Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

Nobody was breathing.

“I looked around for my ride — nowhere in sight. I lit the cig with the lighter. My hands didn’t shake.”

Jaykey said, “Did too.”

“Fuck you. Did not. I just fuckin de-liver forty hits of LSD into a no-torious prison with a pocket fulla ammunition! And my hands were soooo not shakin.”

Charlene, who had gone back to the card game, whispered, “I be happy with the cigarette. Or the LSD. Or the bullets.” She looked at her cards, tossed them on the table in disgust. “I’m out. . That what you’re in for this time, Frankie?”

“Hell no. That’s not my beef. Jeez. I’m a artist. I got away with that caper. Nah — I’d say they framed me this time, but ya know what? Nobody wants to hear me whine how I’m innocent. Shit. I ain’t no kindsa innocent. I did it. An inna month or whenever — I’ma do it again. Sweet sweet he-ro-in. Heart’s ease. Hey, I’m not a addict — I’m a aficionado. Should that have a ‘a’? Aficionada? Nah, sounds like crap.”

Stretching again, shuffling her feet like a dancer or a boxer. “Sometimes I take a fall. Sometimes, all unintentional, I keep the boys in blue busy. Do any of them ever say thank you? Fuck no. But I’m in charge of my own damn life.”

Charlene asked, “What happened with your friend? He out now?” Not saying, Maybe he bring you some dope. You might share.

Frankie sat down all of a sudden, cross-legged on the floor. “Yeah. He out. Out of all of it. OD’d within a couple months of release. Some damn release, huh? Sometimes. Yeah, sometimes I think, well, I think that nothin matters much.”

Jaykey shook her head. “An how’s that work out fa ya?”

Frankie stared at the floor. “Nobody gets out alive. This place just a big coffin. We don’t always see it but that’s what it is.”

Charlene said, “But the good? The art? Like you said, that lives, don’t it?”

Frankie didn’t look at her. “Fuck it.”

“You suffrin the short-time blues, angel. Grit your teeth and look forward.”

“What I look forward to, huh, Jaykey? Ain’t nothin out there for me any more than in here. It’s just a bigger graveyard. Soon or late we’re just bones inna hole.”

“Ladies. COUNT TIME. Return to your cells for count.”

Nobody moved.

“Now.” The guard smirked again, watching Charlene. “And stop sniveling. Jeez.”

No one moved.

“Frankie?” The guard slapped her hands together like for a dog. “Get your ass in your cell.” She wanted Frankie to refuse. Delicate, delicate. Time was getting short. Her lips got thin. Her mouth stretched wide. She wanted to see Frankie crash and burn. She lifted her chin. Jerking the invisible leash.

Jaykey held out her hand to Frankie. “Here, ya silly girl. Grab hold.” As Frankie sat there thinking, Jaykey said, “Sometimes ya jus gotta take what’s offered.”

Frankie scowled at the big brown hand right there in front of her face. She reached out. “Bitch. You know how to make me feel stupid now, don’t you?”

“Nah. You do that thing fine on ya own.” Standing, they were eye to eye. “Easy ta lose track in here. Ain’t no reason for you ta be like that. You got a lotta things goin for ya. Don’t let ya mind get coiled up too tight.” Grin. “Shit fa brains.”

The guard’s greasy eyes glared at Jaykey. Another one, nothing but evil.

Frankie whispered, “I could pop you one.”

Jaykey laughed, her cheeks bunched up like winter apples. “Yeah, ya stupid skinny-ass white girl. You could.” She paused to take a breath. “You could! You could.” Her face tightened, shining with amusement, then she threw her big arm around Frankie’s shoulders, walking her past the guard as if they were alone, together, lovers strolling along the plaza. “Get yaself another six months here? In the safety of ya coffin? You crazy? Or just chickenshit?”

The guard stomped to Control, a grim graveyard keeper; she popped the cells open bangbangbang up one hall, down the other. The noise proved her power. She was the gatekeeper: they belonged to her.

Frankie peered around the hallway. Gonna dance or box or get the fuck outta the ring? “She pushin me, Jaykey.”

Jaykey said, “Gotta make ya choice.”

“No one gets out alive.” Frankie shot her eyes at the guard, measured the distance, counted the steps, one-two long roundhouse kick take her down, three-four stomp her throat. Done. Bones in a. .

Between the legs, in that sweet secret spot — it was either wild-sex wet or piddle-piss scared. Or maybe some stupid balloons of LSD? Frankie shook herself. Oh so not-goin-to-do-THAT-again. She gave Jaykey a long cold stare, not really seeing her. “Things ta do? Cages ta rattle?”

“Asses ta kick.”

“Later for you, Jaykey.” A small uptilt of the corners of her mouth.

“Ya welcome ta try.”

“One day. One day before we bones.”

“Somethin ta look forward to. Yeah.” Apple cheeks grinning.

Grinning back: “Fuck you, Jaykey. Fuck you.”

“Keep dreamin, Frankie. See ya in tha mornin, angel.”

Frankie moved toward her cell. “I be waitin for ya.”

Fremont Correctional Facility (Cañon City, Colorado)

Attention in the facility:

work gangs in, fifteen thirty.

The announcement is a throwback from the era of chain gangs when work details were divided up among inmates and driven with impunity by the correctional officers. Back then, convicts split rocks, worked the fields, and built roads, even the walls of their own prison. Sixteen-hour days they worked. No gloves. No protection from the high-desert sun. Water and piss breaks given at the whim of a guard’s discretion. Blisters got infected. Exposure turned to heatstroke. Death wasn’t an uncommon work hazard.

Now, inmates work in front of computers in air-conditioned rooms for six hours, split in two by count time and lunch. We have unlimited bathroom breaks, time off to get a haircut, and even three excused absences a month. Not all inmates have every luxury. Some work in the correctional industries, kitchen, or maintenance. But we all automatically march to and from our assignments without really understanding their meaning.

It’s been a long day and I am grateful for this announcement. I head back to my cell house. Back through the same cold, dark blue-gray air. Back into the parade of inmates trafficking apathy and discontent between one destination and another. Hostile, tired, and familiar faces greet me along the way until at last I am in cell house 6. It’s an odd place, the day halls looking more like a mine or a tomb — somewhere dug deep in the earth. A low ceiling and five cement columns supporting it give it all a claustrophobic, letter-box quality. The cell house is divided into four pods, each with fifty cells. At two men per cell, the day halls fill up rather quickly with disgruntled echoes and sighs. I take a seat in front of the flat-screen television. The volume is muted and the closed captioning is turned on. The New Jersey Devils won another game.

The lieutenant comes in, announces showers will be open only to fiberglass workers, then turns to go to the next pod. Fifteen minutes later, he’s back to pass out mail and announce that Mr. Jennings, an older inmate I’d seen not more than four hours earlier, had passed away. The lieutenant delivers this news in the same soft matter-of-factness as the shower availability.

Attention in the facility:

count time, count time, sixteen thirty.

There have been men killed in their cells while their murderers have gone to yard, work, and chow. Some of these crimes have gone undiscovered for more than twenty-four hours. A few perpetrators have even successfully avoided justice. Now, we have to stand for count so the guards can see without question living, breathing flesh. Counts are done in two independent checks and when each guard is finished, they meet at the center of the day hall to check each other’s arithmetic.