Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison (5 page)

They looked pretty silly there, especially when they slow-danced, the way they hugged each other and pivoted like they were wind-up toy soldiers. When the beat of the records picked up, they looked even sillier, thrashing their arms about with their thumbs extended, like they didn't know which side of the road they wanted to hitchhike down.

Diana Ross and the Supremes, Petula Clark, and Simon e?' Garfunkle filled the hot summer air with music that was cool andgroovy and spoiled only by the sounds of the electric bug zappers that surrounded the canteen.

We threw small pebbles at the electrified metalgrid andgiggled as it buzzed. No one could see us hiding unless it was a full moon, and even then it took the glow from the bug zapper's ultraviolent lights to be seen.

Ricky said they were called "ultraviolent" because of the way they vaporized flying insects.

When I arrived at the County Jail, it was just after 6:30. There were twentythree of us who were transferred downtown. We entered the receiving area joined together by a chain. Our wrists were affixed, every few feet, by handcuffs that were welded to the shackles. We were placed in the first of four holding cells along the right wall. There was a control booth in the center area and a matching set of bullpens on the opposite side of the room. The deputies sorted prisoners based on whether we were sentenced to prison or to county jail time. Sentences of a year or more went to the state prison, and sentences of less than a year either stayed in the county jail or were sent to The Detroit House of Corrections.

The holding cell was dark and crowded. There were over thirty of us, in a space that was large enough for maybe fifteen or twenty men. It reeked of urine. There was a sink and toilet attached to the back wall and an open partition that provided little privacy. There was no toilet paper in sight. Some of the inmates where yelling to the holding cells across the room and others where just yelling. I prayed it wouldn't take long to get us through intake and into our own cells. I was hungry and regretted not eating the stale bologna sandwich they gave us earlier at the Hospital/Courthouse.

As soon as the bars slid shut on our cell, the metal gates to the loading dock opened, and another group was led in on chains. There must have been thirty of us in the pen, but only four of us were white. I sat on the floor, with my back against the wall, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I absently chewed my nails as I tried to pretend it was all routine, like I'd been through before and wasn't fazed, but I was too afraid to look up and see if anyone noticed. It was hard to think with all the noise. The large metal gate opening, inmates yelling, electric cell doors opening and closing, and the sounds of heavy chains crashing to the floor. An inmate kicked the metal tab on the wall, and the toilet made a whoosh as it flushed the rust-colored water down the filthy suck-hole at the bottom of the stainless steel bowl. It continued sucking air long after the water receded and then spit back, noisily, water that was just as filthy.

A deputy came to the front of the cell, "OK, Listen up. When I call out your name, step to the front of the cell."

"Hey Dep! Can I ask you somethin'?" a stocky black inmate pleaded.

"Williams, Johnson, Taylor," the deputy read from a clipboard, holding a pen in his right hand as he went down his list. "Miller, Hughes, Jackson."

"Yo, Dep!" the black man persisted, "Please! I have a quick question."

"Walters, Parsell, Pierce." He looked to his right and yelled, "Open Five!" Two deputies came over and joined him. All three of them were white.

I followed as each man stepped from the cell. The deputy with the clipboard checked off our names. The other two deputies motioned us to the right and ordered us to line up, turn in and face the holding cell with our backs to them.

"Officer! Please, just one quick question."

"Close five!" the deputy yelled, not looking up. The gate jolted forward and closed on Holding Cell Five. "OK Maggots, let's go."

They led us past the other cells and into an open area. There was a counter to the right with stacks of blue plastic bins and to the left a long cinderblock bench. The deputy told us to take a seat and to remove our shoes. My shoelaces were still with my other belongings that were taken at the courthouse, including my carton of cigarettes.

One at a time, we were called into the next room where there was a black curtain tacked to the wall, opposite a large Bell & Howell camera. The deputy handed me a letter board that read, Wayne County Jail. My name was spelled out in tiny letters. March 3, 1978, was indicated below.

"Hold it just under your chin," the deputy ordered.

I'd seen this a hundred times before, in the movies, but it felt chilling to see my name written along the felt grove. I was startled by a loud thump and dropped the board. The plastic letters scattered to the floor, but I couldn't see them because the large flash had temporarily blinded me.

"Oh Jesus," the deputy said under his breath. "Why the fuck don't they put these on a chain?" He came out from behind the camera and kicked the letters off to the side. I flinched, half expecting him to hit me. I guessed he could tell it was my first time.

After he reconstructed the board and took a profile, he led me to the next room where he placed a thin white piece of cardboard on an easel at the edge of the counter. He clamped a metal frame down to hold it into place, squeezed a dab of ink from a tube and used a small roller to spread it evenly across the smooth surface of the template.

"Relax," he said, ordering me to stand behind him, "and let me guide your hand."

He took my index finger and rolled it, left-to-right, onto the inked surface and then repeated the same motion onto the marked section of the cardboard. He captured each impression with a swiftness and precision of someone who'd been doing this a long time. When he was done, he handed me a piece of tissue, which was barely large enough to clean one hand. He didn't seem to care. "Have a seat out front," he said.

Next, I was handed a blue storage bin and told to take off my clothes and place them inside. The deputy pointed to the bench where two black inmates were sitting naked. A third nude inmate was standing up, his back to me, with his arms stretched to the side.

"OK, good," a deputy in front of him said, as the prisoner complied with each command. "Now open your mouth and lift your tongue ... OK ... Good. Run your fingers through your hair ... Shake it ... Good ... Lift up your balls ... OK ... Turn around and bend over ... Spread your cheeks ... Wider ... OK. Let me see the bottom of your feet. Good ... Have a seat on the bench."

The deputy ran through his routine like the one who had taken my fingerprints. As if he was working at The Fisher Body Plant-just putting in an eight-hour shift as the endless stream of chassis came down the line. The first inmate sat down, and the deputy pointed to the next. "Open your mouth," he said. "Lift up your tongue ... Run your hands through your hair ... Good ... Lift up your balls ..."

I could feel the blood draining from my face. I was afraid to take off my clothes, especially in front of everyone, but I didn't have a choice. I couldn't pass on the shower and take an F for the day, like I used to do in gym class on days when I wasn't sure I'd get through a shower without a boner embarrassing me. One time, when a kid looked over and noticed, he called me a fag. I wanted to die. So on school days, I'd jerk off right before I caught the bus, hoping it would relieve enough pressure to get me through the mornings, but gym wasn't until second period, which was usually enough time for my balls to regenerate and spring my shaft to an unmanageable attention.

When I was at risk of failing the entire semester, I tried to relieve myself in the bathroom right before gym, but there wasn't enough time in between classes, and people kept coming in. I was afraid they'd look between the cracks of the stall or from the shadows on the floor and see what I was doing. A couple of times, I slipped out of first period early, but there were always one or two guys in the bathroom, sneaking a smoke. So I kept failing gym and had to retake it. It was a stupid requirement for graduation.

So at the county jail, taking an F wasn't an option, and even worse, I was too hungover that morning to do anything before I left for court. I was hoping my hangover would get me through it, but it was awfully late in the day. I was really frightened, because there was now a lot more at stake than just being called a fag.

I set the bin down and slowly took off my clothes, hoping the deputy would finish with the others and take them away before it was my turn for the humiliating butt check. I was down to my underwear when he ordered the other three into the showers.

As they walked off, three more naked inmates carrying bedrolls and clothes brushed past heading out toward the bullpens. I tossed my underwear into the bin and sat back on the bench, cupping my shriveled source of embarrassment with both hands.

The other deputy stepped away, so I was left there, sitting alone. Goose bumps rolled over me as if a cold chill had swept the room. I shivered slightly, but my face felt warm.

Three more inmates were led in, handed blue bins and told to take a seat on the bench. I scooted over, hanging on for dear life. I clenched my chattering teeth, but my heart was pounding, "Please God, GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"

6

Safety in Numbers

On an Easter morning, when my dad was a kid, he got up early before his brothers and sisters were awake. He ate the ears off everyone's chocolate Easter bunny. Everyone's that is except for my Aunt Diane's.

Aunt Diane got blamed, but my Dad got caught, because he was the only one who wasn't crying.

There were several televisions located throughout Camp Dearborn. They were locked up, during the day, in large wooden cabinets. Our whole clan gathered around the TVs at night to watch our favorite shows: Wagon Train, Tarzan, and Batman & Robin.

Around the big Totem Pole, during the day, we fought over who got to play Wagon Train's Chris Hale or Barnaby West and who had to be the scouts that went out looking for Indians. The older cousins liked being the Indians, but we had to stop playing because they started taking the game too seriously. On TV, the Indians would capture the scouts and torture them, leaving them tied up in the desert to dehydrate and wither away.

"Where's Billy?" Sharon asked, as she rustled us up for dinner. She had made Sloppy Joes, which were Billy's favorite.

Someone had tied him to a tree and forgot about him. When we found him, he was blindfolded and gagged with two red Indian bandanas. Sharon got mad, and we weren't allowed to play anymore, even though the real reason it happened was because Billy squealed on Ricky and Donny for stealing watermelons out of the creek.

After a few summers, we got bored with these games and sought out more exciting adventures. Given the size of our clan, we developed quite a reputation as we grew older. Cousins Donnie, Marty, and my brother Rick were all teenagers now, but they thought the dances were too square. As we hid on the hill, they used their slingshots and took turns nailing kids in the butt. Bobby and I brought along our peashooters, but they didn't work as well. When Rick took out one of the bug zappers, the camp counselors were on to us.

Occasionally, someone would chase us, but we rarely got caught. One night, when cousin Jamie got nabbed by some kid who tried to take him back to the canteen, the kid ran away quickly when he saw how many of us there were.

Meanwhile, our parents spent nights around the campfire bragging about their own youthful adventures. Like the time Dad and Uncle Ronnie went down the street in the middle of the night pushing cars into the road. People didn't lock their cars back then, so they slipped the gears into neutral and shoved each one down the driveway. When they were done, they banged on a door at the end of the block and then ran into the woods, where they watched in laughter as each house alerted the next and a string of porch lights lit up the neighborhood.