You Got Nothing Coming: Notes From a Prison Fish
Page 41
Now Fishcop is moving very fast, the emergency count apparently forgotten. He jogs past the open crash gate, and then we hear him locking himself into his bubble, fastening himself in for the journey like a Gemini astronaut in a space capsule.
The bubble radio crackles and in moments we know the Dirt are on the way.
Arf, arf, ARF AAAARF! Along with the German shepherds.
THWACK!
The giant crash gate closes, sealing us in the cellblock.
It's not quite the way Kansas had planned it, but the Shit Is Jumping Off. Throughout the cellblock the dawgs are pounding fists and feet against the steel doors, screaming threats and curses down to the bubble. Steel flush buttons are pushed, and dozens of toilets stuffed with paper roar to life and start overflowing, flooding the cells, spilling under the doors, and running out across the concrete floor. Assorted contraband, from shanks to syringes, are launched from under the cell doors, skittering into the flood.
From his steel bubble sanctuary, Fishcop yells, trying to save face. Or maybe to impress Stanger and the Dirt who are pouring through the steel sliders.
"GET BACK ON YOUR TRAYS! THAT'S A DIRECT ORDER."
Kansas, kicking the door, screaming back, "ORDER THESE FUCKING NUTS, PUNK-ASS FISHCOP!"
Even our new arrivals are getting into the act. The inmates who just arrived from kitchen duty in the Inferno— still regarded as fish— start screaming. Relatively new to general population, these cons are astounded by the unabashed brazenness, by this incredible, scary, wonderful display of sheer Stand-up Balls! They are smashing fists and Hard Time mugs against the steel doors, contributing their own lunatic hoots to the general madness.
"Come on wid it! Take us on down through it, Fishcop!"
"Whatchu gonna do, See-Oh? Put us in fucking prison? Fuck you, punk-ass bitch!"
Then Stanger assembles his Dirt into a staging area in front of Fishcop's bubble.
Sergeant Stanger, perhaps perceiving an opportunity to hone his communications and leadership skills, makes a speech to the troops. Some incoherent raving about "convicts got nothing coming." About "taking back our prison." And "taking no prisoners." The speech is confusing, but the psychotic passion behind it is unmistakable.
Fishcop, finally feeling safe, hits a button and the crash gates roar open.
Here come the Dirt.
And the Dirt are dressed to kill!
All in black, from gleaming jackboots to the dark visored helmets. They have Plexiglas shields and lethal-looking black billy clubs. A dozen savagely barking German shepherds strain against their leather leashes.
As Yogi Berra is reported to have said: It's déjà vu all over again.
The Dirt release the German shepherds, the signal for all righteous dawgs to drop to the floor and start howling under the doors. I don't know if the objective is to irritate the dogs to the point of madness or it's just good primal scream therapy for us.
I do know that you don't ask why— it's just something that we do.
I also know I have shaken off the last remnants of depression, of self-pity. Left the dark Mud Man behind. And did it without a drink or a drug or a prescribed dose of Prozac. Left the Mud Man back there at the edge of the abyss where I once peered down into a monster's face and saw my own reflection.
I keep pounding the flush button until the waters rise to my sneaker tops.
The wolves are almost at my door.
I am wonderfully, wondrously, electrically alive, and as the Dirt and the dogs charge down the corridor, I am smiling with the humble, heartfelt gratitude of a man who is inexplicably thankful for the simple gift of another day.
Kansas, literally bouncing off the walls, kung-fuing his door, screaming, barking, howling, having the time of his life.
"O.G.! Do the cat! Do your fucking cat noise— now!"
The Dirt dogs racing toward my door, nails clattering and clicking on the concrete. Full riot-geared Dirt in black close behind them.
ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF!!! shout the Dirtdogs just outside the cell door.
They are in perfect range.
Chico shouting, "O.G.! O.G.!!! Do it now!"
I slowly pull the last drop of air up from my diaphragm. Take a moment to visualize a cat— Belinda— to Be Here Now.
Then I am the cat.
"BREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE— OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!"
And all the dawgs go wild!
About the Author
Jimmy Lerner was born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1951 and attended Erasmus High School, Brooklyn College, and Chapman College. He has been a cabdriver in New York City, a soldier in Panama, and a corporate cubicle slave in San Francisco. After obtaining an M.B.A. from Golden Gate University, he worked for many years as a marketing and strategic planning manager for Pacific Bell. A former resident of Danville, California, he is the divorced father of two teenage daughters. Convicted of voluntary manslaughter in 1998, he currently resides in a Nevada prison where he is working on his poetry book, entitled It's All Part of the Punishment.
YOU GOT NOTHING COMING. Copyright © 2002 by Jimmy Lerner. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Broadway Books, a division of Random House, Inc., 1540 Broadway, New York, NY 10036.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lerner, Jimmy, 1951-
You got nothing coming: notes from a prison fish / by Jimmy Lerner.— 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Lerner, Jimmy, 1951-2. Prisoners— Nevada— Biography. 3. Prisoners— Biography. 4. Prisons— Nevada. 5. Prisons. I. Title.
HV9468 .L47 2002
365'.45'092— dc21
[B] 2001037396
eISBN 0-7679-1154-7
v1.0
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author's Note
Prologue
Part One - The Abyss
Part Two - The Inferno
Part Three - The Fall
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright