Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

But the flames, the smoke — and she kept screaming even as he found her and dragged her outside. Flashing lights raced her to the hospital, her hands and arms burned from trying but failing to reach their little girl. Handcuffs, county jail, court appearances where nobody comes, and finally word that his death-do-us-part wife couldn’t figure out any possible way to go on living without sweet little Amanda, so she gave up trying.

Please, Amanda, smile for me one more time. .

“Goddammit!” Mo bellowed, his voice echoing. “Oh shit — hold on.”

Officers appeared, then stood around, waiting for health care staff to complete the paperwork that lets an ambulance into the compound. Hey, good luck. Fucking convicts.

“He’s gonna need state shoes to ride.”

Too much smoke, too much heat.

Hospital now. “What — what happened to Metal?”

“Who?”

“Man, it hurts.”

“Sure it does.”

Eighteen days in seg and the swelling subsided, gashes closed, stitches grew out. His ear would never look right, and he couldn’t quiet that incessant squeal on the left side, constant noise, worse when he buried his head in the scratchy blanket.

The door buzzed open. Officer Silvestri pushed a cart holding his big green duffel into the room. The matronly black woman always looked after her guys and seemed to take it personally when something happened that wasn’t called for. “Ridin’ you out tomorrow, sweetie. Need to fill out the property slip.”

No keyboard, no cheap-ass Chinese television, no gym shoes — just a bag full of state issue, Granny’s final letters, and paperwork, too much paperwork. .

“What happened to Metal?” he asked her.

She leaned close, sharing a secret, a breach of security. “He’s still listed OTH,” she said. “Beats the worst.”

OTH— Out to Hospital.

Fuse didn’t sleep much that night. He hadn’t slept much at all since it happened. Head hurt too much, heat still too much to bear.

The next afternoon he stood near the back exit of the health care office while they belly-chained and cuffed him. Some prisoner barely out of his teens came in from another joint, belly chain and cuffs. He took the youngster’s place in the transport van, one out, one in, then closed his eyes while they loaded property in the back.

“Run these boxes back to Mound,” someone said, so instead of heading down Ryan Road they circled back between the fence and the railroad tracks. The driver stopped and rolled down his window to spend too long chatting with an officer patrolling the perimeter. The train crossed Ryan Road and pulled alongside them, Fuse’s only close-up, his last chance to watch the daily ritual, take one, leave one.

Maybe Fuse would eventually find Metal out in the world — even Reggie too. They might very well rediscover the places they’d conjured together that one time in a converted storage room off the prison gym when fences stopped mattering. Probably not, though “What Could Have Been” is many a prisoner’s only song.

But he would never see Mo again.

He would never be allowed to visit him, certainly never have a chance to play music with him. Fuse’s instrument had disappeared, but at least Mo made sure his charts got packed. Good lookin’ out.

Something got added too, for there in the duffel bag patiently waited a tattered blue folder, photocopies of a natural lifer’s most personal songs, the page on top titled “LaTisha’s Dance.”

Fuse hoped someday to locate Mo’s daughter, and he would never stop trying to remember Amanda’s smile.

The train’s mission complete, it crossed Ryan Road and faded into the ’hood.

As the van pulled away, Fuse turned for one last look, just to be sure.

Again, that old banged-up black tanker car got left behind.

Oklahoma State Penitentiary (McAlester, Oklahoma)

"Silverfox, pack up!”

Looks like I will be spending some time in the hole. Again. Edward Silverfox. Number 202859. Long-term resident of Oklahoma State Penitentiary. I remember the first time I set eyes on it. Eighteen years old, squinting up at it from a transport bus known as the “Green Lizard,” acid in my throat, I thought, This is it. Welcome to your future . As the Lizard inched its way through the double gates of the east entrance, the whitewashed stone walls of my new residence rose up before me in warning. I mouthed the words “Dracula’s castle” as we off-loaded inside the seemingly ancient, tower-guarded complex.

We were then led into the facility’s common laundry site, where I was issued clothing and bed linens — two pairs each of boxers, socks, and pants; two white T-shirts; two dress shirts, two sheets; one towel; one pillowcase (no pillow); and one blanket — all inside a mesh laundry bag. My first experience with wearing used, preworn (by whom?) Skivvies had been in the county jail while awaiting trial. After checking out my linens, it occurred to me that I would be wearing someone else’s underwear for the foreseeable future.

Leaving the laundry, another Native American dude and I were then escorted through another fence and delivered to another building, G-unit, or the “rock,” where I was placed in the smallest single-man cell in which I’ve ever done time (to date). The depth of the cell was about eight feet, but the width. . well, I could extend my arms out from each side and simultaneously touch both walls. Per correctional policy, I remained locked down there for seventy-two hours — no showers, no rec time.

Once allowed out of my cell, I was overwhelmed by the diversity of the population. I marveled that a place like this could exist right smack in the belly of a mostly white farming community. While the place was diverse, it was also very segregated, cliqued up. The blacks stayed with the blacks, though some were 107 Hoover Crips, some were Neighborhood Crips, some Red Mob (Bloods). There were the Gangster Disciples, who were whites and some Latinos. There was Old Grove. There was the Universal Aryan Brotherhood or UABs. There were a few of us Native Americans and even a couple of guys who didn’t really seem to fit in anywhere.

I remember Madonna’s “Material Girl” coming out of a radio as I walked through the halls. Dudes were playing poker, watching TV, kicking it in groups, waiting on the phone, or waiting on the shower. I learned that rec time would be longer on some days and shorter on others, depending on which officers were working. Some of those guards were real pricks, bringing their frustrations or personal problems to work and taking them out on inmates. I hated the rock, to say the least, and I hardly spoke to anyone. And I didn’t know what to expect. I had heard stories about prison rape, and so I wanted to stay on my guard — whatever that means. Do I just keep sitting on my ass, or what? I had to shower, and although it was a single shower, there was only a half of a wall around it with cells right alongside. Privacy while shitting or showering isn’t something a person should take for granted.

As bad as the rock was, I know now that the hole is worse. Back then I would have done anything to get out of G-unit, so when the opportunity came to move to I-unit, I volunteered. All of the other inmates told me how wild it was over there and how inmates were always getting stabbed up on I-unit. It’s gotta be better than this shit. Fuck it.

I-unit was located under the gym and was “open dorm” (no cells). Ninety or so inmates called the place home, with its five rows of bunks and its smell — like cat piss or something, but sweet. Candied cat piss. The first and last rows were bunk beds, and the three rows between them were single beds. The rows were referred to as streets: First Street, Second Street — you get the idea. I was assigned to a bunk above a black guy who was a for-real, no-shit African. He went by the name Mac, and he worked in the kitchen. We eventually started to kick it some, and he would look out for me by bringing an extra sandwich from the kitchen sometimes. Mac had a thick accent, and you had to listen to him real close to understand. He seemed to be a good, genuine dude.