Philipp Meyer - American Rust

“I never would have known,” said Harris. He handed Patacki a lime quarter.

“I'm worried that you're going down a road, was my point, where maybe you better think if you got one of those jobs you wouldn't mind going back to. Unless it's already worse than I've heard.”

“It's not worse,” said Harris.

“No?”

But he knew. Patacki could see right through him. He nodded but it was only kindness.

“It will always get worse, old friend. Good deeds will not go unpunished.”

On his third day he walked out to the yard following Dwayne, it was full of convicts, alone, in small and large groups, pacing in circles, all with something different on their minds, planning how to improve their positions in life, all that could be gotten had to be taken from another. Nonetheless the DC Blacks stuck to their side and Poe was happy to stay on his. The sun was high and the guards looked down from their towers, M16s against their hips or some other rifle, he wasn't sure, no it was M16s, it would be a massacre if they ever wanted it, they could turn it on like water. Beyond the double forty- foot fences and razor wire the Valley was still there in all its greenness but he no longer knew what to make of it, it was a different place to him now.

There was a hierarchy at the weight pile, the shotcallers and their lieutenants pumping out squats and dips and hanging out against the fences while a few dozen yard rats, the meth- heads and assorted trailer folk, they maintained a sort of perimeter, ran errands, occasionally stood close together so as to block a happening from the view of the guards. Poe was in the inner circle with Black Larry and the others, there were maybe seven or eight other men. But his position was tenuous, he could tell he was on a trial run, that was all, he was careful to laugh along with the others and get angry when they did. Once in a while a person who was not part of the group would come in to use the weight pile and one of the lieutenants would take their name down on a piece of paper.

“Nonmembers pay ten a day” said Clovis.

Poe looked at him.

“Least they got an option,” Clovis said. “The ones over there—” He pointed to the weight pile run by the DC Blacks. “You go anywhere near there they'll start tossing weights at you, they brained a fuckin fish a few months back, a thirty- pounder right in the temple.”

“Bunch of Olympians,” said Poe.

“That's about all they are,” said Clovis. He tapped his head.

They worked out on and off the entire day, they worked out more than Poe ever had when he played football. With the exception of Poe, everyone in the inner circle was covered with tattoos, full sleeves on both arms and assorted larger tattoos across backs and chests, vultures or eagles or some imaginary bird Poe couldn't make out. Clovis's triceps said white on one arm and power on the other. Dwayne had an eagle like many of the others, the wings spanning his shoulderblades. Black Larry had a pair of jokers on his chest and there was a good deal of writing on his abdomen that Poe didn't feel comfortable looking at closely enough to make out. Most had thick ropy scars scattered randomly. Most of the men were ten or fifteen years older than he was but he was not going to ask, it was not a place where asking questions was rewarded.

One of the yard rats gave him a handrolled cigarette, he smoked it and it was disgusting, it was salvaged half- smoked tobacco. Dwayne saw him smoking it and shook his head and offered him a cigarette from a package. Poe gave the rollie back to the peckerwood, who brushed at it carefully and then finished smoking it. There was a general flow of people paying respects, a group of Latinos who seemed aligned with the Brotherhood, their leader and Black Larry went off and talked alone for a long time. Occasionally, a visitor would surreptitiously let something fall to the dirt. Later, the item would be retrieved.

Black Larry turned to Poe, who had just finished another set of curls and was sitting on the bench eating a candy bar and drinking a soda.

“We need to get you out of those state- issued trousers,” said Black Larry. He sized Poe up. “Look at them curly locks. One handsome, David Hasselhoff-lookin motherfucker, ain't he?”

The others nodded their agreement though a few of the younger lieutenants were clearly only doing so out of respect for Black Larry, they were not particularly happy about Poe's existence.

“Him and Dwayne can fight it out for king stud.”

Dwayne grinned.

“Dwayne there got caught banging one of the English teachers, a cute little college girl. They wouldn't let her come back.”

“But she still writes me,” said Dwayne.

“Anyway young Poe, you got a lot of catching up to do. Though we have confidence.”

In the afternoon a new pair of Dickies work pants appeared for Poe, he gave his old ones to one of the yard rats. It was hot and people were sitting on the benches or against the wall, sweating in the sun and watching the yard. Poe stood with his shirt off like the rest of them, they looked like a bunch of construction workers on lunch break, or firemen, regular guys they were not monsters or supermen, it was no different than anyplace else, no different than outside, that was what he had to focus on. A few hours later they were still in the same spot, he was hot and dehydrated and sunburned, the others didn't seem to notice it, just sitting in the low sun getting burned like that, he was very thirsty but he hadn't wanted to drink any more sodas, it seemed he'd had more than his share already. He was tired but he fought to keep his eyes open, a few of the lieutenants had wandered off but it was not an option for him, he had to stay near Dwayne and Black Larry. Dinnertime came but no one thought it was a good idea to bring Poe back to the messhall yet.

“You need anything?” said Black Larry. “Skittles, cigarettes? Pruno?”

“I could use some real food,” said Poe, “but I don't have any money.”

“They got smoked packaged salmon at the commissary. Someone'll bring you some. Couple bags of Fritos, too.”

— —

Dwayne walked him back to the cell. There was a laundry bag on top of Poe's bunk, full of items from the commissary, deodorant, Snickers bars, four packages of vacuum- sealed salmon, and some saltine crackers.

“You makin out?” said Dwayne. They bumped and tapped fists. “I'm good,” Poe said.

“Your cellie is getting back tonight. He's been locked down six months so when he gets back give him a little elbow room.”

“No problem,” said Poe.

“He'll be alright. He'll want to talk your ear off is all.”

— —

After he was alone he ate two of the packages of salmon and the crackers, the first good food he'd had in he didn't know, days. He settled back on the bed, the sleepy full feeling, he was going to be fine. At first he couldn't help grinning to himself and then there was the other feeling, they would be wanting something for this. That was fine. He would take it day by day.

Downstairs on the floor of the cellblock they were listening to rap videos on television, cheering along. He closed his eyes and lay on the bunk awhile, couldn't sleep, his hands were sore and he looked at them, they were healing slowly. His blood had definitely mixed with the other one's, with Little Man's. He got up and washed his hands again, he knew it wouldn't do any good, he would have to be more careful, he didn't know, he would have to get something, a lock or some batteries to put in a sock. He was not going to worry about it. AIDS was probably the least of his worries. What would kill him was a knife in the neck, he'd be eating a grilled cheese sandwich in the messhall. Clovis had shown him a nine- inch shank, a bone- crusher he'd called it, and if Clovis had one then the other side did as well. So at the moment worrying about AIDS was like worrying the world would be struck by a comet. He wondered if he was fighting a fight he'd already lost, completely lost only somehow he was still standing. When he was a kid he'd watched Virgil shoot a small buck with his compound bow, the buck jumped a little and then had gone back to eating ryegrass like nothing happened. A few seconds later he toppled over, the arrow had cut right through both sides, severed the aorta, his fatal blow he had barely felt it. And here Poe was congratulating himself when there was nothing good happening, the only thing he could be sure of was the situation was getting worse, it was a trend in his life.