Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  The hours progressed, slipping away like globs of hot, thick molten gold, until Douglass became more and more a part of that so-called “ultimate challenge.” The storm had already swept him up and out of his own world. Unfair though it may have been, he was now in jail, far away from home, with nothing to lean on but his own purely fabricated faith. In the course of events, if there was such a thing as a great challenge, then Passaic County Jail was it. Douglass was originally in that holding cell alone. But the morning moved into afternoon, and with it came more and more prisoners, until the room filled to capacity. Beyond capacity. At most, the room was comfortable for 20 or 25 people. Thirty-five, if they were standing shoulder to shoulder. However, buses continued to drop off men, as if there was free fried chicken being given away. Eventually, more than 70 prisoners were sandwiched in the cell. No cigarettes were permitted in the holding cell, and someone even had the nerve to put a non smoking sign on the wall above the door. But there was smoking anyway. With one vent high above the door, the ventilation was the equivalent of all seventy-five men breathing through a straw at one time. Meanwhile, the various body odors from the day’s local arrests created a stew of sordid, wretched vapors. Everyone, whether nefarious and boastful or quiet and considerate, contributed to the busy atmosphere. Five hours passed while the heat and the hunger in the cell continued cooking. Tempers began to surface, as food became more and more of a priority. Men began banging on one door or the other, wanting to irritate the overseer. The banging, the angry, conflicting conversations and the yelps for a staff member represented the worst conditions imaginable. Even a kennel of animals would be considered calm as compared to this mess. The fights over the phone; the want for elbow room; all of it creating that deafening noise.

  After one man fainted, and after two fistfights (one that left an older man unconscious), prisoners were released from the room five by five. They were paraded to another small room and strip-searched. That is, every piece of clothing or thread was to be removed as the corrections officer conducted with routine directives.

  “Raise your arms above your head. Open your mouth wide. Lift your tongue. Back of your hands. Lift your nuts. Turn around. Lift your foot. Now the other foot. Bend over and spread ’em.” Douglass silently wondered how a man could deal with looking at so many hairy, crusty assholes, and still manage a peaceful sleep with so many of those images in their mental registers.

  During and following the strip search, officers prodded and probed prisoners, then escorted them to the next room where interviews were held for each. Questions. Good health? Ever have diseases? Contemplating suicide? Tattoo? Psychological problems? Next, on to the fingerprint room. Forms were filled out. Next of kin in case of death. Home address and phone number. After fingerprints, Douglass dipped his inked-up fingers into a vat of grease—it looked and felt like lard, except it wasn’t. It was the type that auto mechanics used. He rinsed off in a nearby sink and grabbed a few paper towels before being directed, still naked, into another large room. This time, there were only three walls. A wall of iron bars confined the men until everybody was completed with their processing. At least the room allowed for free-flowing air, thought Douglass. And once the cage filled to capacity, there was even another, and then another to offer relief as men continued waiting for food. At least the men weren’t squeezed together like they were earlier; not a pretty thought with no clothes on.

  By 10pm, there was still no food. The cages were emptied one at a time as three men at a time were led to a cove with three showers. The water was continuous, running on cold only. A corrections officer stood by to assure that each person got under the water. Once assured, a towel was handed over along with an unreasonable amount of clothing. Then a nurse reviewed each prisoner, taking blood and administering tuberculosis tests. On to another cage. More barking dogs in the distance. The food finally came. A Styrofoam tray of two fish patties, a hamburger roll, a bag of potato chips and two cups of Kool Aid for each man. Restless and anticipating a next move, the group now listened to a roll call and shot out into the hallway when called. Once you were called, you were to grab a mattress from a big pile, a blanket, and a sheet—no pillows. A single line filed through the hallway, making their pilgrimage into a day room. Douglass was reminded of scenes from The Planet of the Apes, where humans were held in massive cages, left to scramble and cope amongst themselves. In a similar fashion, the caged gates at Passaic ran almost 20 feet to the ceiling and they were wide like a zoo exhibit of a lion’s den. A section of the cage was unlocked and slid aside, while the newest additions instinctively straggled through the opening to claim one of the available bed spaces. There were already close to 50 men in the room, having staked out the best bunks. About 30 tri-level bunk beds were situated through the room. Bolted to the floor. The top bunks were only feet from the ceiling. Meanwhile, air and noise flowed freely from the hallway and through the bars.

  A row of toilets, sinks and showers remained a busy part of the room; a corner that was visible to everyone, regardless of whether a man was taking a shit or shamelessly jerking off—no privacy.

  With no other choice, Douglass quickly adjusted, maneuvering his mattress to an available top bunk. He climbed halfway up and dressed his bed with the sheet and blanket. Then he climbed up some more to rest himself. Finally with a soft surface to sit, Douglass crossed his legs and observed the large room. The different values of men were evident. Some were loud and unruly. Others were quiet and calculating. Most were black. A handful of whites. Prison workers (also known as orderlies) walked through the hallway outside the cage at various times, while individuals who recognized them ran up to the bars to beg and plead for cigarettes. When C.O.’s, nurses or counselors came through the hallway and stopped by the cage, prisoners ran up still with other requests. Forced to survive with bare essentials, inconvenience and desperation encouraged many to crave any resource they could get their hands on; it was a pattern of behavior that seemed like a frequent practice, and Douglass was quick to stay out of the rat race. An institution nurse announced her presence and a line of men quickly grouped to receive medication of this kind or that. Skinny, fat, tall, short, young, and old. Men were detained for almost any infraction; jumping bail, spousal abuse, traffic violations, probation issues or even failure to pay child support. There was no shortage of drug possession cases; more or less the majority of the population.

  “What, you think you special, nigga?”

  The braided fool, Douglass told himself. And, pleeease: I know he’s not talkin to—

  “Yo, lil’ nigga. I’m talkin’ to you.”

  Douglass had been reading a used Newark Star Ledger when the braided dude approached the bunk. He tried to ignore him, but the guy shook the bunk.

  I thought these were bolted to the floor?

  Not to cause any conflict in the room, and considering he was a stranger to the region, Douglass ignored the nigga part of the inquiry.

  “You want somethin’?” asked Douglass. He said it in a way to show he was being irritated.

  “Yeah, nigga. I’m talkin’ to you. How come you ain’t get up from your bunk for the issue?”

  Douglass twisted his face, not even interested in making sense of this guy’s question. He at least knew what issue the fool meant.

  “I ain’t interested, man.”

  “Naw, fuck that, yo! If you ain’t gonna get yo shit, then get up and get mine.” Braids crunched his body in such a way that showed he was ready to fight. His jumpsuit sleeves were already rolled back, and the leg cuff on the right was rolled up LL Cool J-style. “Exactly! Nigga, next time they come to the gate for whatever, you betta get mine. Word!”

  Douglass realized that he was quite out of place. He noticed that while most were locals with state and municipal cases, he was from New York; a federal prisoner. He was out of his jurisdiction, mismatched amongst a crew of riff-raffs, with no ties to any “buddies” or “homies.” So, this was his defining moment; the instant that everyone who wa
s watching would judge him by. He was being “tested.”

  Thinking quickly, Douglass remembered his days in the Marine Corps, how in boot camp he was forced to battle guys twice his size with a pugle-stick. When it was his turn to step up, he was already preceded by “Tiny,” one of the biggest in the platoon. Tiny was seething and full of electricity from the past five fights he’d won—all of his contenders knocked down and dismissed from the pit.

  That’s how Douglass was looking at this guy in Passaic, as if he was Tiny. Sure, Douglass was a foot and a half shorter than Tiny, but he also saw the guys that Tiny knocked down. Douglass decided rather contemptuously that he was NOT gonna end up like them. And just the same, he was also NOT gonna be dragged out of Passaic jail like they did another guy.

  First, to disarm Tiny—and this braided one—Douglass fixed his face. He put on a face of defeat; as though there were no way out of this.

  “You’re right. I’m bein’ selfish,” said Douglass as he climbed down from the bunk. He didn’t want to seem like any threat, and that’s just what his expression showed: submission. “Anything you need, just let me know. In fact, I got some commissary money comin’, if you want some of that.”

  The guy turned around and looked at the certain audience that he attracted. He couldn’t believe how easy this was!

  “Yeah-yeah-yeah, that’s right, lil’ nigga. Mark ass, nigga. Matter fact, I want all your commissary.”

  “Aw, damn, man. Could ya leave me a little money? I mean, I do wanna get some real toothpaste, instead of the crap they give us.”

  Boldly, the guy turned to his homies and said, “You hear this mark-ass nigga? I should make him my fuckin’ girl.”

  He had to go and say that? Douglass couldn’t wait another second. The fool didn’t notice that Douglass had no socks on—he had slipped them off before he got down from the bunk so that his traction on the cement floor would be better; better than the socks he wore; socks that he might slip in once he—

  That was it. Braided fool folded his arms. And Douglass couldn’t think of a weaker position. In the meantime, Douglass had already measured his distance from his victim. He wanted just enough room so that when he swung his left arm, the tip of his fingers would barely touch his opponent’s nose. And the left swing was only a diversion so that—

  Douglass spun around; his left hand clipped the tip of the dude’s nose, and his entire body wound up, spinning still, with momentum enough for that rock-hard backside of his right hand to connect with the side of his victim’s face. Douglass was hyped now, with the adrenaline of a lion. He didn’t let up either. His backhand sent the dude crashing onto the metal picnic tables—the ones that were too few to seat the amount of prisoners in the room—but his right roundhouse kick was the blow that had to really hurt since that went right to the guy’s groin. Another kick was delivered to the waist, and before that foot touched the floor again, the other foot was already attacking, catching the opposite side of the waist. Both kicks leveled the guy out so that he slithered to the cement floor, defeated. Douglass was in a semi-horse stance now, waiting for another challenger to step up and substitute for the braided one.

  “I don’t want no trouble, but I swear to God, you’ll be right on the floor with ’im!” Douglass didn’t believe his own hype and how it was taking over his lips, making him challenge the whole room? Nobody budged, but Douglass could see one or two smiles in the room. Perhaps he did the right thing? There was no time to assess things. It was midnight now, and the barking neared. Within minutes, two German shepherds were accompanied by a band of uniformed correctional officers. The gate was unlocked and slid aside.

  “COUNT TIME!” shouted the head officer. He was labeled and tagged with various emblems and stripes, decorating his black baseball jacket. Maybe he was a confused war veteran. Douglass couldn’t tell how the head officer had accumulated such merits and awards. He wondered what the test was in the prison environment that might substantiate such honors; and hadn’t he just earned them?

  Meanwhile, as the head man stood to the side and parked his foot up on a stainless steel bench, the other officers posted themselves at various areas of the room. Like clockwork, prisoners were busy climbing down from bunk beds and moving towards an F-Troop formation in the center of the room. Just then, the head man noticed Douglass’s victim aching on the floor. The dogs were still barking and breathing through open muzzles, with tongues wagging and salivating, and their eyes zeroed in on all sudden movements by prisoners and guards alike. Leashes were tugged to quiet the barking, but it seemed as if it was all staged to support the illusion of immense danger.

  “What the fuck are you doin’? Git your ass in the lineup!” ordered the head slavemaster. “Are you bums ever gonna learn?” A few seconds passed as braids cringed in pain, lifting himself up to his feet to stand in line. “Well, then . . . when I call your name you are to answer ‘HERE!’ You are to show your wristband to the officer, and move between the racks!” The names were rattled off and prisoners followed the instructions, squeezing between the bunk beds in lines of ten. The racks were already close to one another, leaving a space about a foot and a half wide. Nonetheless, prisoners followed orders and stood still and quiet until every name was called. Afterwards, the group of drill instructor initiators swaggered out of the room, closed the gate behind them and moved out of sight. That’s when prisoners scrambled back to their bunks. Douglass included. He wouldn’t be anybody’s girl tonight, or any other night for that matter.

  That first night at Passaic County Jail was hard for Douglass to sleep through, since he had to watch his back. He wasn’t sure if any of the guy’s friends would try and stab him in his sleep. Before he knew it morning broke. His head was dizzied by the morning hustle at 5am.

  “CHOW!”

  The signal for food quickly triggered a habitual response. Each groping prisoner who chose to eat struggled to join the line, wiping sleep from their eyes, showing their wristbands to authenticate the transaction. Once the name was checked on the officer’s printout, that prisoner was issued a tray. Douglass’s first breakfast was filling. A bowl of Froot Loops, an apple, a slice of chocolate cake and coffee. Then back to a sleep that wouldn’t last long.

  “COUNT!” In came the dogs and the whole F-Troop routine. Same as the night before. Back to sleep.

  “CHOW!”

  “DOCTOR!”

  “COUNT!”

  “NURSE!”

  One announcement after the next, barked loud enough so that everyone could wake up and step to the gate. At midnight, the last count was conducted, marking another day of the madness past and another one forthcoming. The experience took a little adjusting to, but the fight (or, at least, the altercation) made things so much easier for Douglass.

  “Yo, that cat was a fool, anyway. I’m glad you put ’em down,” said one prisoner. Douglass pretended to care about the whole situation, but for real, all he wanted to do was deal with this shit and stay alive. He tried to treat the situation as one big test in his mind—just like in boot camp—assuming how every situation, process and emotion was fabricated in an effort to “break” him. Every breathing being at Passaic was an extra in the experiment, paid to play a roll. Douglass imagined that if he could just exist, breathe and dream harmlessly, he would pass the test. At certain instances he was so anticipating the outcome of the challenge and how he’d end up the victor, that he found himself elated and overjoyed by the experience. Day by day, meal by meal and count by count, the regimen became redundant. To break the monotony, Douglass wrote songs, poems and did his best to dream. He dreamed of the future, and of better circumstances and improvements in his life. He thought about past relationships. He even thought about Moet.

  “I realize that, Hammer, there’s not much evidence. Tell me something I don’t know. You’ve been with the Bureau long enough to know that we’ve squeezed convictions out of people with less evidence than this.” Walsh and Hammer were slouching a bit in their vehicle, parked
across the street from Fool’s Paradise. It was mid-evening. Just about the time their man Tony showed up.

  “We’ve got this Gilmore guy on tape, angry as hell at the murder victim. We’ve got a known mob figure walking into the family establishment numerous times. We can push some of these dancers to turn against Gilmore . . .”

  —Walsh was flipping through black and white photos of various women, fully dressed, walking into the club entrance—

  “You’re not new to this. Keep the guy stressed up in Passaic, away from family, friends and his power base, and I say we get a confession. Maybe even before we can convene a grand jury or get an indictment. I see a plea bargain happening before Christmas. This guy’s gonna bring in the New Year with a rack of time on his hands. My kid may have grandchildren when he gets out of the pen!” Hammer was floored by his partner’s determination to pin Gilmore. He wanted to get his teeth in on the case, to really secure a conviction; but there was nothing to go on.

  “Well, Walsh . . . you just tell me what’s next on the agenda. I’m with you.”

  “We keep tailing the Biancos, Tony, the capos and the other wise guys. We get the links together and form the chain, capisci?” Walsh was being facetious with the pseudo-Italian accent, but dead serious at the same time.

  “Hey, there’s Tony now.” Hammer took the cue and began snapping away with his camera. Moments later Hammer straightened his blazer and baseball cap, to take his turn patronizing Fool’s Paradise.

  Debbie’s Trail

  Wade turned down the car radio and dialed Ken on one of the Motorola cell phones he borrowed from the precinct.

  “Ken.” Ken Stevens picked up on the third ring, answering in his usual arrogant way.

  “It’s Wade . . . I’m near the airport on Ninty-fourth Street.”

  “Near the Enterprise car rental?”

  “Not yet . . . but I can get there fast enough.” Wade swung a U-turn, ran a traffic light, and was soon approaching the block where the rental franchise was located. Still juggling the cell phone between his shoulder and ear.