Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

D.T. had to feel like a giant inside his cell, a birdcage. You can’t even spread your wings without touching the walls. The toilet and sink was elbow to elbow in the back corner, jamming your legs and arms together, feeling like you’re taking a shit in a phone booth next to a coffin for a bed. Rust poured out the sink bowl, and the cell’s floor was scraped and mutilated, like a cat’s work to the side of the couch. D.T. knew better, Heathcliff ain’t sharpened nothing, it was somebody who knew what time it was. The kid had to suspect it wouldn’t just be his freedom he’d be fighting for, but his manhood.

Morning always cleared the dark cloud for a minute. What a sight to see: fishes shooting out their cells before the door closed back for breakfast, like cowboys, tossing their coats and shoes out the cell and hopping in the stagecoach. They’d come out pulling up their pants, tripping over shoes, shit face, crusty eyes, and hot mouth; turning the breakfast table’s ’mused faces salty and mean, mugging ’em fishes for a-whole-nother reason — John Wayn’en. It’s what they called it, a really bad look on a fish. ’Least a vet done ’nuff time not to give a Jim Crow anymore ’bout hygiene. Henas would be up before the rooster, watching ’em hard. Maybe it’s the idea of catching a fish with his draws down that have ’em willy-nilly; maybe not? Same difference to Henas, they have the ups on their prey, it’s all that matter to ’em.

Opportunity comes when the cell doors break open. Most Henas on our rock talk a fish out his draws, all ’cept Gorilla Black. Oh no, he liked taking it. . forced entry, ’specially to punks acting like they’re tough. He got off on proving they ain’t thoroughbreds but sissy boys. Gorilla Black was a bona fide predator, all head and shoulders, black as motor oil, ugly ’nuff to deserve the name Tracey to soften his ’timidating ’pearance, a stocky fella, built like a Sherman tank. He was nasty as a rattler and hung like a palomino. He’d put a hurt’en on a seasoned whore, D.T. hadn’t a hope or prayer and was in a world of trouble. Gorilla Black laid on D.T., telling other Henas the boy was off limits, that Angel Eyes was his! Those Henas knew better than to step on Gorilla Black’s toes. I didn’t know better, I ain’t no Hena — Gorilla Black knew better than to cross me , a big-game hunter! I’ll cut him into lil’ pieces and feed him to the gulls. D.T. was a sharp one though. He would leave his cell for breakfast already dressed, groomed, on his Ps and Qs. When he didn’t go to breakfast, he was up, made bunk, reading a book: business, law, oh, had a good lawyer and strong appeal in court. Him and the girl had been fooling around; there was no evidence of rape. The girl’s best friend sided with D.T. Oh, you’d never catch him sleeping when the cell doors broke open. He ’minded me of myself. Almost — he hadn’t been tested yet, but it was coming.

One day I had went to the counselor’s office, Ms. Bitchard — actually, Prichard; the other name was what they called her. I went to her office so she could straighten out ’em taking me off the special diet line — they know I’m a diabetic and can’t eat that other shit! They rather see Jabo Tut dead than spend another dime sending me out to the world hospital. I’ll check out when I’m ready — I’m gone write the final chapter! And it ain’t gone be nothing nice. D.T. was already in her office when I got there. I waited right outside the door and heard ’em loud and clear as a church bell. Said things ’bout him enrolling back in college. Didn’t recognize her voice though; she was all sweet on him like nobody else. You’d ’spect a house to fall on top of her mean ass, evil as she was. But not to him: she was giggly, gibberish, asking personal questions, oh, twirling her fancy gold ink pen. She never unlocked the armor gate and let prisoners inside her office. All business was handled through the bars since she was back there alone. Oh, they had something going on ’tween ’em; he was in her system, probably didn’t even know it. His mother was sick, the cancer had got hold of her, he was hurt in the worst way over it. I took a peek and saw her eyes, green as a leaf, wide as all outside, taking him in: his pain, frustration, helplessness, ’flecting off her plump cheeks ripe with sympathy, lips that was usually thin and pink had swelled to Kansas strawberries. Her orange hair, pear-shaped as could be, had never looked so good, ’specially the way she stared at him, into those eyes of his.

Shining shoes got me all ’round the prison, access to everywhere. I moved like water through cracks and crevices, leaking out where I wanted. No one ’cept a few, here and there, knew what Jabo Tut was really moving. You wouldn’t believe where I was getting the dope from, oh no. Bo Jangles has benefits, I shined shoes as a sideshow. A turnkey named Mohlerson was an unusual one, not the regular white folk: average height, full beard, fading red whiskers, a stubby version of that fella, ah. . the brawny man. He hated everybody, even his own kind. Other guards alike, they didn’t want to work with him, a shit starter. He was always trying to talk up on the ’pocalypse, killing everyone ’cept him and ole Yella, his dog. All he was was ornery, a wretched piece of shit. He’d made a routine of stopping me going to work to shine his boots, right there outside the rock on the stairway port. Putting his beat-up boots on the rail, the rubber all worn, tips faded, he’d kicked plenty of people when they was down. I had a leather shoeshine box that Old Man Howard made for me at the hobby craft shop. It was like a real toolbox: when you opened it, drawers came out like a step ladder, filled with different color polishes, wax, shoe taps, and other stuff.

Ms. Prichard had come back from somewhere one time and was headed to her office way on the opposite end of the rock. Mohlerson stopped her, talking out the side of his neck, making no damn sense. No wonder he was a hermit: he didn’t know how to knock a broad. She was a country girl, not simple ’nuff to wear what you eat. If what he was saying wasn’t stupid ’nuff, the tobacky bumping his gums made him sound stupider. Her response was dumb too. Oh, he’d dummied her down, and she didn’t like it one damn bit. She was past ready to go like two shakes and a rattlesnake. I felt the awkwardness; I’m always ready to hightail it out when I see Mohlerson.

The phone had rung; it was her opportunity to make a clean break, and she took it. Oh, she was still stepping even though he had told her to wait. Sour face and all, she made it to the door, opened it up, and all that loud from the rock came out. Mohlerson called Demonte Taylor on the intercom for a visit. She stopped dead in her tracks. Mohlerson stepped to the walled control panel; it was all lever action till they installed electric cell doors. Mohlerson pushed the button for cell 36.

D.T. came out of his cell ready, shining like a new penny: shirt, slacks, shoes — not gym shoes, dress shoes! — fresh out the box and spit-shined. He looked sharp and dapper. Ms. Prichard’s eyes had lit up. She was diarrhea at the mouth, all of a sudden talking to Mohlerson ’bout D.T., well, nice and neat guys in general, “model prisoners,” oh, she matched ’em. I could tell Mohlerson’s grill was heating. She went on and on ’bout D.T.

Red and blue veins popped up out of Mohlerson’s neck. “There’s the pass!” he said, nodding toward the desk. Another pass was stuck to the control panel across from the desk.

“Which one?” D.T. asked.

“Right there!” He pointed to the one on the control panel. “It’s simple as white and black. Don’t you know the difference?”

D.T. ignored him with every part of his body ’cept his eyes. He cutted him deep with them and picked up the pass. Ms. Prichard whipped out her fancy ink pen and signed it. ’Parently, she didn’t know the difference either, she left too, same direction as D.T.