CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

First wake up of the day. Stand in line. Eat breakfast. Put spoon away. Get back on bunk, put earplugs in and blanket over head. Reflect on night of dreams while falling back asleep.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

Second wake up of the day. Make a cup of coffee. Wait in line. Eat lunch at the tables. Put spoon away. Get back on bunk, start to record dreams.

“Merry freaking Christmas.” My celly of one week says. “Such a damn depressing day in here. Ya know dood, Christmas used to always be my favorite holiday, even though Ma never had much money for presents, but she made the most bomb ass cinnamon toast for me every Christmas morning. Dood, I’ve tried to make it before by myself, but it just ain’t the same. There’s just sumthin bout the way she cooked ‘em that slaps! The lil top layer of sugar all crispy but not burnt. Ya know? Now my older bro never loved em so Ma would bake up-”

I stopped really listening after his first few words. He goes by Rare, but his name is Darrell, and holy hell he can say a lot of words in a row non-stop. He just impulsively talks and talks and talks. It’s a form of anxiety that I believe came from his sampling of every kind of drug known to man since he was a teenager.

It’s been over six weeks since I’ve written anything in my notebook other than dreams. It’s also been about six weeks since my old celly Vaughn left. In just that span of time I’ve gone through three cellys already. The first guy came in, and I could tell he was still coming down off drugs. He didn’t really say much and slept pretty much the entire day and night. His girl posted bail for less than a thousand bucks and just like that he was out of my cell, and out of jail. Boy I sure wish my bail was thousands, instead of one million fucking dollars. And seven. $1,000,007 The wonky extra seven dollars fits perfectly in this place where nothing the jail does makes sense. Anyways, he's gone and I don’t even remember his name.

The guy after that, Anthony, was a big fat mess. I mean he was probably five foot eight but had to have weighed close to three hundred pounds. He made the cell feel so claustrophobic, and he was constantly asking if there was any extra commissary I could spare.

As petty as the annoyances were, I still felt bad for him because of the story he cooked up about taking care of his Mom and Aunt. Allegedly, he's just a kid in his thirties who's got a huge heart. A big heart and two strong mothers who do the thinking for him, both of which are so heavy they can’t get out of bed, and need him to survive.

According to Anthony, the only thing he loves more than food is black. Which is strange to me, because before coming to jail I thought heroin was responsible for always making skeletons out of people. While he was my celly I always brought my tray to the cell, just so I could give him the stuff off it that I didn’t like. On Thanksgiving, the jail provided a meal that seemed to be double the amount of food compared to our normal trays, which Anthony could not help but commenting “These are the size every dinner tray should be.” It still bothers me that it’s against the rules to pass food or commissary, but not nearly as much as when I first got here. It’s just another slice of life that’s been normalized by routine.

I would not have minded keeping him as a celly for his remaining couple months of jail before being released to drug court, but he got accepted to go work and live in the kitchen.

It took just two hours from the time Anthony rolled up and left my cell, to being replaced by another. I was sitting at the tables playing chess with Dan when the main door Clack Clacked. In walked a tiny Asian fellow who was already looking around for people he may know. I knew he was headed to my cell even before walking towards it, because every other bunk in our section was already taken.

I made a move that put Dan in an awkward spot in our game, the kind of move where many minutes can tik-tok on by, with him trying to figure out how to maneuver out of the trap. After making said move, I told him I’ll be right back because I’m going to go meet my new celly.

I walked into my house and he greeted me with a positive air about him. He laughed at the end of most sentences, which usually made my own mood more jovial. One of the first things he asked about me, is what the tables are like in this section. He wanted to know if there is poker and what kind. After I told him I hadn't seen any going, he then asked me if there is a Pinochle table going. To that I responded, “I actually think there is.”

It’s been the same four guys playing cards at one of the tables for weeks, because apparently Pinochle is much, much harder to grasp than spades, so a lot fewer people play. Not only is it harder I’ve heard, but also a lot more expensive.

He asked if I play, and I told him how I haven’t learned yet because it is “pay to learn” and I didn’t want to get scammed out of milks and commissary like when I first started playing spades. He excitedly offered to teach me how to play, then started selling me on how much fun it is. Absolutely I want to learn, I told him, but I’m in the middle of chess right now. “Tonight in the cell” he said. No way I’m getting on the table until I know certain stuff.

After I went back to my chess game with Dan, I watched Chang Money (as he said he name was) go right up to the people at the pinochle table and start cracking jokes. Before long, he was playing in the rotation. I remember learning a lot from watching how he was able to flow so easily and comfortably into this unforgiving environment. During my chess games with Dan I kept my eye on what was going on over there, studying their interactions like I was a student preparing for a test.

That night, after final rack in for the day, and after clothing exchange, C-Money (as he said his friends call him) taught me how to play Pinochle. I made an extra thick cup of coffee (that we call mud in here) to share with C-money by pouring some into his state issued cup. He taught me how to play the game for hours.

Pinhole:

Each hand starts with someone trying to win the bid. The person who wins the bid then has the other two players on a team trying to prevent him from getting enough points to win whatever number he bid. It’s such a complex game with so many different parts, but I learned quickly because he had me play both my hand, and the ghost hand that normally a third person would play.

That night I had trouble falling asleep because my mind was restless. Not because of the usual suspects, or because my brain was filled with the nuances of Pinochle, but because C-money told me right before going to bed that he needed me to help him cover the very small debt he incurred while playing at the table earlier. “Don’t worry” he told me “I’ve got money already on my books, I just need you to cover me until commissary day.”

The more I thought about it that night, the more it pissed me off. I wouldn't have minded so much if he would have actually asked in a different way, instead of just assuming I would cover the cost automatically. After a while though, I chalked it up to his personality and chose not to believe he was trying anything shady.

Everywhere there are reminders not to let my guard down.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

Many days came and went, packed with hours of Pinochle. One day between breakfast and lunch I was awoken by Dans voice outside my cell telling me he's rolling up. Apparently he got caught selling one of his pills. The write-up was enough to put his points above a certain level, so he’s getting sent to medium security population.

The points system as far as I’ve been able to figure out in this jail are based on your crime, your previous jail visits, and other aggravating/mitigating factors. How I ended up in minimum security while facing a murder charge is as much a mystery to me as it is to anyone who hears my story—at least until they learn it’s literally my first time in trouble. Even then, new inmates in the section usually carry a bit of skepticism. That is, until someone vouches for me who remembers seeing my case on the news, or has people on the outs look it up.

Once again, a reason to not ask too many questions outright, I can’t have any sort of association with what might be considered “snitch” affiliations.

Since Dan left, my daily routine completely changed, and so has my attitude. Instead of spending hours and hours lost in thought and occasional conversation with one person, now I’m talking non-stop and laughing while playing cards. Even after C-Money disappeared, leaving me to cover his small debt, the table banter never stopped.

Two of the dudes at the pinochle table are active gang members who've each done a few trips to the big box. Even though I laugh and joke with them, I still stay hyper respectful, because there is an inherent sense of danger that both exude. Simple things like not celebrating too boisterously when winning are crucial to be mindful of. The flash of “I want to unalive this guy right now” I saw in one of their eyes after such a celebration one time, is a chill down my spine I still feel.

Fear, what a concept. I’ve never considered myself a softy, but also don't typically use brute force as my first reaction to my pride being tested. Well, not since I got deeper into adulthood I should say. But the fear I have in this environment is that if I get in trouble for a fight or anything even remotely connected to violence, then the judges will categorize me accordingly and will naturally increase the amount of time I spend locked up. Any problems I make could add extra years to my sentence. So as much as I thought the most important thing to do with my time is to fight boredom and not go crazy, it’s actually most important to stay in my lane and out of trouble.

But I want my cake and to eat it too, because if I strictly follow such a conservative idea, the safest thing for me to do would be avoid all social interaction and spend all day in my cell. Which is something I cannot do. I need to take the risks required of me to fit in. I need to gamble at the card tables, I need to pass commissary, I need to talk shit and banter back and forth with real killers, gangsters, and thugs.

“-and that’s why we can’t ever have banana pancakes again on Christmas.” Darrell says finishing his story.

The whole time he was speaking, I was thinking and writing. He doesn’t notice and doesn’t care. I think if no one were in the cell, he probably would have said it all the same. Just talking to talk. The silver lining is the fact that he’s teaching me to tune things out on levels I never thought I’d be able to achieve. When library came, it was a most glorious day. The big phat books that make up The Wheel of Time series, take me out of the cell each night and into the magical world created by Robert Jordan.

I’ve never had time fall asleep while I stayed awake before. In here, with no alarm clock to clock out of, I can finally read slow enough to savor every sentence. Each chapter turns into a small brick to be placed in the escape tunnel I’ve been carving out of this box. How many books will it take though, until I finally stop seeing darkness at the end of the tunnel.

End of Chapter 7

The Scalpel is The Knife of knowledge.

Sewing The Knife write into my back,

I’m using The Knife to dissect syllables.

Grasping The Knife with the tip of my tongue,

I’m using The Knife to speak in tongues.

Gluing The Knife to the bottom of my boot,

I’m using The Knife to protect my soul.

Squeezing The Knife with all four digits,

I’m using The Knife to finger out life.

Taping The Knife to either knee,

I’m using The Knife to mince my needs.

Watching The Knife with my third eye,

I’m using The Knife to see behind me.