You Got Nothing Coming: Notes From a Prison Fish
Page 9
Even when a table usually taken by blacks is empty, no other ethnic group will sit there. "That's a toad table, O.G., you don't want to sit there," Kansas tells me. "Why don't you come kick it with the woods over here?"
I probably would have if I hadn't spotted the chess board and pieces at the vacant "toad table." I'm setting up the pieces when the Bone approaches. "Whassup, O.G.! You fittin' to play chess with yo'self?" The Bone is sans shower cap for once, his exuberant big Afro hairdo restrained by giant pink plastic rollers.
"You want to play, Bone?"
"Nah— I ain't got no game. But here come my homeboy Big Bird. Now, that old-ass muthafucka got game! And he love whuppin' white boys, fo sure he love that shit."
By prison standards Big Bird is ancient, a tall thin black man with a gray beard and a full head of bushy white hair. He's probably sixty.
"Yo, Big Bird— Bird! This here be the O.G. what was down with me in that punk-ass county. Could be O.G. got hisself a little game."
Big Bird takes a seat across from me and pushes a white pawn forward two squares. "All right then, O.G. Show me some game. I be tired of whuppin' on these ignorant niggers round here."
"I'll do my best," I tell him, countering with the Sicilian Defense my grandfather, a chess grand master, drilled into me long ago. Grandpa George, when he wasn't teaching me chess or algebra, drilled the teeth of strangers. "Dentistry is a good profession," he would say right before destroying my ten-year-old chess defense.
After a few moves Big Bird grins up at the Bone. "This here O.G. do got game. Indeed he do!"
In seconds every seat at the toad table is taken by black youngsters as Big Bird and I battle furiously for control of the center board. More black Fish Tank guests surround the table kibitzing or just kickin' it with their homies.
"White boy got no game— the Bird fittin' to fuck his shit up behind that bishop."
"Nigger, you don't know shit 'bout no chess. The Bird's queen be laying in the cut. That's what I'm talkin' about, the motherfucking white bitch queen!"
Two moves later I trap the white bishop with a pawn.
"That O.G. got game— his game be cold!"
Big Bird brings his queen into play, lining up on my castled king.
The peanut gallery cranks up the volume. "O.G. scared now. Bird fittin' to bust some pawns, know what I'm sayin?"
Big Bird, perceiving an advantage, starts cackling. "I be owning you in two more moves, O.G." He doesn't sound anything like a bird when he cackles.
This is street chess. No chess clock, move fast and bang your pieces down to distract or intimidate your opponent. If the banging doesn't work, it's considered acceptable to taunt your opponent, his sister, his mother, whatever it takes.
I'm loving it! Reminds me of those endless sweet summers in Brooklyn when I was ten, my brother, Michael, eleven. We would buy egg cream sodas (no egg or cream in them) at Louie's candy store on Parkside Avenue. We'd read the latest DC comics— Superman and Batman— then go play baseball with the neighborhood kids in Prospect Park.
There were always these old men, black, white, and Puerto Rican, who seemed to live on the park benches. Sometimes one of them would set aside his brown paper bag and invite passersby to beat him in chess. For money.
For fun they would play me or Michael. And these old guys had game! Could also talk shit all day long.
Bird's queen starts picking off my pawns. "Watch out now, O.G. My bitch be tearing your shit up. Fittin' to come in the back door next!"
Bets are placed— rollies, stamps, Hershey bars.
Across the rotunda, seated in the wood section with Big Bear, Kansas and his dawgs are glaring over at the chess game. In the rigid world of the wood, hanging with toads is, to borrow a word, scandalous.
Big Bird is just figuring out that my pawns were poisoned when I sweep my rook down to the seventh row, immobilizing the white king. The Bird scratches his nappy white dome.
"That some cold shit right there, O.G. Motherfucking rook be layin' in the cut!"
The Bone, who seems to consider me a comrade from county jail, feels compelled to flesh out my background a bit.
"O.G. got a cold jacket. He be up wid me in county, 'cept he be chillin' with the J-Cats."
I give Bone my best Murder One stare. He backs away from the table. "It's all good, O.G. I ain't fittin' to pull yo covers. Everybody in Vegas jail be knowin' they put the cold-ass killers in with the J-Cats. Ain't no shame to your game, O.G."
"Thanks for sharing, Bone," I say, pondering the strangeness of this world where a murderer is held in higher esteem than, say, a dentist.
The Bird makes a belated defensive move. The crowd, smelling Bird blood, surges against the table, everyone shouting.
"Where yo game, Bird?"
"Whassup, Big Bird? You fittin' to let Mighty Whitey kick yo scrawny black ass?"
"Nigger got game, but got no heart, know what I'm sayin'? Can't handle a little pressure."
I advance my knight, forking his rook and king.
"Check." I say this softly, respectfully. It's mate in three moves. Big Bird sees it too. He tips the white king over, gently— surrender. He offers a handshake and the brothers go nuts. Rollies and candy bars fly across the table.
"That's one cold motherfuckin' white boy!"
"I tol' yo ass! The Bird got no heart, bro."
Big Bird takes exception to this comment, standing up to confront a small young brother called Little G.
"Nigger, puh-lease! Whatchu talkin' shit 'bout heart when you got no motherfuckin' dick, Lil G!"
Lil G dances away from the table, throwing jabs and insults at the air. "Bird, you must be trippin' behind losing to Mighty Whitey, talkin' 'bout dick and shit like you about something! You ain't never seen my dick 'cause it be buried up in yo momma's ass!"
"Say what, nigger? Say what 'bout my momma?"
And on and on until Bubblecop screams, "LOCK IT DOWN!"
* * *
In the cell Kansas is outraged. "Yo, dawg, it's your business, but I gotta tell ya, kickin' it with the fucking toads ain't cool. The woods ain't down with that shit— y'unnerstan' what I'm saying to you? Back in Kansas you'd be lucky to be standing right now. Someone woulda put a couple of padlocks in a sock and slocked your dome, know what I'm sayin'?"
"Slocking" is another pastime in the joint. Convicts who don't want to get crossed out behind having a shank use a slock. At the store they sell heavy padlocks for inmates to secure their plastic yellow tubs. Since most inmates have nothing worth protecting, they shove the lock in a sock and start swinging. Sometimes, to add a little flavor and heft, they toss a couple of cans of Armour chili (with beans) into the sock.
Then rock your world.
Kansas still can't shut up. "…or worse, O.G., and let me tell you worse ain't nothin' nice! You wanna get a fucking wigger jacket, dawg? That's white nigger— something they probably didn't teach you in college— know what I'm sayin'?"
The vein beneath the swastika is pulsing violently and this is always a bad sign.
"Kansas, it was just a chess game."
We're both standing, facing each other in the cramped cell where the temperature has to be over 100. A few inches separate our faces. Unfortunately for me, the inches are all vertical. Kansas has about six inches and at least a hundred pounds on me. All tattooed muscle. Otherwise I might feel confident.
But I'm hot, fed up, and out of patience.
"You know what, Kansas? I really don't give a rat's fuck for what your precious woods think. As a matter of fact, fuck them, and if you have a problem with my choice of chess partners or with how I do my time, then fuck you too! Y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin' to you?"
This is clearly a defining moment in our evolving relationship. For an eternal minute we are both silent, giving each other the hairy eyeball.
Kansas blinks first, then backs off before ducking down onto his tray.
"Yogee, I believe you really are one cold motherfucker." Then, for once,
he is quiet, no doubt wondering how his prized pupil could stray so far from the Wood Path.
I climb up to my bunk. The last time my body was shaking this badly was when I called 911 to report that I had just killed a Monster by the name of Dwayne Hassleman.
And now I'm paying for it.
Of course, Kansas breaks the silence first. "Yogee, I didn't mean to get up in your business or disrespect you. You're right about one thing, dawg. In here, we all got to do our own time. Ain't nobody gonna do it for you. You know what I'm sayin'?"
And for once, I do.
Later Bubblecop yells, "Lights out!" Kansas has a question. "O.G., where the fuck did you come up with that business about the rat?"
I sit up in my tray and look down into the darkness. "What rat?"
"You know, whatchu was talkin' about before when I thought you was gonna bust my dome or something— you know, how you didn't give a rat's fuck or something like that."
"Oh that— I don't know, Kansas. It must be a New York thing."
"I kind of like it."
"Feel free to use it."
"Aiight, O.G. It's all good then. Good night, dawg."
"Night, dawg."
* * *
On the mornings when the dirt and sand are blowing at less than hurricane ferocity, I walk around the enclosed Fish Tank yard, a dirt rectangle surrounded by a razor-wire-topped fence. The small yard comes complete with its own hundred-foot-high stone guntower (sniper included). In one corner of the yard is a small weight pile known as the Wood Pile. It's strictly white-boy turf and Kansas's home away from the house.
There are two asphalt islands in the dirt for the basketball and handball courts. The basketball court is pure toad territory, while the handball court is a mixture of Mexican gang-bangers and woods waiting for their turn at the weights.
The less athletically inclined fish do laps, slowly circling the dirt perimeter of the yard. Fish here almost always travel in schools for protection.
The few fish that brave the yard alone are either known Shotcallers (like cellblock union bosses) or have stand-ups watching their backs.
When I tell Kansas I plan to walk some laps by myself, he trips for a few minutes before reluctantly volunteering to be my stand-up.
"A sideways fish like you won't last two laps without someone planting a Christmas tree in your chest or slocking the shit out of you. Besides, you're my cellie. Some punk jacks your shit up and it disrespects me— y'unnerstan'?"
I tell Kansas I appreciate his concern and friendship. And I mean it.
I follow the beaten dirt track, walking in a clockwise direction like all the other fish. No one here, except a few J-Cats, ever walks the yard counterclockwise.
Go figure.
I count my steps trying to calculate how many laps will equal a mile. It seems very important to know this. Fifty paces, pass the handball court, reach the fence, turn right. Seventy paces, pass the Wood Pile, make a right at the fence. Then fifty paces alongside the basketball court, sharp right, and complete the lap with seventy paces.
Then repeat.
I catch myself compulsively counting steps, although I now have a perfectly good algorithm to compute miles. I hope I'm not coming down with one of those obsessive-compulsive disorders that will condemn me to a vigilant life of stepping over sidewalk cracks and taking six-hour showers.
Nobody sweats me except for the morning sun, which is already brutal. Kansas likes to say the weather is part of the punishment. I don't disagree.
Not wanting to appear completely antisocial, I take a strategic pause every now and then to network and hopefully build some rapport with my fellow guests. I kick it for a minute with some of the dawgs at the Wood Pile. My next-door neighbor, Big Bear, is stripped to the waist doing curls. The Bear is short and wiry (like a squirrel) with a webwork of tattoos extending from his wrists to his shoulders. Full sleeves, if you know what I'm saying. A piece of string from the laundry secures his ponytail.
"What's up, dawg?" he calls to me.
"Just kickin' it, Bear."
"Kicking rocks, right, O.G.?"
"Right on, Bear." I thought that "right on" was a sixties anachronism, but it's alive and kicking it here. The familiarity is a small comfort to me. I wonder if I can reintroduce "far-out" to these dawgs. Tell them it's "hip," practically "the bomb" or "the shit."
I greet the tiny Mexican with the "La Raza" tattoo on his neck with "Buenos días." I make sure to drop my classroom-instilled Castilian accent. In prison I suspect that lisping in Spanish would not be considered hip by a Chicano gangster.
"Buenos días, Jaime," says La Raza with a smile. It feels good to be called Jimmy again, even if it's in Spanish.
At the sidelines of the basketball court I briefly kick it with the Bone and my chess partner, Big Bird. What's up, Bone? Bird? Aiight now, O.G. It's all good— it's all good in the hood, wood. We all laugh and I move on, kicking rocks.
It occurs to my corporate cubicle-shaped brain that kicking it may be a primitive precursor to Networking. That perhaps all corporate Strategic Alliances and Mergers have their roots in the basic human desire either to not get hurt or to be a part of something bigger and more powerful than oneself. Because I got nothin' but time, I decide to elevate this thought to a realm even loftier than Merger and Acquisition Theory. I'm thinking about the historical attraction of organized religion and the current craze for unorganized spirituality with its attendant Higher Power. I glance up at the sun.
But such grand concepts are interfering with my counting steps— not to mention giving me a headache. I look back down at my feet. At the dirt.
There's a commotion on the basketball court. I sit down in the dirt, my back against the concrete exterior wall of the cellblock. It's a good day to watch basketball.
Big Hungry is on the court. In the sunshine he's not as huge as I had thought— maybe only six feet nine, about four hundred pounds. It must have been the gold teeth and murderous scowl that frightened me.
The Hunger can't shoot, can't run, and refuses to pass. His team wisely insists he just station himself under the hoop, which the Hunger has twisted back into a serviceable rim.
Hunger's formidable presence beneath the basket serves as a very effective deterrent to any opponent rash enough to even think of driving by him for a layup. Little G is more than rash, though, and is Hunger's chief tormentor on the court.
Lil G is very quick, very small, and absolutely fearless. In a lightning dribble around the Hunger (accompanied by a barking, mocking laugh) Lil G sinks a layup.
The Hunger immediately goes postal.
"BOTH FOOTS IS OUTTA BOUNDS, NIGGER!" Screaming, the Hunger advances on Lil G like a furious black mountain descending on a tiny black ant. "YO MUTHAFUCKIN' FOOTS BE OUT DA LINE!"
But nobody sweats Little G. Little G is from Compton. He's been there, done that. Now Lil G becomes Ice-G, standing his ground, shouting back.
"THAT'S BULLSHIT, HUNGER!— MY FEETS BE BEHIND THE MUTHAFUCKIN' LINE! AX THE BONE OR BIG BIRD!"
The Hunger looks down, points, and resumes screaming. "DAY AIN'T EVEN NO MUTHAFUCKIN' LINE, G— YOU SEE SOME GOTDAME LINE HERE, FOOL?"
Lil G is now jumping up and down, pointing to some imaginary demarcation in the dirt. "YO TAKES YO BIG OL' NASTY FAT ASS OUTCHO HAID, YOU BE SEEING THE MUTHAFUCKIN' LINE, MOTHERFUCKER!"
T-Bone sits in the dirt beside me, mourning the lack of sportsmanship with a shake of his shower cap. "Cain't a muthafucka play some basketball without everybody raising up like they all bad and shit?"
Big Hungry and Little G exchange the ritualized wolf tickets. Lots of references to ancestry, busted grapes in Napa, peeled onions, broken grills, and smashed domelights.
It's pretty much business as usual until Lil G utters the M-word and the Hunger is sweeping toward him like a molten lava flow. "Whatchu say 'bout my momma! Nigger, I'll put a muthafuckin' .45 to yo punk-ass dome. I'll bust a cap upside yo nappy little haid! I crack yo little peanut self!"
"LOCK IT DOWN! PLAY FUCKING TIME IS OVER! LOCK IT DOWN— NOW!"
High above us, Guntower Cop is standing with a bullhorn and a mini-14 on his balcony. Behind us our very own Bubblecop is brandishing an M-16 from his perch in the bubble.