Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison (43 page)

"Today. I guess they don't want me startin' no scandals over in the barracks-so they're moving me into A-unit before we hit the Eyewitness News hour, if you know what I'm sayin'. Girrrl! There are some fine lookin' men up in this place, honey."

"How's Ginger doing?" I asked, remembering her cellmate from the jail.

"Girl got herself a dime," Black Diamond said, meaning she had received a ten-year sentence. "She's over in Gladiator School. But she'll be all right, already got herself a man picked out, so won't nobody fuck with her."

"And You?" I asked.

"Well, I'm just gonna have to wait and see what time it is before I pick me out a timepiece. But I'm sure enough gonna get one a Roladex or at least a Long Jean's Wittnauer, if you know what I'm sayin'."

She mispronounced both names, but I didn't have the heart to mention it. We both laughed. I remembered how judgmental I was when I first came to prison, and how horrified I was when I saw those queens on the tier- gigglin' and wigglin' their butts.

Paul tugged my jacket. "This is Paul," I said.

Paul nodded, but he seemed distant. "C'mon, Tim, we've got business."

"Well all right," Black Diamond said. "Y'all go on and make that thing happen."

As soon as we got out of earshot, Paul said I needed to be careful about who I associated with, because that had much to do with everything.

"But she's been nice to me!" I said.

"I hear what you're saying, but these fuckers will judge you by who you're hanging with, who you talk to, by as much as how you carry yourself. And don't kid yourself, Tim, they're always watching." He stopped to look at me. "Listen, we can talk about this later, but neither of us has chosen a man so we need to keep a low profile."

When inmates arrived at a new prison, if they were gay or had been turned-out before, they had limited time to choose a man before one got chosen for him.

"But I want you to be my man," I said. "Can't we keep doing what we're doing?"

"Of course," he said, "but it's only a matter of time before they start turning up the pressure on us."

Under the convict code, regardless of how we may have acted, we weren't thought of as "men" because inmates believed that gays were fundamentally lacking in what they considered manhood. "It's pretty fucked up," Paul said, "because I know some stone cold killers who are also gay, but that's just how these simple-minded fuck heads view things."

"Attention all inmates," the loudspeaker blared, "Report to your assignments."

"And besides," Paul said. "Neither of us has any money, so we need to get one or two of these knuckleheads to start taking care of us."

Paul's family didn't visit, nor did they write or send any money. His job paid 33 cents a day, which came to less than $10 a month. I'd been there close to a year, but I'd only had one visit. Though now that my stepbrother Bobby was going over to Gladiator School, I suspected I'd see more of my family. I received a letter from Sharon, who said the judge gave Bobby ten years.

I told Paul I didn't care about money, or anything else these guys had to offer, but he said, "Don't worry about it. I'm going to show you how to work it-so we can use them like they've used us."

He said that first, we had to sit back and study our options-to find which guys were ideal for playing on. "You watch them carefully," he said, "and see what makes them tick. Is it love or attention? Then we pretend to give it to them. Do they have an ego? Then we stroke it. Whatever it is, once you find their weakness, we use it to gain control."

Paul showed me a letter that an inmate sent him from Gladiator School. "He was in love with me," Paul said.

I nodded.

"No! He was really in love with me. Read the letter."

I did, and the guy had signed it, with all my heart ...

"That's when you control him," he said. "Once you get 'em to care about you, they'll do whatever you want."

"Sounds like a lot of work," I said.

"This is just practice," he said, smiling. "For when we get out. Trust me on this."

I was beginning to trust him, which was hard for me to do after all that had happened beginning with Riverside. I wasn't sure I could trust anyone again, but Paul made nee willing to try. He had freed me from Moseley, and he really seemed to like me. And I liked how he looked at me with that green sparkle in his eyes-first straight in the eye, down at my lips, and then back up again.

"My skin is breaking out," I said, self-consciously.

"That's OK. I hadn't noticed."

I knew he was lying, but I appreciated his kindness.

"I'm getting allergic hives," I told him.

"I don't mind, it's just more for me to look at."

"Oh brother," I said, smiling at such a tired cliche.

"I'm serious."

"No you're not."

The loudspeaker blared: "Attention all inmates: Report to your assignments." They always made announcements twice, since no one listened the first time.

I avoided Black Diamond from that point on, which turned out to he good advice. A few days later, I saw her and another queen fooling around in the bushes next to the infirmary. Black Diamond's friend called herself Ruby, and the two of them used to argue over who gave a better head. One time, I saw them swapping a couple of guys back and forth, so they could help them decide, but the two guys who were getting blown kept coming back the next day saying they weren't quite sure.

That afternoon, I was called to Miss Bain's office. Another inmate was speaking with her when I arrived, so I waited in a chair outside her door.

"I don't know where you got this, Little John, but I think you better put it away."

Little John responded in a low voice, so I couldn't hear what he had said. Then Miss Bain said, "Listen, I'm always willing to talk to inmates, but I think you and I should take a break for a while. And I think it's time for you to leave."

I stood in her door. "Hi, Miss Bain, you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, we were just finishing." She handed Little John a pass.

I caught a glimpse of a red necklace before he closed the lid of the small box. He glared at me as he walked past.

"Thank you," Miss Bain said. "I heard you when you came in, so I appreciate your timing."

There wasn't a lot I could have done to defend her if Little John had turned violent, but my presence might have prevented him from trying something.

"Listen," she said. "I want to talk to you about what went on earlier today."

"Thanks for sticking up for me," I said.

"Well, they do have a point. And they're not the only ones who are concerned about you being on the paper."

"You're worried?"

"No, I'm not, but I did get a call from Warden Handlon today."

"That's bullshit!" I fumed, afraid I was about to be pulled off the paper.

She dropped her head and looked at me.

"Sorry, Miss Bain."

"Now you can't get any ticket while you're on the paper, or I'll have to reassign you."

"Does this rule apply to everyone?"

"Look, Tim, when Warden Handlon asked me to take this assignment, I told him I would-but only if I could do it without interference. You need to work with me on this. I have to pick my battles."

"I understand," I said. Though I didn't really-but I desperately wanted her to like me. She made me feel special, and I wanted to be around her as much as I could. I needed that attention from her. Of all the people to help me, I never expected a black woman. I don't think I knew any black women before.

When I had first made the mistake of telling O. J. that he did look like O. J. Simpson, he said, "I'll bet you think all niggers look alike." He and Rodney laughed when he said it, and I noticed how they stuck together like that. But mostly I felt embarrassed, because I did have trouble telling them apart at first. But how could I if I only lived in one world where everyone looked the same?

"There are a lot of things that are unfair in this world," she said, "but your job is to accept that and learn to work within it." She signed my pass and sent me back to the newsroom.

On my way out of her office, I ran into Reese and a few of his friends in the hall. He stopped talking and looked at me as I passed.

"Both them bitches are gonna need a man," he said.

When I got to the newsroom, everyone else was out following up on stories. I wasn't there when Spaulding handed out the assignments, so I didn't know what kinds of stories they were covering. But my job was mostly typing anyhow.

I picked up my journal and started writing. I struggled to keep up with my thoughts. Here was this woman, a black woman in a man's world, who was better educated than anyone I'd ever known. She stuck up for me as my mother or Sharon never had and said things like I'd never heard before. But it was more than that; it felt deeper, like I was a kid again and peeking at her from around the corner.

Warden Handlon believed that once an inmate was capable of comprehending his circumstances, he would be able to transcend them. My dad, who never completed the sixth grade, used to say that niggers were ignorantbecause that's what his dad had taught him. I used to think that word meant stupid. But I looked it up, like Miss Bain said, and discovered that it meant something else. And now that I was getting an education I was starting to understand what it meant not to have one. I wondered how different I might have turned out had I paid attention to some of these lessons earlier-but how could I if I only lived in one world that didn't value learning? And would I have been ready to listen? Sadly, I had to come to prison to get an education, and maybe this woman could help lead me on a new path, because now that I knew what this world was like-I didn't want to he in it any longer. In here, I was the "nigger." And only then, was I willing to look, learn and listen to what that ugly little word really means.

30

Head Games and Power Trips

Sister Mary was quite clear. If I came to class again without my homework, I'd be sent to Father Bruiser. That's the name given to him by the kids. The name alone speaks for itself.

"Oh, you don't want that," Jimmy Conroy said. "He's got a real leather strap, and he'll use it on you too."

I was supposed to read the catechism and discuss it with one of my parents, but Sharon's bedroom door was closed, and Dad hadn't come home. I stood there, weighing which was worse-the wrath of Father Bruiser or hearing Sharon yell at me. I nearly jumped when I heard her say, "C'mon in." I stood there motionless. "For Christ sakes! I can see your feet!" She sounded like herself this time, so I went in.

"I have to, um, have you read this to me and talk about it." I held up the second grade book.

"Which one?" Sharon asked.

"That one." I pointed to a page where Jesus was playing in a field. "Suffer the little children-come unto me."

Sharon propped herself on a pillow and began to read. Her voice was soft and gentle, and she spoke with a kindness I'd rarely heard from her before, (except when she was answering the phone or talking to a stranger for the first time). She stopped suddenly and looked over at me. "Why are you crying?"

I shrugged a shoulder. I didn't know why. Perhaps it had to do with her tenderness and the way she was reading. Or maybe she reminded me of my mother and how she used to make me feel, by just reading to me. But I could never tell Sharon this, because she hated my mom, and she wouldn't understand.