You Got Nothing Coming: Notes From a Prison Fish

by Jimmy A. Lerner

  "Nah, dawg. Straight-up business." The clerk, temporarily placated, went back to studying the card.

  "Aiight then. Got any tattoos? No sense lyin' 'bout it— the police gonna check you anyway."

  "No tattoos."

  "Occupation?"

  "Office worker," I answered, knowing better than to give the job title that's been on my business card since the last corporate restructure: Strategic Planning Manager. One of the hidden benefits of constant downsizing, right-sizing, reengineering, restructuring, and market repositioning was that I received new business cards after every corporate bloodbath.

  "Ya mean like a clerk in an office, dawg?" The convict clerk's speculation was actually much closer to the truth than my job title. Among my male peers in the company, we routinely referred to each other as "glorified clerks," except when we got really honest and called each other "gofers," "ass-kissers," "butt-wipes," and "dick-lickers."

  "Yeah, dawg, just type in 'clerk.' "

  "Aiight, Pops. Watch your back in the Fish Tank now. Got some psycho J-Cats comin' in for processing from Lake's Crossing tomorrow."

  "Lake's Crossing?"

  "Guess you ain't from around here. Lake's Crossing would be the Nevada Prison for the Criminally Insane. They get overcrowded they pack the J-Cats in with the rest of the fish."

  "Aiight, dawg, thanks." I was particularly pleased with my enunciation of "aiight," remembering that a contracted "all right" should rhyme with "tight."

  I was just starting to feel like I was making progress in building rapport with these dawgs when Grafter read out the cell assignments. Following some unwritten rule, he scrupulously placed the blacks with the blacks, the white dawgs with the white dawgs. He didn't ask for any preferences, such as nonsmoking cell or a vegetarian cellmate.

  I was assigned to cell 47, upper tier, lower bunk. I had no problem with either the lower bunk or the upper tier. My problem was the dawg he assigned to cell 47, upper bunk: Neck Swastika Boy and Goliath of the Trailer-Trash Tribe— Kansas.

  Mr. Lapidis, a former boss (and self-appointed "mentor") back at the phone company, once shared his management philosophy with me: "There are no such things as problems; problems are merely opportunities in disguise."

  My new, unchosen lifestyle was about to be blessed with an abundance of opportunities.

  I just prayed that they didn't include any "par-tays."

  With or without all my friends coming.

  * * *

  Following in the wake of the new fish, Kansas and I trudged up the steel staircase to the upper tier of the Fish Tank. We had been given yellow plastic footlockers, called tubs, to store our "state issue." On top of the tubs we placed our blankets, sheets, towels, and three-inch-thick vinyl pallets that the prison generously referred to as mattresses.

  Kansas was also carrying a small cardboard box containing whatever county jail treasures Grafter had decided he could keep. As I had expected, Grafter kept my wallet and my belt but gave me back my wristwatch, which now read 10:30 P.M. I was also given a large brown envelope (after Grafter removed the metal clasp) containing my legal paperwork— plea bargain agreement, Notice of Judgment, and my Presentence Investigation Report, which the cops and cons refer to as a PSI.

  Bubblecop waited till all the new inmates stood silently in front of their respective cell doors before pushing a button on his desk console. Crack! The cell doors all popped out an inch from the walls, sliding open on the tracks on the concrete floor.

  Clearly an old hand at this ritual, Kansas grabbed the handle of cell 47 and yanked till it slid open a few feet.

  "Fuck, dawg! This is outta line!" Kansas said, tossing his burdens on top of the lower— my— bunk and sitting down. "Last time I was down, these was one-man cells— fuck!"

  Strunk was screaming from the lower tier.

  "LOCK IT DOWN! LOCK IT THE FUCK DOWN!"

  Like a well-conditioned Pavlovian dog, Kansas extended one tree-limb-size arm (requiring me to move against the wall) and yanked the door across its tracks.

  Thwunk! The door locked tight, sealing me in with this skinhead giant who had just usurped my bunk. The cell was identical in dimensions to my old SW3 studio apartment, except for the additional rectangular metal slab bolted to the cinder block wall about five feet above the floor.

  Eight by six feet with a twelve-foot-high ceiling containing a fluorescent bulb protected by a wire-mesh screen. An integrated stainless-steel toilet (no seat cover) and sink unit. Cinder block walls yellow-brown from decades of cigarette smoke. Lots of moronic graffiti.

  The one improvement over my county jail cell was the small square window cut into the concrete above the upper bunk. Heavy-gauge metal wire was woven into the glass.

  It was the window that decided me not to contest the lower-bunk issue with Kansas. That, plus personal health concerns.

  Sitting on the steel tray of the upper bunk, I could look up at the immense desert night, glittering with stars. If I could remember not to lower my gaze, perhaps I would forget the guntowers and razor-wire-topped fences below.

  I've always had a mild case of claustrophobia, but until cell 47 in the Fish Tank it had never been more than a minor inconvenience. With the beds jutting out three feet from the wall, only one man at a time could comfortably stand up.

  With the exception of one occasion when I had to have an MRI, I simply avoided enclosed and cramped places. I did not view forsaking such hobbies as spelunking and deep-sea diving for treasure inside sunken Spanish galleons as a lifestyle sacrifice. Even during my MRI when they slid me into the cylinder, I managed to be calm. I think I would have behaved very bravely even without the shot of Valium the doctor insisted on administering, claiming my shaking and sobbing would interfere with obtaining a clear image. Radiologists are not known for their people skills.

  Of course, I had heard of the chronic problem of prison overcrowding. I had even voted for a bond issue once to finance new prison construction. The issue had seemed academic, vague, as far removed from my life as the latest atrocities being reported in the Balkans. The issue had a bit more immediacy now, or, as my old boss, Lapidis, would have said, "granularity."

  With my phone company-financed M.B.A. mind I considered the problem from a monopolist's perspective, while trying to make up the "bed" as best I could. As guest demand exceeded capacity, the prison, unconstrained by market forces such as competition and customer price sensitivity, simply bolted a second slab of steel a few feet above the original one and called it a bed.

  Problem solved.

  "LIGHTS OUT!" screamed Strunk, and Kansas flicked off the switch. Moonlight bathed the upper bunk, and soon Kansas was emitting the peaceful snores of a man who had just arrived home to the comfort of his own bed after a long and tumultuous journey out in the world.

  * * *

  For thirty days in the Fish Tank, Kansas never shut up. The unifying theme of almost all of Kansas's remarks was a simple one: Nevada prisons are crawling with punks, J-Cats, snitches, and child molesters (called Chomos). The Kansas pen where he served five years ("Did a nickel there, dawg") was home only to "righteous, stand-up cons." Whenever Kansas sensed that I wasn't giving my undivided attention to his Kansas penitentiary anecdotes, he would reach up and pound the bottom of my steel tray.

  "Yo, O.G.!" Yogee! "You awake, dawg?"

  "I am now." I didn't bother to move. It was too hot and Kansas never required eye contact to register his latest observations on the "punk-ass" nature of Nevada penology. Besides, I had been studying the patterns of mold and wall sweat on the ceiling.

  Our conversations had a surreal, incorporeal quality.

  Kansas in his new state-issue boxer shorts, on his back on the lower tray, addressing the underside of my steel tray where he judged my head to be.

  "You ain't no Chomo, are you, dawg?"

  "Excuse me?" I had been gazing out the sealed window to the small Fish Tank yard. A summer sandstorm was raging across the basketball court and weight pile. Beyond t
he Fish Tank fenced-in yard, general population inmates huddled against the concrete walls of the nearest buildings, trying to shield their faces with blue shirts they had fashioned into Lone Ranger masks.

  "Y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin' to you, O.G.?" Kansas rapped his knuckles (also tattooed) against my tray for emphasis. "You some kind of fucking Chomo? 'Cause I don't put up with no child molesters in my house, know what I'm sayin'? Back in the pen in Kansas we threw the fucking Chomos off the top tier, y'unnerstan'?"

  This time I did roll away from the window. Poked my head over the edge of the tray.

  "No, Kansas, I'm not a child molester— you know what I'm here for." Kansas glared up at me with his patented cold convict stare. His Murder One look. Of course, I didn't flinch— that would be considered "punk-ass bitch" behavior. Very un-Kansas.

  "I know what I heard, dawg. Lemme see your paperwork, your Notice of Judgment and shit."

  I tossed the envelope down to him. Waited for Kansas to pass judgment.

  A few minutes later, "Shit, O.G.! You must of had a real lawyer… pled a Murder One down to a voluntary manslaughter… plus they hit you with a deadly weapon enhancement." I rolled back against the sweating wall to check the progress of the sandstorm. The entire prison was enveloped in a brown whirlwind.

  "…and they got your shit running wild, O.G. That's outta line."

  "Running wild?"

  "Yeah, dawg— bowlegged sentences, y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin'?"

  "No."

  Kansas idly stroked some sweat into his neck swastika and perused my criminal history until he was satisfied that I hadn't raped any babies.

  "Running wild— bowlegged— that's consecutive sentences, O.G. You got one to six for the manslaughter and another one to six for the deadly weapon. Whatchu do, dawg? Cap the motherfucker? What was the weapon, your punk-ass attaché case— ha!"

  Before I could answer, Strunk was screaming outside the cell door.

  "COUNT! STAND THE FUCK UP FOR COUNT!"

  Every day throughout the prison at 6 P.M. there is a "standing count," officially called an Inmate Health and Welfare Inspection. I climbed down carefully and stood a few inches behind the tattoo mural that was Kansas's back. We both faced the cell door till Strunk peered through the window before moving on to the next cell.

  Kansas, of course, was dissatisfied with the process.

  "They can't count for shit here, O.G. In Kansas they line ya up outside the cell door, stand the cons up on their front porches, outside the house, three, four, five fucking times a day. Y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin' to you, O.G.?"

  "I understand. Listen, Kansas—"

  "And I'm talking about a hardcase fucking joint! None of this pussy barbed-wire fences neither, dawg, got fucking walls five hundred foot high, scandalous, dawg, on my skin, bro, that shit is just outta line. Y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin', O.G.? This ain't shit—"

  "Kansas!" I couldn't take it anymore. "Listen, I understand. How can I put this? It's not really necessary for you to ask me if I understand what you're saying every time you say something."

  "Whatchu sayin', dawg?"

  "I'm saying all this 'y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin' 'stuff is driving me crazy— you can just assume that I understand what you're saying. Tell you what— if I don't understand what you're saying, I'll ask for a clarification, how's that?"

  Suddenly, Kansas's blue eyes were a blaze of cold fire. He took one half-step toward me, and my back was instantly pressed against the cell wall. Looming over me was a rock, the neck swastika pulsing violently with an angry vein.

  "How 'bout I clarify your sideways-talking mouth into chopped meat, you fish motherfucker! Nobody comes outta the side of their neck at me! Specially not no fuckin' fish! I been down, behind the walls all my life, dawg— did hard time all over this country. I ain't no fish, I ain't no chump, and I sure as fuck ain't no punk! You unnerstan' what I'm sayin'?"

  When I was first promoted into management at the phone company, I, along with a group of Future Leaders, was required to attend a four-hour "seminar" titled "Managing the Difficult Employee." Years later, having earned the reputation of Difficult Employee myself, I was sent off (under threat of a "diminished career path") to a three-day "retreat" near Big Sur, California. The theme was "Building Rapport with Key Stakeholders." One of the techniques they shared with us was Mirroring and Echoing. The idea was that by parroting the body language and speech patterns of a habitually hostile "stakeholder," one could instantly achieve rapport.

  Looking up at Kansas, a very hostile stakeholder, I opted for the Echoing technique.

  "Aiight, dawg, listen… I'm not looking to disrespect you, I know you been down, dawg. I'm not talkin' outta the side of my neck, neither. All I'm sayin' here, bro, is that we need to maybe work on our communication. Know what I'm sayin'?"

  Miraculously the vein beneath the swastika stopped throbbing. The psychotic blaze of his eyes subsided to a small campfire. He backed off a full step and I was able to peel myself off the cell wall.

  "Aiight, O.G. I know what you're sayin'." Kansas ducked under the edge of my top tray and inserted his mass of tattooed muscle on his bunk. "All I'm sayin' is that you are a fuckin' fish— I'm tryin' to teach you something so you don't get killed in here, y'unnerstan'? You ain't never been down, never done no time. You got no sleeves, no stand-ups, and no cold jacket— y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin'?"

  "Uh, not completely— what's this business of 'sleeves'? Not to mention the other things you're talking about." Kansas loved nothing better than to be cast in a mentor mode when it came to the art of doing time.

  "Sleeves, dawg? Tats! That's what I'm talkin' about. Any of these woods out there takes one look at your bare, skinny-ass arms, he fuckin' knows from jump street that you're a fish, a fuckin' mark, dawg— y'unnerstan'? Any righteous white boy that's been down more than a few days got full sleeves, tattoos from the neck down to the wrist, know what I'm sayin'?"

  To illustrate his point, Kansas extended his elaborately webbed arms. Straight out of Bradbury's Illustrated Man. Not a square centimeter of virgin skin. Snakes, skulls, and more swastikas in all shapes and sizes. His colossal chest boasted a single massive canvas: the Grim Reaper slashing down with his scythe at a naked prostrate woman. The woman, with long dark hair and breasts the size of mutant cantaloupes, bore a strong resemblance to the bare-breasted motorcycle girl on Kansas's back.

  I wondered, not for the first time, if Kansas had some relationship issues. Decided our rapport had not yet reached a deep enough level for me to pursue my thought.

  "What's the initials on your shoulder stand for?" I asked.

  "You really are a fish! That's SWP— Supreme White Power." Kansas stroked his shoulder with obvious pride. Sensing I was on safe conversational ground, I then asked about the knuckle tattoos— NLR.

  "That's my motorcycle gang, O.G.— Nazi Low Riders." Kansas studied the back of his right hand as if to confirm his statement.

  "Motorcycle? I thought low-rider was a kind of car."

  Kansas lay back on the steel tray, closed his eyes, sighed. "Yeah, well, O.G. I was drunk when I got that tattoo, y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin'?"

  "I think I do, dawg."

  "Aiight, O.G. I'm gonna bust some z's, y'unnerstan'?"

  "You're going to take a nap?"

  "Right on, dawg. Tell you what— when we get up outta this fucking Fish Tank, I'll get a tat gun and hook you up with some righteous artwork on your scrawny-ass chest. You might be doin' some serious time, O.G. Don't wanna look like a fish."

  I considered explaining to Kansas that most Jews of my generation were allergic to tattoos. And Nazis. Again decided the rapport levels were not yet rich enough.

  "Thanks, Kansas, but I'll pass. My mother would kill me if I got a tattoo, and she's in her seventies."

  Kansas opened his eyes as I climbed up on my tray.

  "I know what you're sayin', O.G. I just wish my mom had killed me when I was born."

  A moment later Kansas was
snoring, oblivious to the unending din outside the cell: shouts, screams, laughter, even the occasional muffled sob from behind some cell door.

  Of this strange beginning, my friendship with Kansas was born.

  * * *

  I am happy to report that (so far— knock on wood) I am surviving the Fish Tank with my rectal chastity intact. The promised "par-tay in the butt" (with everybody coming) hasn't materialized.

  My cellmate, Kansas ("cellie," he explained, is the proper prison term for a roommate), says I'm too mature to be a prime target for unsolicited affections. Actually, what Kansas said was, "O.G., ain't nobody looking to fuck an old fart like you, especially when we got lots of tight-ass young fish in here— y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin' to you?"