Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison (40 page)

His short whiskers tickled my skin. He was lying on his side, with his arm draped across my chest, and his right leg bent over mine. My arm felt natural resting on his shoulders and back. I wanted to cuddle up to sleep like that, and then maybe I could finally escape the nightmares that had been haunting me since the county jail.

It was the first time someone had satisfied me, the way I had been forced to satisfy others. And it was completely consensual. I just wish it could have lasted longer. Paul was a magician the way he worked his tongue and lips. And there was something very generous in the way lie touched one. I offered to return the favor but he gently pushed me back down on the blanket, saying that it was OK-maybe next time.

"You're funny," he said, "the way you wiggle and shake."

"It gets real sensitive," I said. "I can't help it."

"I know, but I've never seen anyone shiver like that."

I smiled. Paul was amazing, and I didn't know it was possible for someone to make you feel that good. This seemed to go beyond the physical-because my whole being felt tasted and satisfied. For a moment, I felt like pouring my guts out to him, because I finally felt like I'd found a friend that understood me, but I was still feeling cautious.

"Haven't you ever had sex with someone you enjoyed?" Paul asked.

"Once," I said, thinking about Brett. "Well, maybe twice, but that one's a secret."

"Who?"

"Uh-uh. My Dad always said a guy who'll tell on himself would tell on anybody."

"C'mon. Who?" Paul leaned up on his elbow and looked at me.

"Scatter," I said.

"How was he?"

I smiled.

"Cut or uncut?"

"Huh?"

"Was he circumcised?" he asked.

I didn't know what lie was talking about.

"This," Paul said, pulling on his foreskin.

"Oh, that's what you call that."

Everyone in my high school must have been circumcised. Before coming to prison, I'd never seen that extra skin there and it never really came up in conversations back home.

We heard heavy footsteps approaching and the sound of jangling keys. Paul tensed up and the pounding of my heart increased under his weight. The sound grew louder as it neared and we lifted our heads toward the door. We almost jumped when he heard the squelch of the guard's walkie-talkie. The noise continued past our door then faded down the hall.

Paul put his head back down on my chest. We were good until the 9:30 count. The other inmates were down in the day room watching TV, or in the card room playing pinochle or spades. I still wasn't out of Moseley's clutches, but he was in another unit, and I wouldn't have to contend with him until the next day.

"Don't you wish we could double-bunk?" I whispered.

"With my luck," Paul said, "I'd get an inmate with funky feet."

"Who snores all night," I added. "And farts in his sleep."

We both laughed.

"Shhh," Paul said. The guard was coming back up the hall.

After he passed, Paul said we'd better slip back out again. If the guard were counting heads, he'd notice us missing.

The guards changed shifts during the 9:30 count, and we were let back out again until 11:15. Lights out was at 11:30.

Inmates started their job assignments or school by 8:30 in the morning, and we weren't allowed back inside our housing units until 3:30 or 4:00. The afternoon count was at 4:30, and dinner was between 5:30 and 6:00 P.M.

When the weather was good, we were allowed a couple hours of yard in the evenings, but we had to he back by 8:30. The yard was in the back of the prison, which you accessed through a gate next to the gym. In the winter, the yard was closed, and inmates used the inner walkways to go to and from the gym, which also housed the store.

The next day, I was sent to Classification to receive my next job assignment. Since I had finished high school, I now needed a job. I had signed up for college, but that was considered extra, which I would have to attend in the evenings, in lieu of open recreation. One of the classes I signed up for was Corrections 101 where I learned that if I attended college courses while in prison, statistically speaking, my odds of coming back there was less than a third of that of other inmates. Some guards seemed resentful toward us going to college, as if we were undeserving of school or were taking something away from them. But only a few seemed to feel this way-and anyway, it didn't matter-since I was determined to never come back here again.

Miss Bain, the Classification Director, had her office in the school. She was a young black woman, and the inmates were crazy about her. Not that she did anything to garner their attention, other than being a beautiful woman who worked inside a prison that was filled with horny men.

"Gee, Miss Bain," an inmate said to her, once. "You sure look pretty."

"That's very nice," she said. "But I don't really need to hear that now. Do I?"

As rumor had it, the inmate was assigned to the kitchen for the rest of his stay, washing enormous pots and pans. With over eight hundred inmates to feed every day, he was kept busy.

As I made my way to Miss Bain's office one day, Moseley saw me coming and headed over to me. He had sent word to me that morning, via an inmate who told me Moseley was angry with me for not waiting for him after chow the night before.

"Don't let him try to blame it on the guards," Moseley told the inmate. "'Cause I saw him run off with that redheaded hood rat from Hamtramack."

When I saw Moseley on the walkway, I picked up my pace and tried to get to the school without making it seem obvious I was trying to avoid him.

Moseley cut me off before I reached the building. "Don't even try it, bitch."

"Moseley!" a guard yelled from around the corner. We both looked up. It was C.O. Miller. "Get your ass over here!"

He ordered Moseley around like a dog, which he knew he could get away with since he knew Moseley was about to go home. Even one ticket could delay his release.

When it came to the enforcement of rules, each guard was slightly different. Some would issue a warning or two before they wrote you up, while others, like the newer guards-would give you a ticket right away. But it also depended on who the inmates was, as well. If he were a known trouble maker, even the more lenient guards would write him up for a minor infraction, while a stricter guard might let something slide for inmates who kept to themselves and didn't cause problems.

It was a game everyone learned how to play, and the longer either side was there, the better they got at playing it. The guards were understaffed anyway, so they couldn't possibly enforce all the rules. If they did, the inmates would probably revolt-so it was a constant balance. Yet as an inmate got closer to parole, the guards had maximum leverage, which is why C.O. Miller was able to talk to Moseley like that.

Moseley pointed his finger at me. "I'll deal with you later."

I tried to pretend like I didn't know what he was talking about, but it was obvious to both of us. I dashed into the building. I should have waited for him the night before. I knew there would be a penalty, but I left anyway. Now what was I going to do?

Miss Bain's skin was a light brown color and her eyes were bright and expressive. She reminded me of Diahann Carroll, the actress that played Julia on TV.

Like the other professionals and administrative staff, she wore no uniform. Instead, she had on a dark brown suit, with a gold and turquoise blouse. She smiled at me, and told me to have a seat. As I'd find out later, she had majored in social work but when she graduated from college, jobs were scarce-so she went to work in corrections. She brought her passion for making a difference to the position, and so she stood out among the others. Meeting her for the first time, I doubted right away the rumor about her sending that guy to the kitchen.

"How are you?" She smiled.

"Fine," I said. "And you?" I was surprised to meet anyone this gracious.

"Very well, thank you." She read through my folder. "A Photo Mat, huh?"

I nodded and looked down at the floor. "It was pretty stupid, I know."

"Congratulations on your high school diploma, Tim."

She called me, Tim, and I almost beamed inside. It was a simple thing, but it felt so nice to be called by my first name.

"Have you given any thoughts about what you'd like to do next?"

"Not really," I said. "But I don't want to be in the kitchen."

She grinned. "Nobody ever wants to work the kitchen. Do you have any skills?"

Prison jobs varied anywhere from 41 cents to a dollar a day. So if your haircut came out lousy, or your eggs were burned and green-it was probably because some asshole had overstated his qualifications in order to get one of the better-paying jobs.

"I can type."

"Really?" She looked up at me.

"Uh-huh. I took it up in seventh grade."

"How well do you type?"

"About sixty words a minutes, without errors. Faster if I'm allowed a few." I was exaggerating a little, but I really could type.

"Can you write? I'm starting a prison newspaper, and I need writers."

"I keep a journal," I said.

"OK, I'd like to see a sample from you."

"On what?"

"Well, I don't know. What do you like to write about?"

I didn't know what to say. I blushed at the thought of what I'd like to write about.

"What?" she said.

"Oh, nothing," I said. I hated that I blushed so easily. "Can I think about it?"

"Sure. Can you get something to one by this Friday?" And with that, I bounced from her office. The prison newspaper! But what would I write about? I wanted to write about her-how she talked to me like a real person and how that made me feel. How nice it was to be called by my first name and how it was to believe that I was human again, in that little interchange. And that's exactly what I wrote about. I wrote about what a difference it made to be treated with dignity in a place that didn't seem to value it much. I wrote about how it elevated the spirit and how much that meant to me. I'm sure it wasn't well written, but she hired me anyway.

"Hood rat!" Paul said. "What the fuck is a hood rat?" He was incensed. "And I ain't from Hamtramack either. I grew up in Wayne."

Wayne was the town next to mine. Paul and I would have gone to the same high school, had he not dropped out and gone to prison. "How dare that motherfucker!"

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Paul. He looked like he was about to hit me."

"Listen, I'll take care of it," he said. "Don't you worry about nothing."

"Yeah right," I said. "What are you going to do? Blow him?"

"He's not my type," Paul said, "but don't worry, he's not gonna bother you again."

"You talk a lot of shit for someone who weighs about 120 poundssoaking wet."

"I'll kick your bony ass," he said.

"Oh now you're a big fitckin' man. If you're so fuckin' tough, why were you Taylor's boy?"

"Because I was raped," he said to me.

I didn't know how to respond.

"And because I'm gay," he said, finally. "That's why."

I stood there foolishly, wishing I hadn't said what I had.

"And like I said, pretty boy. You're not gonna have to worry about Moseley. Trust me. I'll take care of it at lunch."

As we walked to lunch, Moseley was waiting for me in front of the chow hall. They alternated the order the units were called to the chow.

"Wait here," Paul said and he walked up to Moseley. "Can I talk to you?" he said.

Moseley looked down at him without responding.

"Seriously," Paul said. "It'll only take a minute."

The two of them walked off, and I could see Paul talking to him in an animated way, with his hands making all kinds of gestures, but since they were going in the other direction, I couldn't hear what they were saying. As usual, Paul was doing all the talking. A moment later, they turned around and started to walk back. Frightened, I quickly went inside the chow hall.

The line split into two sides as it approached the metal serving trays. I inched my way to the left, and Paul came up beside me. Moseley went to the other side.

"It's taken care of," Paul said.

"What?"

Moseley was now getting his food directly across from me, and though he knew I was standing there-he wouldn't look at me.

After we sat down, I asked, "What did you say to him?"

"Don't worry about it."

"No! What did you say?"