“How long you been out, Jim?” asked Greg, lighting a Marlboro.
“Couple days,” said Jimmy, trying to guess what their game was. One thing certain, he couldn’t tell them he’d been in the joint for petty with a prior. A chickenshit petty theft would probably turn them off right away.
“What was your beef, Jim?”
“Robbery,” Jimmy lied, and Greg’s smile proved to Jimmy he was right. Fuckin lames, he thought. He knew they couldn’t be boosters or creepers, not flashing their bread like these two were doing. If they were surreptitious thieves, they’d be sly and sneaky, closemouthed. He figured these two had to be stickup men.
“This guy was a complete fool if there ever was one,” Jimmy said later. “I mean his mouth starts flappin and braggin and flashin green right in front of those two square shine boys. A complete fuckin fool. You couldn’t tell him though and I didn’t try, neither.”
“Let’s go across the street and get somethin to eat,” said Small, and Jimmy tagged along hoping.
“Order whatever you want,” Greg said to Jimmy after they got inside. Jimmy wanted a complete meal, but thought better about showing them how much he needed it.
“Gimme a roast beef sandwich and coffee,” he said to the waitress. Jimmy tried not to attack the sandwich, because that too would betray him, and he nodded politely once in a while when Greg mentioned black guys he knew in the joint and asked Jimmy if he knew them. He knew few of Greg’s acquaintances, and had never been in a federal joint or in Vacaville which he knew to be a hospital prison. Guy might be a fuckin squirrel if he did time in that place, Jimmy thought, as Greg talked uninterrupted. He had an uncanny memory for names, that was apparent.
After they ate, Small went to pay the rent on the shine stand and Greg took Jimmy next door to the drugstore, bought himself a pair of the best sunglasses they had and another pair for Jimmy who didn’t really want them. With his astigmatism the sunglasses made things worse. But Greg said it was a gift and he wanted Jimmy to have them. Then they rejoined Small and the three of them got in Greg’s station wagon for a ride to Second and Grand, to Jimmy’s hotel.
When Jimmy got out he figured he’d never see either of them again, so what the hell, he hit on them.
“Say, brother, how about lendin me ten till I get myself together?” Jimmy asked, expecting nothing, only hoping.
“Sure, Jim,” Greg said, pulling a five from his pocket. “Give him the other five, Billy.” And then to Jimmy, “This’s not a loan, it’s a gift. How you planning to make money, Jim?”
“The same way you guys make yours.” Jimmy smiled.
“See you, Jim,” said Greg cheerfully as they drove off.
“Later, man. Catch you later,” said Jimmy.
Amazed at his good fortune, Jimmy changed to his other shirt. He washed and shaved and felt relatively hopeful again. He went down to the lobby to sit and smoke and pass time. Then the two young white chicks came in. He’d seen them before and knew they lived somewhere on the third floor. He hadn’t gotten around to any serious fantasies about them, but now here they were, coming into the lobby, and him with ten bucks in his jeans.
The brunette was a bit hefty but the little redhead had the nicest ass he’d seen since he got out. The big one as usual was talking and didn’t notice Jimmy sitting there finishing the coffee in his paper cup.
“My, I think I’m gonna like livin here,” Jimmy said, looking at the little redhead as they passed. They both smiled, did not reply, and went up to their room. Jimmy watched the hips sway as they climbed the stairs.
He waited, and just as he was giving up, they came back and walked toward the front door as though they didn’t see him, but with secret smiles which made his blood heat. Jimmy hurried out behind them and the big one turned and looked him dead in the eye.
“I didn’t catch that remark you made. But it sounded like a pass.”
“Can you catch it?”
“Do I look like a football player?”
Yeah, you sure as fuck do, you fat bitch, thought Jimmy, but said, “Tell you the truth, you are two of the finest lookin pretty young things I’ve talked to in a long time.” And at least that is the damn truth, he thought.
“I’m Pat,” said the big one. “This’s Linda.”
“I’m Jimmy. What say we go to a movie?”
“Just like that?” said Pat.
“Sure, I ain’t been to a movie house in quite a while. Let’s go see somethin sexy.”
“Well, why not?” said Pat, and Jimmy wondered whether the fat one was going for him or whether it was the chance for a free movie and maybe a hamburger later. He decided it was the hamburger.
The downtown theaters were only four blocks away and Jimmy steered them toward the marquee which showed a half-naked Roman girl. The stills outside suggested orgies on the inside: nude young women, men in loincloths. Maybe it would arouse them, Jimmy thought. Maybe he could even cop a few feels.
“Linda’s got a steady guy,” Pat said as the little redhead wriggled up the aisle during the first reel to get a soft drink.
“So?”
“I seen you eyeing her, Jimmy, but it ain’t gonna do you no good. She really digs this guy.”
That’s a damn lie, thought Jimmy, who had seen each of them going to their room with different men during the three days he had been living at the hotel. Still he humored the fat girl.
“Well, I don’t much care, baby.”
“Now I ain’t got a guy,” said Pat, scooting a little closer.
I know what you like even better than me, thought Jimmy. “Here, Pat, here’s a dollar. Go get us some popcorn, huh? Extra butter. Oozy. And chocolates. Lots of it.” And Pat was gone in a flash, even before Linda returned.
There was no time to be cool, thought Jimmy, and dropped his hand on Linda’s hot little thigh the moment she sat. She didn’t object and in fact moved down a little and sighed. Jimmy was on fire at once, reaching under her dress just as Pat came back with two boxes of popcorn and a handful of candy bars, but Jimmy’s throat was so dry and constricted from Linda’s presence, he couldn’t swallow his popcorn without choking. Pat was by then too suspicious to go back up the aisle for sodas when he suggested it.
One of the best times in Los Angeles is between eight and ten at night, Jimmy thought—when the smog is blowing away and it’s cool, and the streets are almost quiet—when there’s no pushing, no shoving. They strolled slowly back to the hotel, Linda holding his one hand shyly, while Pat tucked an arm through his and leaned so heavily she almost caved him in.
When they reached the hotel lobby Pat waved to two young white men who looked to Jimmy like ex-cons. He automatically looked at their shoes but they weren’t wearing hot dogs. When Pat was gone Jimmy whispered to Linda, “Looks like Pat’s gonna be talkin awhile. How bout you and me goin on up?”
His lips touched her ear when he whispered and now he was really burning and almost trembled like a kid when she gave a demure nod and said, “Okay, let’s do.”
It was disgusting for a man to be in such a state, Jimmy thought as they climbed the stairs. He was so excited, so agitated by Linda’s presence and the taut red wool of her sweater, he had to grab the handrail. Damn, he thought disgustedly. Weak in the fuckin legs.
“You got a radio in your room?”
“Uh huh. Wanna listen to music?”
“Yeah, yeah.” And Jimmy smiled weakly and swallowed twice, but the constriction in his throat would not budge. “Yeah.”
The room was cluttered with useless and valueless female treasures and these too excited Jimmy. The room was clean and that was a surprise. Linda turned on the radio and Jimmy was glad she found some dreamy music because he was planning to ask her to dance, and all the fad dances like the twist had passed him by. He’d been keeping up somewhat with the new rock music, but he didn’t really know how you danced to it. He realized the last time he had danced was when people dug on rhythm and blues.
“Wanna dance?” he croake
d and tried to swallow again.
“Uh huh, I sure do.” She smiled, and in a moment he was holding her close in the little room where there was barely room to turn around.
She was so short his face was in her dyed red hair, not against her cheek where he wanted it. But it was all right. Yeah, it was all right. He wasn’t scared now and let his hand slide down over the great little ass.
“What a pooper,” he was to say later to Gregory Powell. “What a fuckin pooper on that little snatch. Hot damn!”
So the dance was not much of a dance. They just turned slowly, pressed together, kissing, nibbling, groaning, and within a few minutes they were in bed, disrobed and finished.
Be damned, thought Jimmy. That really wasn’t as good as I thought it was gonna be. And then he chalked it up to her inexperience. She needed teaching. She didn’t really know what the hell to do. Well, she was willing at least. And he had the time.
Then they talked and told their dreary little stories. He about being an ex-con and she nodding sympathetically, saying lots of guys in the hotel were ex-cons. And she telling him that she and Pat were both nineteen and had run off from their El Paso families to live in the big city. She talked of her two year old boy she had left in El Paso. When she said that about leaving her little boy he thought about another wild young girl leaving her little boy for her aunt to raise thirty-two years ago. Then he thought just for an instant of the children he fathered when he was a teenager and whom he never saw again. What the hell, he thought. Everybody fucks over everybody else. So he pushed it out of his mind. He gave her a couple of what-the-hell kisses which promised a next time under better circumstances.
Then Pat showed up and gave them both a naughty look and although they were by now dressed, Jimmy became embarrassed, for the first time aware of the overpowering aroma of their lovemaking. “Some guys tell me they know broads where you can’t smell nothin,” he said later. “But that ain’t the case in my experience.”
“You naughty naughty people,” said Pat, smiling coquettishly at Jimmy, and he thought she was a pretty good sport after all. A pretty good ol sport.
Jimmy returned to his room that night and slept well enough. The next morning he found Pat in the lobby on her way to work and she stopped him for a moment.
“I hear you just got out of prison, Jimmy.”
“Yeah.”
“That must be awful. What’d you do?”
Now he had her pegged and answered casually, “Robbery. Stuck up a couple banks.”
“You gonna do it again?” she whispered.
“No more small time bullshit for me,” Jimmy said. “Naw, I got connections. Gonna take it slow and easy till I get set up by my connections.”
“See you later, Jimmy. Gotta go to work.”
“Catch you later,” Jimmy said, thinking, I got connections all right. With a drunken nigger shoeshine boy and a bigmouthed long necked paddy who has got to be the lamest squarest motherfucker I have ever met. I got connections—with two fools.
But they were all he had, so he walked down Seventh Street toward the shine stand.
They were not there, and it was despondency more than hunger which made him waste his money on the greasy fried chicken in the greasy Broadway restaurant. He had enough money for dinner and then he’d be broke. He went back to his room and slept away the day, waking up in the late afternoon in a sweat puddle in a hot and smelly room.
After taking a bath, Jimmy went down to the lobby and read the paper, sitting there until dark, eyeballing a fine little Mexican chick who was passing time with another girl and a bull-dagger. Jimmy smiled and said a few words which the bull-dagger didn’t appreciate and he measured her before proceeding because he knew for a fact there were some bull-daggers who were willing to fight harder than any man to protect their territory. That was all he needed now, he thought: throwin blows with a fuckin dike.
He went to bed early and alone that evening, watching a fly bang against a hot naked light bulb, looking out the window at the city, smoking, hoping that Linda would come to his room.
Jimmy lay there relaxed at first, enjoying the breeze which snapped the dirty muslin curtains, making shadows on the wall. Then he smoked and watched the moon climbing. It looked to him like a gold coin. Like a gold coin must look, ought to look.
Then he lost the mood in the boredom, and again his thoughts returned to Folsom, and the same question, the old question, the tired question he had asked himself a thousand times these thirteen years. What if … What if he really couldn’t live out here? What if he was what they talked about during group sessions at Chino Prison? What if he really was, like they say, an institutional man? Since he was nineteen years old he’d been in one institution after another, and even before that there was detention camp. In fact, if you added it all up he was on the streets maybe a year or a little more since he was nineteen. One year since he was a man full grown. This August he’d be thirty-three years old. What if …?
But the thing that always dissuaded him was the memory of Folsom. Sure, he might go for that institutional man stuff if it was some other joint you were talking about. I could do nothin but time in a place like Chino, he thought. Nothin but time. And some of these other joints too where they have what they call “counselors” and the food is good and they call them “dorms” where they lock you up, and they have TV where everyone can see it, and all the ice cream you want, and it’s warm in the winter and air-conditioned in the summer, and almost unlimited visitin. But then, fuck the visitin, because nobody visits me anyway. On the other hand, it’s nice to see pretty girls millin around. And they have lots of groupin where you sit around and tell lies to each other and have a ball-bustin good time. And enough money for plenty of smokes, and where once in a while you can score a little taste, maybe a few reds, even a real fix if you got enough bread. But fuck the fix, no, that’s way back, way back. It’s too good a memory. Too good. Makes you feel too good to remember it. That’s way back there. Better to remember the first fix. When I gave two and a half bucks toward a number-five cap, shot three drops, and puked all the way to San Bernardino.
Maybe I could get a job in the visitin center of a nice slammer, he thought. Yeah, he heard of those suckass jobs in joints like that, and shit, he was sly enough to con his way into a job like that, and then he could really make lots of stings in lots of ways. Shit, I could jive visitors by tellin them how nobody cares if I live or die and they’d lay some bread on me. Yeah, they’d forget who the fuck they came to visit. Or how about tourists passin through? Oh yeah, they’d give me smokes and coin. And who knows, probably in a job like that the bulls look the other way, or maybe I could slip them a couple bucks once in a while. Once every other Sunday maybe, I talk real sweet to some little bitch who’s just come from visitin her old man, and they been talking hot and she’s just oozin. Yeah. And then the bull looks the other way and I slip her into a back room there. There must be a back room there, and I fuck her right down through the floor. Oh yeah!
But that ain’t the way it is. Not for Jimmy Lee Smith. Not for me. Cause now I got a Folsom jacket. It’s back to Folsom for me. To the Big Gray Frog on the grassy green banks of the American River. Oh yeah.
He shivered when he pictured Folsom, squatting there, huge and gray, ghastly in the fog. Built from enormous, rounded, slimy wet and ugly moss-covered stones. He always dreamed of it that way. In the fog, when the stones were clammy and dark, ugly gray. It was like the prisons he saw in the old movies when he was a boy. He thought of his cell. The old spring cot that sagged like a hammock. The wooden table built from scavenged lumber, the chipped coffeecup which always cut his lip, the Bugle rolling tobacco and the sardine can ashtray, the cardboard taped over the bottom of the door to keep out the draft and the dust.
There were the bulls, old hands, immovable, old like the institution. Not “counselors,” not “correctional personnel,” but bulls, just fuckin bulls with cop uniforms and guns. Jesus, guns. Like they say, a water cooled ma
chine gun on one tower. Go ahead and try to make the wall and fence back toward the river. Oh yeah, go ahead. They want you to. And the other towers, rifles on those. And spotlights. And this is maximum security, baby. Like, forget it, you ain’t leavin here. Not till the man says you’re leavin.
Unlike at other joints, nobody was pressured into a job occupation, not at all. Like they say, in Folsom you don’t gotta do nothin but time.
And as always his thoughts returned to the Flea—that filthy, prowling phantom Jimmy could not seem to escape. He’d see him in the yard, skulking around the housing unit, anywhere.
Jimmy knew it was probably imagination, but he seemed to be looking at him. Like he knew him. And smiling, or at least showing brown teeth, twisted and broken, and drooling. They let him alone because his mind was half-gone, even the bulls let him alone, and he prowled alone, this slinking bag of bones with tufts of hair hanging from each nostril. His only interest was oral copulation, and Jesus, he found guys! Jimmy felt the shivers surge through him. He found guys!
And Jimmy had nightmares about the Flea. In one dream, Jimmy couldn’t seem to move through the yard, but it wasn’t like he was walking with heavy feet, he just couldn’t walk because he was old. He was an old man and had been inside most of his life like the Flea. Suddenly he was so old he could hardly walk through the yard. He was terrified because his life had gotten away. He couldn’t remember how, but he could see by his hands, by his veiny brittle hands, that he was old! Then with a mighty effort he shuffled across the yard and through a door because a monstrous ugly con was eyeing him with lust and he didn’t want them to do what he saw them do to the Flea. He ran to his cell and screamed for the bull to lock the door, and he fell across the cot, overturning the little wooden homemade table. The mirror crashed to the floor and he lay there, gaping in horror into the shattered pieces. He could see plainly in the slivers of glass. Clearly. He was the Flea!
Sunday afternoon, March 3, the house phone rang.
“Hi, Jimmy,” said the cheerful voice which Jimmy recognized immediately.
The Onion Field Page 10
