CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

“RACK IN RACK IN RACK IN!”

Everyone in the section starts looking around, trying to see what could be interrupting the middle of our day.

Tad says quickly, “Hurry up, let’s finish the hand.”

Jimbo and I are on a team this round trying to prevent Tad from pulling his bid, and the whole thing turns into a game of speed chess. I lose count in my head of how many aces were played and how many trump cards there are left. As we finish, I make a dumb mistake which gives Tad two points he should not have been able to pull.

“Shit! I lost count. Sorry Jimbo.”

“I would’ve pulled it anyways,” Tad says, throwing down his last few cards.

“WRAP IT UP GUYS!” the CO yells at us.

“Leave the cards here, we’ll count em when we come out.”

I make it back to my cell, and Kevin is right where I saw him last, on his bunk reading a book from The Sword of Truth series.

Darrell put in for the kitchen a few days after we had our little scuffle. It feels like forever ago now, even though it's only been two months. Truthfully, I think it was my buddies at the tables clowning on him all the time. His mental just couldn’t take it.

After Darrell, I had an older bum off the streets as my celly for a couple days. I’ve come to learn that during the winter months jail can be a little vacation away from the cold wet streets. “Three free meals and a cot” they say. He didn’t even post bail either, they just released him on the terms “overcrowding”.

After he left, I got Kevin, who has been my best celly yet. He hardly speaks, keeps clean, and mostly just reads all day. We have a lot in common with the kinds of books we prefer, so we combined our library orders on the last go around to get the whole Sword of Truth series—which a lot of people in here recommend.

He’s on book seven and really enjoying them. I’m on book six and I have to force myself to keep reading. The plot line is decent, but his character interactions are so flat and robotic. That’s what I love so much about Brandon Sanderson, not only is his world building fantastic, but the way his characters talk to each other feels alive and real.

Kevin puts his book down and asks “What’re we racking in for?”

“Not sure, nothing in our section I don’t think.”

I hear my own broken English and realize how much of my natural language I’ve abandoned, how much of myself I’ve dumbed down just to belong. I once said the word tantalizing at the table and you would have thought I said onomatopoeia with all the shit they gave me for using a “big word.”

I walk cell-laps back and forth as Kevin and I discuss the part of the book I’m reading. I’ve been lying to him the whole time about how much I’m enjoying the series, because it’s the only time he shows any excitement about anything. Reading between the lines, I’ve been able to put together that he relapsed and that’s why he’s in jail. He didn’t just lose his freedom this time though, he may have also lost his wife.

I keep doing cell-laps even after the conversation dulls, and Kevin gets back to reading. Every third or fourth lap, I'll stand at the door and look out into the section. There are quite a few inmates at their door as well, and I see Big Petey across the way, doing sign language to someone in a cell upstairs above me.

And so it continues for an hour. Walk to the table, touch the wall, walk back to the cell door, look out. Then boredom overtakes me, so I pull out my pill pack. Even though I know where I’m at on the count, I check them anyways.

The jail just gave me a six month check up to see how I’m doing with the pills.After half a year of listening to jail talk all day long, I’ve come to understand how truly valuable the pills I get are. The only reason they were prescribed to me was because of my lack of drug history. So I put into practice the advice given to me by the other inmates, and worded my responses to the doctor's questions in such a light that kept me on the same medications, but with an increased dosage.

However, the goal was not to get twice as high everyday, but so I could start my first jail hustle. It turns out that, like Seroquel, inmates will pay two or three soups for one of my Effexors. It’s an inmate rotating transaction that I really don’t fancy doing all the work for, or taking the risk on either. So I found a way to feed two birds with one peanut.

A dude named Wess, is one of numerous inmates that like to come over and watch us play Pinochle for hours, but never has the confidence to play himself. He’s a dorky young white dude who made his living as a drug dealer on the streets. Although, he’s literally the only dealer I’ve heard of yet who strictly deals weed and spice, and nothing else. No black, white, or clear. But he has the hustlers spirit through and through. One day, after going to him for my once-a-week Seroquel for a Sunday cocktail, I offered him a lucrative deal. I told him that if I supply him with one of my Effexor's each day, he can sell it and give me half the profits. You would have thought I had given him a winning lottery ticket with how excitedly he agreed. Not once has he tried to screw me over. It’s definitely not because he’s afraid of lil ol me, but probably because he watches me say things like “Fuck you” to likes of Tad and Scrappy.

These Pinochle gangsters and I aren’t the Sun everything in this jail-controlled section revolves around like you see on TV. We’re more like the gravity on Earth—holding everything down. Pills, drugs, a two-for-one store, and information all go through our little group at the card table.

The vast majority of the sixty four inmates in our minimum security section right now can fit into one of three categories: over the age of fifty five, won’t be here longer than six months, or is a petty criminal who has never done prison time. All-in-all so far, it’s been a much more laid back experience than I’d have thought after my first few days in here.

I don’t know how long we’re going to be locked down for today so I decide I’m going to snort my extra Effexor instead of selling it. As I’m crushing up the mood mellower with my I.D., I notice my D.O.B. is starting to fade a bit with all the work I’ve put the plastic card through. Saint Patrick's Day was a few days ago, which I know because our trays came with green frosting on a cake, meaning my birthday is in a few days. I’m about to hit the quarter-century life marker. Twenty-five is not even close to being considered old, so then why do I feel so bloody ancient?

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

The jarring sound of our doors popping open snaps me out of the relaxing, Effexor-induced meditation I was in while lying on my bunk.

I look at the clock in the day room and wonder what’s the point of letting us out for twenty minutes before having to rack back in for shift change. My ignorance is answered when I go out into the section and see inmates rushing to line up for the showers. That’s right, the showers are only going to get colder as the night goes on. Glad I always take mine right after lunch.

When I get to the card table, Scrappy is the only one there and we start walking laps after cleaning up the cards from earlier. I pull out my I.D. and make a joke about how the I.D. itself is gonna have to go to rehab for all its drug abuse. He takes a look and laughs, then he takes note of the date and says “March 22nd? That’s Wednesday right?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. Why?”

“That’s the day Cory gets out. You ready to join the crew for real this time?”

Cory is one that I secretly dislike. He came into the section the day before Brock went home, and just because he’s homies with Tad on the streets, he was able to get the laundry trustee job over me.

“Send it,” I say a hundred times more nonchalant than three months ago.

“You’re gonna be in for a surprise too, someone got a very exciting kite from one of the trustees in quarantine.” He lowers his tone to a quiet threat. “Don’t tell anyone, not a single person, including Wess. We just keep this among the laundry crew, K?”

“Oh, 100%.”

We do laps until rack in. The whole time I was considering in the back of my mind the implications of accepting the trustee job. Before I even have the job, I’m already getting involved in what sounds like is going to be a drug deal involving something from the streets. The chances are high that something could go awry, getting me into some serious trouble. But how do I say no to people like Scrappy and Tad? Can I even say no? I wish I could call my Dad and ask his advice without the phones recording every word. Even though I already know what he would say, it would still be nice to hear my pops voice of reason. I can’t talk to my celly either. The only person I can talk to is myself. Crazy people talk out loud to themselves I hear, so I stick to talking to myself through writing. Once upon a time, in a forest deep deep inside.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

Shift-change is over, and as I’m walking into the dayroom, I see Wess walking my way.

“What up.” I say in greeting.

He wastes no time getting into business. “Yo, you got a house for me?”

I respond apologetically. “Nah, sorry bro, I took it during rack-ins.”

“Dude! I already made a deal with Big Petey.”

“So that was you he was signing to earlier?”

“Yeah, I was working on a deal to get his bottle of Benadryl. I really need a pink house dude!”

“Sorry Bub, like I said, I already took it.”

Wess is not accepting a no on this. “I know your pack ain't empty, come on do me a favor.”

“It’s clothing changeout tonight, not worth the risk, can’t do it.”

“I’ll make it worth the risk, just put the pack in your sheet when you wrap it around you.”

“And have it fall out when I start walking? No thanks.”

“Come on bro, pleaseee! I’ll make you a deal, I won’t take a cut on the next three trades.”

Hmmmm one pill to equal about eight bucks? That is a pretty hefty payday, plus I bet I can hide my pack for just one clothing exchange.

“Hmm. Tempting, very tempting. Okay, if you throw me a bag of cool ranch Doritos today, and the three free deals, then you’ve got a deal right now.”

“Bet!” he says happily as we lock it in with a fist bump.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

The nightly hymn "goodnight homie” is being sung, with the percussions of slapping hands and fists coming together in the background.

“You good?” I ask Kevin, ready to close the door for the night.

He puts his book down, thinks for a moment, then replies, “All good.”

I tell him about my mission to hide my pill pack tonight and he offers his two cents on the best way to make a pocket in the sheet before I wrap it around me.

Clack Clack

Kevin empties our garbage into the bag that Cory is walking around with, so I start walking towards the clothing line. The little pocket folded into the seam where my pill pack sits—feels like it’s too loose, but it’s too late to change it now. I shuffle forward, and with every step I feel the pack shift slightly. I keep imagining my little secret slipping out, tapping the floor, and condemning me to the life of getting out for one hour a day in maximum security. All I can do is take another step, and then another. By the time I finish getting my uniform bundle, the pack is so loose that I have to press the clothes against it to prevent it from falling. Now it’s just a matter of prayer. I’m almost home, and on the brink of a relieved sigh, when my heart drops at the doorway.

"CO try hard" is still in there going through our shit!

He sees my celly and I arrive, and putting on his detective voice, he asks, “Whose books are whose?”

Kevin starts answering for us right away. “Half and half, we’re both reading them.”

“Well I count thirteen here. Last I checked six and six is twelve. You have six seconds to pick which one goes or they all go.”

Kevin picks up one of our two National Geographic's and tries to hand it to the copper.

But the copper just looks at him like he’s a slug. “Do I look like I want that? Go put it on the cart.”

Kevin is a grown ass man, and I can see by the way his body tenses, that he’s trying to keep his cool after being talked down to like he’s a child. The copper seems to be looking for an excuse to use force tonight, but he comes up short as my celly doesn’t allow himself to get provoked.

As the copper leaves our cell, I give him a wide berth. He eyes me up and down, holding my bundle of clothes against my body before he says, “Don’t let me catch you holding extra books again,” then stalks off in search of another night to ruin.

What a douche canoe.

Kevin comes back to the cell and closes the door. “What a douche canoe! I cannot stand that CO!”

“Literally exactly what I was just thinking!”

Kevin blocks as much vision as he can at the door, then says, “You’re good.”

I set my clothing bundle on the corner table, and, right as I do, my pill pack falls to the ground.

“Holy shit that was close!” I say, quickly picking up the pack and putting it in my box. We turn away from each other, to give a bit of privacy as we both put on our uniforms.

Out of respect, I feel like I need to tell Kevin I’m going to be moving. “Sooo, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be replacing Cory when he leaves Wednesday.”

He nods up and down at me. “I think you’re gonna like that better. I mean, if you’re going to be here that long, then it’s better to have a steady routine.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking too. Plus, I get along with all those guys, as you can see.”

“I do see.” He says slowly. “And my unsolicited advice is for you to be careful. Don’t allow them to get you to do anything you don’t wanna do. I’ve seen it happen way too much to kids your age.”

I’m about to respond, but he cuts me off before I get a word out. “I know you’re not a kid. Just don't get caught up in the “It’s cool to be in a gang” mindset.” He throws up the ol finger air quotes before twisting them into gang signs.

He means well, and I do take his advice to heart, even if I already know it. “Thanks man, I hear what you’re sayin.”

We slap hands together and pull each other in for two slaps on the back. Straight men can hug too, we just make sure there's some hitting involved.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

It’s Wednesday night and my birthday’s gone as good as it can be so far. The only thing that keeps nagging me, is not having my Dad answer his phone at all the entire day. When I called my sister right before rack in, she said she had not heard from him either, but she will pass along the message to him that I love him and tried to call.

Cory left like he was supposed to, and the crew voted me in. Moving into Old Man Jimbos cell feels like I moved across town. Even though it’s just a stone's throw away, the placement of the cell is right under the stairs so it gives the feeling of added privacy.

During the day the crew gives me the lowdown on the details of what we do each night and what my position will be as the new guy. During clothing exchange, I won't be the guy who hands out shirts, or pants, or even the socks/underwear, I’ll be the guy that walks around with the COs, holding a big trash bag for them to throw “contraband” away from the cells they search. Other than the difference in roles on those nights we all share the same responsibilities. After work most nights, we get to go into the programming room and stay up watching late-night television, with the occasional movie.

Clack Clack, Clack Clack

Tad, Scrappy, Old Man Jimbo, and I walk out of our cells.

Clack Clack

The CO opens the section door with his key and we walk casually out of the pod. We don’t go too far down the hallway before everyone stops. The CO pulls out his keys again and opens a regular sized door. Inside is a large closet with cleaning supplies, shelves of sheets, and carts with folded uniforms.

Scrappy points out the obvious layout, Tad makes a dumb joke about escaping that I’ve heard before, and Old man Jimbo wheels out the socks and underwear cart. The CO is an older guy and fits the IDGAF personality that seems to match up with most coppers working the night shift.

It feels absolutely bizarre being able to move around somewhere that’s not the little fish bowl I’ve become so acclimated to. We start with our section, then the section next to ours. It’s as simple as it seems, then we hit quarantine.

Quarantine for the entire jail is just two sections, and both sections have a… smell to them. This is the place inmates first come to, and most of them are coming off heavy drug or alcohol use. We divide into two groups, one for upstairs and one for downstairs. Almost nobody wants to exchange their socks or underwear in here. As Jimbo and I finish upstairs, I notice Tad still at the first cell talking to the trustee of the section. Scrappy coughs the signal for Tad to walk away. The copper doesn’t notice at all as he finishes his rounds.

As we head into the fourth, and last section we’re responsible for, I see Tad give us all a grin and nod behind the COs back. We do the same route in the other quarantine section, and when Jimbo and I make it up the stairs I whisper to him, “what’s the good news?”

“I’ll tell you back at home,” he whispers back, “but it looks like we’re still good to go.”

This has got to be what Scrappy was talking about for the “surprise”.

Clack Clack

We’re back.

“CO, can you pop the programming room please?” asks Scrappy.

“Sure, here’s the remote.” As he hands Scrappy the remote, he gives us one rule: “No going in and out tonight, though; once you come out, you’re out for the night. So you’d better make sure you relieve your bladders before going in.

We all heed the warning in our cells before making our way into the T.V. room. Once the door is closed, the chatter starts up immediately.

Tad starts with “OOO, it’s on! Q said he was able to get it from a Piasa today and it's a full blown twenty piece!”

“You still good to get your Uncle to put money on his books right Jimbo Slice?” Scrappy inquires.

“Most definitely, he owes me big time. If he doesn’t do it, then he can find someone else to pay his phone bill.” Old man Jimbo replies smugly.

I don’t even have to ask any questions. The crew repeat themselves multiple times trying to break down what they are going to do with the “twenty piece rock.”

The “rock” they keep referring to is literally crack cocaine. Not coke you can snort, but the raw rock you put in a crack pipe and smoke. Which is why Tad asks me, “yo, killer, you know why we’re going to order a pickle?”

To which I respond, “because it will get the taste out of your mouth?” which makes everyone burst out laughing.

“Not a bad guess actually.” Scrappy says, “but no. We’re not eating it, that would waste most of it. You have to snort this shit, but crack doesn’t break down in water right?”

“Right.”

I guess everyone in the drug world is a chemist.

Scrappy just accepts it and continues. “So we need something to break it down, which is why we need to order a pickle off commissary.”

“Or find someone in here who already has one.” Tad interjects.

But Scrappy immediately shuts the idea down. “Yeah, and risk having people get suspicious? I don’t think so.”

“True, true. Gotta keep this on the D-low.”

I try my shot at another guess. “So do you put some in a piece of pickle and eat the pickle?”

“I just fucking told you we don’t eat it. Do you not listen?” Scrappys friendly teacher tone is gone now, replaced by a chef berating a slow line cook. “Use your brain. I said you have to snort it right?”

He’s now gesturing every movement as he explains so that there’s no room for misunderstanding. “So you grab a toothpaste cap, pour a little bit of pickle juice in there, then put a little piece of rock in. After you let it sit for a minute, you stir it around, and *sniff,” he ends the explanation with a snorting motion then widens his eyes and says, “and now the spaceship has launched, and you’re going to the moon!”

After his explanation, Jimbo and Tad start sharing their wildest times smoking crack. After about fifteen minutes of storytime, I notice Tad watching the copper station. The CO stands and walks off. Tad taps Scrappy’s knee, gesturing toward the section. They both get up, go to the window, and peer out.

After a moment, Scrappy turns and says, “So you’re twenty five today, huh?”

I hear the section door Clack Clack, then Tad says in a devious voice, “K, he’s gone, we have six minutes.”

“Six minutes for what?” I say immediately.

Tad’s the one to confirm what I really wish was not happening right now. “Don’t play dumb boy, you already know it’s time to get you some birthday spankings!”

I shoot up out of my seat and into a fighting stance, “oh hell no!”

Old man Jimbo nonchalantly gets up and moves our chairs out of the way. “Happens to everyone kid, don’t take it personally.”

Then Scrappy says without apology, “Take your lickins’ like a man, or you’ll have to take em’ like a bitch. Up to you.”

I choose the "being a man” route, which means when Jimbo says start, I endure body shots for sixty seconds from Scrappy and Tad at half force. The only thing I’m allowed to do is try and cover up, which is impossible versus two guys.

When I hear Old Man Jimbo say “times up”, I feel like an orange after being used to make juice. However, I’m still standing. We each do a bro hug, which makes me grunt each time, because they make their last slap on my back an extra strong one.

“Don’t look now, but lil killa here might just make it after all,” says Tad, leaving out any typical condescension.

“Fuck that, I quit. I can’t work in these conditions.”

Everyone laughs, and Scappy finishes with the line that’s said multiple times a day.

“Don’t like it? Don’t come to jail.”

We spend the rest of the night watching late night talk-shows and Pawn Stars. I can definitely feel the birthday beating, but there’s just going to be some bruising is all. Overall, I feel pretty elated. I have a position in the jail that is not easy to get. I have money on my books, a decent hustle going, and I’m part of the most powerful group in the section.

What more could I really want given the circumstances?

End of Chapter 9

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.

Running The Knife right through my hair,

I’m using The Knife with no time to spare.

Attaching The Knife to my Adams apple,

I’m using The Knife and I’m swallowed whole.