If He Hollers, Let Him Go

by Beth Harden

  For years after the attack, my body was buried along with my memory. When I finally rose up out of the tomb of amnesia, I didn’t lust because I couldn’t love. I was stuck in this limbo of loneliness unless I made some quick concessions, so I turned to what was more easily mastered. In much the same way I had determined to bring my dexterity of hands and feet back, I threw my focus into building up my libido. Sex was something I could do well and something others wanted, an act that required no telling of past history, no spelling out of future goals or matching up common interests. I could unleash a store of emotion in a howling, writhing wrestling match and then disengage into an indifferent sense of being in neutral. Men loved this non-committal un-coupling. We each pulled apart fulfilled. Him, lolling on my batik bedspread with a limp penis slick with victory knowing he could zipper up and be gone. Whether or not they called the next night, the following week or never again, it didn’t matter because it had nothing at all to do with them. I was using the one working part of me that elicited pleasure in others to keep people near enough to remind me that I still had a place among the functional living. Men were attracted to the seemingly docile woman who excused their trespasses, ignored their bad habits and asked no hard questions. They interpreted my quiet tolerance as the sign of a forgiving, centered soul. A few very seriously wanted to marry and start a family and begged me to consent. I didn’t tell them my fallopian tubes had been welded and fused into free-standing pipe lengths. The ovaries that caused such unwieldy sweeps of self-destructive depression each month had been relieved of their duty. I was not ever going to conceive. And even worse, I was sentenced to the lifelong solitary curse of only ever being able to love once. When proposed to, as I was on several occasions, I patted these gracious men’s hands and promised to think about it and then I shipped out. If their hearts were broken, I never stayed on to witness it. There was nothing I could offer them in the way of repair.

  Because of one man’s ruthless folly, they all had to pay

  #

  Gemini reminds me of those hairless cats that often win the ugliest pet contests. Sphinxes, the sleek-bodied, bald headed ones with arched back and hips always dancing sideways. He is striking with his emerald green Asian-shaped eyes, thin dark eyebrow arches penciled in a pose of constant surprise, Botox-inspired cheeks or possibly implants. His skin is taut and shiny with abundant estrogen. His most prominent feature is the glossy smile he directs at everyone and anyone. Gemini loves to volunteer for any little thing and will parade on the balls of his feet, nearly rubbing his flanks on anyone within petting reach. He is a cagey feline among a pack of dogs, some of which loathe homosexuals. Others tolerate him with generic respect and look the other way for fear they might be accused of showing interest in the partially-confusing and not-quite- transgendered person.

  Today, Gemini has volunteered to tell his story. He is from the Bushwick section of Brooklyn where as a child of six or seven, he had to hop over puddles of cat piss, garbage and blunts to get to the stoop of his grandmother’s three-decker brownstone. She was an old Puerto Rican woman that did nothing but cook and clean. She swept each landing, every stair, and waxed the faux-brick linoleum in all three kitchens. She buffed the banister railings and reached up under the raised window to spray ammonia on the pigeon shit so she could see the Chrysler building shining brightly through the haze. Her place was the showpiece in a neighborhood of crack dives and dens of iniquity filled with rubbish and whores. That’s where Gemini’s mother spent her days and nights smoking rocks unless she was called in to work. Her employer was his half French Creole/half Dominican father, a run-about who sold women for pocket money and usually came around once every couple of weeks to check on his sons. More like give them all an ass-whooping for what they may or may not have done in his absence and then crash drunk on the couch for a few days. Once he was gone, Gemini’s grandmother would wipe up any trace of him and they would go back to their normal routine.

  She could keep the streets out of her house but she could not keep her grandkids from straying out to the streets. One by one they left and it was always back to the two of them, herself and Gemini left to the washing and cleaning and cooking and watching re-runs of Falcon Crest or Dynasty. But it was no Cinderella-in-the-making story. Gemini was a pretty boy and he soon learned his street value courting men curbside. He bought nice women’s clothing from boutiques on the Lower East Side and had his face done at Bloomingdale’s. Lots of men loved Gemini; many more loved having sex with him. He was a commodity that brought out ugly competitiveness in the dime-a-dozen female prostitutes that roamed that block. Eventually, Gemini settled into a steady relationship with a fashionable urbanite named Darwin who bought him flowers, jewelry and trips to Turks & Caicos and Curaçao. But Darwin also played with women. Gemini seethed with jealousy and fretted since his femininity was only window dressing. He ultimately made the big decision to undergo psychiatric therapy and begin hormone treatment so that he could become what his inner chemistry had always told him was. And then one day, Gemini was standing on the balcony of the rent they both shared near Washington Park when Darwin told him that he was leaving to marry a Brazilian woman who was pregnant with his child. Gemini was completely devastated, crawled on his hands and knees, wept until his mascara stained the carpet and when his emotional tantrum did nothing to stop his departing lover, he blacked out with grief. The next thing he knew he was looking down at Darwin whose face had turned blue from the pressure around his throat. Strangulation, such an awful-sounding word for something that was intended to be a bitch slap and then a forgiving hug. Twenty-eight years. Gemini hadn’t even heard the sentence the judge handed down because he was sobbing so hard. Three-quarters of that time had already whiled away in the company of men and in the center of attention once again, sought after either for a beating or a blow-job.

  “So that’s the story of my life,” he concludes with a brandish of a flamboyant wave.

  “I am impressed by your resilience,” I say. “Strength of character,” I add hastily for the benefit of those among the group who are still reading at a fifth grade level. “Okay, now I’m curious. What became off the issue you shared with us last week? Were you able to get an opportunity to address it?”

  “Oh yes. So here’s my issue for any of you that don’t remember,” he says. There’s a tease of sarcasm and reproach in the way he addresses others. As if he half hopes that they will beg him for an encore and he can once again, jump and throw his arms around his big breasts in feigned modesty. Just in case anyone was absent, he repeats it for maximum effect.

  “Every time we get in the shower, these guys come in that are not one of us. Or else, they purposely walk by so they can see in. One inmate in particular is constantly lingering there and I know it’s just so he can stare at my breasts. They gave us our own separate time in the bathroom for a reason. Just so this kind of voyeurism won’t happen.” In fairness, I would be hard-pressed not to gape at his monstrous, swinging rack but to solve any remote chance of a false claim of blatant misconduct, I avert my eyes whenever I pass by the steaming shower area and stand clear of the comings and goings-on in there.

  We’re straying out on a precarious perch now. Most of the men in prison will claim to hate homos and refuse to be housed with them. There have been death threats against the transgendered inmates and a rumble of a targeted attack against their section of the block. His issue has been an ongoing and problematic one in my unit. Heterosexual men who claim they are ‘”straight to the gate” courting the transgendered and homosexual inmates whose lifestyle was solidly determined before they came to jail. Prison rape is an altogether different animal and one that is minutely managed. Gone are the days when staff turned a blind eye to the practice of alpha convicts dominating subordinates or exacting punishment by sexual assault. When inmates who were victimized in such a way were ignored, it was par for the course. Counselors and captains scrutinize the housing cards to determine the matchups in the double cells. Size dif
ference, nature of crime, mental health issues and race. Anything that might put one person at the mercy of another. The admitted homosexuals are now housed on one side of the lower tier, some single-celled so they won’t frolic with one another. Consensual sex is still a violation that brings discipline, but with the overcrowding and guys sleeping in temporary ‘canoes' on the gym floor, the Department can’t place them all in single occupancy.

  “So, inmate…” Gemini starts.

  “Leave names out, please,” I interrupt.

  “Sorry, Miss Abrams. So, this one guy has been hassling me. He calls out from the upper tier every time I’m out for Rec and says lewd things. He’s threatened to beat me up if I don’t do certain things with him. He’s basically stalking me.”

  Like me, the other men hope he will limit his details. They respect Gemini but not his predilection for penises.

  “So, I wrote the warden and the lieutenants and even the Commissioner and not one of the mucky-mucks in Administration answered my grievance. I took the advice of this group and Miss Abrams, which was to address the individual in an assertive way that would cause no harm or offend him, but that would get my point across. So I took this big bad self of mine over to his cell when his door was popped open and he was getting ready to go to the gym. He had his shirt off and was standing there in his boxers, so I hoped he was feeling kind of vulnerable. I did just what you said, Miss A and I confronted him directly and Sweet Mother of God, it worked. He’s backed right off.”

  “Wonderful. That’s a great example of good healthy conflict resolution. If you don’t mind me asking, can you tell us how you how you worded your approach?” I ask.

  “Oh, certainly!” Gemini is on stage now and takes front and center. He cocks his head, purses his painted lips, puts one hand on a jaunty hip and the other up in front of him with the pointer finger extended and circles it near his face.

  “I said, does I has to take a shit so ya can lick it?” He looks to me for approval. The rest of the group is amused. A few of the guys have their heads down on the desk and are enjoying a genuine laugh.

  “Well, that might not have been the exact words I would have chosen, but whatever works I say. Good for you!” I reply. I can’t translate this phrase into any equivalent in uptight white dialect but I get the gist of it.

  #

  The boys are all off-track this morning and pre-occupied with the fact that some unemployed schlub has won the largest jackpot payout in the history of the Lottery, over five hundred and ninety million dollars, for the second time. This get-rich-overnight idea has fueled the imagination of this something-for-nothing crowd.

  “I’d buy a Jaguar,” Dent brags.

  “No way. I’d go one better. A Bugatti or a Ferrari,” boasts Bowman.

  “Guys. Are we ready?” I ask. They continue their side conversations without interruption. Clearly it’s going to be difficult to steer them back towards the planned material. . Maybe I can get creative and work the wayward dialogue into a meaningful lesson. What matters most to these guys is money and some of them have had more cabbage in their hands than the best Wall Street financier. I mean leafy green Grover Clevelands, stacks of them as evidenced in Facebook photos confiscated from envelopes in their lockers. In some ways, I can’t blame them for a lack of appetite when a minimum wage warehouse job at Kohl’s distribution center is the best carrot we can dangle. Their income is tax-free and disposable. They must laugh at my sniveling but at least I can sleep at night knowing the State Comptroller will be signing my next check and every two weeks thereafter. And while I’m slumbering away peacefully, a nocturnal war wages on to hold on to the profits. Drug money can easily blow away.

  “Have you all heard the saying: Time is Money?” I ask. The circle of glistening foreheads and dull eyes stare back in motionless inattention. All the buzz and pre-class chatter has dissipated into instant apathy.

  “Anyone?” Zimmer and Serge finally cave in and nod in unison.

  “Do you believe that time and money are alike?” I repeat. Worse than pulling teeth; this is like teasing fleas from a poodle.

  “Sure, our time is worth something,” answers Dent.

  “So if you think about it, there are two things you can do with money. The first is waste it and the second is invest it. It’s quite simple really. If you spend it, you lose it. When you invest into something, the intent is to build up more. Now, let’s look at time in the same way. You can sit here and waste it or you can invest it and come away more of a person than you were when you started.”

  “Here’s new math for you, “Rev chimes in, before anyone else can pipe up. “I say, that if you are not adding positive things to your life, then you are taking away from it.”

  “Same principle expressed in a different way,” I concur. I should know by now if I don’t shut him down, an inch of inspiration will drag out to a country mile of melodrama. But it’s too late, he’s off and running at the mouth

  “Gentlemen, my good brothers. I was once like you are now. Skeptical. Indifferent to change, but God got a hold of my heart and showed me my gift.” Rev looks at Bowman. “You, my young friend, remind me of myself as a boy.” His expression communicates compassion but there is an insincere ring to his voice. “I too was resistant, bitter, and unyielding. But now I am a man and…”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Preacher?” I interject. Serge gets up abruptly, aligns his chair with the Rev and both men swivel their desks at a diagonal to face the younger guys at an angle of advantage. Apparently some bonding has taken place between them. They’ve assumed the superior posture of wise men lording over the others from their hypothetical pulpit. I’ve seen guys like them before, the ones who believe the mantra of their own voice is music in everyone else’s ears. Zimmer is probably a good fifteen years their senior, but he’s been dismissed from the power equation because of his perceived disability and obvious ethnicity. Jews just don’t cut the mustard behind bars.

  “Hold on a minute, Miss A, if you don’t mind. I just want to finish my point.” He turns back to young Bowman. “Son, I see that the dark one still has a hold on your spirit. We can’t think like boys any longer. We must be men. I can share the wisdom I have learned in my time…”

  Our non-verbal student in the front row has shown no sign that he’s been addressed or antagonized by the ingratiating bully. Until now, as Bowman slowly uncoils from his reticent crouch and rises to his feet, gradually locking his gangly kneecaps into an upright position.

  “Wait. Hold up! Everyone be quiet! What’s this?” I say, smiling. “Please…I know something brilliant is brewing in there.” It’s unclear whether his silence to date is due to a language barrier, self-consciousness or plain old garden-variety indifference. The surly young man with acne awkwardly drops his head. His glasses have slipped down off the bridge of his nose and are cocked to one side. His fine dark hair hangs piecemeal about his face and an unmanicured growth of chin hair has long outgrown the confines of a goatee and spread out along the tendons in his thin neck. It appears that he detests shaving cream and soap as much as he loathes the company of strangers.

  “Boys demand respect; men command respect,” he says slowly and deliberately before abruptly sitting back down. Whatever prompted him to offer this spontaneous truism seems to have fizzled as quickly as it flared. Bowman drops back into his chair in a crumpled heap.

  “Fabulous!” I say with an exuberant flourish of my hands. “I knew something special was just waiting to come out at the right time. Still waters run deep, you know what I mean, gentlemen?” But no, of course they don't. The other members of the group are just as impressed as I am that the mute has finally spoken.

  “And since you’ve brought that up, what is the difference between those two words? They sound similar but are very different. How do you define command versus demand?” Before Rev can command the stage, Mr. I Am jumps to his feet.

  “If one of you all disrespects me, I will put my hands on you,” Noble says matter-of-factly.


  “So, which is that? Command or demand?” I ask. The fact that he has hung in this group without any confrontations as long as he has is a testament to acquired patience or a med change.

  “I don’t fuckin know,” he says.

  Willis leans forward and lifts a strong arm skywards. The sleeve of his tans cannot possibly reach the maximum length of his limb. The wrinkled garment drops back from his powerful palm. Patches of vitiligo mottle his wrist and weave a glaring crochet-like pattern of reverse freckles down his forearm. The eerie collage gives the effect of bleached sperm swimming blindly through random blotches of dark ink.

  “Your thoughts?” I ask. In another circle, perhaps a schoolyard gang, comments might have been made by the gawking pairs of eyeballs that have never seen a birthmark of serpentine dimensions. Maybe when he was a younger kid and defenseless to the taunts but not here. Here he is given a platform of respect.

  “When someone demands respect, they are taking it from another. In other words, they are basically saying, ‘Give it to me.’ But when a man commands respect, others freely give it to him based on the way he conducts himself,” Willis says. His demeanor has the louder voice.

  “Beautifully done!” I say. “And let me add that this change from boy to man has nothing to do with age in years. It is a mental transformation. You can be sixty years old and still be a boy or a twelve- year old who has already become that man. Agree or disagree?” I pose the question to the circle of males who are a sum total of half-men and misguided boys.