Chapel II
Ed. Note: Names have been changed.
As mentioned previously, there were certain time slots allotted for different faiths, celebrations, and activities. Sometimes it was music rehearsals; other times, it might be Muslim services.
Then, there were the Bible studies.
The Protestants had so many different sects of Christianity among them, you never knew if you’d be getting baptized, or speaking in tongues went you went to one of their shindigs. Some of the guys were really into it, babbling away in some language only they and the angels (or demons) could understand. They reminded me of the guys you’d see in tents on the side of the road back in the day. You’d go inside, some guy would be tying snakes in knots.
No thanks.
Catholics aren’t really charismatic during mass. Usually, services are about an hour, and no one exercises evil spirits, or babbles incoherently. You know exactly what to expect, because everything is written out a year in advance.
Planning and Execution.
The Catholic Bible studies went down the same way. The group would come in, go over which verses were going to be in that Sunday’s service, and talk about how it applied to their lives, etc. Totally low-key, everyone behaved themselves, and there were no arguments. Nice and stable.
As the Catholic Clerk, it was my responsibility to make sure these Bible studies took place. They not only needed to be led by someone the Catholic Chaplain saw fit; they also needed to be monitored by the Clerk. This was so no one got out of line, and other faith groups wouldn’t try and muscle-in on our slots, which was usually comical, and happened frequently. These were cons, after all.
I would sometimes lead the studies. There were booklets to follow, so it’s not like I was teaching anything I’d written. It was easy; I’d do it sometimes, and other times they would be taught by one of the community elders, namely Old Man Tommy.
Hands down, Old Man Tommy was the one of the scariest guys I met while incarcerated. As the name implied, he was old. Mexican gentleman in his mid-sixties. I don’t think Tommy was over the 5’5” mark, and even then, I’m being generous. He liked to slick his hair back, and had tattoos on his noticeably muscular arms, although not nearly as inked-up as the kids you see today. From all of the working out he’d done, and was continuing to do, Old Man Tommy had a body guys three or four decades younger than he would envy. Totally ripped; could crank out 20 pull-ups at a time, no problem. He was very intimidating when he wanted to be, and had a stare which could stop people dead in their tracks.
Not somebody you’d want to have a problem with.
Tommy’s backstory was the stuff of legends in the joint. Though I’d never heard the complete tale from his mouth, I had heard bits and pieces which seemed to confirm its overall veracity. Apparently, Old Man Tommy had been a hitman for a certain crime syndicate, and picked up his first prison term during the early 70’s for someone he’d killed. He did eight years, and paroled.
Tommy wasn’t dissuaded by the California Department of Corrections’ effort to deter him from a life of crime, and upon his release, immediately began pursuing his former passion for contract-killing.
Once again, all was right in his world.
Tommy lasted until the early 80’s, at which point he was charged for a double-murder. The cops actually liked him for five killings, but could only find enough solid evidence for two. Case goes to the DA’s office, and it’s a slam-dunk. The Old Man is back in the can. Once he was convicted, the parole board wasn’t too keen on letting Tommy out anytime soon. He’d already done time for one murder; him being caught for multiple homicides didn’t make the CDC look too good; they wouldn’t be rolling the dice on him a second time.
Since Old Man Tommy knew he wasn’t getting out, the early part of his prison term was filled with all types of I don’t give a fuck. Mayhem ensued, and it was only a matter of time before Tommy killed again. This time, it was some unfortunate dumbass who had made the mistake of disrespecting a psychopathic killer.
Tommy then went to the SHU (Secured Housing Unit), which was like the hole inside of the hole, or prison inside of prison, inside of prison. While there, he killed his cellie, and claimed self-defense. Somehow, his weak defense flew, and he didn’t get charged with another homicide.
Tommy’s violent nature eventually subsided; I think from old age, and situational fatigue, more than anything else. He managed to go a few years without a write-up, then a few more, and eventually his classification points dropped low enough for him to be transferred to a secure-level two. These prisons usually have electric fences, and a perimeter guarded by armed CO’s, hence their suitability for murderers, and other former death-row inmates who’d had their sentences overturned in some fashion or another.
By the time I’d met Tommy, he’d been inside for close to 20 years. He was tired. The politics, inmates, and staff; all of them had taken their toll on Tommy over the years, and he was at the point of just wanting to be left alone. He’d become known for being somewhat hermetic, which was probably best for everyone.
I came into contact with Tommy through the chapel. He was already leading bible studies a couple of nights a week when I was hired for the position. He was quiet, respectful, and always made sure to follow chapel schedules, and code of conduct. I wasn’t bothered by Old Man Tommy running bible studies. Him doing so gave me a couple of free nights a week to work out, and handle my own business without having to worry about my office. If no one were there, I could very well come back to an empty supply closet.
There was another reason why I allowed Tommy to teach: it was all he had. He’d been instructing countless lost souls in the way of the Good Book, and it was clear to me that Tommy cared about this endeavor greatly. He wasn’t even known for being a murderer during that point; at the time, people would refer to him as “Catholic Tommy,” instead of “Psycho Tommy,” or “Hitman Tommy,” should there be confusion over the identity of the individual. I could see the was doing his best to present himself as a man of virtue, and I felt good aiding in his mission.
As time went by, Old Man Tommy was known to be a regular fixture in the chapel, by inmates and CO’s alike. He’d be there, teaching love and peace, and leading by example.
Until Mark came along.
Mark was a fit white guy in his late-30’s, maybe maybe 5’10”, who was in prison for kicking the shit out of his ex-girlfriend. He was also a mental health patient. One of the guys you’d see standing in the medication line an hour before chow, getting his fill of tax-sponsored dope, prescribed by a doctor who could care less. He’d shuffle around in flip-flops, oblivious to the dangers around him, thanks to a daily dose of Seroquel.
Just another head-case in the slammer.
Then one day, completely out of the blue, Mark decides to stop taking all his medications. He’d been reading the Bible, and came to the conclusion that Jesus was all he needed to have a good life. He stopped going to the medline, gave away all of his smut magazines, and headed to the chapel, in search of Our Lord and Savior.
This is where I first came to really know Mark. I’d seen him around the housing unit before, but we’d never interacted, as I typically stayed away from crazy people. He was one of those guys who had the thousand-yard-stare; his functionality was that of a skipping record. The outward signs were abundant, and I knew enough to steer clear of this walking mess.
When Mark started showing up at the chapel looking for literature and conversation, I could instantly see a lucidness which had been previously absent. He was dressing a little more nicely, clean-shaven, and even combing his hair. The fact he was talking to people interested me, as I had never witnessed him in conversation with anyone.
Come to find out, Mark had been raised Catholic, and took great comforts in the rituals and relics Catholicism has to offer. He asked for rosaries, which I gave him; most were donated, and of the plastic variety.
Mark had these rosaries all over the place. He would wear a few at once, and had them hanging all around his dirty rack. He prayed with them, too. No one really thought anything of it, other than the opinion of Mark being a quirky individual.
Unfortunately, as time passed, Mark began to display the reasons why he was put on mental health medication to begin with.
It was little things at first: talking during rosary, coming into services looking like he just rolled out of bed. When Mark became verbally combative with members of the Catholic community, I knew things had taken a turn for the worse.
He began preaching heresies to the congregation: heaven and hell aren’t real, when you’re dead, there’s no afterlife, no such thing as spirits or souls, etc. He didn’t leave it in the chapel, either. Against the wishes of the Catholic chaplain, Mark began organizing a Wednesday-night bible study in the housing unit. He taught under the guise of catholicism, even though most of what he said was in direct contradiction of The Church. He was able to get his attendance numbers up pretty well, too.
Until I stepped in.
I had a job to do, and it had nothing to do with working for the man, or the system. At that point, I had a higher calling. I wanted to see people get better. To make something of themselves. Help them commit to changing their lives.
I had a false prophet in Mark, who was confusing people with contradicting doctrines, and his own ridiculous teachings of wealth and health, and the like, using my churches name all the while.
When I approached Mark, I was expecting some push-back, as his small following was growing, causing his head swell to new dimensions. I wasn’t wrong.
The day I went to handle my business with Mark, I found him seated at a dayroom table, with books stacked and spread all over the place. There must’ve been 30 books on the table top, and they weren’t placed in an orderly fashion. I’d never seen anything like it before, or since.
Another clue of Mark’s mental state.
This dude was scattered. All over the place. He had post-it notes sticking out from various places of the books, which were surrounding him like a fort. The post-its were all different colors, as were the highlighters which littered the table top. Three books were open at once; each were visibly worked over by markers and handwritten memos in the free spaces.
It looked crazy.
Mark either didn’t see me standing in his presence, or he was purposefully ignoring me. No matter. He would acknowledge me one way or the other.
“Hey, Mark!” I said it loudly enough for the people sitting at he next table to hear. He quickly raised his head. I continued: “Hey, man, there’s something I need to talk to you about. Got a second?”
Mark looked displeased at my request, as if I’d put him out by asking. I could feel my own irritation growing at having to play civil, and not being able to grab this guy, and make him listen. He gestured at one of the table’s seats, and moved a stack of books the side, so I could see him better.
Then, Mark stared at me without saying a word.
Ok, you prick, I thought.
“Mark, you have to stop doing Catholic bible studies in the housing unit,” I said. “You’re pissing people off, and causing an ordeal behind some of your heretical teachings. Now the chaplain’s involved, and he wanted me to ask you to stop.”
Mark blinked about 20 times in a rapid succession after I finished speaking, as if the wheels turning in his head were causing his eyelids to flutter. When he did finally speak, it was with a tone of arrogance, and defiance.
“Well,” Mark replied. “I don’t see anything I’m saying as being heretical. I’m teaching what the bible says.”
“You’re teaching there’s no heaven or hell, and Jesus isn’t God,” I said. “Core-Catholic beliefs, Mark. People in the community don’t like it.”
Mark paused, and blinked a bunch more. I was finding myself annoyed; like dude was trying to grate on my nerves. I wanted this conversation to be over.
“Well, I don’t see how you, or anyone else can tell me not to say it’s a Catholic study,” Mark said. “I’m Catholic, and I feel as though-“
“I don’t give a fuck what you feel, Mark.” I’d had enough of this nutbag’s game. “You give one more Catholic bible study, and we’re gonna have a problem. Got it?”
More of the blinking, then Mark’s reply: “I don’t want any problems. I won’t do it anymore.”
“Great,” I replied. “Problem solved.” I stood to leave. “See ya later, Mark.”
I thought the whole problem with Mark had been solved the day I’d spoken with him. Figured I had scared him into backing off, and behaving.
Turns out, I’d only been partially correct.
Mark ended the Bible studies. Stopped doing them all together. Problem was, he began to act totally obnoxious in other areas.
He’s come to the daily rosary recitals, and say the Our Father and Hail Mary’s like he was a radio DJ doing an advertisement. He’d use these way-out-over-the-top voices, like he was being a clown. Keep in mind, most of the people attending daily rosary were over 50; older guys who grew up in the tradition, and still remembered Latin Mass. Some of them would ignore Mark, and keep going with the recital, while others would get up, and make their exit. These guys didn’t appreciate Mark’s bullshit, but also respected the fact they were in a place of worship; they chose not to make a scene, and instead would leave at the sight of him.
Mark didn’t keep his antics to just the daily rosary, either. When he would come to Catholic services, he’d swagger in late like he was putting on a show. The only people who thought it was funny were the younger guys, or people new to the community. Otherwise, everyone felt like Mark was being an ass.
It got to the point where the Catholic Chaplain called Mark into his office, in order to get a grip on the class clown who was wreaking havoc during his services. To be fair, the chaplain was a bit pompous himself, and I think the real problem was Mark stealing his spotlight. Either way, the majority of the people present during services didn’t appreciate the constant whisperings and interruptions bubbling from Mark’s sound-hole.
I didn’t blame them.
When the two did meet, the Chaplain was given assurances by Mark he would cease and desist causing a scene during services. For the most part, he did. He would still try to make an entrance when he’d come in late, but at least now he’d keep quiet when worship was taking place.
A small win, but it was good enough for the Chaplain, who didn’t seem to care what issues Mark caused, as long as they weren’t taking place while he was in the chapel. This, of course, was exactly what Mark intended to do, as I found out a short time later.
I was laying on my rack one morning, reading a book. I heard footsteps entering my dorm, and quickly sat up to see who was coming. No one had announced themselves. For all I knew, someone could be coming for me.
Someone had. Mark.
“Hey, Bobby,” he said, still walking towards my bed. I was mildly frustrated with his lack of following custom, but I didn’t say anything, and he continued. “I have a question for you: did Old Man Tommy say something to you about the way I act in the chapel?”
I was amused, Mark asking me like he was. What did he intend to do about it? Tommy would murder him, figuratively and literally. Mark must have known this as well.
“Mark,” I replied, “Tommy didn’t say anything about you to me, and even if he did, I wouldn’t go behind his back and tell you.”
“So he did say something!” A smug look crept across Mark’s face, as if he’d caught me in a lie.
In truth, he had.
Yeah, Tommy had mentioned something to me about Mark’s behavior during services. Thing was, damn-near everyone had. Mark acting the fool was a show which got old quickly, especially in a place like prison. Everyone was fed up with him.
Including me.
“You need to clean the wax outta your ears, you little fuckin’ dirtball,” I replied. “I said Tommy didn’t say anything. Nobody likes the show you try to put on, Mark. Coulda been any number of people. Why don’t you ask the Chaplain?”
“I did,” Mark said. “He wouldn’t tell me. No matter. I think I have my answer.”
I could tell Mark was trying to get a rise out of me. He was crazy, after all, and I could see by his mannerisms and way of speaking he was beginning to act manic. Him acting the fool, however, wasn’t my problem.
“Get the fuck outta here, you fucking retard.” I didn’t want deal with Mark’s drama any longer, and chose to tell him in the strongest possible terms. I knew he’d listen and take the disrespect I’d just handed out. Even if he felt like doing something: it was his funeral.
“Hey, I don’t want any problems-“
“I know you don’t, Mark. That’s why you’re gonna turn your happy-ass around, and walk outta here. Don’t go starting any trouble with Tommy, either. You don’t wanna open that can’t of worms, Mark. Bad idea.”
I didn’t know how much Mark knew about Tommy’s past, but I happened to know a great deal. Tommy and I had deep discussions, coupled with heart-felt confessions. I knew what this guy was about. If Mark woke that sleeping dragon, there’d be hell to pay.
“I’m not starting any problems,” replied Mark, as he slouched his way out of my dorm, and off into the day room.
Unfortunately for him, he was full of shit.
I was sitting in the TV area, watching the evening news. It was what they had on after chow, and I tried to stay current. Was sitting in the front row, but straddling the bench; I still wanted to watch my back, and sitting as such was the best way to do it. I saw Tommy approaching, but wasn’t expecting him to come sit next to me. When he did, he had my attention.
“Bob, do you have a moment? I’d like to talk to you about something.” Tommy’s manner seemed serious, but he didn’t seem angry.
“Yeah, Tommy,” I replied. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’d rather talk about it back at the dorm,” he said. “If that’s ok with you.”
I knew Tommy and I were cool, and we even shared the same dorm. That being said, when he asked to go back to the dorm, it sent up a red flag. Our dorm was a blind spot.
“Tommy,” I said. “We good?” I said it half-chuckling and with a smile on my face, but I wasn’t joking. I was feeling the old man out. If Tommy had an issue with me, I was in danger.
“Oh, come on, Bob,” Tommy replied, more annoyedly than anything. “I don’t wanna do anything to you, dummy.” He rose as he said the last few words, and headed towards the dorm when he was done saying them. I felt silly, having asked Tommy about his intentions, but hey: better safe than sorry. I got up, and followed Tommy, who had gone over to his bed area. I came close to the rack, and he motioned me to sit at the foot of his bunk. I complied.
“Look, Bob,” Tommy said. “I didn’t even wanna get at you about this, because I know Mark is full of shit-“
“What’d he say, Tom?” I knew that crazy bastard was going to try and make trouble, and I’d been right. I wanted to go over to his rack, and punch him in the face.
One again, Tommy looked as if I’d annoyed him, and he motioned with both hands to be quiet. Like a kid listening to their grandfather, I closed my mouth, and let the old man speak.
“Look, I said I know the guy’s crazy,” Tommy said. “He didn’t come out and say you said anything, either. He implied it. Said he’d just talked to you, and thought he should come talk to me. I wanted to smack his J-Cat ass in the mouth.” J-Cat, an old-school slang, was short for J-Category, a type of classification applied to people with mental issues.
I could imagine the restrain Tommy must’ve used, when this crazy little white-boy had come and accused him of talking to the man. Tommy had been doing time from when Mark had been in diapers. You didn’t want to even insinuate someone like that was a snitch, for fear they might try and kill you.
Mark was lucky Tommy was trying to live life right. Then again, Mark knew Tommy had turned over a new leaf, which was probably why he was being so bold to begin with.
“Well, thank you, for not thinking I’d say something like that,” I replied. I was thankful, too. The last thing I wanted was a former hitman pissed at me. “I told him to leave you alone, too. He came to me, thinking you’d said something.” Fuck Mark. He wanted to get me twisted up with Tommy? Here you go, fucker.
“Look, Bob,” Tommy said. “Mark’s crazy. Don’t get pissed at anything he’s saying to you. That’s what he’s trying to do. Don’t show him your buttons.”
“Thanks, Tommy,” I replied. “I appreciate it.” I did, too. Tommy was trying to help me be a better man, and leading by example. I was glad to have level-headed people around me who I could talk to. It was a comfort and relief from the madness happening around me on a daily basis. Nobody cared about you in this environment; it was harsh. When someone did show an interest in your well-being, it was special.
“No problem, Bob,” Tommy said. “Look, if he comes around acting the fool, just tell his ass to leave. We don’t need someone acting like a devil in our community, trying to distract from us worshipping the Lord.”
“I agree, Tommy,” I replied. I did, too. Mark was a distraction; if the other guys in the community had my back in bouncing his ass, especially someone as influential and respected as Tommy, I didn’t have to worry about defending my actions to other inmates, and possibly the cops. “If he comes into the office and does anything stupid while I’m not there, you have full authority to act in my name. Do what you gotta do.” Old Man Tommy already knew what’d I’d just said; we’d come to this agreement sometime before then. I wanted Tommy to hear it coming from my lips, when it came to this little trouble-starting dirtbag. If I’m not there, handle it.
“Listen, Bob,” Tommy said. “Mark isn’t gonna come in there and cause problems. He’s crazy, but he’s not stupid. I think he knows better than to come mess with me.” A slow smirk had slid across the old man’s face when he’d said the last line, and I remember wondering what memories he was thinking of in the moment.
“I wouldn’t be too sure, Tommy. This guy thrives on causing shit. I’m just saying: if he comes in there and starts acting funny, just tell him to get lost.” I knew the old man was level-headed; I was also aware he could be pushed too far. It was usually me who did it.
Don’t get me wrong. I was never trying to push Tommy’s buttons, or anything. It’s just I was the youngest guy in a small community which consisted mostly of lifers. I had questions.
Old Man Tommy was the most patient man in the world, and sometimes he didn’t want to give me explanations; he wanted me to give him results.
When I would go too far, Tommy’s right eyelid would begin to twitch. It’d start to shudder, as if it were having convulsions. When this happened, whatever followed wasn’t good. I didn’t know this firsthand; I’d been warned off the first time I’d gone far.
I’d heard a gruesome story of this 5’5” senior citizen going crazy and sending three people at once to the infirmary. One of those guys was so badly hurt, he couldn’t stay in general population, or even a regular prison; they had to send the poor son of a bitch to a hospital facility.
I didn’t want to try the old man, nor did I feel the need. He had a certain type of wisdom; the kind you only get through age and hard-earned experience. I enjoyed our conversations, and his company. Wanted to keep it that way.
"I’ll do that, Robert,” Tommy said. He’d assumed a condescending tone, and I understood why: Tommy knew how to take care of himself. I didn’t need to tell I’m a thing.
“Alright then, Tommy,” I replied. “I’ll catch you later.”
Turns out, later would be sooner than I’d thought.
The next evening, after the yard had closed for the night, Tommy came and found me. I was at my rack, reading a book, when I heard the sound of his footsteps approaching my bed area. We lived in the same dorm, so he technically didn’t need to announce his presence, even though it would’ve been respectful to have done so. However, Tommy liked catching me slipping. To him, he was training me. Keeping me on my toes.
I didn’t mind it a bit.
I sat up in bed before he made it there; my way of saying, I caught you, old man. I gestured towards a spot next to me, and as Tommy sat, he reached over and lightly slapped me on the back of the head in jest. His was of saying, I’ll still get that ass, youngster.
“What’s going on, Tommy?” He was looking at his hands, and didn’t immediately respond. When he did, he raised his head and removed his glasses before he spoke.
“Bob,” Tommy replied. “I didn’t do anything to him, but that crazy fucker came into the room, and was acting like a demon. He was hissing and making faces. He’s evil, Bob.”
I knew Tommy had been referring to Mark, and I know Tommy was dead-serious about his feelings for Mark, as well. Tommy had been on a zen-like path of peace and restrain; he was seeing the brighter, holier side, and he’d been doing a damned-good job. Now he’s calling Mark a demon? I’d never heard him speak of anyone like that before. My curiosity was piqued.
“What happened, Tommy?”
"I just told you, Bob!” I could see Tommy was still angry. He was breathing a bit more heavily, and his movements where quicker, and jerky. “Are you fucking listening?!”
Ok, Tommy was pissed. He continued.
“He came in the room without saying a thing. No hi, nothing. And it was weird, Bob. It was like he slithered over to an empty chair. Creepy.”
Tommy normally didn’t reveal his buttons this much. Mark getting under his skin as easily as he did worried me. I had Tommy in the office by himself while he was hosting bible studies. The ultimate blind spot. If he wanted to do something, the victim of his rage wouldn’t have a chance.
“Then, while we’re taking turns reading scripture, this puto starts sucking air between his teeth, like a devil. Como un serpiente.”
Like a snake.
I was starting to feel strangely about what Tommy was saying. It was as if he was trying to convince me. Like he didn’t want to feel crazy about the words he was hearing come from his mouth. Surely, I must’ve understood, right?
“Ok, Tommy,” I said. “What happened next?” I wanted to move past the subject quickly; there was no good that would come from Tommy imagining Mark as a demon.
Tommy squinted his eyes at me briefly; he was probably trying to decide if I was disrespecting him, or not. I promise you, I wasn’t.
“I was cool, Bob,” Tommy replied. “I didn’t get crazy with him, or anything. I just asked him what the fuck he was doing. He wouldn’t answer. The stupid puto just sat there, and smiled.”
Oh, shit, I remembered thinking. Mark was really trying to get under Tommy skin. I don’t know why he had this particular death wish, but it wasn’t smart, by any means. If Mark thought Tommy wouldn’t do anything, he didn’t know what Tommy was about.
“So then what?” I asked. At this point, I morbidly curious, more than anything else. I’d never seen anyone be this reckless, or stupid.
“I told him to get the fuck out!” Tommy was getting worked up as he was recounting his episode. I decided to mellow out a little, and quit acting like it was a joke. A moment went by before Old Man Tommy started to speak again. “That guy is an idiot, Bob. He’s trying to start shit. I don’t like it, man.”
“Neither do I, Tommy,” I said. “I don’t know what’s up with this dude, but he’s crazy as a motherfucker. I told him not to fuck with you, Tommy. He’s doing the j-cat thing. Fuck him.” I really didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t want Tommy to get in trouble behind some retarded-crazy-moron. I was trying to talk him down.
“Yeah, I know, Bob,” Tommy replied. “There’s no reason to tell him nothin’. He’s crazy, and he’s not gonna listen. That’s all it is.”
I didn’t know if what Tommy had said was good for Mark, or not. I didn’t press.
“Sounds, good, Tommy,” I said. “The next time I run into dude, I’m gonna tell him to quit coming in during bible studies. He can come in on services, and that’s it.”
I was tired of this little fucker, and offended he hadn’t listened to what I’d told him. If he didn’t like my terms, I’d put hands on him.
Unfortunately, the next time I ran into Mark, it was already too late.
Old Man Tommy led bible studies on Fridays. For some reason, I hadn’t seen Mark on Saturday, nor was I looking. I was busy running my own program; making sure I was handling my own business, and not minding someone else’s. For me, Saturdays consisted of using the office to catch up on stuff I needed to do, and setting up the main chapel room for Sunday morning mass, which would happen the following day.
I had Tommy come in directly after chow on Sunday mornings, instead of returning to the housing unit. He did all the finishing touches when our Chaplain arrived, so I could set up the music-section of the service. This privilege wasn’t trivial; I had to fill out a 128 form requesting Tommy’s ability to do so, and get it approved by both the chaplain, and the captain. A lifer taking off on his own is a big deal in prison. The staff generally likes to know where the inmates are at all times.
On that particular Sunday morning, I was tired. Had been up late, watching a flick the institution was playing for movie night. Going to chow the next morning, I was barely awake, and had heartburn. I took some Tums for the indigestion I was having. Breakfast was quickly finished; I returned to the housing unit, grabbed my mug of coffee, and was waved out the door by the CO on duty. They knew I was the Chaplain’s Clerk, and where I was headed.
Once outside, my pace towards the chapel slowed. I relished the time I was given to myself; those mornings when I left after chow, I liked the fact I was the only guy on the yard. It felt like a special privilege, and you didn’t get too many of those. The chance to breathe unadulterated morning air, free of any other humans; it was nice.
The little things are what you remember.
I eventually arrived at the chapel. I looked through the door’s window as always, making sure there wasn’t something happening on the other side. I made entry, and headed towards my office, which was the third door on the left. After looking through that door’s window, I entered, dropped off my coffee, and grabbed the Catholic music book, and a guitar we kept as our own in the office. Since I led the music section of the service, I liked making sure the good equipment was set aside for myself.
I headed towards the main room of the chapel. Coming up the hallway, I could see Old Man Tommy setting out the missals on each individual chair for the morning’s mass. I was appreciative of Tommy’s reliability; I could count on him to get the job done.
Coming through the entrance of the main room, I immediately felt another presence, and turned in its direction.
Mark.
He was sitting in the corner, eyeing Tommy with some weird look I can only describe as equal parts manic, homosexual, and evil. He had his legs crossed with his hands on his knees; the same way you’d expect to see a woman sitting if she were wearing a dress. Mark had his chin tucked, and his lips pursed, as well. He was trying to look like a creep, and it showed.
As soon as I laid eyes on Mark’s demonic ass, my temper flared, big time. I knew exactly what he was doing: trying to play mind games with Old Man Tommy. The reason why? Only God or Satan knows. What was immediately apparent was Mark trying to start shit with someone who didn’t need it. Coupled with the fact I’d already warned this piece of shit off of Tommy, and I was ready to smack him around a little myself.
“Mark!” All the morning grogginess was gone. I was amazed this crazy motherfucker was in here, first thing in the morning, trying to test the mettle of a certified killer. “You’re not supposed to be in here, dude,” I said. “Take off, man. I don’t want you fucking off my spot.” If a CO came through the chapel, and saw an unauthorized inmate hanging out, it could mean trouble for all of us. I wasn’t about to have Mark ruining my good thing.
Mark didn’t move for a moment, as if he didn’t hear me. I intended to make sure he did. I took several quick steps towards his direction, which caused him to break his lunatic-trance, and immediately rise from his chair. He knew I wasn’t playing, and all of his craziness disappeared.
“You guys get to come in here,” Mark began. I wasn’t about to listen to the rest of his shit.
“Listen, you dumb motherfucker,” I said. “Get the fuck out. Now!”
“OK!” Mark knew I was on the edge of grabbing his punk-ass. He slumped his shoulders a little, and started doing a quick-step towards the door. I followed along with him. I intended to keep a wall between Tommy and Mark. I’d looked in Tommy’s direction, and I could see he had his prison mask on. He was staring at Mark with dead-eyes, which wasn’t a good situation. I could see he was calm, but his right eye was twitching.
Oh, shit. When Tommy’s right eyelid started to twitch, he was pissed. If you where the one he was talking to when it started to happen, your best option would be to excuse yourself, and make a quick exit.
This is exactly what Mark didn’t do.
Instead, he stopped just short of the door, looked at Old Man Tommy, and said in Marilyn Monroe-esque voice, “See ya later, Tommy.”
That was all it took.
Tommy punched Mark so hard in the face, he went over two rows of chairs. Flat on his back, laid the fuck out. What surprised me more than anything else was the speed with which Old Man Tommy had moved, and the power he’d generated when he had hit Mark. Sent him flying, no shit. Then again, Tommy was a pro when it came to hurting people. Was the reason why he was in prison.
I quickly inserted myself between Tommy and Mark, but gave Tommy his space. He wasn’t breathing hard, and showed no signs of an adrenaline dump. Putting Mark on his ass had been a piece of cake for him.
“Tommy,” I said. “You gotta get outta here, quick.” It was the truth. If a CO came in, and saw Mark on the ground, with rows of chairs strewn around him, Tommy would be in trouble.
“Yeah, ok,” Tommy replied. He knew he had to go, too.
While looking at Tommy, I heard Mark begin to rise, mainly by the sound of foldable chairs being pushed and slid across the tiled floor. As Tommy started to leave the chapel building through the long hallway, I turned and looked at Mark.
He was quite a sight.
Nose busted up and bleeding; blood running down his face and neck, soaking into his shirt. He was wobbly; I thought he might fall, but he managed to steady himself with one of the chairs which was still standing. His eye was already starting to swell and bruise. Tommy had smashed his ass. There’d be no hiding Mark and Tommy’s altercation, either. One look from a CO, and they’d know someone had worked this dude over.
“Stay there, Mark,” I said. “You can leave in a minute. I gotta get you some glasses, or something; your face is fucked.” I had to get a beanie and some shades, STAT. Otherwise, everyone and their mother would know this guy just got beat up.
“Hey, Tommy!” Mark yelled. His voice sounded shaky and wet; the way someone sounds when they’ve been heavily crying, or grieving. “Now you’re NEVER getting out!”
When Mark said this, I knew exactly what he had meant. He’d tell. Go to the cops and snitch Old Man Tommy off. By doing so, Tommy would get a serious violation, known as a 115, due to the form number on which it was written. This rules violation would go into Tommy’s file, which would be reviewed by the parole board the next time he was eligible. When “the board” sees a violent infraction from a lifer, they can deny them parole for decades. Tommy, being an old man, would most likely never see the free light of day.
Mark knew what he was saying.
So did I.
So did Old Man Tommy.
When Mark had shouted his intentions into reality, Tommy was about halfway down the hall. I’d immediately turned my attention to him, as I knew retaliation was imminent. Sure enough, he’d turned and rushed in my direction, as if reacting to the snap of a quarterback.
In the second I had to look, I saw Old Man Tommy had a shank in his hand. I don’t know where it had appeared from. I hadn’t seen him reach in his pocket. He must’ve had it hidden up his sleeve; anything else would’ve been magic.
In that moment, I knew I had to act. I didn’t want Tommy to get into anymore trouble. I didn’t want him to spend the rest of his life in prison, whether it was needed, or not. I didn’t think anymore violence was necessary. Mark was rocked, and he was a troll; all he was doing was goading Tommy into more self-destruction, and I didn’t want to see him fall into the trap.
When Old Man Tommy came barreling towards me down the hallway, I wasn’t going to let him get to Mark. He’d murder him. I wasn’t going to mind my own business. Even though I knew I was putting my life at stake, I couldn’t let this mauling go down. As Tommy tried to go around me on his approach, I threw my arms around his waist, and picked him up off the ground.
The momentum of his sprint spun us both in a complete circle, before Tommy’s feet touched the ground. He was still trying to get at Mark, but he wasn’t saying a word. I was using damn-near all of my strength to keep Tommy from shredding Mark apart, but it was a completely silent process. Besides our sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor, I was the first to break the silence.
“Tommy!” I didn’t say his name loudly, but I said it firmly, and with a sense of urgency. “Don’t do it, man! This guy’s crazy!” Tommy didn’t relent in his effort. I had to push him back. I out-weighed him by about 80 pounds; physics did more of the work than anything else.
“Tommy,” I said again. My voice was even more hushed; I was speaking to a friend, or at least as much of a friend as I could have in that place. “Don’t do it, man.” Old Man Tommy made eye contact with me then. He knew I was trying to save him from an even worse situation.
He knew I was looking out.
He seemed to snap out of his own possession, and return to his normal state. “Ok, Bob,” he replied. “I’ll go.” Just like that, Old Man Tommy took a couple of deep breaths, spun on his heel, and left the building.
I stood still for a moment, mesmerized by Tommy’s control of his emotions and biology. It’s as if adrenaline never entered the picture. When he flipped his switch in the other direction, that was that. Eerie: I was in the presence of a true psychopath who’d murdered multiple people, and was able to observe how he worked.
Not like one of us.
I remembered the problem which was Mark, waiting for me in the chapel. I was furious with this little turd. I wanted to go in there and slap him. He had no reason to harass Tommy; it was Mark’s crazy, perverse version of pleasure. Now, Tommy was at risk of getting in trouble, rolled-up off the yard, and probably re-classified to a higher security level.
I wasn’t having it. When you want results, and you want them fast, the best way to deal with crazy is more crazy. That’s what Mark was about to get.
Turning on my heels, I walked calmly back into the main room of the chapel towards Mark. With about half the distance left between the two of us, as I was trying to suppress my anger and violent intentions towards him, a realization dawned on me: I wouldn’t be able to. Looking at his arrogant, bloody face, I felt in the moment Tommy needed retribution. Id have to serve it by proxy.
I lunged the last couple steps towards Mark, and grabbed him by the throat. Made sure to put enough weight behind my approach, and drove Mark into the wall behind him, causing his head to bounce against it, and a gasp to escape his mouth. He had no fight in him, and didn’t pretend or posture as if he did. Mark knew I’d hurt him if I wanted. His method of preservation was remaining still. In retrospect, it’s the best decision he could’ve made.
“You little motherfucker,” I hissed, as I held him at arm’s length against the wall. “You wanna play crazy games, bitch? You got it.” I squeezed and leaned a little harder, and Mark started to make gagging noises. I could see the fear creeping into his eyes; the realization he’d made a huge mistake was evident. Good.
“And check it out, you little punk-ass lame,” I continued. “If you snitch on Old Man Tommy, I’m gonna beat the fuck outta you. Twice. Do you understand, Mark?” The repeatedly-nodding head gave me my answer. It was then I let go. Mark gasped for breathe which he was now free to take, but otherwise didn’t move. I was still standing in his space; I’m sure he thought I might hit him, and didn’t want to provoke a response out of me. Smart.
“Get outta here,” I said, while taking a few steps back. “Button up your jacket, and use the water fountain to clean all that fucking blood off your face before you leave.” Mark looked like he’d been beat up; I wanted him to try and hide the fact as much as possible, in order to keep him from being questioned by the cops. Warning or no-warning, Mark had a coward-snitch’s heart, and would fold under an investigation. He’d rat, and we’d all be fucked.
“Do you have any shades?” I asked. He shook his head. “Ok; take mine.” I reached into my coat pocket, and produced my sunglasses. “I want these back, fucker.” I handed the glasses over, and Mark put them in his pocket. “Go, man,” I continued. “Clean up, and get out.”
Trying to figure out crazy is a fool’s errand. Just as no one knows the intentions of a man’s heart, so is it impossible to know what mechanisms of thought exist in another man’s head. I can’t explain why Mark decided to poke the bear; I can tell you I’m sure he regretted it. I can also say with confidence that Old Man Tommy would’ve poked a plethora of holes in Mark, had I not been present. Tommy’s intentions were murderous, and its was evident. I saved that crazy bastard’s life, 100 percent.
If Mark would’ve kept his brisk pace all the way out of the chapel, everything would’ve been cool, or at least solved for the moment. Mark being nuts, however, wouldn’t allow everything to be cool. He wanted discord. That’s exactly what he got, on the physical plane.
Best to let sleeping dragons lie. Otherwise, you might get burned.
Or beaten.
©️Bobby Dino, 2019. All Rights Reserved
