by Mark Salzman
“Please. Grab a chair.”
“Shit,” Francisco complained.
The new boy unclasped his hands and rubbed his wrists as if they had just been unshackled. He looked around the room, took a plastic chair off the top of the stack, then sauntered across the room and sat down right next to Francisco.
“Hall, you suck.”
Nathaniel ignored him. He raised his elbows to see where they reached on either side. “Just checkin’ my clearance.” He adjusted his sitting position as carefully as if he were strapping himself into the cockpit of a jet, then lowered his forearms onto the table and nodded a greeting to the other boys.
“Good evening, gentlemen. The moment you’ve been waiting for has arrived.”
“Yeah—time to beat the crap out of Hall,” Francisco grumbled.
“Quit fucking around,” Jimmy said.
“I prove myself through deeds, not words,” Nathaniel boasted. He pointed to the notepads and pencils in front of me. “May I?”
“That’s what they’re there for.”
“Hall, you nothin’ but a showboat.”
Nathaniel tossed his head back with silent laughter. “Go ahead, get it out of your system now. Because before this hour is through you’ll be dazzled by my articulations, stung by my insinuations, envious of my rhymes, and forgettin’ your hard times. Ask me to write straight, I’ll write twisted. You think you got my number? It ain’t listed. I’m an original mind, a face unlined, a close encounter of the criminal kind.” He wrote his name at the top of his notepad, then asked me what the topic was for today.
Part of me was annoyed that he had taken charge of the class so easily, but another part of me was fascinated. He was so over the top that I couldn’t help feeling amused, and while the other boys made a show of denouncing him, they seemed to be enjoying the show as much as I was.
“You can pretty much write about what you want to,” I said, “but if you’re stuck, I’ll help you with a topic.”
“I like a challenge,” he said. “Give me one.”
“I’ll see what I can come up with. In the meantime, I’d like Jimmy to start the class off by reading the essay he wrote last Wednesday. Would you do that for us?”
Jimmy looked uncomfortable. “I’ll read it if you want, but some people here might take offense at it.”
“Read it,” Francisco urged. I had the sense he was anxious to reclaim his status as leader of the class. “What we say in this room stays in this room. It’s strictly confidential.”
Jimmy shrugged. “OK. I don’t have a title for it, it’s just something that’s on my mind these days.”
The question of whether there really is a God out there has been bugging me the past couple of months. I used to be a firm believer in the Almighty, but nowadays I ask myself, “Are you out there?” Most of you might be wondering why I am lacking in faith so let me give you a couple of reasons. First of all, my family, as well as many members of our church, have been praying for my little brother. If there really was a God out there, why would he let an innocent child suffer like this? What makes me wonder more is there are so many people praying to this so-called “Creator of All Things.” Why hasn’t anything happened? Why is my brother now confined to a wheelchair?
. . . People always say that God allows certain things to happen because he’s testing our faith. We are only human beings and there is only so much that we can take. Once we reach our breaking point, most of us will just say fuck everything. People also say that the Lord is a jealous one, so if he wants us to rely on him one hundred percent, why does he allow certain things to come into our lives and make us doubt his existence?
I think that if my question of whether there is a man upstairs or not remains unanswered, I will cease to even think about him. To me, everything remains unchanged whether I believe or not believe. It’s not like my days go by faster or easier when I pray to him. So until there is solid evidence that someone is watching us, such as a miracle of some sort, please don’t try to persuade me into believing.
“I liked that,” Nathaniel Hall said, nodding soberly. “I like knowin’ I got competition.”
Francisco looked aghast. “But he’s saying God don’t exist!”
Jimmy’s face reddened. “I’m not saying that! I’m just saying I can’t believe in him anymore. It’s not the same thing.”
Francisco looked at me for reassurance. “You believe in God, right?”
“I was raised in a nonreligious family,” I answered. “I’m neutral.”
Even Jimmy looked surprised. “But you work with Sister Janet—don’t you have to be Catholic for that?”
“I’m just a writer. Sister Janet brought me here because she believes that writing is important, and she believes in you guys.”
Francisco slid back into his chair and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Man, I just assumed you was Catholic and all.”
“Do you believe in God?” I asked him.
“When I was on the outs, I didn’t believe in nothin’. But now I do. I’m studyin’ for confirmation. I know God’s watchin’ over me, and whatever happens, it’s OK because it’s in his hands now.”
“Have you come up with my topic yet?” Nathaniel asked.
“Yes, I’ve got one for you. Why don’t you try writing about feeling trapped.”
He made a face. “I thought you were going to challenge me!”
“I am. Here’s the challenge: write it straight, in prose. Put the rhyming aside for a while. I want to see if you can write without all the insinuations and articulations.”
He laughed as if he felt sorry for me. “You don’t feel the beat of the street the way a young brotha does, I know. That’s all right, sir, I can adapt to any situation. A black man has to adapt every day, livin’ in a white man’s world. Consider it done.” Then he put his pencil down, turned his back to me, and began chatting with Kevin about a new kid in the unit.
I decided to ignore Nathaniel for the time being and check up on Patrick, who was talking with Francisco and Jimmy about a girl they had spotted through the cyclone fence separating the female inmates from the males. “Do you have something in mind to write about?” I asked him.
“Not really. We were locked down for so long, I feel like I just need to talk for a little while.”
A glance around the room confirmed that he was not alone. Everybody was talking, nobody was writing.
On the one hand, it made perfect sense to me that a group of sixteen- and seventeen-year-old boys, after being kept in their cells for a week with no radio, television, recreation, exercise, or school to keep them stimulated, would have a hard time keeping quiet. On the other hand, I didn’t want them to think of our Wednesday night class as simply an hour of recreation. I wanted it to be a time when they actually accomplished something, and built confidence in their ability to express themselves.
I clapped my hands to get everyone’s attention. They all quieted down except for Nathaniel, who kept right on talking until Francisco punched him in the arm.
“Oh. Sorry, sir. We were just having a serious intellectual discussion.”
“Listen, I realize you all had a rough week, and I don’t blame you for being restless. I don’t want this class to be something you dread, and I don’t want to be a disciplinarian, I’m not built for that. This class is yours, it’s your opportunity to make the most or the least out of. But what do you think about us setting aside twenty minutes for writing only—no conversation. Then we’ll read aloud, and the rest of the time you can chat or read as you like.”
“Sounds good,” they said.
“All right,” I said. “So let’s get the writing out of the way first.”
The boys seemed less enthusiastic now. “Just give us a few more minutes,” Francisco said. “Then we’ll get it together.”
“Fine. We’ll start writing in five minutes.”
The next five minutes were a torment. I felt sure that the staff could see that no work was being d
one, and that at any moment one of them would step in to call the whole thing off. At 7:20 I clapped my hands again. “OK, time to write.”
Patrick, Jimmy, and Kevin dutifully lowered their heads, but Francisco and Nathaniel were arguing about something and they simply would not stop. Neither could allow the other to have the last word. I tapped Francisco on the shoulder, but it had no effect. I waved my hand at Nathaniel and he ignored it.
Finally I stood up and moved my chair between them, and that got their attention. “OK, we’re writing for twenty minutes. No talking. I know it’s hard—I go through this every day at home, where I want to do anything except write, but that’s what you’ve got to learn to do. To write anyway, even if you don’t feel like it.”
The room did quiet down, but none of them started writing. They were drumming with their pencils, staring out the window into the dayroom, drawing girls with gigantic breasts in their notepads, mumbling favorite rap lyrics. After ten minutes, Nathaniel leaned forward to look at me. “Let me know when we got five minutes left, would you?”
Jimmy started writing something, but tore the sheet out after a few minutes and crushed it into a ball. “Sorry, Mark,” he whispered. “Everybody’s too stressed out.”
When I announced that we had five minutes left, Nathaniel yawned and stretched conspicuously. He cleared his throat, picked up his pencil, then started writing furiously. Five minutes later he slammed the pencil down and said, “Done. Put it in the books.”
“Did anyone else get anything written today?” I asked. “Even a start to something?”
“Naw.”
“Sorry, Mark. We’ll do better on Saturday.”
“Well then, let’s have Nathaniel read.”
Nathaniel stood up, walked to the head of the table, and said, “I’d like to thank all the little people. Without their support, I would never have cultivated my already impressive natural abilities.”
Francisco groaned. “Hall, quit jerking off and just read.”
Nathaniel bowed from the waist.
Because of a crime I did I was sentenced to 187 years in Iceberg Prison. I was frozen in a block of ice and placed in cell block 80051. I was eligible for parole in the year 2185.
As the years passed I was in a constant state of dreaming. My eyes were open in the ice and when my dream state was broken, which was rare, I could see the prison workers working around me. But mostly I was dreaming.
Then one day I was unfrozen and brought before the parole board. I was having trouble hanging on to reality after being stuck in a dream state but I was prepared for this day for a long time. I was released a day later and given enough money to keep me fed and housed until I found a method of supporting myself.
I found myself a nice apartment and bought enough food to last me two months. I started looking for a job but I soon found that my limited education and lack of computer skills prohibited me from even being considered for even the most trivial jobs and the ones I did qualify for were already taken by the parolees before me.
I found myself staring into a weapons shop admiring the new guns they have in 2185. I had enough money so I bought one.
Two months later I was still jobless and running out of money. I had no food and the rent was due. I went down to the pawnshop and started to hand over my gun for some money but as I did I realized I could just rob the man and keep my precious gun.
So I turned the gun on him and he didn’t move. I got the money out of the cash register and left the building. As soon as I stepped outside I was surrounded by police with their guns drawn.
I instantly put my hands up, then my visions of the workers working outside of my ice block flashed in my mind. I was standing there thinking of how horrible it was to be in that prison. I instantly pointed the gun at the police and started firing. In almost the same instant I felt my body jerking from the impact of bullets. I fell to my knees and I couldn’t breathe. My body grew numb and then I fell all the way down. I saw the light leave my eyes and then all was blackness.
My eye caught a glimpse of light and I recognized what I saw. It was the working men of the prison, making their rounds. I realized that I was still frozen and it was all a dream.
This story is an example of the consequences of being incarcerated without being given the education and the skills to make it in the world.
When Nathaniel finished, the boys—who had seemed fed up with him only a few moments before—gave him an ovation. Even Francisco loved the story, and made no attempt to hide it. They stomped their feet, they clapped, they whistled. And Nathaniel, who I expected to strut around the room like a jack-ass, sat down and acted like the perfect gentleman instead.
When Mr. Jenkins gave us the signal to end class, Nathaniel took his place behind Francisco in line. When he passed through the doorway, Mr. Jenkins put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.
“Hold on a second, Hall,” Mr. Jenkins said. He looked at me and asked, “Did this guy write, or was he just talking the whole time? It looked to me like he was just talking, as usual.”
“He talked quite a bit, but he also wrote an excellent essay.”
Mr. Jenkins looked unconvinced. “You sure about that? You sure he wasn’t disruptive?”
“Let’s keep him in the class for a while and see what happens.”
Mr. Jenkins put Nathaniel into a playful headlock. “He’s covering your back, Hall. But you can’t fool me! I saw you in there, you and your motormouth, keepin’ everybody from working.” He started rubbing Nathaniel’s head with his knuckles.
“Ow! That shit hurts, Jenkins!”
“You’re a bright kid, Hall, but you waste it with all of your bullshit. I’ma see if I can rub some sense into this thick skull of yours.”
“I’ma write a complaint!”
“You go right ahead.”
“How’s the sense supposed to get through all the fat on your knuckles, huh?”
Mr. Jenkins laughed and released him. “You wanna feel the fat on my knuckles? Come on, tough guy, let’s go. Right here. Right now.”
Nathaniel put his fists up and started dancing like a teenage Muhammad Ali. “Come on, Jenkins! You can’t touch this! I’m too fast for you! You too old to mess with the young bloods.”
Mr. Jenkins started walking toward Nathaniel with his hands down at his sides, the smile replaced by a dead stare, and Nathaniel wisely danced backwards toward his cell. “See you on Saturday, sir,” he yelled to me before disappearing down the corridor. “And I’d like two copies of my story, please.”
9 / Arcana
“Where’s Nathaniel?” I asked. Starting late meant finishing late, and I did not want to give the Saturday morning staff any excuses to scold me again.
Francisco tilted his head toward the hallway. “The staff musta forgot to get him. You want me ask ’em to bring him out?” He eased out of his chair and loped toward the staff room. I watched through the window as he talked to Mr. Sills, then returned.
“Sills says Hall ain’t comin’ today.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause Hall fucked up.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” Patrick said. “Some fool from M/N was talking shit to him in school and Hall talked some shit back. What’s he supposed to do?”
Francisco glowered at Patrick. “He’s supposed to be smart about it, that’s what. He shoulda waited till no staff was around and fucked that punk up good, not just talk shit and burn the spot for the rest of us.”
Patrick shook his head, then opened his folder and pulled out a drawing of a teenage prisoner with his hands and feet shackled. Head bowed forward, the figure stood in front of a barred window; outside the window, a flock of birds rose toward the sun. At the top of the drawing he had written the words “Troubled Souls” in decorative script.
“Try to mind your own business in here and you get jumped,” Patrick said dryly. “Stick up for yourself and you get locked down. Meanwhile, the ones who start all the shit come out on top. They get all the
respect. Fuck everybody, that’s my philosophy.” He began shading folds in the prisoner’s baggy pants.
The drawing was sentimental but technically competent. I complimented him on his work and his mood improved. “I’d like to be an animator someday, that’s one of my goals in life. But I don’t know if I could make it.”
“Man, you gotta have confidence,” Francisco advised.
“I don’t want to count on something that could get taken away from me. If I lose my case, the animator thing is not gonna happen.”
“You gotta think positive, homes.”
Patrick rolled his eyes and began erasing most of what he had just done.
“Hey, I’m just tryin’a show support! Fuckin’ Chumnikai.” Francisco squinted and tucked his lower lip under his upper teeth.
“Fuckin’ Javier.” Patrick brought his index fingers together over his brow, imitating Francisco’s single eyebrow, and crossed his eyes.
I said to Patrick that he had nothing to lose by taking his interest seriously and practicing every day. He nodded and turned his attention back to drawing. “I know. The thing is, I just can’t set my mind to it. When other people compliment one of my drawings, I’m happy and it makes me want to do more. But sometimes the person will just look at it and give it back without saying anything. Then I feel so mad I just want to quit. Or I’ll see the drawings in magazines and think, I’ll never be able to do that. So what’s the point?”
I told Patrick that I understood how he felt. I had thought I was going to be a concert cellist until I heard Yo-Yo Ma play; his playing made me quit the cello for fifteen years.
Patrick whistled. “Fifteen years? Either he musta been really good, or you musta been really bad. No offense.”
“My point is that we all compare ourselves to others, and we’re affected by what others say about our work. But you mustn’t let it stop you.”
