Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

“Hey, Vic,” one of the other scrappers called out, laughing.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Vic answered, hitting sections of wall with a hammer to get at the wire, then widening the holes with the claw end.

“Why don’t you let the kid handle that?”

“Why? So he can take it back to the jail and strangle someone? I don’t get why the county makes them work with us. It’s fucking embarrassing,” he groaned.

“Aw, calm down, he’s right next to ya. After this you wanna go to the Goldmine? Two-for-one lap dances until six!”

“Damn straight.”

“Anderson, come on. Lunchtime,” Arnold said.

Vic and the other guy walked away.

Arnold, the guard, was a bulky, baby-faced New Jersey type. He was always joking. The other worker and I tried laughing at his jokes, but it was hard. In one of the examining rooms, he picked up two large knives from a table — the knives they cut people with. They looked like small machetes. He put them behind his back, in an X formation. He started to pull them out from behind him. “Hey, look! I’m like a ninja with these — aw, fuck!” It sliced right into one of his knuckles. There was still old blood on the blade when he did it. He ran off to clean the cut. He was so funny. We laughed. Ha ha ha.

Left alone, with nobody to help me (the other worker spent a lot of time in the bathroom, probably hiding things to steal), I grew bored. I threw gurneys down the marble steps because they were too long to fit in the elevator. It was a spectacular old building.

“This is a nice place. .” the other worker said at some point.

I tried to smile. “Yeah. People are dying to get in.” He didn’t get it.

All around there were slides and Polaroids and a refrigerator that still had parts in it. I could hear Arnold screaming somewhere else in the building as the alcohol burned over. I had a few moments to look around. A lot of office furniture. The coolers were still cold. I noticed a few lucky pennies on the floor.

Eventually, I stumbled upon a chapel. I’d heard about it before, maybe on TV: the morgue had a chapel for the grief-stricken to pray after seeing the corpse of a loved one. I opened the door and looked inside. The air swirled. High, rounded ceilings led down to walls with stained-glass windows on the right and left, dusty light sleepily floating in.

Suddenly I felt my cheeks becoming wet. I needed to get the fuck out of this place; I decided that I wanted to pray. Even though I had no idea what I was praying to, this was most definitely a place for it. When I started to step inside, not paying attention, I nearly fell. I looked down and saw that the floorboards of the chapel were missing. My hand gripped the doorknob as I regained my footing. It would have been a nasty drop. I stared at my shirt, the word INMATE printed on the breast-pocket, thumping with the rapid beat of my heart.

If the fall wouldn’t have killed me, I thought, the scare still could.

Coldwater Correctional Facility (Coldwater, Michigan)

Only the fading light of day was visible through the barred window as I entered the cells at Coldwater. The shadows were silent.

“Turn the lights back on, Ali. I don’t like when my cell is dark. I’m not afraid, I just don’t like shadows.”

“I’ll turn them back on in a minute, Red. I need to ask you to do something for me. How are you feeling? Is the morphine patch working?”

“The pain isn’t too bad. I’m used to it. But please, Ali, turn the lights back on. I really don’t like it dark in here.”

I’ve always found it ironic that prisoners feel comfort with darkness at the corners of their mind, but have a fear of the darkness that covers their eyes.

“Red, I need to ask you to deliver a message to Allah for me. Can you do that? I will include mercy upon you from the hellfire in my daily prayers if you take my message to Allah.”

“I’ve already told you I don’t believe in God. I’ve never seen, heard, or known Him. In my forty-four years in prison He has never sent me a message. If I believed in God I would send Him my own message. What I’ve seen, and know, is that only a hypocrite believes in God, and I’m not a hypocrite.”

“That’s the beauty of Allah, Red. You don’t have to believe in Him for His laws and rules to apply to you. When you die, you will go before Him and He will ask you about this life. I want you to give Him a message from me. Please, Red.” I’d been taking care of Red for more than a year. I believed he owed me, and what harm was there in delivering my message?

“Okay, fine. What would you like me to tell your Al Aah?”

“Thank you, Red. Maybe if I send Him my request through you, He will hear and help me. I want you to tell Allah that I’ve been praying for twenty-four years to leave prison, and He has not answered me!”

“Sure, no problem. . Hey, what’re you doing? Put the pillow back under my feet and turn the lights on.”

“Don’t forget, Red. Give Allah my message. I really need you to do this. You’re my friend, so please don’t forget. I need Him to get me out of here.”

“Hey, what, au augh meem meem haal . .” I covered Red’s face with the pillow and held him down as he feebly struggled. It wasn’t hard. Most older prisoners, after decades of imprisonment, have lost the will to live. The only reason they don’t take their own lives is to spite, by the high cost of imprisonment, the citizens of their state. However, Red’s true spite was for the families of victims, who had extracted this life and the next from him. He once said: “The victims took two lives from me when I only took one.” He truly believed he had been wronged.

Maybe the reason he didn’t struggle — much — was that he wanted me to give his life meaning. Of course, I didn’t ask him for his life’s meaning, but really, what meaning can forty-four years in prison generate in a universe that is indifferent to meaning?

“Officer More, I’ve taken care of Mr. Dorsey for the night. He’s asleep and probably won’t wake until morning. I’ll be back around seven thirty. He shouldn’t be any trouble during the night.”

“Okay, Ali, first shift will be here when you return. Good night.”

I didn’t particularly care to be sent to Coldwater. The word among inmates is that you’re sent there to die, or assist the dying. The whole facility is geared toward making sure that prisoners die in the least costly and most efficient way. The prison has five buildings set in a crescent formation. When an inmate walks out from any of the buildings, he is faced with a three-acre grassy yard. The yard is huge by prison standards; it has a small pond with ducks, and trees for shade. If it wasn’t a prison, it would be a wonderful spot to picnic.

The facility was originally an industrial park. But during the 1980s recession, Michigan surrounded it with three fifteen-foot fences and draped them all with layers of barbed wire. Even so, Coldwater is a pleasant place to do time. The only complaint a prisoner may have is being surrounded by so many sick people. The officers are humane and abide by the philosophy that a person is sent to prison as punishment and not for punishment.

Prisoners, the world over, are conspiratorial and very superstitious; things never go their way. But because of my belief in Allah, I have avoided these two character flaws. Nonetheless, my initial thought upon being sent to Coldwater was that it was an omen that death was approaching me. I prayed to Allah to help me get transferred to another prison. When I was first assigned to help Red, he said: “I wish God existed so I could send Him a message that I need His help.”