As Bucky said that, Priest grabbed my shoulder and added, “Turn them over. Look. I carved the Star of David on the bottom to protect you against the filth of the place. One, bless.”
There it was, the Star of David, engraved on the heel, right where my injured foot would rest.
When I returned to my cell, Lauriston was there, waiting. I told him what had happened.
He just grinned and said, “I told you so.”
BIBLES BEHIND BARS
SOON I HAD ALL THE food I could eat, all the sugar I wanted, and all the juice crystals I desired. Moreover, I had all the respect one could hope for inside. The food helped to heal my foot, and in time, when Priest and then Bucky were moved to a supermax prison, I was chosen to take one of the jobs as quartermaster because the guys on the range knew I was fair and that I’d share.
As Lauriston said, “All people who give to those around them prosper by them, and all those selfish bloodclaats that don’t, get nothing but fire.”
I just wish I hadn’t had to go to jail to figure that out—that and so much else.
Before Priest was shipped off, he offered me some advice.
“Indian, listen. I’ve exhausted my appeals. It’s over for me.”
The look on his face was of utter defeat and worry. It was an expression I hadn’t seen on his face since I’d met him sometime earlier.
“It’ll be alright, bro,” I said. “Just keep to yourself, read, work out, draw . . .”
“I’ll try. But shit’s crazy down there. At least I’ll get conjugal visits after a while . . .” Priest cracked a half smile and his eyes glazed over. “Anyways, Thistle, listen. You have two official duties in this job: First, you have to make inmates read the rules when they first enter the range and make them shower—people need to be clean. If they don’t listen, you have to bang ’em out. You’re the first line of defence against disease and nastiness, the guys depend on you. Second, you have to distribute the food fairly, which I know you’ll do ’cause Lauriston taught you well.”
It was true, Lauriston had taught me the value of sharing and how it maintained order. “Is that it?” I asked, knowing that the quartermaster job was much more complex.
“Of course not. You have to keep the dope and tobacco flowing and you have to pass lighters to other inmates and other ranges. You do that through the cleaners who mop the halls. They come at 8:30 sharp every morning. You pass the lighter to them, they pass it to other inmates, and then they pass it back. It’s simple. Here.”
Priest handed me the purple lighter I’d seen used many times on our range. I grabbed it and rammed it in my jumpsuit pocket.
“When the screws come to shake down the range,” Priest stressed, “it’s your job to hoop the lighter. You’ve got to stick it up your ass, and fast. Don’t give me that face, I’ve had to do it for two years straight! Do you know how many times I’ve been intimate with that thing?”
The laugh I let out relaxed Priest for the first time in our conversation. I felt happy he could ease up, if only for a second.
“Use soap if you can, slip the lighter up. If not, you’re taking the dry hammer—it don’t matter, just get it up there. I know it sucks, but the lighter is power. People can’t smoke or do dope without it, and they will try to steal it from you. To prevent that, you have to buy protection with food; give it to guys who you want to fight for you—the big guys you work out with. They don’t give a shit about you, but they do care where their calories come from, you can bet on that.”
“Got it,” I said, picturing myself having to repeatedly hoop the lighter during cell raids. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, when new fish come in, you have to take ’em to the toilet and watch ’em take a dump. Remember when I did that with you? There was a reason for that.”
The memory of when I first entered the range shot across my mind. Priest met me at the sally port, made me read the rules, told me to shower, then took me to the toilet and watched me. He had his hand over the flusher the whole time. Once I was done, he pushed me aside and took a rolled-up newspaper and stirred the water, breaking up my waste. Then he told me to shower again.
“That’s how the drugs come in. Some guys come in with suitcases up their asses and ruin the trade by driving down prices. You can’t let that happen. If someone drops a suitcase in the bowl while you’re quartermaster, you have to reach in and grab it, bang the guy out, then give the product to Bucky—it’s his market. And don’t worry about Bucky—he’s got an army in here and will sort out any problems if it involves product. Got it? If you follow those rules, you’ll be fine.”
I assured Priest I understood, but I could see he wanted to tell me something else. I waited patiently until he looked comfortable, then asked, “Is there anything more?”
“Yes,” he said intently. “I’ve seen a lot of guys hurt really bad in here. Some go to the hospital, some die. You see this book right here?” Priest pointed to his blue jail-issue Bible. “This has a lot of power in it and it can tell you things about people.”
I tried to piece together what a Bible and people getting killed in jail had in common, while at the same time hoping Priest wasn’t going to get all religious on me.
“Lots of people end up here,” Priest said. “Some come to jail on remand, some on misdemeanours, some on transfer, some on breach, and some on really serious charges. Many of the fake cats brag about the crimes they’ve done; they do this to make themselves out to be badder than they really are, to intimidate others. They say they’re bank robbers or jewel thieves or murderers but really they got caught with a dime bag of weed in their mother’s station wagon at a traffic stop. Whatever they say, remember: braggers get daggers.”
Priest paused and looked down at the guys pumping water bag weights at the end of the range; dudes getting their swole on. “But there are others inside who are real criminals, and there’s a way to spot them.”
“How?” I knew what he was about to say was valuable.
“At night, when you’re giving out tea for Jug Up before bed, look at people’s bedsides. Look beside the beds of those young punks who brag, then look at the bedside of the quiet guys. You’ll see something different.”
“What?” the question jumped from my lips before I had a chance to stop it.
“Those in for real crimes, the serious ones, they always have a Bible, Koran, Torah, or some other holy book by their bedsides. Night after night they stay up trying to make it right with God. Don’t fuck with guys like that, they’ll straight up kill you. The fake criminals, on the other hand, sleep like babies and never keep Bibles by their beds cause they don’t need forgiveness cause they ain’t done nothing wrong. The real hard nuts can’t sleep and can’t stop themselves from seeking God. They need forgiveness because they can’t accept who or what they’ve become and what they’ve done, or accept the life they’ve made for themselves. It’s a hard pill to swallow—to know you’re a monster who’s done monstrous things. They’ve got no other comfort than God . . . Somewhere along the line it went bad for them.”
I kept a Bible beside my bed, and I asked, “What went bad, Priest?”
“All us criminals start out as normal people just like anyone else, but then things happen in life that tear us apart, that make us into something capable of hurting other people. That’s all any of the darkness really is—just love gone bad. We’re just broken-hearted people hurt by life.”
There were tears in the corners of Priest’s eyes. I could see for the first time the good man this muscle-bound criminal must have been once, the man he must have wished he could still be. I felt a deep sorrow knowing that he had no chances left.
The sally-port buzzer blared and the guards came to collect Priest. He composed himself, gathered his pillowcase of belongings, dapped my fist, and said goodbye.
I never saw Priest again. Someone told me that he’d been in for a homicide in a drug deal gone wrong. But I never did find out the details, because that was something he never tal
ked about—except, I assume, in private, between himself and God, at night, with a Bible resting beside his bed.
AUDREY
“I GOT A CAR,” SHE said. “We could work together.” The gorgeous vanilla scent of her perfume filled my nose, and her deadly smile left me defenceless. I nodded like a moron.
I’d seen her around from time to time at some of the trap houses in the neighbourhood since getting out of jail. She had straight golden-blond hair and grey eyes plastered with mascara. She was a knockout and didn’t look like one of us street people. Her cheeks were full, her body well-formed, and she had expensive clothes. She intimidated me at first. Then she introduced herself.
“Hello,” she said. “My name’s Audrey.”
My heart jumped at her East Coast accent.
“What’s your name?”
I was too enamoured to form a coherent response.
She twirled her hair on her index finger and giggled.
I was in love.
I learned that she lived around the corner in her own apartment. She was impressed that I fended for myself, begging and stealing, and did it without drug dealing.
“I don’t believe in dope dealing,” she said. “It’s poisoning our kind. Broken-hearted people with nowhere to be in the world.”
I related to that. I wondered how she kept her car on the road with such a serious crack addiction, but I never asked. It was none of my business.
One of the working girls who frequented many of the same dope spots wasn’t a fan. “She takes away all the business,” she said when I’d asked her who Audrey was. “I wish she’d leave some for us.”
One day, when I brought in about two hundred dollars of stolen meat I’d pinched from the grocery store, Audrey was sitting in the back room of the trap house, watching the goings-on. I got my standard one-third the retail price for the haul and exchanged it for crack.
“A girl can do a lot with a guy like you, Jesse,” Audrey said as she eyed me up and down, then looked at my rock.
We went back to her place that night. I thought we were going to have sex, but we just smoked until the dope ran out, and talked until our jaws hurt, about where she was from and how she wanted out of the life we were both caught up in. I didn’t make any moves toward her. I figured she got that all the time—pigs invading her body.
She made up some blankets for me on the couch and said, “Anytime you need a place to crash you’re welcome to stay.” She covered me up, then went to sleep alone in her bedroom. I dreamt of her the whole night.
The next day we did our first run together.
We hit about twelve grocery stores. I went in with my gym bag, filled it with steaks, shrimp, baby formula, razors, and makeup, until it damn near broke from the weight. She waited outside, her van revving. A couple of times security guards chased me out, but I just hopped in the van and she floored it to our next destination.
The excitement in Audrey’s face, the way we cheered and held hands as we sped away, like we’d accomplished something, turned me on. It made my foot feel better, made me feel better about myself, made me feel better about everything. We made a great team. When we cashed out in the evening, we had more dope than we could smoke. I fried up a few steaks, and we had dinner at her place like real people.
Soon, our scams became more complex. The easiest was the water bottle hustle. I’d go into a grocery store and grab two huge water bottles—the ones worth ten bucks when they’re returned empty—and carry them out. If I wasn’t followed, I’d dump out the water, go back in, and return them. I got twenty dollars for five minutes’ work, simple as pie.
If store security did come after me, I’d drop the bottles in the parking lot then rush away. Security had the choice of either chasing me down or staying with the merchandise—they couldn’t do both. If they did leave the bottles for someone else to steal, that someone was Audrey. She’d drive behind the action, pick the bottles up, then speed ahead and grab me before I was busted. That was the best scenario, because we’d just return them somewhere else down the road. Again, an easy twenty.
If security stayed with the bottles, Audrey would just drive ahead and pick me up, and we’d try it again somewhere else. In all three scenarios, I always got away safe. It was brilliant. We did it all day.
We hit liquor stores, too. We used what we called our blitzkrieg manoeuvre there, our most daring, but also our most lucrative. We could make upward of $200 or $300 a pop. I’d rush in and grab the first big bottles in sight—maybe five at a time—then I’d make for the front doors and dive headfirst into the van. She’d hit the gas, back door wide open, my legs dangling halfway out. I must’ve looked like a baseball player stealing second base. Audrey was one hell of a driver, fast and fearless, rubber wheels screeching through red lights and stop signs like she was Steve McQueen on meth. Often, we’d look back at the pack of angry floor walkers standing and screaming, shaking their fists at the van, and we’d yell at the top of our lungs, cheering our victories.
When the liquor stores caught on, we shifted to beer stores. Given the weight and size of beer cases, the runs didn’t make as much money, but we still made hundreds of dollars over the course of the day. All of it went to crack.
We got thinner. There was a swagger about us, a strange kind of confidence, like we were rock stars or something. We were ghetto rock stars, just not the kind with guitars, and we partied like there was no tomorrow. No matter how much money we got, though, it was never enough. And the excitement was fleeting. Now, looking back on it, we were high, wild, and borderline out of our minds. I can’t believe we did what we did. I regret it all.
In a matter of weeks it all fell apart. I was sitting at the end of Audrey’s couch drinking a bottle of booze we’d just stolen, waiting for our nightly steaks to grill up. There was a giant pile of crack between us—our day’s keep.
“I know you want me,” Audrey slurred, drunk off her face. She cozied up to me and put her hand on my lap, sliding it toward my crotch. It felt weird. We’d never been intimate before, even though I’d wanted her since we met.
I sat frozen. She didn’t look so hot anymore. It wasn’t like she’d changed so much as to not be physically attractive—she was still a bombshell. It’s just that I didn’t like it when she talked and acted this way, nor did I like what we’d become. I thought we could make a real go of life together, get jobs, clean up, stay out of trouble. I wanted us to be something better and I didn’t want to ruin it. It was silly to think this way, because it was clear that we were addict thieves, partners in crime—good at it, too—and that we adored each other and got along great. I just had too many feelings to take advantage of her.
I loaded up the pipe and gave it to her to distract her. She knocked it out of my hand and leaned in for a kiss. I reciprocated. My soul exploded, but it felt wrong. I pulled back.
“I can’t,” I said. “I think I love you.” I reached for her hand. I wanted to explain myself, about how I wanted to wait.
“Don’t,” she said, sounding hostile. She hoisted herself to the edge of the couch and almost face-planted on the table. Her knee knocked over our little crack mountain and a portion of it tumbled onto the carpet.
I sat speechless. I knew I’d crossed a line.
“Take your half and get out,” she said, not looking at me. “I’m done with you.” She walked over to the front door and held it open. “Out.”
I didn’t argue as I collected my belongings and left.
We didn’t even say goodbye.
DYNAMITE
THE WICK ON THE STICK of dynamite stuck out of my parka about five inches. I tucked it into my breast pocket as I headed to the dope house.
My crack dealer’s name was Green, a gang member from Rexdale, Ontario, and his homies all had colours for names. I assumed they got the idea from Reservoir Dogs. Green told his mates that I was dangerous and willing to do anything. He was right. I had no fear of death after Samantha and I broke up and what happened with Audrey and Flip. E
veryone was impressed that I’d robbed the convenience store, and that I’d eluded the cops with a cast on my leg. They started calling me “Hot Boy.” I hated the moniker, but it gave me a kind of respect, homeless or not.
Piles of snow shimmered in the dusk as I hurried past the mechanic shop. The red stick felt heavy against my chest, like an iron bar. The OxyContin I’d taken three hours earlier was wearing off. My foot was hurting like it’d been crucified with a six-inch railway tie—the staph infection had come back. Cold crept into my ankle and seized the wires holding my foot together. I couldn’t run without the aid of pills, and pain could halt my mission.
It doesn’t matter, I resolved. I’m going to get a giant rock from those dealer scum whether I’m high or not. My jaw muscles flexed and snapped the tooth I’d got fixed in jail. I spit the fragment on the sidewalk and it bounced off into a snowbank. A vision of Vancouver and the car came to me. I wanted revenge for the person they’d turned me into.
I whipped out my crack stem, loaded it with my last twenty-dollar rock, and lit it. I needed that extra push forward. Yellow flames licked the glass and the rock melted, releasing a stream of thick smoke. It sizzled like Rice Krispies covered in milk. A gush of spit poured out of my mouth and thwacked onto the ice below; it froze into a beautiful spiderweb of crystals, making tiny squeaking noises as it formed. In an instant my hearing had sharpened to superhuman levels.
I spun around 360 degrees scanning for the legion of hidden cops I knew tracked my every movement. I saw nothing, but sensed they were close. Once, I’d found a tracking device in my baseball cap—in the button on top. People told me it was just there to hold the hat together, but I didn’t believe them. I ripped it off and chucked it into the Etobicoke River to evade capture. These tracking cops, I’d figured out, also sent coded messages to each other using car license-plate numbers. Nine meant they were close; two or five meant they had a lock on my whereabouts and were moving in.
From the Ashes Page 22
