Dark Days

by D. Randall Blythe

  The next day when we went for walk, I smuggled out a letter for Felix in my underwear to give to George, in case my English-speaking friend still wasn’t feeling well and decided not to come outside. George had a letter from Felix he had snuck out as well, and we exchanged notes after the door to our cage was locked. I sat down, leaning against the warm, rough concrete wall in a spot where there was a beam of sunlight, lit a cigarette, and read Felix’s letter. Hello, you criminal, Felix wrote, Randy, could we borrow your lighter for today? I will have one tomorrow with shopping. I am not going for walk because of them silly people. I heard they were calling me names and talking rubbish about me, saying stuff like I am racist, etc. Don’t need to listen to this shite mate, you know? Thanks for the lighter and ciggies—Felix

  I was a bit surprised to read that the other men considered Felix a racist, as he had never displayed any sort of prejudice in my presence, and was in fact a very well mannered man. I did get the feeling though that, much like myself, prison was very intellectually boring for him, at times excruciatingly tedious—Felix was a well spoken, obviously educated man. Sometimes at walk, I would ask him what the other men were talking about if their conversation grew particularly heated, and he would dryly reply, “The usual criminal prison bullshit. I try not to pay attention to what they are talking about—it’s always the same old crap.” I had heard the gypsies talk about creepy Uncle Fester the trusty being prejudiced, saying that he was always making racist jokes when he brought them dinner, and that I definitely believed—something about him rubbed me really wrong. But Felix? I just didn’t see it. At walk, we spoke colloquial English, rapidly enough that the few prisoners around us with minimal fluency in my language would not have been able to follow our conversation at all. If he had wanted to make racist remarks he certainly could have, and it has been my experience that real-deal virulent racists cannot restrain themselves from mouthing off about their wacko beliefs whenever they can without fear of reprisal. But perhaps I had missed something along the way, some subtle cultural indicator that my American eyes were untrained to spot—the Czechs were comparatively reserved people after all. I didn’t think much more about it until we returned to our cell after walk.

  “Randy, those men no like you giving letter to George. They see you give letter and wonder what it say,” Ganbold said as soon as we were back.

  “What? Really? Why do they care? It’s just a letter for Felix, asking him why he’s not at walk,” I said.

  “These men say Felix no good person in here. These men say he is informanté. They say he watch and tell policie things,” he said.

  Holy crap, I thought, Felix is a squealer?

  “That reason why he no come out for walk. These men say they will . . .” and Ganbold made punching and stabbing motions.

  “Look, tell them I was just asking where he was, because he’s the only other guy in here who speaks English well. I don’t know anything about any informanté—I don’t even understand what everyone is saying anyway, because I don’t speak Czech. I couldn’t tell him anything even if I wanted to,” I said.

  “I already say this to these men. They know—they no angry with you, they angry with Felix. You are okay. But no more letter, okay? Is not good for you—these men no like it,” Ganbold said.

  “No worries about that—no more letters to Felix for sure. Just tell them to be cool, okay?” I said.

  In prison, there are countless sets of eyes on you at all times. You have to watch every little thing you do, every move you make, no matter how innocent, in front of both the guards and your fellow inmates. I have talked to friends who have done time in America, and heard stories of men getting beaten up or worse over a stupid misunderstanding. You have to watch your ass at all times, and a highly paranoid attitude is a perfectly reasonable, even logical, state of mind to maintain in prison. Even in city lockup, I had always tried my best to keep to myself for the most part and mind my own business, because the less involved you are with anyone the less trouble they might bring you. But I was in a place where I did not understand the vast majority of what was being said around me, and had no way of hearing the dark whispers about Felix that were currently circulating through the cell block. And maybe he was talking to the cops—why did he say in his note that the other men were calling him a racist, not an informer? Probably because he knew that it would make me begin to question whether or not he was spying for the cops, exactly as I was doing at that very moment. As I sat thinking about it, I honestly didn’t believe that Felix was a stool pigeon. I didn’t then, and I don’t today (hence his pseudonym)—I knew he had been arrested during a domestic disturbance, and was in prison on what I understood to be a simple minor assault charge incurred after a mutual drunken fight with his girlfriend. He was not proud of this, but his sentence was not that heavy at all, just a few months. Perhaps I was being naïve, but it just didn’t make sense—I didn’t see what he possibly had to gain by being an informer for the police, or really what information he could give them—he had been stuck in the basement longer than normal, not in general population upstairs where there was more interaction between prisoners and where one might actually overhear something worth the police’s time. Like everyone else on our block, he barely saw anyone other than his cellmate. I had a feeling that because Felix didn’t really participate much in the bull sessions that happened everyday at walk, that because he was an educated man, that perhaps someone thought he was a snob, maybe even a racist, and had decided to start a rumor that he was a squealer. Regardless of my personal belief, I wouldn’t be writing him anymore letters. Being seen passing a smuggled note to a rumored squealer’s cellmate (whether or not he was actually a squealer didn’t matter) was not a good look—it’s a good way to catch a shank in the side. Rumors can get you killed in prison. This is the reality of life behind bars.

  But Felix being a squealer was not the only thing the men had told Ganbold about my former neighbor; apparently his cellmate, George, was in there on a rape charge. I asked Dorj if he had heard this as well, and nodded and made a humping motion, then imitated a screaming woman in distress. Jesus H. Christ, I thought, No wonder no one talks to that guy. I had asked George what he was in for and he had told me something about getting in some knockdown bar fight and beating three guys up, but I hadn’t given his story any credence, as he had also told me and the other men at various times that he was a) a professional body guard, b) a professional soccer player, and c) independently wealthy. Obviously none of these things were true because a) he wasn’t muscular or tough at all (I had seen him struggling to do just a few push-ups), b) he was clumsy as hell, and he always looked like he was about to trip over his own big klutzy feet, and c) he never had money on his books for cigarettes and was always trying to bum smokes from me or scrounge up butts. I had noticed that he was a pretty weird dude, but I figured he was just some goofy social outcast kid who had gotten busted for something stupid like weed, and was merely trying (and failing) to impress the real criminals while he did his little bid. If what Ganbold had told me was true, then the men were ignoring George for a very different reason than his annoying tall tales.

  It has always been my understanding that sex offenders, especially pedophiles, occupy the lowest rungs on the prison ladder and are treated so badly that they often have to be placed in special cell blocks with their own kind for their own protection. These men, the child molesters and rapists, are often beaten severely (sometimes to death), and raped themselves if the nature of their crimes become public knowledge within the prison walls. I had not seen anyone act aggressive towards George at walk, but I now understood the aloof attitude the other men displayed towards him. And while I didn’t really believe that Felix was a stoolie (and had no real way of finding out), the more I thought about George, his tall tales, and his almost desperately happy manner whenever I talked to him, the more I believed his dishonesty and weirdness and shunning by the other men could be explained by him being in there on a sex offender char
ge—he was trying to cover something up. In a concrete cage of men who are all very used to deception, it’s hard to hide anything, and I had never felt entirely comfortable around him for some reason. I just had a strange feeling about the kid, and now it was starting to make sense.

  That day’s hour outside had not been my finest—through no fault of my own, I had been seen openly passing a note intended for a squealer to a goddamned rapist. This is the kind of shit that can happen when you land in prison in a foreign country and aren’t careful enough, and I would be even more cautious who I talked to or associated with for the rest of my stay there. As I was so well known as a foreign rockstar who was arrested completely by surprise, I didn’t really fear repercussions for what was obviously an ignorant mistake on my part, but when you can’t speak the language of the facility you are in, the standard prevailing prison paranoia becomes even more heightened. Anything can happen at anytime, and Czech-illiterate foreigner or not, I had to watch my ass.

  Later that afternoon, I was cheered up by an unexpected person: Tom Selleck #1, who popped by the cell to drop off the order form for tomorrow’s shopping—Martin had deposited some Czech currency in my prison account, and I was supposed to write out what I wanted from the store, then turn in my order when the guard made his evening rounds. The goods would be delivered the next day. Felix had shown me an order sheet before. The only problem was that the list was written in Czech, and I hadn’t the foggiest of what it contained. Not only that, Felix had also told me not to pay attention to the list, as it was very old, the prices were incorrect, and it hadn’t been updated in years—the store apparently had much more available than what was on the list, and he told me he would help me order what I needed when I had some money on my books. But now, due to the nasty rumor surrounding Felix, I couldn’t afford to talk to him anymore. I looked at the list and shook my head sadly—finally I had the money to buy some basic things I needed, but the situation was still utterly hopeless. He looked at me and said “Problem?” When I said that I couldn’t read Czech and had no idea of what I was doing, to my immense surprise he smiled broadly, took the list from my hand, and said, “I help you now!” in a very kind tone of voice.

  Tom Selleck #1, the grumpiest screw I had met so far in the whole joint, was actually going to help me? Until that moment, I had never once seen an expression on his face that could be called anything other than a scowl or frown; Selleck #1 was a man you would look at if you ran into him on the street and immediately think Good grief, I wonder who peed in his cereal this morning? It came as a complete shock when he smiled at me—I would have thought cracking a grin would have broken his face. It seemed almost unnatural, and his sudden warm-hearted and helpful manner made me suspicious; I expected Bradley to pop out from around the corner at any second with another Mongol to stuff into our cell. But T.S. Numero Uno seemed genuinely happy to help me as I pantomimed things I wanted, like cigarettes, deodorant, shampoo, and razors. Ganbold came to the door to help out, as he spoke Czech, and Dorj remained mute as always whenever there was anyone else around. Tom told Ganbold some of the food items the store had available, and between the two of them I soon had a full order sheet ready to go. I thanked Tom Selleck #1, and stood there in our cell shaking my head once he had gone—what had happened? Maybe he had just been having a bad few weeks? Or maybe Mrs. Selleck had broken him off a piece and he had gotten laid the night before. Who knew? Nothing about the guards in that place was ever predictable.

  After dinner, Tom Selleck #2 came by for the evening mail call, and the random temperament of Pankrác’s guards raised its weird head again. Tom Selleck #2 opened our cell door, smiled, and asked if we had anything to give him. I handed him my grocery order and a visitation request form I had filled out—my parents were making the long trip to Prague to see me if I was still locked up in two weeks, the next scheduled visitation period. On the form I had written my parents’ full names, addresses, and passport numbers, exactly as I had been instructed by Tomas earlier; I even had showed it to Ganbold to make sure I had done it correctly. Tom Selleck #2 took the forms, briefly looked over my grocery list, nodding in approval as he pointed at my order for a spicy dry salami, then began reading the visitation request form. His normally cheerful expression suddenly grew dark as he read the form, then he pointed to where I had neatly printed my stepmother’s first name, and began barking at me.

  “Yarl! Yarl yarl yarl, yarl? Yaaaaaarl?!?” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Uhm . . . it says ‘Cheryl’? That’s my stepmom,” I said, as he continued to stab at her name with his finger.

  “Grrrr . . . YARL. Yarl yarl yarl yarl, yarl yarl! Yarl! Yarl?” he said, as he ran his finger over the plainly printed word Cheryl, then thrust the form back into my hands with a look of complete disgust. He shook his finger at me, then locked the cell door. A few seconds later he returned with a brand-new blank form, thrust it through the cubby hole in our cell door, gave me a few exasperated yarls for good measure, then slammed the hatch shut. I could hear him stomping away down the hall and yarling away; clearly something had just gone terribly awry, but what? He had obviously been quite agitated by my stepmother’s name—was Cheryl an obscene word in Czech? Did he have an ex-girlfriend named Cheryl who had done him wrong? I knew Cheryl had traveled in Europe years ago right after she had graduated college; was it possible that she had broken his heart during a brief but torrid Euro summer romance years ago? Or had somehow offended him so badly that he had never forgiven her? Cheryl is a wonderful lady with excellent manners, so I didn’t think so. I studied the paper, then looked up at Ganbold in confusion.

  “This man says he cannot read name on paper. You must write again” he said.

  I looked at the paper. I had been very careful to print as neatly as possible, and Cheryl’s name didn’t look any different than the other words I had written down in precise block letters. I handed the form to Ganbold and asked him to see if he could read her name.

  “Shar-lurl?” he said.

  Close enough. What in the hell was going on with the Sellecks today? First Mr. Miserable himself, Tom Selleck #1, had suddenly turned into a ray of sunshine and was acting all buddy-buddy; then Tom Selleck #2, who up until just a few moments ago had been the nicest guard I had interacted with in Pankrác, had gotten all pissy over my stepmother’s name—he wasn’t even the one who approved visitation requests, he was just a screw on my cell block. Was it possible that they were trying to mess with my head for some reason? I had heard of good cop/bad cop, but good Tom Selleck/bad Tom Selleck? There was no rhyme or reason to this terrible place at all. I sighed and sat down to fill out the new form, printing the word Cheryl slightly larger than the rest. I hoped it wouldn’t offend anyone else who read it.

  As the days went by, Dorj had continued to blabber on in his swishing Mongolian, and my nerves became more and more on edge. I was not getting enough sleep, as his new found loquaciousness often went on for at least two hours after lights out. While I lay on my rack gritting my teeth, Ganbold (who seemed immune to the constant assault in his native language) would be snoring quite loudly on the top bunk, and below him Dorj would go on and on, his words eventually slowing until he literally fell asleep mid-whispered sentence. Telling Dorj to shut up did absolutely no good, as he would only be silent long enough for me to start to fall asleep, then, without fail, just as I began to drift off into slumber he would giggle and start yapping again. During the day it was even worse, so in the morning after my shopping had arrived, I put everything away, gave Ganbold and Dorj a pack of cigarettes and a fresh razor each, and announced that it was time for English lessons. If I had to listen to Dorj talk anymore, at least it would be in my language, which he did not speak in a hideous whisper. We started with counting, as we always did, and everything was going great until we hit the mutual bane of our numeric existence, the number thirty.

  As I had noticed the first day I began teaching Dorj English, the th sound presented a bit of difficulty
for those who grew up speaking Mongolian—I cannot say for sure, but based on my limited experience, it doesn’t seem to exist in their language. For almost three weeks now, I had been trying pretty much daily to get Dorj to say thirty correctly, but all I ever got out of him was “lurty.” Today was no different; for some reason, although he would fudge the th for three and thirteen (it came our sounding almost like tree and tert-teen), he absolutely refused to make even the smallest th concession for thirty, and all I ever heard was “lurty.” Ganbold would at least try to make the th sound (thirty came out as shirty), but Dorj wouldn’t budge an inch. I could tell he was doing it on purpose, more than likely just to spite me. The numeral thirty had never pissed me off so badly before.