I had not consumed before departing from my first mod which is designated for new commits. “What the hell is this?” My mouth had barely opened to respond when the lid was ripped off; sweaty scrambled eggs and bread slices were wildly tossed in the trash can. With the grace of a street urchin rummaging through a dumpster for food, he proceeded to fling my meager stack of earthly goods. He was determined to disperse the playing cards haphazardly from their cardboard package. Like bamboo shoots in lo mein, they were tossed and jumbled with my things. “Grab it. Let’s go. Move it, move it.” I frantically tossed my meager belongings into my blanket and balled it up. Impatiently, he swung the mod door open and pointed to cell number twelve, in the upper corner. Away I marched as he slammed the door behind me.

Now the twerp is just outside my cell door, tallying the count. I shuffle a little closer to the doorway, raising my hand like a child in school. “Uuh. I, uh, I don’t have a mattress.”

“Talk to the C/O on the next shift,” he grunts, without glancing up from his pad. Before he pivots to proceed down the steps, I catch a faint glimmer on the gold-tone name badge pinned above the chest pocket. I squint to focus in on the block style letters: SULLIMAN. I freeze. Yuk! This is Sully! That deranged piece-of-shit that countless men have come to disdain over the course of, god only knows, how many torturous years. I turn to my cellie who is still swaggering in an upright, semi-alert state of disinterest. “What’s a C/O?” I ask.

“Corrections Officers,” he mutters, yawning through the words. “That’s what we call ’em, C/Os.” José lazily flops back up onto his bunk. He covers himself completely with his charcoal-gray and speckled-white, woolen-blend prison issue blanket. I quickly scan our tomb like chamber. I need a comfortable spot to sit and compose myself from the attack by the creature from the black and blue abyss. An alcove created by the side of the desk and the corner of the room seems acceptable. I yank my crispy-crusty blanket from where I had begun to spread it on the slab and snuggle myself in.

The Hunchface of DOC

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Gunfire cracks the air. My head jerks and spins in the direction of the blast. I crouch with my arms swinging to cover my face. Just as impulsively, my cellmate springs from his prone position. With precise and instantaneous Samurai-like fluidity, his feet are planted on the grimy cement floor. My heart is pounding in my throat. I focus, and discover that a guard is generating the clamor. He relentlessly slams the butt end of a steel flashlight against the ironclad entrance of my newly adopted echo chamber. My eyes bulge open, staring blankly toward the dizzying, explosive force puncturing the stillness. The unforgiving blasts persist while the monster at our doorway incessantly whacks metal on metal.

…. My pupils dart to the figure beyond the glass opening in the door. “Stand for the count!” it screeches. The figure looks like an apparition lurking in a damp and darkened dungeon: a stumpy old ogre with a full crown of silver-gray. His hideous grimace causes the platypus lips to contort like a wrinkled handkerchief at the bottom of a drawer. The Hunchface of DOC would be a fitting title for his biography. After peering briefly through the narrow aperture, he poises himself to record information on a clipboard—probably that he has counted two heads. Judging from his appearance, that is the extent of his mathematical skills.

I recognize this loathsome insect as the guard who greeted me at the mod on my first day. As I approached the window to the shadowy guard shack called “the bubble,” he was mumbling something about pushing my papers in through a slit in the wall. I pushed the wrong sheet of paper in through what was apparently the wrong opening. While he was going haywire, I managed to submit the correct paper but, as it turns out, in the wrong crack again. With the passion of a firefighter busting out of an enflamed building, he frantically smashed the door.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, what are you? Some kind of fuckin’ dummy? ChrrrRRiiist!” His whole head and face were bright red; his neck muscles were bulging. His entire body began to tremor. Again, he yelled, “You got to be the stupidest god damn mothah fuckin’ dummy on the face of this god damn mothah fuckin’ planet.” He flung the first sheet that I slid through to him in my general direction. I stood with eyebrows lifted. He continued screaming, grabbing the door, and slamming it behind him. I retrieved my document from the floor and proceeded through the block entrance toward my assigned cell. All I could think was Wow!

Jack the Ripper

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

I am warned that I should never, under any circumstance, mention that I am in on a child molestation charge. It drives every lofty, self-appointed juror and judge—encompassing nearly everyone—to insane and belligerent behavior. A testament to that reaction occurs when we are initially incarcerated and dragged into court for the first time. We are conveniently arrested on a Friday afternoon. That way, there is no avoiding jail for at least a weekend. Monday is court. It becomes a succession of an absurd array of waste-of-time hearings. No audible mention of our charges is announced in the courtroom, due to the “sensitive nature” of the case. Yet mysteriously and miraculously, every one of the guards becomes aware of the alleged offenses. In turn, they publicize choice bits of information to the prisoners. Pandemonium breaks out in the holding cells beneath the courtrooms. Ultimately it swells to a near full-blown riot on the return bus trip to the prison. These guys go spastic. Like a wild cluster of chimpanzees on crack, they shake and rock the bus and try spitting at us through the sectioned-off crates that we are inserted into. The lashing out continues for the duration of the rush hour ride. “Ripper! Ripper! Ripper! Ripper!”

Particularly in prison circles the term is interchanged with the pseudonym of Jack the Ripper, a legendary serial killer. His notoriety as a brutal murderer is often inappropriately translated to mean “Rapist,” probably because his victims were prostitutes. The “Ripper!” intimidation is periodically interjected with select adjectives, profane and profoundly profane in nature. Not one of the state marshals or prison staff does a thing to abate the situation. Why would any of them? They instigated it in the first place.

Lotta bullshit

The following is an excerpt from Part One:



I end as abruptly as I had started. Immediately rolling my eyes upward, my chin drops and mouth opens slightly, as if to say Where did that come from? I know, and he knows too, that it is pent-up frustration. I look at him squarely, announcing, “My name’s Raymond.”



“I’m José. It’s with a J.” He smiles and winces slightly. With a little nod, he leaps onto the upper bunk, rolling lazily onto his back with his hands behind his head.



“That sucks men,” he says softly. “Once I had a cousin who was pissed at me for somethin’ an’ he started screamin’ that I molested him. Finally though, he tole his mother the truth. But damn, I was mad at hin for a lawn tine after that.”



I just stare out the window. In no time I hear the grumbling of easy afternoon snores emanating from my new compadré. Up until now I had chosen not to communicate with anyone, other than for mundane topics such as “I’m looking for the hospital,” or “Anyone wants my container of milk?” Many individuals have routinely approached me with the standard icebreaker, “Whadda ya in faw?” I usually retort, “Lotta bullshit,” attempting to avoid further interaction at all costs. If escaping interrogation is not automatic, I switch the subject as inconspicuously and graciously as possible. A theme like the weather often suffices.



I become adept at topic hopping. Soon I learn that introducing the ever popular, albeit stomach wrenching topic of prison food, provides a reliable exit into neutral territory. Reminiscing about the morning’s serving of cold clumps, aka oatmeal, or last night’s hockey puck supreme being passed off as a meatloaf usually does the trick. If not, I can rely on providing general descriptions about foreign objects found in the food. Hair is a favorite. Even better, the gut-curdling sight of swamp juice, oozing from under the kitchen door to the mess hall floor, definitely inspires a repulsed reaction. An effective encore theme is the slop-drenched woolen blankets, strategically tossed over forlorn spaces where mismatched tiles once adhered. The Exorcist-like, god-awful wretchedness conjures the desired reaction.

My day in court

The following is an excerpt from Part One:



A buzzing sound breaks the icy stillness. The barricade opens. A dozen feet scuffle up the cement stairs, in front of my home unsavory home. A handful of guys, the ones who were hanging around the day room as I passed through, make their way past. They disburse to the other five stalls that line the second tier of the notorious N-Nancy block. The name attached to the letter is to avoid confusion with the morbid M-Mary block at Rhode Island’s ACI Intake Service Center.

A handsome young Hispanic man brings up the rear of the group. He swings our door open and pulls it shut behind him. His clenched fist extends in the knuckles up position. “Hey, how ya doin’ men? We jus’ all saw you on TV.” The look on his face is cordial, but his tone is matter of fact. I return the gesture with my fist. As our knuckles tap in mid air, I respond, in equally as nonchalant a demeanor.

“Really? How’d I look?”

He stares vacantly. “Like you, men.” A noncommittal grin spreads across his face while he leans his bottom against the desk.

“Hummmph,” I grunt, and wait patiently for him to take the next initiative. What is probably a few seconds seems like the final stretch of the Kentucky Derby. At last, his sultry bronze-tone lips take action. “Well, aah, you got some a these guys ov’r her purdy worked up.”

“Really? How do you mean?”

“Didn’ chew hear ’em men? As you walked by? A couple of ’em was sayin’—”

“Uh, noooo, I didn’t hear them. Aaaaand, I’m not really interested in knowing what their comments were, if it’s all the same to you.” Abruptly, I raise an eyebrow and half smirk while shrugging my shoulders, as if to semi-apologize.

“Oh, sure men, no problem. Ahhh, they sain’ on TV that you an’ this other dude, men, you uh, you have some adopted kids. Uhhh, whuzit, a boy an’ a girl?”

“Yes, one of each.”

“Oh yeah, an they uhh, they sain’ you both molested ’em?”

“I have no idea; I’m not following the story.”

“Oh.”

Silence besieges us once again. We stare at each other for a long moment. Finally, his penetrating black irises slowly fade into a downward glance. He turns away and begins to fidget with some strips of paper and a two-inch pencil with no eraser strewn on the desk. I let out a little huff through the back of my nose and he glances up again. I go on.

“Aah, listen, I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” With a forced grin, I shift my sight away from him, and nod slowly. “You know, the media is having a field day with this, and everybody has an opinion and a comment. And believe me when I tell you that none of it is the least bit flattering. And yes, I do know what the accusations are; and no, I am not the least bit interested in what anyone’s opinion of the situation is, especially not these inmates and most especially not any of the assholes who work here. I have absolutely no idea whatsoever why I’m telling you all this, but we have never had any sexual interaction with any of our children. We adopted these two kids on nine-eleven, two thousand one, and in the…”

I spring each finger of my left hand out and then proceed to the ones on my right hand, counting, “two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight; in the seven years since we’ve known them, neither one has been capable of telling the truth a day in their spoiled-rotten life. I have no reason to suspect that that would change now. They are dysfunctional, hate-filled children. They are angry because of some foster kids that we took in. The only thing I care about right now is to have my day in court, to set the record right.”