The First Slice

Chapter III

Wow, this is actually really good, I think as I take a bite of biscuits & gravy with a powdered scrambled egg.

I can taste the rare pepper seasoning actually add a morsel of flavor to the normally bland meals. And the way the gravy soaks into the biscuit makes for a pleasing texture. This is easily my favorite meal now. How could I have thought this was garbage a week ago? The meal is missing one thing though. My milk. I look across the way and see Straggle Tooth at the table, and lo and behold he has his milk.

“Bastard,” I mutter under my breath.

I'm halfway through my meal when a commotion starts to grow behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see two dudes yelling insults and pointing at a tray.

And just like that, a symphony of chaos comes alive during the middle of an opera. The violins whine notes like punk bitch, the sounds of two bodies struggling to maim each other are coming out of the tuba and trumpet, the percussion is CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACKing, and copper yells like a sostenuto. (Typically the middle pedal on grand pianos, the sostenuto pedal allows a copper to sustain certain notes while inmates remain unaffected.) Everything is echoing off cold concrete walls and vibrating into the ears of a hungry audience.

All of us are watching the fight now while moving slowly toward our cells. One of the guys is much bigger and manages to body-slam his foe to the ground. Biggie is trying to lay some ground-and-pound through Smallie’s guard when the copper starts pepper-spraying, effectively stopping the scuffle dead in its tracks. A few moments later, the goon squad dressed in black and equipped in full battle rattle come rushing into the section shouting orders before they’re even through the door.

“Hurry up! Get to your cells now! Rack in and close your doors! Hurry up! MOVE MOVE MOVE!” Big and Small are cuffed right away then escorted out of our section.

“Well, there goes our morning. We’ll be lucky to get out before lunch,” JJ sighs.

Well, back to bed.

“Hey, homie, get up — trays are coming around,” JJ wakes me up to say.

It's lunch time and we are still locked down. The copper walks around, opening our cup ports, and a few minutes later, passes out the orange plastic spoons. Trustees are the only ones allowed out of their cells and bring our trays right to our house.

I eat automatically because I’m still half asleep, and remembering the interactive movie my brain was just putting me through. My dreams have been getting longer and more vivid every day.

Nothing happened in my dream to cause me to wake up in a sweat, but it's wild how memories and imagination come together to make a show for me to watch. John was there with me talking about visiting Mars, and the woman I used to love kept throwing peanuts at him. Then all of a sudden we were all preparing to bungie jump off of a helicopter that had already landed.

Why don’t dreams make as much sense when I write them down?

Dinner came and went two hours ago, and we’re still locked down. I spent the whole day lost in thought, reading through magazines, and listening to JJ ramble on about the drug game. Magazines are all JJ reads, so that’s all I’ve got right now. Library will be coming around next week and I can’t wait. I’ve always loved books and the one good thing about this jail is the massive library collection I’ve been told about. I’m already planning on rereading some of my favorite fantasy series. Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time (Thank God for Brandon Sanderson. “Amen.”) Big phat books with tons of words, perfect for filling the hours. I mean days. I mean weeks. I mean months, I mean…

“She’s on one, she could have let us out an hour ago,” JJ says, giving off the impression his time is being stolen from him. “We still need to shower and you know they’re gonna be ice cold ’cause everyone else on this side of the jail will be showering first, taking all the hot water.”

He’s actually got a point there. The showers are only hot in the morning and lukewarm in the afternoon. Showering after dinner usually means a chilly shower, and now we’ll be shivering. Sixty seconds in hell is mandatory after how gross I feel being stuck in a bathroom for so many hours straight.

I turn my head to look at the copper station for the millionth time. She must have at least fifteen years on me, platinum-blonde hair pulled back tight in a ponytail, little square glasses like a librarian would wear, a hint of pink lipstick, and a slim figure sculpted from plenty of sweat and quick heartbeats.

She must have heard my lusty thoughts, because out of nowhere she looks up from her work and looks straight in my direction. Her icy blue eyes… oh wait, that was used in Chapter 1. Ummm, her sapphire blue eyes… no, not dramatic enough. The electric lightning shooting out of her liquid spheres strike me, causing the first two layers of my epidermis to react like a photon realizing it’s being observed, making follicles erect on the back of my nape, making… Way too much. Ugh… she gets the blood pumping through my entire body.

“Yo!” my celly sticks his face to the crack of the door and yells into the section, “Are we getting out tonight?”

“Not if you keep asking!” Miss Electricity yells right back.

“Dumb lesbian,” JJ mutters.

The speaker blares, causing JJ and I to jump. “What did I just hear you say!?”

“I said ‘dumb profession.’ Why come here forty hours to be locked up in cement walls with no windows just for a stupid paycheck?” JJ says it boldly, but is looking at me with wide eyes.

“Because some of us actually make a living by not selling drugs. And guess what? I get to go home and have a nice juicy steak, while you're stuck eating cardboard”.

“Yeah, all of a sudden you eat meat. Righhht,” he retorts, with his permanent grin making its return.

“God, you’re a little shit. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood or I would write you up and send you to max for harassing a guard,” she says in a tone that's way more banterous than serious.

“Come on, you know you love me. Now for real, what’s going on, are we getting out soon or what?” he asks with puppy-dog eyes on his breath.

“Yes, now leave me alone. The sooner I get this report written up, the sooner I’ll let you guys out,” she says, ending the conversation.

What in the hell did I just witness? So they don’t hate each other? Is she actually mean or not? I don’t understand.

“You can tell she wants me, huh.” JJ says to me with one hand over the speaker. His eyes are twinkling and he looks like a man confident that he can pull off one of the most manly feats in this underworld: banging a female guard.

“I don’t know what she wants honestly, I thought she was about to pepper-spray our cell.”

“I used to be a clothing trustee on my last stay here. Notice how she got in at 5:30? She works the graveyard shift and after we'd get get done folding laundry or doing changeouts, she'd let me and the other trustees stay in the TV room to watch shows until like two in the morning. But bro, she’s got a temper too. Like, she’s one person I would not fuck with if she’s fired up. But God damn she’s smokin’, eh?” he says, turning to look towards the guard station.

“Hell yeah she’s smokin’!” I say truthfully as I look her way again.

“Spades?”

“Shuffle and deal,” he says, as he sits down on the toilet and starts peeing.

During our game he talked about his baby mama on the outs. He shared the good, the bad, the ugly, and the crazy. He also told me about his girlfriend on the side. With her though, it was just the good and the crazy.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

Officer Parker kept her word; the section is open.

The water is as icy as I figured it would be by the time I shower. Afterwards, JJ and I sit down with Bones and Los and we’re able to cut my debt in half by winning one of my milks and one of my cakes back. More importantly though, I had a good time laughing at the table. Jokes or shit-talk make up 90% of what comes out of everyone’s mouth while playing. Is it scary I feel like I’m starting to fit in with criminals? I feel a type of sympathy from the guys as they hear my story. Some of these old-timers have done as much time behind bars as I’ve been alive, and to them I'm just starting my new depressing life in the system.

After many games of spades, JJ has to make a phone call. I’m pumped up from the excitement of actually enjoying myself for the first time in a long while, so I want to keep socializing. There’s a group over at the TV standing around watching the last inning of game 6 of the World Series, so I walk over and sit down next to a stranger.

“What up?” I say with an up-nod of my head. “How longs it been tied for?” I’m trying to reach into my brain for the rules of baseball.

“The Cubs just scored in the last inning to tie it up. It’s the bottom of the ninth now and Cleveland is trying to stay alive to force a game seven.”

It seems like he’s telling me this as a way to manifest its reality. In the interest of making another friend and risking absolutely nothing, I decide to all of a sudden have a preference as to who wins.

“I’m hoping Cleveland takes it, man; I have a friend that lives in Ohio that’s a huge fan,” I tell him the half-truth.

“Oh yeah? What part of Ohio?” he asks.

“I can’t remember exactly where, but we met when I was backpacking the Pacific Crest Trail for three months. I started off alone but we met about a month into the journey and he started teaching me guitar. We traveled together the rest of the time I was out there.”

It goes down like a smoothie... My P.C.T. stories are like conversation ammunition when I meet anyone for the first time.

Number one, I get genuinely excited when I talk about it, and when I get excited my energy is contagious.

Number two, it makes people genuinely interested in me which makes them more likely to share something interesting about themselves.

The conversation just has so much more flavor when both people are engaged with genuine interest.

“Wow, you spent three months out there? What did you eat, like berries and stuff?”

“Haha, no, it was not like that. It’s a pretty popular trail and there’s places to resupply every few days. I used to think I was getting scammed paying fifty cents a noodle until I came here. I mean, a dollar for a noodle?”

“Oh I know. It’s criminals in charge of criminals. But what can you do?”

I like his nonchalant attitude and he speaks more clearly than most of the other inmates I’ve met so far.

“Well, the-”

“K, guys — wrap it up and head to your cells,” Officer Parker says to our group at the TV.

“Ah come on CO, it’s the last inning,” someone pleads.

“I don’t know what that means! Baseball is the most boring sport, I don't see how y'all can watch it. How much longer until it’s over?”

“Well it’s tied, probably not be more than fifteen or twenty minutes.” the same guy replies.

“Ok, you’ve got until 9:15 — that’s fifteen minutes, then it’s rack in.” she says, looking at the clock.

“How about 9:25?” someone else asks.

“How about 9:10?” she retorts, taking five minutes off her offer.

“No no no!” about six people say at the same time.

We all go back to what we’re doing. Most people were not actually watching the game, but there’s a sense of dread going back into the tiny 8x10 we just spent a whole day in.

“Anyways.” I turn back to my new acquaintance. “I just learned spades earlier — you play?”

“Cards are not really my thing; I’m more of a chess player,”

“Get out of here!” I say excitedly. “Chess is my game! I didn’t think anyone here played.”

I realize what a stupid thing I just said, because he raises his eyebrow at me.

“I mean, I’ve just not seen anyone play, so I thought it was like getting a sweatshirt”.

“You ain’t from around here, boy, are ya?” he says in an ol’ Western accent and chuckles. “No, yeah, they have a chess board."

“Hell yeah, man, I literally love chess. I’m Knight, by the way,” I say, holding out my hand.

“You’re names Knight? I wonder what your favorite chess piece is,” he says, shaking my hand while making a dad joke. “I’m Dan.”

“Good to meet you Dan.”

“Good to meet you too”

We turn back to the tube and watch Chicago win the World Series.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

"Top tier!" a short buff guard barks at a sleepy section.

I watch inmates from the top tier shuffle along in line to get their food. This copper is over the top intense as he thrusts his meaty sausage hand into the bucket of spoons like he is trying to catch a fish, then holding each one out like it's a slippery challenge.

He is a walking steroid. Veins are bursting from what used to be a neck and you can feel the tension and rage just waiting to explode, giving off a rabid pit-bull vibe. I see he has a ring on, and I can picture how miserable life must be for his wife being married to such a buffoon. “You got red potatoes!? I told you yellow potatoes! IS IT SO HARD TO FOLLOW FUCKING ORDERS!?” *throws his half-empty beer at the wall.

I sit down in my cell with my tray and look down at this bullshit breakfast. Lukewarm scalloped potato slices with absolutely no seasoning, some fruit from a can that’s been sitting in preservatives for months or even years, a small portion of corn flakes, and a little carton of milk (no passing milks when Officer Blood Pressure is watching).

After shoveling the "food" down my throat I put my tray back on the cart, my spoon on my cup port, hop back into bed, and eventually fall back to sleep.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

I've actually been awake for the past hour but I've kept my eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. I do it so no one bothers me.

It's hard transitioning into being awake. I hate everything and everyone around me; I want to go back to the adventures in my sleep. But it's lunchtime now — gotta get up.

I sit up, rubbing cognition into my still sleepy eyes. Looking out into the pod I see the section door open and a trustee bring in the food cart. Officer Steroid counts spoons like he used to count ammunition in the Marines.

"Dude, how can you sleep that long?" JJ asks.

I shrug. "The pills are strong, I guess."

Clack Clack, Clack Clack

Lunchtime came and went, now it’s time for daily house cleaning. Cell doors are opened two at a time on top tier and two at a time on bottom tier. My celly’s done a lot of time and knows the best way to clean. We take the spray bottle and spray every surface in the cell: the metal toilet and metal sink connected to it, the metal corner table and metal stool, and a gray concrete floor. We wipe the table then the sink then the toilet. Lastly, we get a grip of paper towels and wipe down the floor by hand instead of using the mop, or “Hep stick” as JJ calls it, short for hepatitis stick. Cleaning the cell makes me wonder about the kinds of bacterial colonies that have grown resistant to the weak spray and are thriving under the microscope.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

With cleaning time over, the pod is now open.

JJ heads to the phone, I stand just outside of my cell, watching the inmates go about the section like little ants in a farm. A few ants go to the phones, a few ants start doing laps, a card game starts at the tables, a few ants pull out plastic chairs and plop down in front of the TV. Then there’s Officer Steroid, watching everyone like the evil cricket in A Bug’s Life.

I need to get my legs moving so I head over and start doing laps. Round and round the tables I go, watching what's going on around me, always out of the corner of my eye. After doing dozens and dozens of laps and getting lost in thought a few times I glance at the clock. Twenty minutes — that's it. Only twenty minutes have passed. What the hell kind of twilight shit is this? It feels like I've been walking for…

I do another full scan around the section, this time with the intention to find something to do. I see Dan walking laps on the other side so I step out of the invisible track and stand a few moments while inmates pass me, then step back in next to Dan.

"What up, dude?" I ask after we both head-nod, acknowledging each other.

"Not much, how you doin?"

We chop it up for a little while, making casual conversation.

"You play chess right?"

"Yeah, you tryin' to play?"

"Let's do it. Uhh, how do we get the chess board?"

"It’s just like getting a razor, go up to the guard station and give him your ID and he’ll give you the set."

Great, of course I have to go talk to Evil Cricket.

"Can I get the chess set, please?" I say, holding up my ID for the copper to take.

He stares at me dead in the eye for a few moments before snatching my ID and getting the items for me. Right as I grab the game, he startles me by barking at someone walking laps behind me. "HEY YOU, PULL UP YOUR PANTS, I DON'T WANNA SEE YOUR ASS HANGING OUT!"

Even though he was not yelling at me, my anxiety levels spike, making my hands even more sweaty than usual as my heart starts pounding. This place has me so high-strung, but I try not to show any weakness. Not like the tough Hollywood types in prison that have to fight the biggest dude to gain respect, but more like avoiding the kind of weaknesses that would target me as a person to be laughed at and disregarded. I want respect and crave being relevant.

Stay composed, stay cool-headed, keep control. I just wish my hands would stop shaking every time my heart starts pounding.

I love everything about chess. I love the geometry of how pieces can move, the patterns, setting up traps on defense, and putting together offenses that take tremendous foresight. I love how kings of old used to play this game to settle wars and land disputes. I love how teachers and masters have been using the game to teach their pupils applicable life lessons and strategies since the 6th century AD.

But what I love most right now is being able to lose myself in the shifting puzzle before me. I can tell right off the bat that this guy is pretty decent, but I want to know from game one how good he actually is. I'm not playing to win this game; I'm throwing moves at him just to see how he responds. I want to know if he's a risk-taker and aggressive, I want to know if he will take the seemingly gimmick piece without looking at the bigger picture. I want to use chess to understand psychology.

Why do people do what they do? Why do people act a certain way? What makes a person likable or unlikeable and why? These are questions that drove me to study and learn so much psychology, philosophy, religion, and neuroscience.

When I had a sales job I was able to slip into skin after skin depending on whom I was selling to. Understanding so much about people's behavior made me very successful at my job. But it was not my gift of gab that made me so special at work; it was my ability to listen to others, then spend time out of my sentences to make sure their words were heard and understood. I truly believe that’s the main division separating humanity: people who actively listen, and those who do not.

I win the first game, which was close by design. I encouraged his ego by acknowledging little traps he set up during the match. He says he's surprised at my skill level and informs me that he has not played very many good players.

“Obviously, we are of higher intelligence by sheer fact that we are chess players here, not checkers,” he says while we set up the next game.

Yes, my new friend here fancies his smarts, and a man like this will be very easy to have in my corner as long as I stroke that side of his ego fairly regularly. "Ahh, good trap here and here and here — you put me in a very tight spot! This is gonna be tough to get out of!" But it's not. He is not subtle enough with his setups, and it's easy to counter when it's clear to see what his strategy is.

He has potential to be better though, and I will subtly train him to get to a point where he can be more of a challenge. More important than winning a game is finding something stimulating to do with my time.

More important than something to do with my time is not going insane.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

It’s 9:00 PM. Most of the sixty-three other dudes I live with are all fist-bumping and singing the song “goodnight homie.”

End of Chapter 3

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.