Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

D.T. got a whole bunch of visits from his mama and sister, even from white folks from the college he went to. He had church support too. Oh, I could tell something awful was ’bout to happen; good people going through troubles always have the buzzard’s luck. And I’m no stranger to the angel of death: I outlived everybody, including my children. Couldn’t even go to the funerals, murderers ain’t allowed. Can’t tell me this ain’t hell.

I had left work one afternoon, took the hallway from the rotunda to I block, like walking down a snake’s throat, wide ’nuff for one fat man or two skinny fellas squared together like dice. Bare pipes taped and patched like a busted spine hung loose and crooked from the ceiling, a skeleton on the walls. I stopped at the med line window. Didn’t have nothing to pick up, just wanted to see Nurse Betty, the only thing good in this shit hole. The window was closed shut. Oh, the railroad ahead wasn’t, it was wide open, two Henas had Suzanne Somers in the corner running a B&O train on him. That white boy and Angel Eyes was tight as flea pussy: walked the yard together, hung in the library, the gym, had came through quarantine together. All they knew was each other. Oh, birds of a feather don’t always flock together. Henas think so, ’specially Gorilla Black; he never took his eyes off D.T., watched his every move: where he went, who he ’sociated with. Gorilla Black had to have him for hisself, with nowhere to turn, make D.T. his bitch and like it.

When I got back to the rock, Gorilla Black was dust-mopping the floor, moving like molasses on sandpaper, circling the same area by D.T.’s cell. The kid had got an intercom call to go and pick up legal mail. He came back from the control center happy. Gorilla Black’s face was tore up, he didn’t like that D.T.’s appeal was looking good. Gorilla Black stopped in front of D.T.’s cell, stood there silent as could be. The kid flagged his good news with a goofy ’pression, didn’t bring no noise. Gorilla Black dug a Snickers bar out his pocket and tossed it on D.T.’s bed and left. Oh, D.T. was stupider than me. He ate it for a-whole-nother reason, thought Gorilla Black was being nice. I wish a nigga would cut into me ’bout it; no damn candy bar better be on my cot. I’m eating it with my bone-crusher by my side.

I was on my way to work another time and saw Mohlerson looking out the window, staring down at something. It was my shot to duck past him down the stairs. I made it too. Passed D.T. on my way. . saw Ms. Prichard ahead of me on the walkway. Oh, I’d be a broke-dick dog if I hadn’t forgot something, can’t ’member what it was, but I had to get it. On my way back up the stairs, Mohlerson had D.T. hemmed up. He was at the top of the steps talking real greasy to D.T., blocking him from leaving. Even pulled a picture of a boat out his shirt pocket, saying, “Me and that bitch gone be on it, and you gone give me the six months.” D.T. didn’t know who or what he was talking ’bout and blew him off. Oh, Mohlerson was on to his and Ms. Prichard’s thing, whatever it was. Wasn’t gone be no mulattos running ’round his woods, not on his watch. Mohlerson intended to push the kid’s buttons and provoke him to lay hands on him; he’d get six months off with pay for sure. D.T. would catch a case, sit in the hole for years. Probably turn into a savage. Mohlerson knew he couldn’t get Ms. Prichard on his boat — long as he cock-blocked D.T. and her from shacking up, all was right in the wild. Oh, he was a piece of shit!

I had been ripping and running nonstop, sunup to sundown, had to take the day off — and it wasn’t my regular off day. I was tired, too tired to care if all of ’em ever got served, got a shine; too tired even to yearn, tired of all this shit! Tired of being tired. Something sweet in the air had woke me up. It was Ms. Prichard’s perfume. She was at D.T.’s cell, probably been there for a while; had a dream about some home-cooked meals: chicken dumplings and peach cobbler. Oh, she had the whole rock smelling good. I couldn’t hear ’em, a bunch of radios was going, blasting that bip-bop nonsense. I had put my ear to the hole in the wall, a dick hole; most cells have them. Even took a peek and saw that fancy gold ink pen of hers sliding up and down his bare chest. I knew it! He pulled her, the lil’ squirt. I stuck my mirror out the bars, saw her big wide ass in tight white jeans, looking like moon pies. I saw Mohlerson too, coming up the rock. She wasn’t paying ’tention; her hand was still inside his cell. Mohlerson’s eyes jumped out his face like a chicken bone got caught down his throat. She finally saw him and eased her hand out, but no fancy ink pen, probably left it on his chest. She didn’t move or stop talking to Angel Eyes. Mohlerson had no words either, just made his round.

The next morning, Mohlerson turned up the heat, searching the kid’s cell for no good reason, hitting it like a hurricane and leaving his stuff everywhere, all out of order: papers and pictures on the floor, floating in the toilet; took his Walkman and TV, lying in the report that they were stolen goods. Ms. Prichard saw the game Mohlerson was playing and would give D.T. his stuff right back; she threw out all the false misconduct tickets Mohlerson wrote against him. Mohlerson hated that, went as far as cried to the brass ’bout her not backing his plays. They must’ve just let him vent, that’s all. He came up with another way to try and get D.T. off his square. “Want to kick it, want to kick it?” Mohlerson asked just ’bout every time he passed D.T.’s cell, ’plying the kid was a rat, turning other inmates against him. It didn’t work.

Then Mohlerson shook down others’ cells, taking radios, TVs, beard trimmers, clothes, property they either bought or strong-armed from another inmate. Oh, they’d be pissed off, and Mohlerson would blame it on D.T. Convicts know better than to let a turnkey buzz ’em up, pitch you against another inmate. No one bit ’cept Gorilla Black. He cut into D.T. hard and raw ’bout some stuff Mohlerson had took from his cell. It was probably a play too. D.T. said he ain’t have nothing to do with it. Gorilla Black told him that he owed him anyway, and he’d pay in due time.

I ’member that morning like it happened to me . D.T. was tired of it all: tired of the courts jerking him ’round all these months, of prison politics; tired of his mother putting it in God’s hands. Oh, tired of crud, black mole, oh, the shitty mood always here. D.T. came out Ms. Prichard’s office with nothing ’cept dried streaks on his face. His mama’s ’dition had worsened; he’d let some of it out in there. Ms. Prichard came out right behind him, dabbing her eyes with tissue, had papers for him to sign. She handed him another fancy ink pen to use, a silver one. She told him she’d get him transferred to a prison closer to home, be near his mama.

Later that day, I had finished polishing the deputy warden’s shoes at my shoe stand, and Gorilla Black was coming out the barbershop, talking with Hully Gully, a notorious homo thug. Gorilla Black said he was gone “tap that ass tonight.” I took it to mean D.T.’s time had run out; either was gone fight, fuck, or flee to Blue Hoe Card. I left the rotunda in a hurry, wasn’t sure why at the time, just did. I stopped by D.T.’s cell, went against my long-standing practice to never get ’volved in prison bullshit, and interfered, to even things out. D.T. didn’t see what was ’round the corner — a monster. The one and only time I done that, got burnt trying to save a boy who wound up having sugar in his tank after all. Angel Eyes was different, worth saving, was from good stock, decent upbringing.

Up till then, I hadn’t spoke a word to him. I told him to hold onto this, and handed him a single-edged flat piece, eight inches of steel coming out of a tape-and-shoestring handle, strong ’nuff to blow holes in any tank.