You Got Nothing Coming: Notes From a Prison Fish

by Jimmy A. Lerner

  Cheesedick decides to make a speech.

  "Fuck! The prison, this fucking prison, showed us her movie, Contact! All I did was write her telling her how great she was in the movie and asking for her photograph. How the fuck is that harassment?" Cheesedick, who has never heard of a movie called Taxi Driver or of a fellow True Believer named John Hinckley, is about to be buried beneath the weight of some sordid history.

  "Mr. Cheesedick, six-two-one-three-nine, I find you guilty of G-2. I find that eighty-three letters requesting photos, including fifty-seven specific requests to 'show me your titties,' constitutes harassment. Sanctions imposed are 180 days of disciplinary segregation and loss of all stat time."

  Cheesedick just sits there smiling, convinced that somehow news of his martyrdom will reach Jodie Foster.

  "What the fuck are you grinning at?" Ringer demands, anxious to get home in time for the fireworks.

  "Well, I can still write letters— that's a First Amendment right." Cheesedick is already mentally composing his letter to Jodie, telling her of his latest sacrifice for love.

  "Sure," says Ringer, "but you'll have to write your fan letters without pen, pencil, or paper for 180 days. Sergeant Stanger— next!"

  Stanger storms in, yanking Cheesedick up by his belly chains. Cheesedick screams out his last words.

  "THEN I'LL WRITE IT IN MY OWN FUCKING BLOOD ON THE CELL WALLS!" Ringer is not saddened by this threat.

  "Christ, I hate this fucking job, O.G. Don't we have any normal shit going down on the yard? A good old-fashioned slock and cock or something? Happy fucking Fourth of July!"

  "Happy Fourth, Mr. Ringer."

  * * *

  Prison stories— that is, convict war stories— tend to have a common culprit. Behind almost every Fall— and most Slips— lurks the Bitch Who Snitched Me Out. The odious Oz girl behind the curtain goes by several names— girlfriend, fiancée, old lady, main squeeze, ho, slut, common-law, even wife, although I have yet to meet anyone here who is legally married.

  The preferred epithet, of course, is "bitch," pronounced with two syllables: be-yaaatch, accent on the drawn-out second syllable. It is invariably preceded by "the fucking." The Fucking Be-Yatch is blamed by convicts for a wide range of societal afflictions that the Stand-up Man must endure— domestic battery laws, child support, rape and kidnapping allegations. Even AIDS— "The Fucking Be-Yatch gave me the nasty stanky on the hang-low." Sometimes "nasty" can be a very bad thing.

  Spoony finally cops to Mandy being a Fucking Be-Yatch. (She's still a Be-Yatch without dial tone.)

  "She snitched me out, O.G.," Spoony confesses one night. I toss a Hershey's Kiss up to the top bunk. Good for encouraging some catharsis. Chickenshit for the soul.

  "Sorry to hear about that, Spoony," I say, not sorry at all but simply preoccupied. Kansas and the Car are selling wolf tickets about Stanger— "Smackin' Spoony was way outta line!" With my Parole Board decision due soon, the last thing I need is a bogus write-up behind the Shit Jumping Off.

  And, as Richard Nixon loved to say, Make No Mistake. The Shit is definitely about to Jump Off. Stanger and the Dirt have crossed the Righteous Con line one too many times. It's more than Kansas and his outraged dawgs will tolerate.

  And "getback," Kansas says, "is going to be a motherfucker!"

  Spoony is dribbling out his tale of Be-Yatch treachery. It seems the police and the D.A. pressured Mandy to rat out Spoony's little crank-dealing enterprise at the trailer park. Promised to drop charges against her if she would cooperate. A no-brainer for Mandy, whose modest career aspirations never included becoming some Cellblock Be-Yatch for the bull dyke contingent at the Nevada Women's Detention Center.

  "…but I forgive her, O.G. She just did what she had to do." (Don't we all, Spoony?) "And I still love her." My mother would tell Spoony that "love fades." She might also add that "beauty fades." Or that "this too shall pass." Good advice.

  I roll over and go to sleep.

  And have my nightmare about the Monster.

  * * *

  Waiting for the Parole Board decision, I analyze things too much now, a by-product of having "nothin' but time," of having added "prisoner" to my once-pristine (well, slightly besmirched) and glittering résumé. With any luck the current ruling brigades of Political Correctitude will shortly add "ex-felon" to its ever-expanding list of oppressed species. The phone company, always sensitive to accusations of "nondiverse hiring practices" (and potential EEO-based lawsuits), will be forced to give me a job in the mail room.

  Deep in the basement.

  Where I will charge for xeroxing services. A rollie per page. Got an urgent memo? Need fifty copies? Kick me down three stamps! You got nothing? Then you got nothin' comin', you punk-ass corporate bitch!

  And if anyone whispers about the strange creature hoarding toilet paper and tobacco and pieces of soap and string in the basement mail room, if anyone points at me, then it's on!

  Want to know the quickest way to get maimed or killed in the joint? A very simple recipe— I'll share it: point at someone. What? Whatchu talkin' 'bout, O.G.?

  Pointing at someone?

  Let's say (since this happened to me) you're just walking along in the yard, kicking rocks and kickin' it with your road dog, who happens to be Chico. Some skinheaded FNG ("fucking new guy") is pumping iron behind the Wood Pile's gated community. He's watching us.

  "I know that fucking J-Cat from somewhere," Chico says, his Old Head never looking in the direction of the weight pile. Fish that I still am, I point a finger in J-Cat's direction, ask "Who? That guy with the horns tattooed on his head?" Chico's hand flashes up to seize mine, yanking it back down to my side just as we pass the horned J-Cat.

  "Yo, dawg, you got a problem?" J-Cat yells through the gate. "You got a problem wid me?" Is he talking to me? Ta me?

  Yes and yes.

  "I said you got a fucking problem or something!" J-Cat drops the weight to the ground and puffs up his already impressive chest. A horned rooster on PCP, all puffed up and pissed off.

  Chico saves my life.

  "It's cool, dawg," he soothes J-Cat, "no disrespect intended— my homie here is still shaking off the Fish Tank." J-Cat considers this for a moment— only a fish would actually point at someone on the yard— and decides to let this bit of disrespect pass.

  "Aiight— it's all good, dawgs." J-Cat tilts his horns back down to his weights, content to wait and watch for the next sliver of imagined disrespect to be slung in his direction.

  Why this curious sensitivity behind pointing?

  "Your Honor, at this time I would like permission to approach the witness."

  "Permission granted— proceed."

  "Thank you, Your Honor. Now, Miss… uh… Jennings, at this time I want you to identify your assailant, whom you have indicated is presently seated in this courtroom at the defendant's table." Miss Jennings starts to shake, then weep.

  "Miss Jennings, would you please identify your assailant by pointing to him."

  Miss Jennings points a trembling finger.

  Case closed.

  Point a finger at someone in the chow hall or the yard and you're fittin' to have it broke off and shoved up your ass.

  I don't point anymore. E.T. could land in the middle of this yard with a flotilla of flying saucers and I still wouldn't point. I might remark, in passing, "Yo, dawgs, check out the extraterrestrial fish!" And as sure as God made little green apples and aliens, some dawg, tracking E.T.'s descent from the spaceship's portal, will say, "Scandalous, dawg! A green punk-ass alien!"

  Without nobody pointing at nothin'.

  And E.T. got nothin' comin'!

  * * *

  The Dirt came for Spoony in the middle of the night. Stanger ordered me out of the cell, facing the wall, hands on my head. Been there, done that, I thought. After handing Spoony the Notice of Charges detailing the presence of unauthorized chemicals in his last UA— crank and pot— they trussed him up as snugly as Hannibal Lecter, while Spoony gobbled out t
he usual protestations of innocence.

  "No way I tested dirty! You fuckers planted that shit in the UA. I don't do no crank no more and I ain't smoked no pot since I fell!"

  Stanger jerks Spoony to his feet and propels him face-forward into the cell wall. Craaack! Bad for the wall.

  Very bad for Spoony's dome.

  The Dirt lead the semiconscious Spoony away, Stanger pausing to sell me a quick wolf ticket. "You're next, O Fuckin' Gee!" he snarls.

  Cell doors opening in A wing. The convict wolf tickets go on sale.

  "Hey, Stanger!— you're the motherfucker that's next!"

  "The Car be layin' in the muthafuckin' cut for yo' Dirt ass!"

  "BACK IN YOUR FUCKING HOUSES!" Stanger screams. A dozen steel sliders slam shut. No one wants to join Spoony in the Hole.

  I have the cell to myself and it feels wonderful. Spoony will also have a cell to himself.

  My Old Head dawgs, Chico and Deathrow Dom, drop by my house in the morning. No one has any real sympathy for Spoony. "If you play, you pay!" Deathrow proclaims. Chico also knows it is the job of the convict to break the rules and the job of the cops to catch them— as long as the cops don't get out of line in the performance of their duties.

  "Spoony got what his hand called for," Chico says. The Old Heads despise Yard Tricks like Spoony— they bring heat down on everyone. Lifers have a vested interest in peace and stability. When you got nothing coming for life, you don't need any extra shit coming down on you.

  I work out a deal with C.O. Fallon to indefinitely delay assigning me another cellmate. Fallon has no problem with that. It seems he now needs assistance with the not-uncommon second phase of divorce— bankruptcy. I'm down with the forms.

  I am now able to watch the local news without Spoony whining about Mandy, her dial-tone-dead phone, her (recently forgiven) Be-Yatch treachery.

  O blessed silence!

  I just try to Be Here Now, embracing the blessed privacy, the serenity of a cell of my own.

  Bye-bye Spoony.

  If you play, you pay.

  * * *

  Chico drops by after count and suggests I turn on the local TV news. What I see chills me. The big story concerns an ex-convict, a parolee from this prison. After three short weeks on parole in Las Vegas our former comrade decided he needed a car. He found the process of buying one to be an obstacle course of unfair and outrageous hurdles. The people who had the cars wanted money or credit or even a valid driver's license. No way he was going to put up with that kind of petty-ass bullshit after being down for six years. A righteous man does that kind of time and he's… well, he's Entitled to things!

  He carjacked a Chevy Blazer that had stopped for a red light. After robbing and evicting the driver he drove the female passenger to a secluded construction site, where he raped and robbed her. That evening, drunk, stoned, and buying drinks for the crowd at his favorite biker bar, he bragged about his earlier adventures. The bar was a gathering place for ex-felons, practicing felons, and future ex-felons, some of whom saw an opportunity to solve their own legal problems by giving up this very unrighteous rapist.

  The proverbial dime was dropped. Several of them. From the pay phone in the bar, the Chinese take-out next door, the phone at the gas station across the street.

  After taking our erstwhile colleague into custody the police attributed the quick arrest to relentless police work and investigative prowess. The police, unlike Fitzgerald's rich, are just like the rest of us. They want to feel good about themselves too.

  My stomach churns as the talking TV head describes the public outrage. The absolute shock and disgust that the Parole Board could release a "repeat violent offender," after he had served only the minimum four years on a four-to-ten voluntary manslaughter charge. State senators are clamoring for an investigation. The governor might get involved. Heads are expected to roll. Downhill.

  "This is bad, Chico, very bad."

  Chico, doing Life Without, is unconcerned.

  "It's beyond bad, O.G. Wait till you see what happens next— it ain't gonna be nothin' nice. You feel like busting some pawns? It'll distract you from the sound of ten tons of shit rolling downhill."

  "Sure, as long as you don't bust my grape."

  It's been ten days since I built Major Rapport with the String Ties. When I thought I maybe had something coming.

  As the bumper sticker says, SHIT HAPPENS.

  * * *

  I'm kicking it with Kansas in his cell, reading Mary's third letter to him (me). She is deeply moved by Kansas's letters, their tone of humility, kindness, tolerance, and love for all of God's children. (I may have gotten a bit carried away with this pen-pal project.)

  "So break it on down to me, O.G. She lookin' to visit? I'm tired of all this letter shit."

  The ingratitude! I can't let this slide. "Hey, dawg, I'm the one reading and answering these letters. It's exhausting to have to churn out lie after lie about how intelligent and sensitive you are."

  "Fuck all that, O.G. Is she tryin' to visit me or not?" (In Conspeak, "trying" is synonymous with "wanting.")

  "She'll be here in two weeks."

  "Aiight! That's what I'm talkin' about!"

  "We're going to have to have some coaching sessions first. I shared a few minor details about myself— you— that may not be entirely accurate."

  "Whatchu sayin', O.G.?" Kansas is off the bunk and pacing.

  I adjust my sore buns on the toilet seat. "Don't trip. A few tiny things you'll need to clean up— like you having a tattoo of a cross on your neck instead of a swastika."

  Before Kansas can decide whether to bust my grape or peel my onion, C.O. Fallon is on the front porch.

  "Lerner, you in there? You need to go see Wally— he got your Parole Board results."

  Kansas gets back on his bunk so I can get to the door. He's wolfing.

  "You better pray you catch some parole action, O.G. How the fuck am I supposed to show up at a visit with a goddamned cross on my neck?"

  "Look… you just tell her it was a bad tattoo job— that you asked for a cross but it came out a bit, uh, twisted… and you're going to have it straightened out, like laser treatments or something. But that's not really a big deal. There's a few other sort of major things we have to go over."

  And I'm out of the cell before Kansas can eviscerate me.

  * * *

  I sit in the steel folding chair and watch Wally searching for my file from the pile on his desk.

  "Hmmm… I know I put it right over here with the other Parole Board results."

  I feel myself aging five years in a minute.

  Wally finally produces a pink sheet of paper. Frowns.

  "Hmmm… this is unusual. In fact, quite irregular."

  I don't know whether to shit, die, go blind, or just kill Wally.

  "What? What is it? What's irregular?"

  Still studying what I can only surmise is the wreckage of my future, Wally leans back in his chair and adjusts two errant gray strands on his head. An eternity passes before he hands me the paper.

  YOUR APPLICATION FOR PAROLE IS DENIED.…

  I didn't— couldn't— read past those first six words. It was like reading a death sentence. Denied. So at least another year just on this first sentence alone! Then what? Two, three, or even four years on the next sentence?

  I can't breathe.

  I'm looking at a minimum of two more years and that's assuming I can hang on to all my good-time and work credits. If I can't, then they can just keep denying me and I could end up doing the entire twelve years.

  My M.B.A. brain runs the scenarios over and over. Best case: two more years. Probable case: three or four? Worst case: eight to eleven more.

  I can't seem to get air— need to get a deep breath. There is a terrible pounding in my ears. So this is how a heart attack starts.

  "Lerner, you all right?"

  Wally is standing, looking alarmed. If I die in his office, he will have to fill out all sorts of complicated for
ms.

  "I'm okay, Wally, just couldn't get my breath for a minute."

  I was not unaware of the harsh political winds that had been blowing since our infamous "parolee" made the evening news. I somehow, deep down, did not believe that it could affect me. After all, I'm not a criminal. Not a convict. Maybe on paper but not where it counts— not in my heart or in my mind.

  I force some air deep into my lungs. The same technique I use for making my cat noises.