Prison Time

by Shaun Attwood

  ‘At Sambo’s on Miracle Mile, over bacon and eggs, I say to the Batts, “You know, you almost killed us back there for a fucking bird.” I’m looking in the eyes of a stone-cold killer, a guy investigated for whacking motherfuckers from coast to coast, who knew how to get away with it.

  ‘The Batts looks at me and says, “Hey, let me tell you something: it wouldn’t have been the right thing to do. Somewhere out in the desert tonight” – a smile came across his face – “a mother quail and her little chickadees are gonna be all together at suppertime and I’m not gonna be responsible for breaking up their little family and squashing them on the highway.”

  ‘I’m salting my cantaloupe and I get the impression that the Batts is putting me on. But there’s something in his eyes that tells me he’s serious. This leads me to believe he justified doing the things he did as just something he had to do. Although I hadn’t seen much of it, it was clear that the Batts had a heart …’

  Two Tonys tells more stories. His enthusiasm saturates Cell 2. Drawn into his fascinating life, Long Island and I sit, fully absorbed.

  12

  ‘You mentioned that being unable to reach your full potential in prison is a cause of anxiety. What did you mean by that?’ Dr Austin asks in his tiny office.

  ‘Because I’m not in front of a computer, trading stocks, doing the work I enjoy the most.’

  ‘Do you feel that your behaviour in prison is similar to that of your hard-working self before your arrest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Describe a typical week before your arrest.’

  ‘On weekdays, I watched stocks and did online research. I mostly stayed at home with my fiancée, other than when we went to the gym, skating and the Indian restaurant. Also, I was studying Spanish at college.’

  ‘And what about the weekends?’

  On the weekends, I’d hear the wolves. ‘I was a party animal, but I’d met a good woman, so I was phasing that behaviour out.’

  ‘In my life,’ Dr Austin says, ‘I like to spend a whole weekend day doing absolutely nothing, recharging from the stresses of the week.’

  ‘At one time, the weekend merged into one day. A Friday night rave and an after-party all day Saturday. A Saturday night rave followed by partying all day Sunday. Sometimes we’d go out on Sunday night.’

  His eyes widen. ‘How was that possible?’

  ‘I’d take Xanax, sleep like a baby, and wake up crisp and fresh on Monday.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’re describing two modes again: the party mode and the reclusive hard-worker. So, in prison, you’re in the second mode.’

  ‘Yes, I’m studying, reading and writing more than ever.’

  ‘You said that you were phasing the partying out?’

  ‘I’d stopped hardcore raving years before my arrest. When Sammy the Bull lit the scene up, attracting undercover cops, I moved to Tucson and tried to live a normal life. My stocks were doing well. Everything was going great.’

  ‘Why did you move back to Phoenix?’

  ‘Because I met and fell in love with Claudia. We got a place together in Scottsdale. I only went to two raves in 2002. She wasn’t a raver.’

  ‘So you were settling down. The party lifestyle was on its last legs and you almost had a normal life, then you got arrested. Most people in that situation would feel bitter about that, yet you seem to take responsibility for what you did?’

  ‘How can I not? The lifestyle I chose led to my arrest. At first I was upset, but now I don’t waste mental energy thinking about it. It’s counterproductive. My interest in writing – and the results I’m slowly achieving – make me think that everything is working out for the best. In a way, I’m glad I’m going through this because it’s enabling me to develop as a person.’

  ‘How did things work out for you and Claudia?’

  ‘She visited me regularly for a year. Then she was indicted for a prescription pill found a year earlier without a written prescription, a Class 6 felony, which meant she couldn’t visit. She stuck with me for over two years and helped me however she could. My feelings for her grew, but then we broke up. I was devastated. She visited here last week. I think we might be getting back on track,’ I say, smiling. ‘She said she’s going to visit again.’

  ‘How does that make you feel?’

  ‘Happy, but confused. I’m telling myself to go with the flow, see what happens, enjoy any visits, but not to set myself up emotionally again, so I don’t get hurt. But I can already feel intense feelings coming back. Who am I trying to fool?’

  ‘Do you miss raving?’

  ‘I miss the music. I don’t miss my behaviour. I see it as a phase I look back on. Incarceration has forced me to grow up. Previously, I would have mocked someone for listening to Vivaldi or for doing yoga and other things I enjoy now. I’m continuing to change and learn.’

  Returning to my cell, I’m intercepted by two guards. ‘Come with us, Attwood!’

  Wondering what kind of trouble I’m in, I quicken my pace. They steer me around the corner of a building to a blind spot from prisoners and guards. They could beat me up or kill me here and no one would know. A senior guard appears – stocky, with a cruel face and inquisitive eyes. He tells the others to leave.

  ‘Attwood, I’ve been reading your blog, Jon’s Jail Journal.’

  Is he going to tell me to stop blogging?

  ‘I work in internal investigations,’ he says, referring to the prison police. ‘It’s my job to know what’s going on in here. Reading your blog is giving me a general idea of certain things.’

  As I’m careful not to blog anything that might get a prisoner in trouble, I assume he’s trying to bluff me.

  ‘Although I find your blog helpful, if you’d like to talk to me in a more specific way, I could make life much easier for you – for instance, with certain people you’ve been having problems with.’ He smirks knowingly.

  He’s giving me the opportunity to snitch Bud and Ken out to get rid of them. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I don’t have problems with anyone. If the prisoners find out I’ve even spoke to you, it’s likely to create problems for me.’

  ‘That’s why I arranged to meet you on your way back from Medical. No one will know.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you,’ I say, staring at him uneasily, turning a foot away from him.

  ‘Well, keep the blogging up, Attwood.’

  Shook up, I return to my cell. Long Island advises me to ignore the guard.

  And not tell anyone.

  13

  It’s 6 March 2005 and Claudia’s due to visit. I wake up early, excited, grinning at Long Island.

  ‘I hope your visit goes well today, dawg!’ Long Island smiles.

  I shave and wait for the cell door to open. I rush to the shower. Afterwards, I grab a book and lie on my bunk. Every time names are called to Visitation, I stop reading and hold my breath, listening for ‘Attwood’. Surprised my name hasn’t been called by breakfast time, I head to the chow hall, but I’m barely able to eat.

  Back in my cell, I say, ‘I wonder where she’s at.’

  ‘She might be stuck in traffic or something,’ Long Island says in a concerned tone, but with a look in his eye as if he knows something that I don’t.

  Unable to concentrate, I squirm on the bunk. When Long Island leaves, I climb down and pace back and forth, wondering where Claudia is. As lunchtime approaches, I assume she’s not coming; Visitation hours are almost over. Reasons for her absence shoot through my mind. I try not to assume the worst – that she doesn’t want to see me any more – but the worry throbs away in my skull, crowding out my ability to think about anything else.

  Mid-afternoon, I call Claudia. My pulse rises as her phone rings. When she answers, I say, ‘Is everything OK? I was worried because you didn’t show up. Thought you might have been in an accident or something.’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ she says in a sad low voice that upsets my stomach.

  ‘What is it? What’
s the matter?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Shaun, but I can’t visit you any more.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why’s that?’ I ask, raising my voice, attracting stares from prisoners in the vicinity. ‘I thought we got along so well at the visit.’

  ‘We did, but it’s this plea-bargain thing. You know my family is my world. If you can’t ever come back to Arizona, the only way we could be together is if I move to England, but, with my family here, I wouldn’t be able to see them.’

  ‘But if you move to England, you could fly back to see them whenever you want and they could come and visit us, too.’

  ‘I can’t live that far away from my family, Shaun,’ Claudia says, sniffling.

  I feel awful, but I don’t want to lose her either. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you. I totally understand where you’re coming from. I just figured we would start our own family in England, and you could fly back and forth.’

  Silence.

  ‘So what does this mean for us?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t think I can visit you any more.’

  ‘Why the sudden change?’

  ‘I’m not going to move to England, Shaun, and you can’t ever come here. I still have feelings for you. I wished you’d never signed that stupid plea bargain that’s banned you from America.’

  ‘I know, but I can’t change the past. Look, you’ve done so much for me, I really don’t want to put you through any more pain. It hurts me to hear how sad you are. I’m going to get off the phone. And I realise I’m probably not going to see you again.’ My eyes well. ‘If your feelings change, then please let me know. You shouldn’t be suffering like this. I appreciate everything you’ve ever done for me. OK, then. Goodbye, Claudia.’

  ‘Goodbye, Shaun.’

  With tears streaming, I return to my cell, shattered by loneliness, aware that it’s finally over with Claudia.

  14

  A massive Mexican-American with gold teeth and turquoise tattoos on his skull tells me at recreation, ‘Frankie’s been approved for this yard.’

  Apprehensively, I drop out of a headstand and take a letter from him. As he leaves, I read:

  What’s up, Englandman? Did you find yourself another esposo [husband]? How are things going on at your end besides you cheating on me? I thought it was all about you and me. It’s all gravy ’cause nobody can lay pipe like me. Tu esposo [Your husband].

  The yard has two main buildings, each divided into four fifty-man pods, so the chance of sharing a pod with Frankie is one in eight. There’s a one in four chance of going to chow and recreation with him, as two pods go together. As I assess the situation, a prisoner approaches – 40ish, average build, pale skin bordering on anaemic, a playful gleam in his dark eyes. ‘Can you show me some of that stretching?’ he asks slowly and clearly with protracted vowels. ‘I’m Justin.’

  ‘Have you done yoga before?’ I ask, glad to gain a friend.

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘How about I take you through some basic postures?’

  ‘Let’s do it.’

  After adjusting his alignment for forward bend, cobra, cat, downward dog and seated spinal twist, we lay supine for corpse pose, the sun bearing down from a cloudless sky, baking us like gingerbread men.

  ‘Now stand up slowly, so the blood doesn’t rush to your head,’ I say.

  ‘I feel totally relaxed. Thanks, man.’ Justin gets up, shakes my hand and leaves just as recreation ends.

  Walking back to the building, Long Island asks, ‘What were you doing with that Justin dude?’

  ‘Just showing him some yoga.’

  ‘You need to watch him, celly. He was totally checking your ass out.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t!’ I say, blushing.

  Long Island shakes his head. ‘What you consider being friendly can easily be misconstrued in here. Just giving you a heads-up.’

  The next day when I’m alone, Justin stops by Cell 2. ‘I want you to read this, not share it with anyone, and let me know what you think as soon as possible.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, confused.

  He leaves, so I open it:

  Hi Shaun!

  This is Justin writing from afar. There’s been a lot on my mind that I’ve wanted to share with you. I’m not afraid of too many things in this world and I usually prefer to look someone straight in the eyes when I’m talking about something that means so very much to me, but, in this case, I am afraid. I’m scared to hear you tell me (however tactfully) that I’m offending you, or that I’ve got no chance in hell and that’s where I should go, or maybe you’ll be kind and say, ‘We can still be friends.’ Rejection scares me when it comes from someone I admire.

  Shaun, I’m gay and, until you tell me otherwise, I have to assume you are straight. But ever since I first saw you, first heard the sound of your voice, I’ve wanted to be closer than just a friendly acquaintance. You are sooo handsome to me, and intelligent, and rather self-confident – a strong man. You have all the things I admire most since I’ve never seen you with less than shorts on!! Yes, Shaun, you know where this is going. Even though people know I’m gay, I do not want anyone to know who I have feelings for, and I do not want anyone to know who I get together with, when, where or what exactly happens between myself and a guy that’s willing to give me a chance to show him excellent pleasures. I’ve been gay since 12 years old and I love myself just the way I am. When someone straight tries to understand, it’s impossible! Try explaining a colour to someone born blind.

  Being in prison for years on end, without the sexual pleasures of a woman, leaves most men frustrated and they are left with what they feel is no alternative than to fantasise with some long-ago dream and a magazine in the company of their own right hand. That gets old after years and years.

  To finally decide to give a guy like me a chance to do the very same things (most things) a woman can do leaves a guy realising he should have let me please him long ago.

  Since being with you would be our ‘first time’, it’s best, if you would give me a chance, to go slow and show you what I can do for you a little at a time.

  When you were out there doing that yoga and the morning sunrise made all that hair on your legs shine … as I watched you from a distance, I imagined how fine you must look if you were with me and if you let me kneel before you and slowly pull your pants down and the first thing I would see would be a beautiful bush of soft hair around a huge hard cock. I imagine you’re circumcised and seven or eight inches hard. And how you would say so softly ‘ohh yeah!’ as I took your cock in my hot mouth for the very first time. I would love so very much to give you a blow job, slow and easy, and make you come so hard!!!

  This would be our secret. This is no work of fiction. If you would ever want this to happen, you know where I live, and the thing to do is to come over here when everyone goes to rec. Shaun, in the privacy of my room, there is nothing (nearly so) I would not do to please you. I have other fantasies, too. If you wish, I will write them in my next letter.

  I’m touched by his frankness, eloquence and the level of thought put into the letter. Resolved not to hurt his feelings, I go to bed pondering a response. The next day I seek him out at recreation and tell him how much I appreciate his honesty in letting me know how he feels but that I don’t sleep with men. I tell him he’s witty and articulate and that I really enjoy chatting with him – but that’s as far as it goes. We shake hands.

  ‘Thanks for your honesty,’ he says. ‘If you ever change your mind’ – a smile replaces his disappointment – ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Pleased the situation is resolved, I hope to achieve the same with Frankie.

  15

  In Cell 2, Two Tonys expresses delight as he reads the responses to his stories from my blog readers, some of whom are speculating that his phrase ‘I never whacked anyone who didn’t have it coming’ originated in Hollywood. ‘The characters in these movies are based on motherfuckers like me,’ Two Tonys says, his eyes sparkling. ‘It’
s not the other way round. They’re just actors using lines from real gangsters. This blog shit’s pretty fucking cool. I never thought I’d see the day when some school teacher out of Singapore would ask me questions about my life. I’m serving 112 years. I never thought I’d communicate with anyone outside these fucking walls again.’

  ‘Your stories are generating way more comments and emails than usual,’ I say. ‘You’re going to have a strong following in no time.’

  ‘I like the way you write my stories. You’ve got skills,’ Two Tonys says, patting me on the shoulder.

  Afterwards, marching to the chow hall, crunching gravel underfoot, Two Tonys asks in a low voice, ‘Is that motherfucker Ken still giving you shit?’

  ‘No, it’s no big deal,’ I say, feeling awkward talking about it. ‘You can’t come to prison and not expect people to give you shit. Anyway, he apologised and the beef’s squashed.’

  ‘Whatever he does to you, give it right back. If he hits you, hit him back. If he kicks you, kick him back. It’s the only way to deal with motherfuckers in here.’