You Got Nothing Coming: Notes From a Prison Fish

by Jimmy A. Lerner

  "Don't drop the soap, dawg!"

  "Hey, hey, flaco! You a pitcher or a catcher, homes?"

  "Yo, fish— yeah, you, skinny-ass with the glasses! Y'ever been hit in the shitter?"

  I would like to presume they are all just glad to see us.

  The squat crew-cut cop— STRUNK, according to his little plastic nameplate— positions himself and his clipboard between the shower stall and the queue of naked fish. We're all trying, without much success, to avoid stepping into the puddles of brown water that are fed from the overflowing toilets behind the cell doors. From every third or fourth lower-tier cell, like little toilet tributaries, the sludge streams out from under the doors.

  "Control!" Strunk yells up to Bubblecop, who peers down through a narrow horizontal opening in the glass.

  "What's up?" Bubblecop asks, kneeling down with his shotgun in an effort to hear Strunk above the bedlam of convict shouts coming from the locked cells.

  "Porters!" shouts Strunk, and Bubblecop rises, takes a couple of steps back to a huge desk console, and pushes some buttons. Cell doors 1 through 5 are electronically cracked open. Ten "porters"— convicts clad in blue jeans, blue work shirts, and white tennis sneakers— spill out from the cells and assemble in front of a long steel table set up against the wall adjacent to the showers.

  "Sixteen fish setups," orders Strunk. From cardboard boxes beneath the table the porters start pulling out Day-Glo-orange coveralls (no white paper suits, thank God), gray blankets, towels, sheets, soap bars, and small plastic bottles of "disinfectant" shampoo. To each separate pile a plastic coffee mug is added. A small plastic comb, a tube of toothpaste, and a toothbrush are dropped into the mugs.

  Incredibly the plastic cups are designer mugs with vertical gold jailhouse bars against a deep blue background. HARD TIME is printed over the bars and below that, in smaller print, BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE. I love it. It's the first sign of prison humor.

  "Sporks," says Strunk, using the same tone a surgeon might employ when demanding a scalpel. The porters start dropping plastic orange spoons with forklike prongs into the cups. Sporks? A combination spoon and fork?

  Go figure.

  "Skell! Lay it down for these fish." An emaciated porter with a shaved head and a gray stubble of stunted beard shambles to the head of the table. His age is what a medical coroner might describe as "indeterminate," after issuing a death certificate to a corpse that has washed up under a bridge. Strunk hands Skell the clipboard, then disappears into the air-conditioned staff office.

  Skell surveys the new fish with the practiced eye of an old street hustler before favoring us with a ghastly, toothless grin.

  "All right now," announces Skell, obviously pleased to be in charge of something. "You fish are gonna step up to the table, put your clothes in the plastic bags— make sure you write your name on the bag with the marker. I ain't lookin' to get crossed out by the Man behind some fish be saying he got ripped off by the porters— y'unnerstan' what I'm telling you?"

  Kansas, who has apparently heard enough, steps over the red line. If not for the tattoo mural on his back and chest (a bare-chested woman astride a motorcycle covers his back), he would look like a Greek statue (on steroids) come to life. The neck swastika further detracts from this classical image.

  "Fuck you, Skell! We unnerstan' that you ain't nothing but a punk-ass porter, skid-row motherfucker, so quit trying to act like you're about something."

  "GET THE FUCK BACK BEHIND THE RED LINE!" Bubblecop is on his feet, the shotgun muzzle protruding through the opening. Kansas leisurely gets back in line, slow-playing Bubblecop.

  A clearly chastened Skell pretends to study the clipboard before resuming his little orientation speech. His closely shaven skull is studded with large scabs and bright red patches.

  "Hey, Kansas! We missed you, dawg! What's up?" Skell flashes some gums at the giant and then starts picking at one of his skull scabs with a broken black fingernail. His efforts are quickly rewarded by a generous flow of blood and pus which trickles down his forehead, slowing briefly at the barrier of eyebrows before resuming its disgusting downward journey into the hepatic-yellow eyes.

  Skell mops up this mess with a swipe of his blue shirtsleeve, just as casual as a jogger wiping sweat from his brow. The dawgs from the Group W bench and the newcomers from the Washoe County van all go crazy.

  "That's sick, dawg! Damn— you ain't touching my shit."

  "Fuck, dawg! You are one foul motherfucker!"

  "That's outta line, dawg!"

  "Way outta line!"

  The Bone, who has been busily renewing his old gang ties with the Washoe convicts, all of whom are black, shakes his shower cap in dismay.

  "That's one nasty-ass white boy!"

  This remark ignites a corresponding black chorus from the back of the shower line.

  "Muthafuckin' Skell ain't sheeit! I be knowing his pale ass from county— got the muthafuckin' AIDS or somethin'."

  "Whatever Mighty Whitey got, it ain't nothin' nice."

  "That's what I'm talkin' about— punk touch my shit and I gonna bust a fuckin' grape."

  "Nigger, puh-leese!! You couldn't bust a grape in Napa wid jo cleats on!"

  All the dawgs, black and white, with the exception of your clueless narrator (bust a grape?), explode in laughter, prompting Bubblecop to scream "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

  An unperturbed Skell resumes his speech, the fingers of his left hand absentmindedly continuing to explore the scabrous topography of his skull.

  "All right now, everybody gonna pick up one towel, a bar of soap, and a bottle of this lice-killer shampoo. You got to rub this shampoo shit all over your dome and your skin— unnerstan' what I'm sayin'? If you don't use the whole bottle, the cops will make you do it again." Skell glances up at Bubblecop as if to confirm this threat.

  Bubblecop starts shouting orders.

  "Pick up your shit! Four at a time— MOVE!"

  We surge forward, trampling the red stripe on the concrete floor. Skell and the other porters take up positions behind the table, Skell bargaining with each convict before handing over the towels.

  "Whatchu need for the Wranglers, dawg?"

  "Kick me down a can of Bugler tobacco, dawg."

  "No Bugler this week, bro. How 'bout half a bag of 4 Aces?"

  "Fuck that half-bag bullshit— I look like some fuckin' fish to you? How 'bout two bags of 4 Aces and a jar of Folgers for the Wranglers and my wedding ring?"

  "Lemme see the ring, dawg."

  "Hey, bro, that's eighteen-karat gold— straight up!"

  "Aiight, dawg, gimme the ring."

  I reach the table and start stuffing the suit into the bag when Skell hisses at me, holding the towel just out of my reach.

  "Whatchu need for them shoes, dawg?"

  "Nothing today, thank you, I'm fine."

  "Fine?" Skell looks like I just slapped him in the face. "You talkin' outta the side of your neck, dawg?"

  "Excuse me?" What is this repugnant creature talking about? My hand involuntarily goes to my neck, though.

  "Fine?" Skell now tries to look amused, his yellow eyes flickering over his fellow scavengers, enlisting them in his little game. "How you gonna be fine, dawg? 'Less you talkin' some sideways shit. Fine? Hello! You're in fucking prison, dawg!" This cracks up the porters as well as some of the fish. Skell tries again.

  "How 'bout a full bag of 4 Aces, dawg, or maybe you don't smoke? Tell you what— I'll give you twenty stamps for the shoes." I shake my head, considering, as the naked dawgs behind me start muttering impatiently.

  A frustrated Skell hisses once more. "Whatchu want, dawg?"

  What do I want? I want to not be standing naked in a puddle of convict piss, waiting to take a group shower with a bunch of criminals. I want a time machine, travel back a year, before all this madness began. I want a trip to Disneyland, a bowl of ice cream. I want to wake up in my own bed back in Danville, California, and laugh about this obvious nightmare.

  I wan
t to hold, to hug, my little girls.

  "Can you get me some paper and a pen?" I ask.

  Skell is momentarily astonished but quickly recovers. "Pens are contraband in the Fish Tank, dawg. How 'bout I hook you up with a pencil and, say, half a pad of writing paper?"

  "Deal," I say, snatching the towel, soap, and shampoo.

  The shower produces only cold water (why am I not surprised?), but given the suffocating heat in the Fish Tank, I am grateful for it. Three of the Group W dawgs who preceded me into the shower are shrieking in pain as the disinfectant burns eyes and skin.

  The convict catcalls rain down on us from upper-tier cells.

  "That white fish got ass!"

  "Dat's what I'm talkin' about— par-tay tonight!"

  "Yo, fish! Fish! Dey fittin' to be a party tonight!"

  "A muthafuckin' par-tay in yo butt!"

  "In yo mouth!"

  "And all yo friends is coming!"

  Whatchu need, dawg? I look up through the veil of ice water, check on Bubblecop's position— he's back to studying the desk console— then pour the disinfectant down the drain. Body lice will probably be the least of my problems.

  Whatchu want, dawg?

  Right now, I just want to die.

  * * *

  Freshly showered, deloused, and resplendent in our orange jumpsuits, we are marched by Strunk through another set of sliding steel doors and into the fish processing area. It's similar to the bullpen in the county jail— a couple of benches for the fish, five World War I-vintage desks manned by convict clerks in blue, a separate area for photo ID and fingerprinting. The clerks are all pecking away at ancient Royal typewriters. The upper tier is apparently reserved for middle management, with two small glassed-in offices (presumably air-conditioned) for the intake sergeant and unit caseworker.

  The ubiquitous Bubblecop, having shifted from a view of the shower to a new perch overlooking the benches, has upgraded his weaponry. Possibly bored by the limited mayhem potential of the shotgun, he has switched to an M-16 rifle.

  The moment we entered the bullpen all the black convicts took seats on one bench and Kansas and his all-white choir claimed the other bench at the bottom of the steel staircase. Once again I was squashed between Kansas and one of the cookie-cutter no-chin cons.

  After a few minutes the intake sergeant emerged from his upper-tier office and stood at the railing, gazing down at us like the pope surveying the throngs of faithful in St. Peter's Square. Except the sergeant's eyes do not radiate Christian love and forgiveness. Something more akin to loathing.

  The intake sergeant is an unimpressive figure with an amazingly unkempt bush of a black beard and a crumpled khaki uniform bearing evidence of a moist and hasty lunch. If not for some teeth, the sergeant would have fit in very nicely on our bench.

  With an impatient, very unpapal wave of his hand, the sergeant signaled for silence from the benches.

  "Listen up, fuck sticks! This is the only advice you are going to get in the joint."

  "Fuck sticks?" Kansas was indignant. "That's outta line, dawgs. That's straight-up disrespectful!"

  "Po-lease be trippin'," whispered the Bone.

  The sergeant glared down at the benches till the dawgs hushed. "Rule number one," he continued, "y'all got nothin' coming! Rules number two to two thousand— see rule number one." The sergeant paused to let us bask in this bit of penological cleverness.

  "My name is Sergeant Grafter. I am a correctional officer— not a fucking prison guard and not a cop. You will address me as 'C.O.' or 'Sergeant.' Your other hosts, including C.O. Strunk here, you will address as 'C.O.'…"

  C.O. Strunk, who may have only heard this speech two thousand times before, stifled a yawn and sat down behind one of the war surplus desks.

  "…'cause you are convicts! Your job here is to lie, cheat, steal, extort, get tattoos, take drugs, sell drugs, shank, sock, fuck, and suck each other. Just don't let us catch you— that's our job." Grafter then consulted his clipboard with obvious distaste, while I reflected on my presumed job with fresh clarity.

  "The warden and prison medical director have asked me to pass along a… health advisory. This prison has a combined HIV and hepatitis C infection rate of 60 percent. If you choose to just say yes, and use drugs, and you will— that's your job— then snort them, smoke them, or swallow them, but don't shoot them." Grafter irritably perused the rest of the memo before crushing it into a ball and tossing it over the rail.

  "So if you must get some cock action, let the con sitting next to you suck your dick. Also, there are plenty of homosexual prostitutes on the yard, some of 'em with better tits than your old ladies." This got a big laugh from both benches, which only encouraged Grafter.

  "You stick your dick into one of these HIV homos and get the AIDS— and you will— you got nothin' comin' from the state. The prison infirmary is full of dying faggots and cocksuckers. Some of you geniuses might think getting a tattoo is okay if you supply the artist with a fresh needle. Wrong! Every day we confiscate two or three tat guns off the yard— from deep inside someone's keister." Some nervous titters from the bench as a few of the white dawgs unsubtly readjust their butt cheeks on the steel bench.

  "Finally, don't cross the red lines unless you like getting shot. Above all, don't get caught! We catch you, you got nothin' comin'."

  The uplifting welcome speech over, Grafter and Strunk ran us through the intake maze: Fingerprints (two sets, one for the state and one for the FBI), even though we all were just printed in the county jails. We were given our prison number, called back numbers, and photographed holding the cardboard number signs beneath our chins. All of this was accompanied by helpful comments from Grafter.

  "Carry your photo ID cards with you at all times. Failure to produce your ID card when ordered to do so by a correctional officer will result in disciplinary action, which could include solitary confinement in the Hole."

  Having just seen the cesspool they call the Fish Tank, I couldn't imagine how the Hole could be worse. But then again, what do I know? I'm just a fish.

  The convict clerks called us to the desks, four at a time, under the supervision of Strunk and Grafter.

  "Occupation?" asked a toothless (don't they give these guys dentures?), goateed clerk of one of the toothless, goateed white dawgs.

  "I'm a cook," said the fish, not without some pride. The clerk just smirked.

  "Dawg, the only thing you ever cooked was your morning wake-up shot."

  The fish protested. "Nah, dawg, straight-up business, on my skin, bro! I was a short-order cook."

  "Where at, dawg? Last place of employment?"

  "Uh… it's been a while, dawg. I been down all year in county, know what I'm sayin'?"

  "Aiight, dawg. 'Unemployed' is what I'm puttin' down."

  "That's cool, dawg. I'm down with that."

  The next four fish also belonged to that vast fraternity of unemployed short-order cooks. Then Sergeant Grafter shouted out the next fish on his list.

  "Lerner! Jimmy! Six-one-six-three-four!" I took the just-vacated chair by the clerk's desk, clutching the plastic bag that still contained my suit, shirt, underwear, and socks. The shoes, of course, were gone long before I stepped out of the shower. The sergeant gave me the option of "donating" the suit to a local charity or having it shipped home at my expense. "Of course, if you have it shipped home, we put a freeze on your spending account till we deduct the shipping and handling fees."

  "How long would the freeze last?" I asked.

  "Oh, usually about four months. That's four months you'll go without being able to buy anything from the canteen."

  "I'd like to donate it."

  "A wise decision."

  The clerk inserted a personnel card into the typewriter.

  "Race? Forget it, dawg. Caucasian." A painfully slow pecking ensued.

  "Age?"

  "Forty-seven." The clerk, twenty-something going on eighty, looked up from his labors.

  "Kinda old to be up in
the mix, dawg, know what I'm sayin'?"

  "I unnerstan' what you're sayin', dawg." Damn! I was picking up on the convict jargon, know what I'm sayin'?

  "Height?"

  "Six feet."

  "Weight?"

  "One sixty-five."

  "Scandalous, dawg. When you hit the yard, better check out the weight pile, bulk up a bit, know what I'm sayin'?"

  "Thanks, that's one of my top priorities."

  The clerk gave me a puzzled glance. "You talkin' sideways, dawg, 'cause I don't need no fuckin' fish leaking outta the side of their neck on my shit."