If you're wondering what it's like in here, I'll do my best to describe it. The atmosphere is tense, but tolerable. Occasionally, there's a little violence, but nothing serious. I saw much worse on the street and in the military. The administration tends to let us go our own way, unless someone goes off. Fortunately, that doesn't happen very often, so life goes on from day to day.
Surprisingly, the worst thing is the boredom. Everyone has to put in eight hours' work, doing one thing or another, but aside from that, there's not much else to do. I've gotten into weight lifting to help pass the time. Some guys refer to prison as a "health farm" and, judging from some of the gorillas in here, it's true. What do you think? Should I come home with bulges and ripples, or should I do a lot of running and come home lean as a whip? Take your pick and you'll get what you want, made to order.
The only other complaint I have is the environment in here. It's unnatural. It's a world without women, everyone dresses the same, and it's a constant struggle to maintain my identity. They like you to fall into the scheme of things, where everyone is a carbon copy of everyone else. It's interesting to watch them try to make blacks, whites, Hispanics, Muslims, Asians and Native Americans all get along and play nice together.
Aside from that, it's a mundane, day-to-day existence. It reminds me of the military more than anything else. I gave them four years of my life. I hope my time in here will be shorter. Whichever way it goes, please don't worry. I'11 make it, no matter how long it takes. The only thing I want you to think about is going back to school and getting that degree you said you wanted.
That's it for now. Take good care of yourself, and remember the good times. If I have anything to say about it, we haven't seen the last of them. Oh, one other thing: send me a picture of yourself so I can talk dirty to it every night.
With all my love,
Adrian
He addressed and sealed the envelopes, and slid them under the door of his cell. If all went well, he'd get out of this unnatural House of Pain someday and rejoin the people he loved and missed. But for now, he'd have to settle for memories that were growing more distant with each passing day.
The second day he was there, he was finishing his dinner when a hint of movement caught his eye. A cockroach had entered his cell, and was scurrying across the floor. Before it could conceal itself in the darkness Adrian scooped it up and imprisoned it in an empty soup bowl.
"Thanks for stopping by," he said to it. "Now I'm not the only living thing in here." He paused after he had secured the ancient bug, and stared at it. Was he going crazy, or was he clinging to whatever he could to keep from going over the edge?
He knew it was his second day in solitary confinement because it began with his second breakfast. There was no other way of marking time. He couldn't look out the window because there were none, and the people who delivered his meals wouldn't answer him. The only contact he had with the outside world was when the guard making his periodic rounds looked in through the sliding panel to make sure he hadn’t committed suicide. As soon as he determined Adrian was alive, he'd close the panel and move on in silence.
The sensation of becoming hardened, not just physically from constant exercise and martial arts practice, but mentally too, was unmistakable. The days of isolation toughened his resolve to survive; his confinement impressed on him that survival was foremost. He could depend only on himself. He would refuse to let the administration get the better of him, nor would he ever again be afraid of anything that walked on two legs. Every day, he would force himself to handle his isolation with self-respect and discipline, so that some day he could look back on it with dignity.
Chapter Twenty-One
A key slipped into the lock and a moment later the door swung open, letting in a rush of blinding light. Adrian rolled over on his bunk and squinted against the almost intolerable brightness. Dimbrovski’s silhouette stood framed in the doorway.
"All right, Sonny Boy, today you go back in population. Get your things."
Adrian hastily dressed, gathered up his belongings, and was about to follow the guard down the corridor when he abruptly turned around and re-entered the cell. He took the bowl from on top of the sink and poured the cockroach out onto the floor. Initially, the roach seemed as stunned as he was.
"Now remember," he said to the roach, "what we did in here is between you and me. Got that? See ya."
The roach scurried away, and Adrian went back outside.
His first impression was that the world had suddenly grown much larger and more spacious. Being able to take more than a half dozen steps without having to stop and turn around seemed odd. The freedom of movement was exhilarating, and the sunlight beaming through the barred windows was luxurious. Those small, seemingly mundane things gave him a new lease on life and for a moment he felt the best he had since coming there.
"You use law books, Sonny Boy?" Dimbrovski asked.
"Yes. I don't know if it'll do any good, but I used them."
"Good. Now I take you to see Billings and Atkins. I advise you say as little as possible when you get there."
Dimbrovski led him out of the detention block, through the institution, and upstairs to the Security Office.
When they arrived he was promptly ushered inside. Already there were Billings, Atkins, Dr. Jennings and -- to his surprise -- Bent, who had wanted to kill him.
He gave Bent a second look. He didn't look like the same man who had attacked him. He looked pallid and drawn, as though his vitality had been left on the shower-room floor with all the blood he’d lost. His face was almost morbid, little more than skin pasted over a skull. He was wearing a Navy woolen cap; from under its edges there extended heavy bandages. His cheeks were sunken and networked with scar tissue, and the shadows under his lifeless eyes appeared permanent. His wiry but chiseled frame had atrophied and lost most of its shape. He was such a dismal shadow of the man he had been that Adrian actually felt sorry for him. Even though it had been a survival situation as well as a rescue mission, he hadn't intended to reduce Bent to this.
"Sit down, Mr. Cabraal," said Billings, motioning to an empty seat opposite Bent. Adrian did as he was told.
"Mr. Cabraal, Mr. Bent," continued Billings dryly, "you’re both very fortunate. One of you could have died. The other could just as easily have been charged with murder. Since neither of you are willing to elaborate on what led to the incident, it's unlikely that we'll ever know what caused it. Therefore, my only concern is to ensure that it doesn't happen again."
Adrian and Bent glanced at each other with a measure of backhanded respect. Neither of them had talked, despite what they had intended to do to each other. The code had remained intact.
Billings looked first at Bent, then at Adrian. "Have either of you anything to say?"
Both men shook their head; they had nothing to say.
"Very well, I want your assurances that there won't be any repetitions of what happened. Would either of you like to be transferred to another institution?"
Again, both men remained silent.
"Okay," said Billings. "I’ll not ask you to kiss and make up, but I'll expect you to keep your word as men. And let me warn you both, even the slightest infraction and there’s no length I won't seek to pile on as much time as I can to your respective sentences. Understood?"
Billings turned to Bent. "Allowing that you’re still on convalescent leave, you may return to your cell."
Then, to Adrian, he said, "Mr. Cabraal, we still have the matter of your extra duty to conclude. Wait here while I pull your folder."
Billings and Bent walked out together, leaving Adrian with Jimmy Atkins and Dr. Jennings.
"So,” said Atkins, “How long will it be before we sit and chat again?"
"Hey, I don't plan these things, they just happen. But I'll say this. You don't frighten me. Guys like you never have. I'll act right from self-respect, not because you scare me."
Atkins threw back his head, and laughed.
"Forg
et it, Cabraal. You'll never be a man; you'll always be a convict. And if you ever do get out of here, you still won't be a man. You'll just be an ex-convict walking the streets of America, looking for a free meal, a clue and a quick score.”
"Tell me something. How long you been working here?"
"Twenty-four years. Why?"
"Twenty-four years. You've already done more time than I'm going to do if I max out. The only difference is that I'm doing mine all at once; you're doing yours on the installment plan. If you look back, I bet you're a different man than when you first came to work here. Think about that, then tell me that you're a happy, well-adjusted member of society."
Atkins flushed and was about to say something when Billings returned with Adrian's folder. The wispy little man walked briskly to his desk, sat down, and spread the folder before him. After glancing through it he looked at Adrian.
"I've given careful thought to your situation, and I've decided to kill two birds with one stone. I'm going to assign you to the dining hall with the recommendation that you be put on the pots-and-pans detail. Needless to say, the mess officer will follow my recommendation. After eight hours of scrubbing on our time, you'll spend two more hours a day cleaning ovens, mopping floors and any other appropriate chores that need to be done. Sound easy? Wait and see. Like I said, life is going to be rather interesting until I forget about you. And there are only two ways I'll ever do that. If you die and get shipped home, or if you stay out of trouble and maintain a low profile. Do we understand each other?"
The smile that crossed Adrian’s face was congenial, almost ingratiating. "No problem." But he had also become curious. “Can I ask you something?”
“What is it?”
“Is it normal for the warden of an institution to get involved in situations like mine?”
“No, and you’re still not that important in my scheme of things. But I used to be this institution’s Head Caseworker, and I like to keep my finger in the mix. That answer your question?”
Adrian nodded. “Yes, sir.”
"Good, you may return to your cell. I'll notify the mess officer of our arrangement. And by the way, I suggest you spend most of the day sleeping. The pots-and-pans detail begins at four in the morning. And just to make sure you aren't late, I'll put your name on the wake-up list."
Adrian headed back to his cell, wondering where he had gone wrong. Things had gone from bad to worse from the day he arrived. He would forfeit the time he had already served if he could go back and start over again. If the rest of his term went like this, he wondered if he’d make it.
He was beginning to understand how some men became institutionalized. Like him, they fought the system until their stamina gave out. Then they acclimated to it, and finally became its dependent, relying on it for sustenance and direction. In essence, it became the only life they knew.
So far, it had been a constant assault on his individuality and self-esteem. They had provided him with clothing identical to everyone else's, made him stand in lines, continually reminded him that he was an imprisoned outcast, and tried to make an informant of him. The opposite side of the coin wasn't much better.
Inmates had their own methods of imposing conformity according to their own rules. Act like a man, be tough, keep your mouth shut, and never complain about being there. And above all, if someone steps on your toes, step on his face; otherwise, the vultures will descend and eat you alive. Convicts were forced to choose one code or the other; there was no middle ground. Adrian knew which side was his if he wanted to live with himself. Now, after another stay in the hole and the changes it had produced, determining his position was even easier. Now he wasn't afraid of either side. Somehow, he'd endure.
He walked into his cell and tossed his things on his bunk. Alone, he noticed that all the beds were made up, telling him that there was a new tenant. Each new man had to do this, like a new kid in a boarding school. Looking at the new man's bed, he wondered if the guy would get off to a better start than he had.
Suddenly he was grateful that it was the middle of a work day. If everyone had been in the cell house, the noise would have been maddening, even though he had begun adjusting to it. He had grown used to the silence in the hole, and would now have to adjust again.
He opened a magazine and looked at a picture of the late Richard Pryor on the cover and smiled. You were a hell of a man, Richard, he thought, and you were one of the funniest guys I ever heard. I'm really sorry I never met you while you were alive. We could have compared our cocaine experiences. Whose were worse? You almost burning to death, or me being in here buried alive?
He turned to the article on Richard Pryor, and was about to read it, when he heard the sound of a woman humming further down the tier. It was drawing closer. He set the magazine aside, and stared out through the bars. The light, melodic humming grew louder, reminding him of some young woman picking flowers in her garden on a sunny day.
When the owner of the voice rounded the corner and entered the cell, he almost fell off his bed. A young man of about thirty with long silken hair that hung to his slender waist walked effeminately past him and went to his bunk. A towel was wrapped around him from under his arms to his knees. Unlike the standard issue, it was the size of a beach towel. He was graceful and moved with genuine poise and elegance. If his hair had been black instead of blond, he could have been Jennifer's twin. Though it repulsed him to admit it, he couldn't help noticing that his figure was similar to hers.
He was obviously gay. Dressed like a woman, he could have entered a beauty contest. How could the Bureau of Prisons have sent him to a place like this?
The man looked at him, saw his astonishment, and smiled.
"Hi," he said softly, "I'm Christopher, but you can call me Kristen. You must be Adrian."
"Hi...uh...Kristen. Yeah, I'm Adrian," was all he could manage, still unable to believe his eyes. Kristen pursed his lips at Adrian's bewilderment.
"Now, stop it! No reason to come undone, I can't help being a trapped woman! Blame it on nature." He paused for a minute, then blinked and added, “Actually, I kind of like it.”
"Sorry," stammered Adrian, feeling awkward. "It's just that I..."
"...don't know what to say? Don't say anything. Just check it out."
Kristen pulled his towel off, revealing a thin, sinewy body that was proportioned like Heather Locklear's. He even had small surgically implanted breasts that would have made some women envious. He did a graceful pirouette, displaying his delicate shoulders, slender back, rounded buttocks, and tapered legs. Adrian was jarred back to reality when Kristen turned and faced him again, displaying a crank the size of a club. He couldn’t help but wonder how many people he’d tore up with it.
"See? All better now? Shall I get dressed, or would you like to get to know me better?"
Adrian cleared his throat and looked away. "No, man, you can get dressed. My gate doesn't swing that way."
"What a shame, you look so nice. Oh well, I'm sure I'll find what I'm looking for with so many scrumptious honeys to choose from. And don't call me 'man.' I'm not a man, I'm a ‘her’. I've just been cursed with a man's body. And you might as well get used to it, because I'm going to be here a long time. Okay, darling?"
"Got it."
Kristen sat on the edge of his – her - bunk and began dressing. He looked at Adrian, who was staring off into space with a confused look on his face.
"What's the matter, dear? You look so terribly distraught."
"I'm just trying to figure out what's going to happen when these guys get a look at you, that's all. I can't understand why the BOP sent you here. These guys’ll be on you like white on rice."
"Don't worry about that, sweetie. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for years."
"Yeah, but this is different. This is the joint. People take whatever they want in here."
"So do I. Ask the four guards I shot when I robbed their armored car. They didn't take me seriously, either. W
hen I told them to give me the money they laughed in my face, so I shot them in theirs. Now they're laughing in the cemetery."
Adrian grew somber, reminded of Nazareth's advice about judging people by their looks. He'd have to remember that, before it cost him.
"So how did they catch you?"
"I'd like to get my hands on that bitch who snitched me out. We used to be lovers. We'd rob banks and armored cars in drag, then lay back and look like men and pretend to be straight for a while. For five years the FBI was looking for two women, while we lived in luxury as two gay men. Whenever we went out, we dressed like men, and they never caught on to us. But one day we had a fight, and the asshole went to FBI Headquarters and surrendered himself. Turned me in, too. Even testified against me at the trial. Since I did all the shooting, I got four life sentences, and he got off with five years at Lexington, Kentucky. Slut!"
Adrian shook his head. Who’s idea was this?
***********
Ever since the incident in the yard when he’d been sent to the Control Center for teaching Warren and Tiny martial arts, his life as a practitioner had been drastically curtailed. Practicing in his cell was very confining. He had to limit his kicking techniques, if only to keep them from lapsing from memory. He would have loved to practice them openly, especially on the heavy bag, but he wasn’t willing to take the risk.
He was about to toss a towel over his shoulder and head outside when Tiny entered. “Hey, what’s going on man?” he asked.
“Nothing, that’s the problem.”
“Shit,” answered Tiny, “if it was up to them, we'd be locked up in cages twenty-four-by-seven.”
“I hear you. I'm going for a jog. See you later.”
Adrian briefly stretched by the track. He didn’t look forward to jogging, but when he actually started rounding the track it morphed into a place where he could let the world take a couple of turns without him. He could meditate, drawing deeper and deeper into himself, to where he’d shut the world out and gain a measure of inner peace. When he’d been studying in Okinawa, they had put a great deal of emphasis on this and he’d not regarded it very seriously. Maybe it was immaturity, or just a simple lack of understanding, but since then he had developed a much fuller appreciation of its hidden wealth.
Rules of the Game Page 16
