Now What?
Ed. note: Names have been changed.
Weeks passed since my departure from the Whites. On the surface, nothing had really changed; I would keep to myself, reading at my rack, or going out to the yard. If I took yard time, it was only to workout or play guitar. My schedule stayed normal, and I continued a monotonous existence.
Under the surface, the current moved a little differently. All of the white guys were avoiding me, so others wouldn’t think they were in cahoots with a race traitor. Whether on the yard, or in the housing unit, dudes weren’t trying to hang out, at all.
I had an old-timer for a bunkie at the time who was close to going home; he wasn’t going to act like an asshole to me, lest he get more time when I would’ve whooped his ass for doing so. He didn’t talk to me any more than necessary, and I didn’t mind one bit. He was almost out the gate, and gone from my life forever.
I was looked at as an outsider, and that was fine with me. I was free. No longer had to follow the idiotic rules and regulations which kept people tied up in this awful system. I could do something different: live my best life.
That’s exactly what I intended to do.
Others trying to dictate my program had no place in my new state of being. I had a plan, a revelation: I could do it.
So I would.
One of the silver linings from my exodus was the state of my race relations. They dramatically improved. When the Brothers, Mexicans, and Others saw I wasn’t down with being a mandatory racist, they started acting differently. They saw I was willing to die for mine, and they showed not only respect, but often times, love. People who I’d never thought I would talk to became those who I’d converse with on a daily basis. Something unexpected, but welcome all the same. It wasn’t like we all became best friends, and started hanging out together. More like I was taken off of the enemy roster, and viewed as neutral.
A small distinction, but a hugely different experience.
There was a lifer I met by the name of Dave. Black guy, super-fit, in his late 60’s. Remember I didn’t have to angle my neck down to look at him. Dave and I made eye contact on a level gaze, more or less, which let me know through experience he was at least 6’2.” Probably weighed 215 pounds. He used electric clippers to shave his face, which meant he always in the early-stages of a beard. Nice enough guy with me, but it was obvious he didn’t like too many people.
Dave and I would talk in the day room often; we’d both watch Spanish television, and were the only people besides the Mexicans who did so. He’d watch my bind spots, too. If someone was walking up behind me, he’d let me know. Dave was very old school in both grammar and approach. Would use pre-60’s civil rights-era lingo, and talk about his own participation in the movement. Claimed to have seen Dr. King speak many times, and had his own run-ins with the law. He killed someone in California, and now the State had him for as long as they wanted.
As mentioned previously, Dave didn’t like too many people. Even on the yard, he kept to himself; worked out, and walked the track by his lonesome. When he took to me, and started offering his old school advice and expertise, I noticed. Listened, and paid attention, too. Dave had funny stories, and because he spoke of everything in such an archaic manner, what he had to say seemed to have that much more weight. I felt privileged; this old man was giving his time to me, when he didn’t appear to deem anyone else worthy. I respected him, and what he had to say.
A few years after Dave and I became friends, he got sick. I noticed a dramatic loss, and so did he. At first, Dave thought he might’ve had a reoccurring flu, or possibly pneumonia. I advised he go to the infirmary when his symptoms didn’t clear up, and even helped him fill out the paperwork requesting the medical visit. He went, they wanted more tests. Dave went again and again; he was finally informed he had stage-4 cancer, and there wasn’t anything they could really do, other than chemo, which he did. The treatments didn’t improve his condition, and Dave’s frame continued to dwindle.
My friend withdrew towards his life’s final stages, not even wanting to talk with me any longer. One day, he had a medical emergency in the housing unit, which required he be taken out on a stretcher. I wasn’t there at the time, but was filled in later by some people who were. Dave never came back from the infirmary. I was informed a short time later by someone who worked there that Dave was dead.
I missed that old man, and felt a deep sorrow for the fact no one would mourn him. Dave was here one day, gone the next, and nobody gave a shit. Well, almost nobody. I cared, there just wasn’t anything I could do to show it. Nothing would stop for Dave; there’d be no moment of silence, or any other silly nonsense. Life went on as usual, end of story.
Another day in the pen.
Right around the time Dave and I became friends, I met a guy named Ricardo, or Ric, for short. He didn’t like to be called Ricky, and I never did so, unless I wanted to joke, or give him a hard time. Lifer: kidnap/robbery. He was around 5’10,” and had a stocky build. Was very strong, and would work out with me any time I wanted. He liked to slick his hair back, and had a bushy mustache, which extended to his jawline. He was friendly, and outgoing; Ricardo felt he was on a mission from God, and was living the life of someone who meant it.
He approached me one day at my dorm, wanting to talk. His visit was a strange occurrence; I was aware of his existence, but he and I had never spoke. When he came to my rack, I was curious.
“Hey, Bobby,” he said, from the dorm’s entrance. Ric knew the rules. “Do you got a minute?”
“Sure, man,” I replied. I didn’t know what Ricardo’s name was at the time, and was slightly embarrassed he knew mine. I motioned to a spot next to me on the bed. “What’s up?”
“Ok, here’s the thing,” Ricardo somewhat hesitantly began. “I’ve been out on the yard when you’ve played guitar, and sing. You’re really good!”
“Thanks, man,” I replied. Could tell he was being sincere, and had come in peace. He wasn’t trying to work me.
“Do you think you could do that for the Catholic Community?” he asked. “Our music program is non-existent, and we could really use someone playing the hymns, and singing the songs.”
“Wow,” I replied. Meant it, too. The thought of playing church music wasn’t on my radar. Especially of the Catholic variety. I’d grown up in The Church; the thought of playing hymns wasn’t a pleasant one. Still, I thought about my recent transformation, and decided I should push myself. Give back a little, instead of constantly taking. There was a brief pause, before I replied: “You know what, Ric? That sounds really cool. Yeah, I’ll come by and check out what you’ve got.”
“Awesome, man!” Ricardo was grinning from ear-to-ear, as if genuinely happy he’d solved a problem for his community. “That’s really great! People are gonna be excited there’s real music again!” I could see him become excited, and he looked as if he was going to stand. I beat him to it. When I rose to my feet, he was a moment behind me in doing so himself.
“Cool, man,” I said, as a smile spread across my own face. Ricardo’s happiness was infectious. “When do you want me to come by?”
“Anytime!” he replied. “I’m there most of the time. If you don’t see me, just ask someone there. They’ll know where to find me.”
“Right on,” I said, while sticking out my hand. He took it, and shook. Had a firm grip. I could tell he had strength. “I’ll come by in the next few days, for sure.”
“That’s great, man,” replied Ricardo. “I really appreciate it, Bobby.” Again, his sincerity was apparent.
“No problem, bro,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”
I kept my word to Ricardo, and ended up coming by the chapel the next day. It was the first time I’d been there. My first impression wasn’t a good one. Upon entering the chapel, there was a long hallway. All of the offices were on the left. The space on the right was occupied by multiple bookshelves, overflowing with literature from all different faiths. It seemed crazy and chaotic; given the management, it wasn’t surprising. Inmate clerks essentially ran the chapel areas, in the absence of the chaplains. The three freestaff men of the cloth were of the Protestant, Catholic, and Muslim variety. They served the six different yards of the prison; the three couldn’t be everywhere at once, hence the clerks.
The chaotic part came with all the different christian denominations. Since there were so many, and each insisted on having a bit of hallway advertising, the shelves were stuffed with different broachers, pamphlets, and bibles; some in direct contradiction to the literature they’d be sitting next to. If you were some guy off the yard, looking where to find Jesus’ church, you’d be in for a ringer.
The Native Americans had time on Sundays, but they kept to themselves, and kept a low profile. The Christians, however, made drama all the time. Every one of them-Baptist, Pentecostal, Episcopalian, Mormon, Jehovah’s Witness, etc.-fought for time, and made bitch-like scenes over trivial matters. I wouldn’t see any of this the first day, of course. It was something I’d learn over time.
On this particular day, it was quiet. No one was in the hallway, but I was able to hear voices coming from within the various office areas. The first office I walked by had black guys all kneeling on a large rug, while simultaneously bowing, touching their foreheads to the ground.
Muslims.
A few of them saw me looking in, and decided to stare. I wasn’t about to be in any shit with the muslim community, so I quickly looked away. I was in luck; the next office I went by had Ric sitting behind a desk, creating a document on an old-school word processor. I lightly knocked on the door; Ricardo looked up, saw it was me, and waved me in. He had a big smile on his face as I came through the door.
“Bobby!” he said, coming around his desk so he could shake my hand. “Man, thanks for coming by!” Our hands met, and once again, he had a solid grip.
“Hey, no problem, Ric,” I replied. “I’ve never been in the chapel. Gave me an excuse to come and see what’s going on in here.” I was looking around his office as I was speaking. There was a large cabinet with a combination lock attached. A small bookshelf was on the right, under the window. On top of the book shelf sat a 13-inch color TV/DVD player. Ricardo had a good thing going.
“Yeah,” said Ric. “This is my quiet place, away from the building, the yard, the bullshit; I can focus, and get things done.” The way he was talking to me was very personable, as if he was trying to convince me of what he’d found. Similar to a preacher or minister, trying to win souls over to Christ. I recognized it for what it was, and listened to him continue. “When you’re trying to improve your life, and come to Jesus, you need to shut out the world, and focus on healing your soul.”
Oh, great, I thought. Some new-age-hippie-shit for me to digest. Wasn’t about to go down that road.
“That’s cool, man,” I replied. “Good for you, Ric. Listen, man, I don’t have very long; I still have to get my workout on. Can you show me what it is you want me to do?”
“Oh, sure, man,” Ricardo said. “I understand. Let’s go over to the main room of the chapel, and I’ll show you.” He walked around me to the door; I turned, and followed him out. We walked past another office, where I saw two inmates sitting at two different desks, typing away on some more old-school word processors. The prison obviously hadn’t updated their tech in awhile. There was a large door directly facing us at the end of the hallway, which I assumed to be the main room of the chapel.
I wasn’t wrong.
Ric opened the oversized door, and I followed him into a spacious room, which had a riser for the alter, and an organ/musician area. I could immediately see a drum set, keyboards, two electric guitars, and three amplifiers. A complete PA-system completed the setup. The chapel had all the instruments needed to have a rock band, or any band, for that matter. I could feel a smile spreading across my face. Having access to all this equipment in prison was like a dream come true.
Riccardo saw the look on my face, and smiled himself. “Cool, huh?” he said. “All of this stuff was donated, one way or another. There’s an electric bass, too, with an amp. The Protestants have hidden away in their office. The clerk’s friend likes to play, and he puts it in there so no one will mess with it. There’s crazy church-politics around here, man.” Ric was shaking his head and chuckling as he said the last part. He didn’t care about the crazy games these these busters were trying to play, and neither did I.
Everyone knew you became religious because you couldn’t hack it on the yard, or with your race. Lots of child molesters, rapists, and snitches tried to hide out in the chapel, as well. They figured since they weren’t running with their race, they’d be left alone. Sometimes they would slip by, but mostly, they’d be caught, and dealt with. Just because you became Christian, didn’t mean your paperwork couldn’t be checked. If anything, it would be looked at twice.
I was hesitant about being involved with the Catholic music for precisely this reason: I didn’t want anyone to think I was chickening out, or couldn’t hold my own anymore. If I was to be seen going into the chapel on a regular basis, guys on the yard would assume the worst. The rumor mill would start up: He was Christian the whole time! Bobby’s hanging out with a bunch of chomos and rats!
Still, I had decided other people’s opinions didn’t matter the day I left the Whites. Had my own thing to do. Saw the chapel as an opportunity: I’d be able to play and write music, while having a quieter space in which I could relax. Could get off the yard, away from the noise, and do my own thing. Sounded great.
“Ricardo,” I said. “This is awesome, bro. I’d love to play music for the Church. Do you have song books?”
“That’s great, Bobby!” Ricardo was smiling and excited; it made me feel happy, like I was doing a good thing. “I’ve got the book in my office. Let’s go get it now!”
I started rehearsing the music for church that day. I’d grabbed an electric guitar, which I hadn’t held in years, but instantly felt familiar. Played for an hour. It was nice, having a comfort from the streets. Being able to do something I loved, while existing in a place I hated. Was taken away for a moment, only to be brought back to the reality of prison. Having these instruments was a stress reliever, counselor, and creative outlet, all rolled into one. I was very happy we had them.
I went through the music book. As suspected, most of the songs were three or four chords arranged in one way or another, and super-easy to play. Some music is mindless and predictable in its movements. Praise songs usually fit this description. They’re made to be easy to play, and sing along with. It encourages participation from the congregation. I wouldn’t have to spend much time practicing on this music. Simple.
What I needed to find was more musicians. I could play the music with just guitar, but it’d be better-sounding, and more fun if I had more musicians. I knew there where a few guys on the yard who played various instruments; if I could hit them up, and offer them a chance to play on professional-grade equipment, I was sure they wouldn’t want to pass on the offer. Made a mental note to talk to these dudes post-haste.
Ricardo was accommodating, and friendly in his hosting me at the chapel. I respected the fact he ran the place, and could suffer the consequences if any shenanigans happened there. He had a good thing going, having his own office, and freedom of movement from under the CO’s watchful eyes. I didn’t want to be the guy who messed it up. I helped Ric clean the place when needed, and kept on eye on any riffraff who came through the door. Ended up being in the chapel more and more, playing music, and hanging out with Ricardo. We started to become friends, and go to chow together, as well. Pretty soon, I was in the chapel nearly everyday.
Spending time in the chapel was beginning have a significant effect on me. I found myself more at ease, and not as much on edge. It was almost like a safe space; somewhere I could go not have to think about the prison experience. Being nicer to people, and listening to their problems and stories was also starting to take place. Found myself able to listen and converse with these lost souls. Tried pointing guys in the right direction. Began to see how helping people was a lot more gratifying than hurting them. Was working on my own growth, struggling through thoughts and emotions which had to be dealt with. Luckily for me, there were some older lifers who took the time to explain things, and be patient. They were helping me prepare for the tests which were to come.
I was out on the yard, during a still-cold spring afternoon. Doing dips on the calisthenics bars, then waiting in line to take another turn. These gym bars weren’t located on grass, or concrete; they were on dirt. Didn’t do well for trying to work out on windy days, since it would blow sand, and create large dust clouds. Today wasn’t one of those days. There was sunshine, although the temperature was still frigid, and crisp.
While waiting in line for my next set, I heard the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel behind me. I turned, and saw Keith, along with some youngster who’s name I didn’t know, walking towards me. They both had their jackets and beanies on. Keith’s hands were by his side, while the kid with him kept his hands in his pockets. Didn’t like that. Keith was smiling, while the youngster kept his prison mask on. I wasn’t worried about him; he wasn’t that big, and I knew he was trying to look tough for his shot caller. I understood the game.
“Bobby!” Keith said. He was acting like an old friend, which didn’t mean anything to me. I knew he could be playing at something, and him bringing back-up to talk didn’t exactly put any worries to rest, either. “You got a second, bro?” Keith knew he was interrupting my program, but it seemed as though he needed something, and I was curious to see what it was.
“Sure, Keith,” I replied. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Do you think we can talk over there?” Keith asked, motioning away from the gym bar area, and towards a section of grass off to the side. I knew the grass area would afford us some privacy, but it also took me away from any obstructions or stationary weapons, should one or both these men try and attack. Decided to take a gamble, and oblige.
“Yeah, no problem.”
We walked towards the grass, and I made sure to follow them both. There was no way in hell I was going to let those guys get behind me. I’d noticed the youngster kept looking around the yard like his head was on a swivel, and I didn’t like it. This was the behavior of someone who was about to do something bad, and that wasn’t good for me. I still wasn’t viewing the kid as a threat, but his actions were distracting.
“Ok, what’s up, Keith?” I said, as we stepped onto the grass. “Is everything good?” Fuck the small talk; if there was some kind of issue which needed to be addressed, I’d rather get it out in the open immediately.
“For sure, bro!” Keith replied, holding up his hands in the universal not me gesture. “I was just stopping by, seeing how you’re doing. Everything good?”
“Yeah, everything’s great, man,” I said. “Now cut the bullshit: what’s on your mind, Keith?” I didn’t have time to play, or to put off a battle. If these guys wanted to fight, I’d rather just get on with it. Keith stared at me briefly, probably trying to assess where I was coming from. He must have thought the better of it, and came clean.
“Bobby,” Keith said. “Are you running Christian now? Was that what you leaving was about?” As he was asking, Keith was staring intently into my eyes, trying to use his own bullshit-meter for when I gave him a response. The smile was gone; now Keith was down to business. “You said some shit about wanting to go your own way, and now you’re going to church?” He said the last part with contempt, as though the thought of entering a holy place offended him.
“What fucking business is it of yours, if I’m going in the chapel, or not?” Keith didn’t have any right to ask how I ran my program. Wasn’t running with those guys anymore; it was none of their business what I did or didn’t do.
“So is it true?” Keith asked. I looked over his shoulder, and the wannabe gangsta was still scanning the yard. Enough was enough.
“Hey, dude!” I said loudly enough, to get the youngster’s attention. “Why you scanning the yard, bro? You nervous about something?” The kid’s face went a little red; thought he was being slick, and I’d caught him in the act. Turned my attention back to Keith. “No, Keith, I’m not running Christian. That chapel’s got a ton of music equipment in it, and I’m going in there to play.” I figured if I wanted to put some of the rumor mill to rest, I might as well let Keith know what was going on. He was the shot-caller; if people brought me to him as an issue, he’d already know what time it was.
“Oh, ok,” Keith replied. A brief look of relief crept over his face. I was an issue he no longer needed to deal with. “Some people had brought it up, and…”
“Yeah, no problem, man,” I said, although I was annoyed. “I’m gonna get back to my routine. Excuse me.” I turned my back to them ,and walked away. I had severed ties with the Whites; I didn’t appreciate the fact they felt the need to check up on me. Still, I expected the gossip, and shouldn’t have been surprised when it appeared. Knew getting away from this group wouldn’t be easy; there’d be drama I’d need to take care of. The reality of it being able to come up anytime was just beginning to dawn.
One day, I was at my rack reading a book, when I brought out of my imaginative reverie by someone calling out from the entrance of my dorm.
“Bobby, is it cool to come in?”
I looked up, and saw a white guy standing just outside of the entrance.
Dennis.
I knew this guy as one of the Whites who really wasn’t about anything, and wasn’t trying to be, either. Dennis was in his mid-twenties; only a couple years younger than I. He was of average build, and already starting to go downhill. He was developing a beer gut, and wasn’t known for working out. Was maybe 5’8.” We’d played cards together often, and he was always respectful and easy going. I didn’t sense any bad vibes when he appeared.
“Yeah, Dennis!” I said, while sitting up. “Come on in, man!” I was trying to be personable. I didn’t know why Dennis had come, so I had to be alert. At the same, I hadn’t had any visitors from the Whites in awhile, and didn’t want to be a dick. I straightened the covers at the foot of my bed, and motioned for him to sit. Once we were eye-level, I continued: “So, what’s going on, Dennis?”
He held my stare for a moment, then looked down at the ground. Dennis didn’t answer immediately. Something was going through the kid’s head. I waited, so he could be the one to break the silence.
“Oh, nothing much, Bobby,” he replied. “Just hanging out, trying to stay outta trouble. You know.”
“I know something’s on your mind, Dennis,” I said. “Can see it all over you. What’s going on?”
Dennis looked away again, this time to his side. Staring at the wall in the dorm, trying to formulate was he was about to say. I didn’t press, but didn’t have all day, either. Couldn’t imagine what was so hard for him to say, but if it was going to get me twisted up in any way, I didn’t want any part of it. Luckily, it didn’t take him long.
“Ok,” he replied. “Here’s the thing: I don’t wanna run with the homeboys no more.” Dennis was looking me in the eye when he said it, and I could tell he was telling the truth. I saw determination, but also observed a different element: desperation. He was done. Whatever Dennis was going through, he wanted it to stop.
“Then don’t,” I said. Flippant, sure, but also true. I’d walked away, and started living my life right. He could, too. That was my thinking, anyway.
“Whadaya mean?!” Dennis excitedly asked. “The homeboys are gonna trip if I try to walk away. They’re gonna jump me!” I could see him getting worked up , contemplating bringing his decision of living right to the homies. Dennis’ concern of a physical altercation was valid. The races didn’t take kindly to people jumping ship. You’re labeled as a race traitor; a dropout who would be viewed as lower than low.
You’re basically considered and treated as another race.
It’s a scary situation to be in. You need conviction, confidence, and a force of will. I knew what he was afraid of because I was currently going through the same thing.
Which was why Dennis had decided to make a visit in the first place.
“I feel ya, bro,” I replied. “It’s not a good spot to be in. But if you wanna live your own life, you do what you gotta do. I don’t know about you, but I don’t wanna get caught up, and stay in here forever.”
“So, you think I can do it?” Once again, I saw the desperation in Dennis’ eyes, only this time more pronounced. He was looking for someone to tell him it was ok to act. Someone to hold his hand as he jumped over the ledge. I didn’t want to be that guy. Dennis had to make his own decisions. I couldn’t be a part or connected to what he was thinking of doing.
“Dennis, look,” I said. “You gotta do what’s right for you. If you don’t wanna run with the fellas anymore, don’t. It’s your life to live, man. These guys aren’t doing your time, or getting released with you. You’re in here on your own. Came in on your own, gonna leave on your own. You know how it is.” I didn’t want to recommend him to stay running with the Whites. It’d only create more trouble. Telling Dennis some basic truths didn’t seem as though I was crossing the line, in my opinion. Still, I had to make sure he understood: I wanted no part to play in his decision process.
“Dennis,” I continued. “Listen, bro: I’m not saying you should do this or that. All I’m saying is, for me, I had to start living my own life. My own program. If this is what’s calling you; if this is really how you feel, then you need to follow your heart, and go where your conscious guides you. That’s the only way you’ll be able to live with yourself, in the long run.” Meant every word I said, too. I was just super-careful in how I phrased them. If Dennis started quoting me to the fellas, and it appeared I was encouraging what amounted to mutiny, I could have a huge backlash. Just what I didn’t need.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking, Bobby,” Dennis replied. “It’s such a huge decision, you know? I saw that you pulled it off, and was wanting to hear what insight you had.” I could tell he was still thinking about his decision, but I could also see he’d made up his mind. Dennis was going to go through with it. He wanted out, and he was going to figure out how, consequences be damned.
“Yeah, man,” I said. “It won’t be the same. You need to know that, bro. Don’t make any decision from what I’ve said. You gotta ride this one out alone. Make sure it’s really what you want, before you decide to pull the trigger.”
I get it, man,” Dennis replied. “And don’t worry: I won’t tell anyone I came by to talk to you about this.” He stuck his hand out when he’d finished speaking, to confirm his word given to me: he wouldn’t say shit. While this made me feel somewhat better, I still had an uneasy feeling in the back of my mind. I’d be connected to this guy’s actions somehow, I was certain. To what degree was the question.
Later that night, I saw Ricardo in the dayroom, watching the evening news. He was straddling a bench in the TV area, as to afford himself a better view of what was happening in the dayroom. I knew the move; did the same thing. I approached from the front, so Ric could see me coming. Figured there was no reason to startle the guy. He looked away from the television, and towards me when I was about 15 feet away. I was the first to speak.
“Ric,” I asked. “What’re you watching?” I knew, but was striking up small talk, all the same. It was custom, and a way to break the ice. Ricardo wasn’t buying.
“You know what I’m watching, fool,” he replied. “What’s up?” Ric wasn’t looking at the TV anymore; he was looking at me with an expression of concern. “Everything ok with you?” He knew about my situation with the Whites; everyone did. Ric was also aware I made an easier target, because I had no back up.
“Yeah, man,” I replied. “Everything’s cool.” I sat beside him; he grabbed his cup of coffee which was resting on the bench, and put it on his other side, so I could sit a little closer as we spoke. Ricardo wasn’t doing anything weird; in the joint, you don’t want people knowing your business. We were going to speak in hushed-tones, so no one could ear-hustle our conversation.
“So check it out, man,” I continued. “You know that white boy, Dennis?” Ric looked at me with confusion; he didn’t know who I was talking about.
“No, I don’t think so,” Ric said. “What about him?”
“He came to me in the dorm yesterday, wanting to talk,” I replied. “He’s sayin-“
“Oh!” Ric interrupted, with a big smile on his face. “You mean the youngster with the beer belly? Yeah, I’ve seen him around.”
“Anyway,” I said. “Lemme continue. He came by, saying he didn’t wanna run with the Whites no more. Was asking what he should do-“
“You didn’t tell him nothing, did you?” Ricardo interrupted for a second time, a look of seriousness on his face. He was thinking about how it would look or play out for me, and none of it would be good. “Don’t even get involved with that shit, homie. If they think you’re telling people to quit riding, they’re gonna come after you!”
“Yeah, I know, man,” I said. “I didn’t tell him anything. I just said ‘Do what ya gotta do,’ basically.” The truth, more or less.
“Ok, good,” Ric replied. “You don’t wanna get caught up in that stuff, bro. He drops your name, and those guys will come after you.”
“Yeah,” I said, as I stood up with the intent of heading to my dorm. “I’m not trying to get involved.”
Too late.
A couple of days later, I was out on the yard, playing guitar. Getting some much-needed sun and fresh air. It was rejuvenating. Since you weren’t supposed to play guitar in the housing units, getting some practice was a great excuse to go outside. Waited for an unlock, and walked out of the sally port, acoustic in hand, into the late-morning sun.
After an hour or so of sitting on the bleachers, strumming away, playing different parts of songs, and running through scales, I was ready to go in. I didn’t need to play for long; I just wanted a change of scenery, physically and mentally. Let the music take me away for awhile, before my mandated return back to reality. A moment before I was going to get up and head in during an unlock, the housing unit alarm went off.
When an alarm was activated in the housing units, people who were on the yard had to get down on the ground, in a prone-position. Yard officers, along with staff present would run to the buildings, some faster than others. Once inside, they’d assist the other CO’s in stopping whatever action was going on. If you were one of the people active in an altercation, and you weren’t down when the alarm was blaring, you’d get pepper-sprayed. If a CO was involved in an any way, you get shot with a Ruger Mini-14.
I got down when the alarm went off, but was careful to lay my guitar on the grass when I did. Hadn’t brought the case out, and was silently chastising myself for not doing do. Put myself in the prone-position on the asphalt, and was thankful it wasn’t later in the day, when the blacktop could cook an egg. Everyone else on the yard was proned-out as well, and we waited to see who’d be brought out of the housing unit in zip ties, or handcuffs. About 10 minutes went by until I saw the yard officers start to filter out of the building.
When the CO’s emerged from the housing unit, some of them were coughing, and wiping their eyes. A sure sign OC-gas was used. Just because the cops were the ones spraying doesn’t mean they wouldn’t feel the poisonous effects of pepper spray. That stuff will mess you up.
I had my eyes on the entrance to the building, eager to see a) which race was involved, and b) who was in trouble. They’d be leading these guys out of the housing unit soon, and everyone was looking to see who it was.
When the first guy came out, everyone on the yard knew it was the whites who got down. I can’t remember the youngster’s name who was led out first, but I knew him to be a kid who was desperately trying to be like one of the fellas, to the point where it sometimes hurt to watch. Totally bloody, as if he’d been the one bleeding. Hair all messed up, clothes torn. This kid had been in direct battle with someone, and whoever it was, they’d put up a fight.
He’d gone on a mission, no doubt, I thought to myself as he came out. These young, impressionable kids were notorious for raising their hands, so to speak. They wanted the fame; the notoriety of being a badass. When the shot-callers had something that needed taking care of, these guys were willing participants. It’s a shame, for sure; I’ve seen more than enough young lives thrown away at the order of another.
After they brought the first kid out, the CO’s stuck to protocol, and waited until the offender was brought to which ever area they deemed necessary-in this case, the infirmary-before they brought the next guy in cuffs out of the house. This guy I recognized immediately. John. He was a lieutenant for the Whites. Big guy, too; we were probably around the same size. He didn’t seem like he he was marked up much; no blood on his clothes or body, hair still in place. If he’d been involved, he didn’t seem to take any significant damage. I’m sure these two hadn’t fought, either; they would work out and play cards together. Plus, the kid wouldn’t have wanted to fight John; he wanted to be John. No, my money was on them having jumped someone.
When I saw the third guy being led out of the housing unit, my suspicion was confirmed, although I wouldn’t have minded a bit had I been wrong.
Dennis.
He looked like a bloody mess, too. They must’ve used something on him; a lock in a sock, or shank. People usually wouldn’t bleed as badly as Dennis was from mere fisticuffs. He looked more like he was cut, or stabbed. As I watched him being led to the infirmary, I remember feeling bad for Dennis. I knew why they’d handled him: he wanted out. For some reason, they weren’t trying to hear what he was going through; they’d decided to take care of him, instead. The Woods weren’t going to put up with a bunch of white boys abandoning ship, and they’d just sent a message saying as much.
A feeling of worry started creeping over me. I knew this would be associated with me somehow. I knew some people were going to call foul, and be upset about the situation, in general.
How come Bobby got a pass, but Dennis gets rolled up? I could hear it now.
I waited until they’d given the all clear, then got up, grabbed my guitar, and headed back in the unit. Someone in the building would be able to tell me what happened; I imagined it would be long before the gossip mill started going. Headed straight for my dorm, and put my guitar inside its case immediately upon getting there. If I was somehow to be in the middle of this, I could be next. I slid the case under my rack, sat down on my bed, and made sure I had any small possessions stored away in my locker. Should I be approached by representatives of the Whites, and things did go south, no one would be able to steal my stuff. After everything was safely put away, I stayed seated in the upright position, pretending to read a book. I’d look up every few seconds, making sure no one was coming near the entrance to the dorm. Yes, I was worried.
Allow me to tell you why.
I was, and still am a big guy. 6’4” tall. Back then, I tended to fluctuate in weight between 240-245 pounds. Worked out an hour or two everyday, five to six days a week. If a hit-crew came for me, it wouldn’t be a couple of guys; they’d send at least four, maybe five. It was the same way in riots. They didn’t want people like me taking out soldiers half our size in droves, so they’d send a squad, make sure the big guys were taken care of. If there was some kind of beef, I was facing multiple assailants. Had to pay attention.
As the hours neared chow time, I was reading more of the book in my hand, and spending less time looking up, trying to see who might be coming. When the CO’s did dayroom recall, and everyone returned to their doors, I thought maybe I’d slid by under the radar.
I was wrong.
After dinner, I returned to the housing unit, and put my eating utensils back in the locker. Took off my state-issue blue shirt, which was required attire when going to chow, and hung it on the end of the rack. Went into the day room, and over to the TV area. I liked to watch the evening news; stay current in what was happening in the real world.
Being in prison is like a time-warp: everything is the same, day in, day out. Nothing changes for you, yet the people on the outside grow older, change their style and appearance, while the laws and customs of the land go through an overhaul, as well.
You see it happening, and know you must be getting older, too; yet the scenery never changes, and indicators of time passing never appear.
You stay the same. It’s a trip.
I made it over to one of the benches in front of the television, and laid a blanket down upon it before sitting. The hard wood without a backrest to lean on made the benches unbearable after awhile. Most people brought folded blankets to offset the discomfort. I sat, and waited through commercials for the news to come on. I hadn’t been there for more than a couple of minutes, when I saw Keith rounding the corner, making his way to the TV area. When he saw me, our eyes locked, and he maid a beeline in my direction.
It was me who he was looking for.
Great.
The good thing was, Keith was alone. When I saw him coming, I looked to the left and right, as well as the top tier. Making sure I wasn’t being flanked. I knew how these attacks went down; I’d done them myself. The threat of an assault was real. I wouldn’t let myself be a victim.
Before Keith was in 20 feet of my position, I stood. Wasn’t in an aggressive manner; as he got closer, I stuck my hand out for a shake. When he was a few feet away, he stuck his hand out in the same manner, and I took it. Solid, firm grip. Even a gesture such as this could be dangerous. People could take your right hand, and then pull you into the overhand left they’re firing from the other side. You never knew. Keith didn’t have any of these intentions. He motioned towards the bench where I was sitting; I took the cue, and we both had a seat. He settled into a comfortable position, and looked me for a beat before he spoke.
“Bobby,” Keith said. “I know Dennis came and talked to you.” He was looking at me intently, as though I might try to lie, and deny it. No such luck.
“Yeah,” I said. “He came by the dorm the other day. Thought it was weird when he showed up. I thought he was a nice kid. What happened today?” I wasn’t going to try and deny talking to Dennis. If Keith said he knew we’d talked, I believed him. There’s a million lookyloos in the housing unit at any moment. Didn’t doubt somebody said something to Keith. I did want to know what happened with Dennis, even though I already knew the gist of it. Keith wouldn’t be here otherwise. I just wanted to know the particulars. Might as well get them from the shot-caller himself.
“Well,” replied Keith. “Dennis was hanging out with a few of the fellas over by one of the tables, and got to talking about not running with the Woods anymore. One thing led to another, and Rick put hands on him.” I didn’t believe the last part. Was sure Rick had the youngster with him fire on the kid, while he was taking shots from the side. I could tell by the way Rick looked when they took him out of the building.
“So, what,” I said. “Dude wants to live his life, and he deserves to be rolled up?” I could feel the heat of anger rising inside of me. “And what the fuck, Keith?” I asked. “Why are you over here?” Keith needed to know I was hip to his thinking. He needed to put up now, if he wanted to take it any further.
“Hey, lil bro,” Keith replied, and I could see his prison mask coming on. He’d been offended by the way I’d become excited with him, and it showed. “No need to get excited. I’m here as a courtesy, so people don’t start coming your way.” Looking me dead in the eyes the entire time he said his piece.
Doing some quick mental math lead me to the conclusion of not wanting any problems with Keith. He could make a world of problems for me, should he choose. Better to stay on friendly terms.
“Keith, my apologies,” I said. “Not trying to get crazy with you. But I know you wouldn’t be over here unless someone was talking shit.”
“Listen, man,” Keith replied. “I was with you at Wasco. You ain’t scared. Dennis was. He started talking all goofy, and shit went bad for him.” Keith was very matter-of-fact in his delivery, as though he were talking about the outcome of a football game.
“So Dennis couldn’t run his own program?” I asked. “Live his own life?!” I wasn’t upset, or trying to get smart with Keith; I genuinely wanted to know why this young man was getting kicked off the yard for trying to improve himself.
“Bobby,” Keith replied, “Don’t you see? Dennis wasn’t serious about what he was saying. He was half-stepping, bro. Acting like a bitch. He ran his mouth about the wrong shit to the wrong people, brother.” He was looking intently at my eyes throughout his delivery. Wanting me to understand. Seeing what my next move would be.
“Yeah, I get it, man,” I said. “Still, that shit ain’t right, Keith. He shoulda been able to run his own program.”
“And then what?!” Keith asked, slightly raising his voice. “He leaves, someone else leaves, another guy goes; who the fuck we gonna be left with? Right or wrong, Bobby, we can’t have people being part of the homies one minute, and trying to bail out the next. Where’s he going? To debrief? We don’t know. Fuck that shit; you know better, man.”
I did know better. We’d seen people do a bunch of sketchy shit; you didn’t want somebody ratting you out to The Man over a drug debt. Still, they were taking this case too the extreme with Dennis. Keith, Rick, and everyone else knew Dennis wasn’t going to the cops. They knew Dennis was scared. He was only toying with the idea of going straight, but lacked the heart, physical presence, and mental stability to do so. They beat his ass because he was in, and now he wanted out. Dennis didn’t want to be a part of the tribe any longer, and his peers voted him off the island.
Keith was still looking at me intently, and could see I was working a thought over in my head. He leaned in a little closer, and lowered his voice.
“Bobby. Did you tell that kid to try and go out on his own? I need to know if you did.”
I returned Keith’s stare with one of my own. There was no way I was going to be involved, or made a scapegoat of Dennis’ demise.
“No, Keith,” I replied. “I didn’t. Are we good now?”
Yeah, we’re good,” said Keith, as he rose to a standing position. When he stood, I did the same. We both took each other’s hand for a shake, while looking the other in the eyes. I was glad he was leaving.
Just as Keith was turning to leave, he stopped, again making sure to look me in the eye. “I hope you didn’t start a trend. People won’t like it. See ya later, man.”
Watching him walk away, I was thinking exactly the same thing.
