Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison (20 page)

"C'mon," his voice softened. "Let me in."

I knew not to challenge his authority, especially in front of the other inmates.

"C'mon Timmy-open the damn door."

"Uh uh," I said. "You're gonna hit me." I started to cry.

"I'm not going to hit you, just open the door." He sounded sincere, but I didn't trust him. "C'mon, Timmy. Have I ever hit you?"

I was afraid to let him in, but I didn't know what else to do. I would have to come out sooner or later, so I opened the door.

He rushed in, pinning me back against the chair. The locker slammed into the wall and made a huge bang that echoed up the hall. Terrified, I let out a breathless whimper, but before I knew it, he stuck his tongue deep inside my mouth. He was kissing me, passionately, as the tears continued down my face. We climbed under the bed, to hide from view of a passing guard, and Slide Step fucked me for the first time.

16

Blemished Masculinities

Her name was Beth and she was tivogrades ahead of me-I in the seventh and she in the ninth. The kids called her Pizza Face.

When it first happened, I didn't have time to think. Three or four girls had her pinned against the lockers. "Break it, Break it, Break it," they taunted. They were trying to get her to pop a zit, the size of a boil, on her cheek. The others were cheering them on.

I felt sorry for her, so I pushed the girl closest to me. "Why don't you leave her alone?"

The girls backed down and retreated up the hall. Beth looked up at me and smiled. Embarrassed, I shied away. We only had five minutes in between classes and what I needed from my locker (which was next to hers) could wait.

That afternoon and for several days following, she greeted me with the same fluttering eyes, I started to regret helping her and was embarrassed by the teasing I was getting from the guys.

Finally, I told her, "Beat it, Pizza Face."

I can still see that look on Beth's face, which said I'd done something worse than anything those girls could have ever done. And every pimple I have gotten since has reminded me of her.

We were sitting alone at the back of the day room. Most everyone else had gone to chow. The midday news was on TV. President Carter was trying to end a thirty-year war between Israel and Egypt by inviting both sides to Camp David. The last remaining inmate got up to leave.

"Now if they at war," he said. "Why would a motherfucker want to go camping?"

Slide Step looked over at me and shrugged. He was sitting sideways, next to me, in the orange rocker. When the man walked out Slide Step placed both of his hands on top of mine. It was the first time I noticed how different he was when no one else was around.

"Can you handle my having feelings for you?"

"What?" I said. I felt myself blush.

He was smiling, but his eyes were serious, which made me feel even sillier.

"What do you mean?" I repeated. I thought he might be playing with me.

"I mean, just that. Can you handle my having feelings for you?"

I didn't know what to say, but I enjoyed the way his hands felt resting on mine. They felt warm and comforting, like Slide Step had been to me.

"I'm talking about caring for you," he said.

Unsure of myself, I started to laugh. "I thought we were talking about: I take care of you and you take care of me. That's the deal, isn't it?"

"No, that's not what I'm talking about. I want to know if you can handle feelings."

I looked up at the ceiling and then away. I was immature for my age, but it still never occurred to me that love was a possibility between two men. I grew up in the suburbs, in a working-class neighborhood, where I didn't see many blacks-much less queers. And I was still struggling to come to terms with all that had happened to me since I got here.

When I was younger, I attended Catholic School, at least until Sharon took a belt to one of the nuns who used one on her son-Sharon's Irish/German temper getting the best of her. After that, we were kicked out of the school, as well as the Parish, which was fine with me because it meant I didn't have to be told how wicked and vile my sexual thoughts were. And if my thoughts were so unnatural, how could there be feelings?

"Is that possible?" I asked.

He dropped his head and sighed. "Oh yes." He said it as if they were already there. He looked up and smiled. He wasn't making fun of me.

I had heard that when men went to prison for a long time, their boys often became their wives, so I guessed it made sense that these guys would develop feelings too, but I wouldn't know what that felt like. I had never been in love before.

I smiled at him with a goofy grin. "I guess so, sure."

He studied me and shook his head. "Nah. I don't think you can."

His right fingers were caressing the top of niy hand. He dropped his head and let out a long-winded, high-pitched "woo." The sound echoed off the walls of the empty room. The guards, as usual, were tucked away in their station on the other side.

Slide Step got up and tussled my hair. "We'll see, little squeeze. We'll see."

He walked out of the room and up the hall toward his cell. His head was down and slowly shaking. There was a playfulness in his swagger, a slow deliberate rhythm, as he twirled his key on a long string back and forth around his finger. That walk was how he got his name, and I stared after him as he disappeared, wondering what he meant by having feelings for me.

Anita Bryant came on the TV, the beauty queen-turned-spokeswoman for the orange juice industry. She was accusing gays of recruiting children into being homosexual and the news was covering a boycott of orange juice. A few months earlier, someone had pushed a pie in her face. I remembered it because it was a banana cream pie, which was my favorite. The news showed a bumper sticker that read: Kill a Queer for Christ.

I thought about my dad and wondered if he would be more upset because Slide Step was black, or that I was a fag. But it's not like he would ever know about it. He hadn't come to visit me, and I had been away for a couple of months by then. I hadn't heard from anyone, and I was feeling abandoned and alone.

Always seeking attention was the frequent note on my report cards from school. I craved it because I wasn't getting any at home. At least that's what a guidance counselor once said. I needed someone to notice me, to pay attention, and to let me know that I mattered. I wanted to be taken care of, looked after, and for someone to make me feel safe. I wanted to stop the world from spinning and told I was OR I would have given anything to bask in the glory of someone's affection, to see their face light up when I walked into a room. Even at age seventeen, I still wanted someone to be proud of me, to want to be with me, and I desperately wanted somewhere to belong, to feel like I was finally home. But Slide Step was a man, a black man, and this was prison.

An inmate named Manley walked into the room and told me that Slide Step had asked him to look after me-to make sure I didn't get into any trouble. I'm sure he was more concerned about others than he was about nee. Manley was a heavy-set black man, but manly he wasn't. He was in his thirties and weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds. He was wearing kitchen whites, which helped explain his weight. He was good natured and jovial, with a pockmarked face. He offered me a cigarette and then tossed me a pack.

"Let's hit the commissary, kid. Slide Step says you need a few things."

At first, I wondered if Slide Step wanted me to do something with him, but later on he told that I was too old for Manley. "Too old?" I was the youngest boy at Riverside.

"He likes 'em much younger than you," was all Slide Step said. "But don't worry, he's harmless. I just don't want you walking around by yourself, until it's well known that you're riding with me."

The grapevine would spread word quickly, but Slide Step wasn't taking chances. As my man, he was responsible for my safety, and he had already sent one guy to the infirmary.

"As soon as everyone sees you two walkin' the yard together," Manley said, "They'll know what time it is. If anyone tries to press you, just tell Slide Step, and he'll take care of it. But don't worry, nobody's gonna fuck with you, because if they did, it'd be the same as if they were fucking with Slide Step."

Slide Step, I'd learn, was well respected, and everything in prison was about respect. You either had it or you didn't, and even when you did, it was frequently tested. There was a pecking order in prison, and inmates were constantly checking to see where they fit in. The boys were given the same level of respect as their man, and the man was obligated to protect them. The price for this protection meant that the boy gave up his independence (if he ever had it in the first place). Among other things, he no longer had control over his own body, which meant he had to put out sexually. But considering the alternative, it seemed the least damaging way to survive. "At least you only have to do it with one," Manley said, "rather than with anyone who can catch you."

This was true. It definitely could have been worse for me. Manley said that some men shared their boys with friends while others made them turn tricks by forcing them into prostitution. Over at the Reformatory there were boys who were owned by entire gangs, and they were forced to have to service the whole lot of them. "The man calls the shots," he said, "and the boys are expected to obey."

The quality of a boy's life was dependent on his man. So who your man was made all the difference. It seemed to go beyond sex, as if some of them took as much pleasure in dominating another. Perhaps it was their way of dealing with the frustrations of being locked up and told what to do all the time by the guards. Some men made their boys do all sorts of things. Back when I was staying in the dorm, Bottoms had to do his man's laundry and make his bed in the morning and anything else his man didn't feel like doing himself.

"Some men beat their boys," Manley said, as we arrived at the commissary. "While others, like Slide Step, spoil them." To the right of the commissary door, a price list was taped to the wall. An inmate clerk filled orders from the goods stocked on the shelves. Manley pulled a stack of tokens from his pocket and winked at me. "Your man is also responsible for commissary. So whatever you need, Slide Step's got you covered."

The commissary goods included soaps, shampoos, toothpaste, and deodorants. Cosmetics, as the inmates referred to them, along with cigarettes and candy and canned goods for cooking on the hotplates up in the units. Spam, chili, roast beef, and Vienna sausages. "Zoos Zoos and Wham Whams," Manley said. "Stock up baby boy, your cupboards are bare."

I thought about what he said, about the quality of a boy's life, and thought about how long it had been since I really was just a boy playing with toys. But it had been a toy that got me here-the plastic gun I had found in a field and a pretty girl inside the Photo Mat. Had it only been a year since I first learned to drive?

Slide Step was kind to me. He smiled a lot, and he always had a twinkle in his eye. At least he did for me, but mostly he was gentle-especially when he fucked me. I didn't like getting fucked, because it hurt. More than hurt, it felt like I was being cracked open, busting apart at the seams. It felt like I was being crushed, and it sent a wave of pain through my body. But soon the pain lessened and was replaced by a deadening, pulsating ache. Slide Step went slow and easy, rotating my hips until I was able to relax. He kissed the back of my head and ran his lips along the side of my neck-his warm breath in my ear relieving the panic. It was never enjoyable, but it wasn't terrible either. I was grateful he was so gentle.