Antiques Knock-Off (11 page)

The next day I was able to meet my other roommates for the first time during recreation period in the common
room. I wasn’t at all nervous because I had watched every episode of the Australian soap
Prisoner: Cell Block H,
plus the British prison drama
Bad Girls,
so it was not as though I was a novice to life behind bars.

The first thing I decided to do was find out who the Top Dog was—usually the toughest-looking prisoner, or the one who’d been inside the longest—because I certainly didn’t want to step on the wrong toes and wind up with a shiv in my side. Not on my first day!

So you can imagine my surprise when I approached a middle-aged husky woman with a crew cut, seated at one of the picnic-style tables, and received only a vacant stare in response to my Top Dog query.

A young, rail-thin blonde next to her answered with a frown, “There ain’t no dog at the top or anywhere else, far as I know. They don’t allow no pets in here.”

“I don’t mean a literal dog, dear—a
figurative
one.”

“Huh?”

My goodness, no Top Dog? What kind of rinky-dink jail
was
this, anyway?

I tried again. “Well, dear, for goodness’ sakes—how do you get anything
done
around here? Without a Top Dog, who is it that settles squabbles between the inmates, and negotiates with the screws?”

“The whats?”

“The screws, dear. The
guards?”

The young woman merely shrugged; but I could tell by her wide-eyed expression that she was impressed by my knowledge of incarceration protocol. She introduced herself as Jennifer, just her first name, saying she was serving nine months for Controlled Substances (using, not selling) (this seemed to be a point of pride).

I stuck out my hand. “Vivian, Felony Murder. Nice to meet you.”

When her crew-cut friend remained sullen and silent, Jennifer gestured, “This is Carol. Assault.”

In an effort to draw shy Carol out of her shell, I asked, “Aggravated, serious, or simple?” I knew only too well the classes of misdemeanors from my past sentences.

Carol said glumly, “Aggravated … I’m stuck in here for another two months.” Then she added bitterly, as if still tasting this morning’s overly dry hash (a definite possibility), “But the b-word deserved it.”

(She did not say “b-word.” Again, I am taking the liberty of protecting the more delicate among you. Just because I am now a hardened veteran of the penal system does not mean I have lost my sensitivity.)

Sympathetically I said, “I’m sure she did, my dear.” No sense in getting on the wrong side of Aggravated Assault.

By that time, the other three inmates seated at another table decided to come over and join our little kaffeeklatsch (minus coffee).

Jennifer made the introductions. There was Sarah—mid-twenties, tall, shapely, with shoulder-length red hair and green eyes—serving time for Bank Embezzlement; Angela—thirties, dark complected, short curly black hair, pudgy—third offense Drunk Driving; and Rhonda—either a well-preserved forty or hard-living thirty, long brown hair, attractive but for a bad complexion—Burglary.

With yours truly, we made a cozy group of six, which was about the usual number of female inmates for our size community.

Jennifer was gesturing to me. “And this is—” Getting caught up in making all those introductions, she had forgotten my name.

“Vivian, dear.”

“This here is Vivian Deer—she’s in for Murder.”

Sarah tossed her red hair back from her face. “Good
riddance I say—I used to wait on Connie Grimes at the bank—
horrible
woman, so
rude….
“

My reputation had preceded me!

Carol was nodding her short-cropped head. “Yeah, that fat cow would always roll her eyes when me and my partner’d walk by—like we was disgusting. What? And she
wasn’t?”

Angela chimed in. “My parents, they own El Burro? Once that
puta
complain about the food, then leave without paying the bill. But she eats her whole plate of enchiladas first, doesn’t she?”

Only burglar Rhonda had nothing to add to the rather vivid word picture of the late Constance Grimes.

I patted the air with my hands. “Now, now, girls, it’s not
polite
to speak ill of the dead. Everyone has
some
good in them … although I am hard-pressed to think of anything good to add about the deceased, at this time. If something occurs to me, you’ll be the first to know.”

Everyone fell silent for a moment, then Jennifer’s face brightened like a child handed an ice cream cone. “Say, Vivian—why don’t
you
be our Top Dog? I mean, since we ain’t got one and you seem to know so much about it.”

I patiently waited for protestations from the others, but none came. Just as I was experiencing a rush of pride, I noticed that Rhonda was staring at me with open hostility.

(I had never met the woman before, and could only think that some folks have difficulty adjusting to life behind bars.)

Nonetheless, I said, “Why, ladies, I’d be
honored.”

Imagine, only my third day in stir and my first day on the cell block, and already I was Top Dog!

But something bothered me, and I touched a finger to my lips.

“You know,” I ventured, “I don’t much like the term

Top Dog—it sounds too negative, and I’m all about accentuating the positive, as you’ve surely noticed. Why don’t you all call me ‘Mother,’ and I’ll look out for you as if you were my very own.”

Carol snorted, “Well,
my
mom was a—”

(In a way I regret not being able to report what Carol said next, because she did have a most unusual and graphic mode of self-expression, but our editor informs us that inclusion of same might cause this book to be excluded from several major chains. And Brandy and I are not writing these books for our health!)

I touched Carol’s shoulder (I was still standing; she seated) and said, “Then allow me to be the
good
Mother that you never had.”

That was a trifle clichéd, perhaps, but all clichés bear a kernel of truth, which is why it brought tears to Carol’s eyes, and several of the others (if not Rhonda).

And to make good on my promise, I turned and marched across the room, right over to the Plexiglas window, behind which sat a female deputy at a bank of surveillance monitors, and pressed the intercom button.

“Patty,” I said cordially, “would you please inform Sheriff Rudder that
Vivian Borne
would like to speak to him most urgently.”

Patty—a woman in her forties, rather plain-faced, with dishwater blond short hair and no real enthusiasm for living (I knew her from the
old
CJ)—pressed a button on her side of the glass.
“What about, Vivian?”

Which caught me a little off guard because I hadn’t quite thought about
why
I wanted to see the sheriff, since I was really just trying to assert my Top Doggedness.

But I managed to reply, as if she should have known, “About the jail
conditions,
of course!”

Behind the Plexiglas, Patty’s eyes closed. Had she fallen asleep?

I put my hands on my hips. “You know it’s just as easy to serve
natural
applesauce as
sugared
… and why can’t we ladies have a few Pilates balls in here? All that fattening food is going straight to our hips.”

Due to the thick Plexiglas, I couldn’t tell whether Patty was smiling or smirking at my requests (at least she’d opened her eyes again). But she didn’t answer, merely clicked off her end of the intercom and turned her back to me.

But I had asserted myself and shown the others that I was serious about being their leader.

On the way back to join my new family, I had one of my usual strokes of genius (at my age, the only stroke worth having). Instead of wasting our recreational time watching soppy soap operas, or assembling jigsaw puzzles lacking the occasional piece, why couldn’t we put on a play? Granted, the other women most likely had no acting experience whatsoever, but I possessed enough talent to carry us all.

To start with, we could learn a simple one-act play (with me in the lead role, of course), then perform it for Sheriff Rudder and his deputies, and finally to all of the other CJ inmates (the males). I had dozens of plays locked up in my head, so we didn’t even need scripts.

(I immediately thought of
The Vagina Monologues,
but on further consideration, that piece might not be advisable for presentation to an abstinent male population.)

I was about to share my exciting new idea with my girls when Patty’s voice came over the intercom.

“Vivian?”

I turned toward the Plexiglas. My, that was quick! Unlike Chief Tony Cassato, who always left me cooling my heels at the station, Sheriff Rudder never kept Vivian Borne waiting (perhaps preferring to take his medicine and get it over with).

But Patty announced,
“You have a visitor.”

The deputy jailor came out of the booth, then electronically unlocked the steel door to the common room, so that she could escort me to the visitor’s station.

We went through another set of electronically locked doors, and then entered a small room (one of three identical separate cubbyholes) which was only large enough for me to be seated at another Plexiglas window. The deputy took her position behind me, by the door.

Across the barrier sat Brandy, alone in her small room, the child looking sad and pale, her peach-colored blouse only adding to her pall. (She should have had her colors done!)

I gave Brandy my best curtain-encore smile to reassure her that I was fine, then reached for my phone, saying into the receiver, “Dear, it’s so nice of you to come.”

“How are you doing, Mother?” Brandy asked, concern furrowing her brow. On my end, her voice sounded brittle and faint, like long distance in the olden days, but that could just be my bum ear.

“Why, I’m jim-dandy! No need to worry about me, dear.” And I proceeded to tell her about my clean and comfortable room, and how I had already made friends with the other women.

(I thought it best to leave out becoming Top Dog, because Brandy had also watched
Bad Girls
with me, which included the episode where the Top Dog got strangled with a bedsheet by a jealous Top Dog wannabe.)

She was saying, “I had a meeting with Mr. Ekhardt this morning, and he thinks that if you change your plea to ‘not guilty,’ he could cut a deal with the DA, and—”

“Brandy! I’m
not
changing my plea. I
am
guilty. Please accept that, dear. I’ve had a good, long life on the outside and, actually, I’m quite happy in here.”

Brandy looked appalled.
“Happy?
How can you be happy? You’re in prison, Mother!”

All my years of preaching to be a “do bee,” not a “don’t bee,” had never quite stuck with the girl.

I said patiently, “It’s not prison, it’s jail, darling. And I’m happy because there’s so much I can accomplish ‘on the inside.’”

“Like
what?”

“Like starting a theater club among the women. We’ll perform one-acts to begin with, then, eventually, complete three-act plays. And, who knows, maybe one day we’ll be ready to tackle the Bard of Avon himself! ‘
Once more into the breach, dear friends!’
… Dear, a gaping mouth is not an attractive look at
any
age.”

“You can’t be
serious.
…”

“When am I ever
not
serious, dear? Why, we could take our productions on the road, performing at
other
prisons—state-wide at first—Anamosa, Fort Dodge, Newton.” I raised a finger to make my point. “But
then
comes the big-time, Folsom, Leavenworth, San Quentin—and the
Broadway
of prisons … Sing Sing.” I frowned. “Too bad Alcatraz is closed—how I would have
loved
to play there!”

Brandy was touching a hand to her forehead as if she didn’t feel well and needed to take her own temperature. That girl really should take better care of herself. Didn’t she realize she was pregnant?

“Dear,” I said, “would you mind if we cut this short? I want to get back and tell the other girls all about my play-craft plans.”

Brandy sighed. “I’m sure you do, Mother. All right. I’ll go.”

“And get some rest—you look
terrible.”

I hated to give Brandy the bum’s rush, but recreation time in the common room was almost over.

By the time Patty escorted me through the two security doors, however, I’d missed my moment—my girls were already in lockdown. My theater proposition would just have to wait until dinnertime.

The meals in CJ—at least for the female inmates—were TV dinner affairs, wheeled in on a cart three times a day. One had no say, of course, on what was being served: what you saw was what you got … high in fat and low in taste. Stone walls may not a prison make, but atrocious, unhealthy food certainly does.

This evening was greasy meat loaf, watery mashed potatoes, and rubbery green beans, which I left untouched because I didn’t want to waste my energy on such unappetizing fare. Instead, I wanted to propose my wonderful new idea to the others.

With our little group spread out at the two picnic tables, I stood and tapped my plastic spork against my paper cup of water, which wasn’t nearly as effective as the classy resonant
ping
that sterling makes against crystal. Nonetheless, the girls all stopped eating, every eye on me.

With my usual theatrical flair, I launched into my brainstorm, outlining the theater program in great detail. And when I had finished, I was met with a stunned silence (which does happen sometimes after the curtain comes down on my stage performances—art can have that effect), so I wasn’t too concerned.

But then, to my dismayed shock, came a gale of laughter. Well, dear reader, I felt like I’d been punched in the breadbasket! Fortunately, I hadn’t been eating.

Almost immediately, Sarah came to my defense.

“Wait a minute!” the red-haired woman said. “A theater program might not be such a bad idea. Think about it,
everybody! An opportunity to do something
different
around this boring dump.”