Prison Noir

by Joyce Carol Oates

  * * *

  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.

  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.

  “What I need this for?” D.T. asked.

  I told him for trouble.

  “What trouble?”

  I said no trouble after you use it, and I walked away, leaving him dumbstruck. Oh no, he didn’t give that shank back though—he wasn’t no fool. He tucked it in his pants, probably carried it everywhere he went.

  Turns out D.T.’s mama had died, didn’t make it past noon. Oh, Ms. Prichard called D.T. to her office, then she came out by herself, reckoned to give him some alone time in there. He came out sometime after . . . passed my cell puffy-eyed and blank stare; aged some too, was thin from water loss and looking empty; the worst had finally come out. In spite of it all, it felt good, I know: getting shit out, shit off your chest, the suffering over with. I’d been there. How was he gone deal with it, his loss, now knowing how to not hold back no more . . . All’s left is rage. Oh, I truly was him before. Ms. Prichard had ’mediately got to work ’ranging for him to attend the funeral. He had a better shot than I’d had to make it.

  Nothing in here surprise me no more. Saw big-timers bow down to pipsqueaks; killers broke over like a double-barrel shotgun; some had their manhood taken, but not their dignity—their heart! Saw wardens crooked as scoliosis, guards taking bribes for a blind eye. I never mind ’em, tend to my own business like a full-time job. Seems everybody ’round here need their nose cut, instigating trouble for kicks, playing the dozens like seagulls, watching, waiting to see somebody in a jam, gobble it down, then laugh and gossip like old women. Guess you gotta make it your business though to help a guy trying to do good, trying to help himself. Oh no, can’t fight for ’em—give ’em a stick, is just as good. Only Henas and black-hearted folks eat babies, shit on everything they touch; fucked up their life and hate to see others with a future, a soul. They been had their souls sold for rotgut spud juice and ’perimental med pills to cope with the time. Some come fresh off the streets strange fruit; hide behind a bush till someone shake a leaf, bring it out ’em, have him on his knees shining knobs.

  Oh, D.T.’s friend ain’t no kind of business of mines; that was a hopeless cause. I turned my back; the warm shower water took me to Ozark Creek. D.T. came in the showers, got all undressed. Stepped ’round the wall blinder, saw his buddy with a throat full . . . D.T.’s look was a shattered glass; pieces of his face fell to the floor. His buddy’s was different, caught like a deer in headlights at D.T.’s blues, bright, spellbinding. The pale hand guided his face back to position. D.T. shook his head, grabbed his stuff, and left.

  I got back from the shower and saw D.T. sitting on his bunk in the dark, staring at the wall. He turned, looked right through me like glass. Those eyes was midnight . . . a dark you don’t go out in; you wait till they brighten up; nothing ’cept death was in ’em. He truly died that day, woke up in hell for the first time where he was all alone, was too full of hope to realize before . . . it was all gone now: the scholarship, his freedom, his mama. They couldn’t take nothing else from him ’cept his manhood. Since he already had hell, they’d have to pay with their lives for his asshole. Oh, he had hell to give from what I saw that night; it was exactly what Angel Eyes was gone give ’em.

  Gorilla Black came dust-mopping again, waited at the end of the rock for the cell doors to break open for night yard; soon as that happened, he rushed D.T.’s cell, plugged the door with a piece of rubber so it wouldn’t close while he was inside. He stood over the kid with a shank in one hand and his dick in the other, then said, “Shit on my dick or blood on my knife?” D.T. didn’t hesitate and gave him what he’d asked for—blood on his knife. Oh, it was D.T.’s knife that was dripping blood. Wasn’t what Gorilla Black ’spected, him being so fast, a beast! He had sliced open Gorilla Black’s wrist—the shank came out the guy’s hand, but D.T. still had his; had a sword fight, chopping Gorilla Black’s dick down to a stub. Gorilla Black cried like a bitch, hightailed it out of there, bleeding like a hog. D.T. stayed on top of his head, whacking away!

  Gorilla Black made it back to his cell, tried to close it behind him. Oh no, Angel Eyes wasn’t having that. He pulled it back open, went inside, and stabbed Gorilla Black all over: his face, neck, head, everywhere. Gorilla Black hollered, screamed, wah, wah, wah—oh, what the babies gone do? You ain’t never heard a man cry till his balls get cut out his sack. Gorilla Black begged for his life, would have put shit on the kid’s dick for him to stop. But Angel Eyes wanted the bloody knife. Had to stop him before he killed Gorilla Black, he wasn’t worth getting a life bit over. He came to his senses and gave me the bonecrusher, then we went straight to the yard. The guards made a round and found Gorilla Black covered in blood, twitching on his floor, butchered half to death.

  A couple of days passed; no guards came marching in hockey suits to take D.T. to the grave for the stabbing. The kid was too new to worry; he’d never seen ’em come before. Even so, he was still drugged off stabbing all his troubles away to see the world hadn’t been dropped on his shoulders, yet.

  The prison’s alarm blew like a tornado warning through foghorns. The whole place went on emergency lockdown; everyone was rushed to their cells. Teams of guards ran to Ms. Prichard’s office. No sooner, a bunch of nurses came; one had a big ole medical bag, two others carried a stretcher. All the big brass came running: warden, deputy warden, assistant deputy warden, who not. They all came out Ms. Prichard’s office.
She was lying on the stretcher: heart machine, IV bag, oxygen mask, all was laying on top of her body. Suits and uniforms had their hands on the stretcher, racing her to medical. But Ms. Prichard was DOA, strangled to death; Mohlerson had found her on her office’s bathroom floor. The whole prison was on lockdown indefinitely.

  Three days went by before they fed us—one bagged meal a day, cold cuts and an apple. They had done a mass shakedown, tore up our cells, threw all our personal ’fects on the rock: pictures, letters, clothes, got it all mixed up, trashed most of it. Oh, they was pissed over Ms. Prichard’s murder; had another reason to hate prisoners, mess ’em over.

  Mohlerson searched D.T.’s cell and came out with Ms. Prichard’s fancy silver ink pen. They took the kid straight to the graves: hog-tied him, hands and feet cuffed together, slammed his chest to the floor every step of the way, brought blood out his nose, then tossed him down the stairs, all five flights. They whooped him some more when he got to the graves, put him in an observation cell, a plexiglass vestibule. They whipped him like a slave, a lynching, cuffed him to the cell’s bars, left him hanging like that a whole day. Didn’t feed him for a week; when they finally did, Mohlerson made it his business to give D.T. the meals—spitting in his tray, then shoving it through the food slot to the floor. Mohlerson would fuck with D.T.’s head, told him he poisoned his food, ’jaculated in it, put all kinds of shit in it, shit even, wouldn’t put it past him. The kid went long as he could without eating before his will broke. Ended up eating the food loafs, whole rations mixed together into a log, dabbed with some of Mohlerson’s foulness.