Unless or until one cellie or the other cops to ownership.
"Great hiding place, Kansas. Gee, the police will never in a million years think to look inside a mattress. Why don't you just—"
"O.G., why don't you just shut the fuck up! This ain't your business. I got me a little Christmas tree for self-defense is all."
At the risk of sounding like a fish— again— I felt compelled to ask, "A Christmas tree?"
"Check the window, O.G."
I climbed down to play lookout. Magazine in hand, C.O. Strunk was reclining in his chair, smoking a tailor-made in the air-conditioned splendor of his office.
"The coast is clear, Kansas."
"The coast? What's up with that? We're fucking pirates or something? You're a trip, O.G."
"It's just an expression."
"Well, good lookin' out— this here's what we call a Christmas tree."
The triangular shank's base and center had been filed into a series of jagged, serrated edges, tapering gradually into an ice-pick point. I flashed to the majestic Christmas tree in the Rockefeller Center of my youth. No comparison.
Like a zealous salesman trained to stress product benefits, Kansas lovingly fondled the shank, proudly pointing out the killer applications. "See, normally when ya shove a shank deep into the gut, the motherfucker's gonna naturally try to pull it out. It's like a instinct, know what I'm sayin'? Unless the sorry-ass dawg is dead already or maybe trippin' real bad behind the pain. Now, with your Christmas tree, the punk-ass piece a shit pulls it out and big fucking chunks of intestine and stomach come out with it! It ain't nothin' nice, O.G. Fucking Skell makes 'em himself from the metal mop frames, know what I'm sayin'?"
I felt sick. "Yeah, Kansas, Skell uses only the freshest and finest ingredients. I want it out of the house. The last thing I need is another weapons charge— you understand what I'm saying?"
When Skell came by in the morning for the trays, Kansas gave him back the shank.
"O.G. thinks he won't need it," Kansas told him.
"That's righteous. Listen, you dawgs lookin' to buy yourselves a nice buzz? Your credit is good. I got some painkillers that are the fucking shit— some Vicodin. You interested, Kansas?"
"Nah, Skell, I'm good. How 'bout you, O.G.? Didn't you say you used to have some kind of pill jones?"
"No thanks. I quit."
Like an irrepressible salesman trying to make quota, Skell tries again.
"How 'bout some kick-ass pruno? A righteous drunk that won't even show up on a UA test."
Kansas declines and Skell shows me his black hole of a smile.
"No thanks, Skell. I quit that too."
As my mother might have said: Better late than never.
* * *
They lied about the thirty-day stay in the Fish Tank. As soon as our thirty days were up, we were told that it could be another thirty days until we received job assignments in the main yard.
The real reason was simple math and some institutional caution. The general-population cellblocks were already at double occupancy with two men sharing a cell designed for one. From long harsh experience the prison administration knew that attempting to stuff a third body into an eight-by-six cell could result in an outbreak of unpleasantness.
The good news was that while still confined to the Fish Tank we would ascend to nonfish status with all "limited privileges." One hour out of our cells a day for tier time or yard exercise, although it would be in the small segregated Fish Tank yard. We could now have visits once a week. If we turned in a store slip on Monday, goodies from the prison commissary would be brought into the Tank on Friday.
The actual intake processing period could have been easily completed in three days. On my second morning we were marched out through the Fish Tank gates and across the main yard to the infirmary. With five correctional officers looking on, civilian workers in white smocks took down our medical histories and drew blood to screen for AIDS, hepatitis, and other diseases common to the convict community. They stuck us in the back of our hands to see if we would test positive for tuberculosis when they checked us again in a couple of days.
An obese young medical assistant in a filthy lab coat gave us a very short speech about the unavailability of medical, dental, and vision services. Not unlike my old HMO.
"You got a toothache, too fucking bad! You should have thought about your teeth before you committed your crimes. If the tooth starts swelling up, getting infected, then send us a kite and we'll see about getting you some penicillin. Then we'll schedule you to see the dentist for an extraction. Just don't send us a kite whining about your fucking pain."
"Kite" is the term here for the official-looking Inmate Request Form which we were told we must fill out to obtain a medical appointment.
"Right now the average waiting time to get a pair of glasses is seventeen months. Any questions?"
One of the Group W bench dawgs from two days before raised a skinny tattooed arm. "Seventeen months? That's outta line! The cops busted my glasses when they arrested me— I can't wait no seventeen months!"
The fat medic displayed a smug little smile. "You should of thought about not committing your crime— send us a kite."
"Send a kite" is another prison version of "You got nothing coming." A written Inmate Request Form is called a kite for reasons that are clear to anyone who has ever been advised to "go fly a fucking kite."
The other big intake processing event was a highly supervised field trip to the laundry, located a few paces from the main chow hall. There we were finally relieved of the ignominious orange fish coveralls and issued blue jeans and blue cotton shirts. Naturally the laundry trustees had their own hustle. Pledge them stamps, tobacco, or coffee from your next store or be prepared to walk around in a blue circus tent. For a promise of three stamps I received a shirt and pants without holes. Two more stamps ensured they would actually fit me.
Over the first thirty-day period some fish were shipped off to other prisons. Inmates with very short sentences and no history of escape attempts or violence were sent to minimum security conservation camps. If Nevada had a robust summer fire season, these inmates would be paid minimum wage to help fight fires. Convicts pray for devastating fires harder than farmers pray for rain.
A few lucky serial drunk drivers were released after agreeing to pay three hundred bucks a month for a "house arrest" electronic monitoring ankle bracelet. It does not comfort me to know that these guys will probably have some beer money left over after paying for the surveillance. Some of my best friends, including my daughters, are periodic pedestrians.
Kansas applauds letting the drunk drivers out. "They ain't true convicts, O.G. Won't stand up for shit, won't watch your back. They don't belong here." Kansas is very particular about who should be let into the sacred circle of Righteous Convicts. Drunks, J-Cats, youngsters, even gang-bangers dilute what Kansas considers to be the purity of the Stand-Up Convict gene pool.
It is to laugh.
* * *
A sample of Kansas's humor.
"Yogee, what do you call a woman with two black eyes?"
"I don't know. What?"
"Nothin', dawg! You done told the bitch twice already!"
Kansas has just returned from the visiting room with a balloon of speed, aka crank, nestled somewhere in his digestive track. He squats on the toilet, squeezing and grunting like he's in labor.
Now thirty-two years old, and despite having spent eight of his last eleven years locked up, Kansas nevertheless considers himself an authority on women.
"A bitch gives me any static, O.G.— tries to dis me in any way— I just kick her to the fucking curb, y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin'?"
I face the wall above my favorite upper tray. Keep my eyes fixed on the window— another dirt storm raging outside— not wanting to witness this bizarre birth of a balloon out of Kansas's butt. However, my ever-inquiring mind must know something.
"Kansas, how the hell did your girlfriend slip you drugs in vi
siting?"
Kansas is always happy to provide me with illustrative examples of his convict cleverness. Especially during his arduous labors on the toilet. "Hold on, O.G.— I think it's coming!"
Turns out to be false contractions, so Kansas tells of his triumph over the visiting-room guards. The visiting area is set up like a small cafeteria enclosed in a small concrete building in the main yard. Some tables and chairs, a couple of microwave ovens and vending machines dispensing delicacies ranging from microwavable burritos to Hostess Twinkies.
Experienced visitors bring little clear plastic wrappers of quarters (thirty dollars maximum) to feed the machines. Inmates may not touch the quarters or the machines. No reason has ever been given for this rule. They don't have to give us any reasons. 'Cause we got nothin' coming.
Visitors pass through a metal detector but are not body-searched. Three cops watch the convicts and visitors through the one-way glass wall of an enclosed office. They watch out for the most common crime in the visiting area: Excessive Physical Contact. Signs are posted everywhere warning that PROLONGED KISSING will result in IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF THE VISIT! Unless you have already been terminated for touching a quarter. Inmates are permitted one brief kiss and hug (unprolonged) upon both the arrival and the departure of their visitors.
Kansas's "bitch," an aspiring exotic dancer named Star, had driven down from Las Vegas. She greeted Kansas with the prescribed brief kiss. Her tongue danced exotically into his mouth just long enough to transfer the balloon.
Kansas swallowed as if overwhelmed with emotion. At the end of the visit the guard ushered Kansas into a tiny holding cell where he was strip-searched and given a cavity check. Spread those cheeks… now cough. Good.
Within a few days after a visit the convict will be directed to pee into a little cup with a cop watching. If the urinalysis comes up dirty, it's bye-bye dawg. To the Shoe, to the Hole for ninety days. Where you got nothin' coming! New criminal charges can be filed against the inmate. No more "contact visits"— ever.
The UA test is no problem for Kansas.
"I never do drugs while I'm in the joint, O.G. I just sell them. Hold on— I think the motherfucker's poking its little rubber head out the gate." More grunts, a dainty little splash, then a moan of relief.
"The bitch done good, O.G. Gotta be at least an ounce in here."
Kansas already has his customers lined up. In my marketing class they referred to this as pre-selling. It was regarded as a good thing to do. Through the porter network Kansas has pre-sold the entire stash to his fellow woods and NLR comrades on the main yard. Kansas washes his hands with our sliver of state soap, wipes them on his huge skinned head, then finishes drying them on his dark goatee.
Visions of convict opulence dance inside his dome. When he hits the yard, he will have a Righteous House— a cell complete with a color TV, a Walkman, a fan, rugs, pounds of coffee, candy, and acres of tailors. The tailor-mades will all be Camels— unfiltered, of course. A man's smoke. A man who knows how to keep a bitch in line.
"…y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin', O.G.? You let your wife get outta line and then she divorced your ass. No bitch would ever divorce me, dawg. If a bitch even—"
"What the fuck are you talking about, Kansas? You've never been married! No bitch will ever divorce you because no bitch will ever marry you. Besides, my wife didn't divorce me— it was a mutual decision and a very friendly separation."
Kansas shakes his head in mock sadness. He's busy repackaging the powdery contents of the balloon into postage-stamp-size packets using my New York Times Week in Review section.
"Now, that's outta line, O.G. I've had three fucking common-law wives." To my horror, Kansas shoves the entire drug stash into an Arts & Leisure page before securing it beneath the toilet with a piece of Skell-bought tape.
This is too much. This could add years to my sentence.
"I don't want that shit in my house, Kansas. I'm not planning to spend the rest of my life in this shit hole so you can watch Jerry Springer in color."
"Don't trip, dawg. Skell's making the pickup right before count. Fuck, O.G.— even if they shake us down and find it, you know I'll cop to it. I ain't lookin' to get you crossed out."
"I'm so relieved to know you're looking out for me, Kansas. And such a cunning criminal mind! The cops would never think of looking under the toilet of a prison cell. Hey, aren't you the one who likes to lecture me about not fronting people off? How righteous cons don't put their cellies out on Front Street? Who knows what else you—"
"Who the fuck knows who else would put up with your sideways bullshit without sticking a shank in your grill? You got to relax, O.G. I been down more than a few days— I know how shit works around here."
"Just get rid of it before count."
"Aiight, O.G. Don't sweat me, dawg. It's gone before count."
And it was.
* * *
Kansas is state-raised.
He's not proud of it.
"My folks kicked me to the curb when I was twelve, O.G. I went straight from juvie detention to the joint, and let me tell you, dawg, the fucking joint in Kansas ain't nothin' nice, know what I'm sayin'?"
A self-professed "straight-up, stone-cold dope fiend" (denial is not one of his issues), Kansas has a keen passion for pharmaceutical-quality drugs. Which is why he loves to rob pharmacies. After "doing a bit" in this very prison, Kansas likes to say he "caught a P.V." or "caught a new case" while on parole in Las Vegas.
He was arrested for armed robbery and attempted murder. These charges were deemed serious enough by the Department of Parole and Probation (P&P, the dawgs here call it) to warrant a parole violation. The D.A. also viewed it as an additional criminal case, worthy of some more years of Kansas's life.
Kansas had a very straightforward robbery technique. One summer night in Vegas, he simply marched up to the pharmacy counter of Drug World. To ensure he received prompt customer attention, he waved a pistol and screamed, "Give up the Dilaudid, motherfuckers!"
Dilaudid is a narcotic painkiller, highly addictive and hailed in the dope-fiend world as superior to morphine. Kansas would shoot it up and forget about all his aches and pains.
Probably because this was Kansas's seventh trip to a Vegas Drug World in seven days, the cops were waiting for him as he fled the store clutching his goodie bag of Dilaudid. He was so excited to get the drugs that he forgot to demand the cash.
Kansas is very proud that what happened next made the six o'clock news.
He fired three shots at one of the police officers, missing by inches, then his automatic jammed. It took five very pissed-off cops to put him on the ground and cuff him.
Based on these types of interactions with the criminal justice system coupled with his years of prison experience, Kansas considers himself an expert in many fields. Although he can barely read, he regularly receives in the mail such august publications as the Aryan Sentinel, Supreme White Brotherhood, and Secrets from the Bunker.
I always end up reading them to him. His story is that his glasses were ripped off by the cops in county jail.
He feels that these journals have mentally equipped him to make dogmatic pronouncements in the areas of philosophy, law, theology, genetic engineering, and even finance and banking. "Jews control the fucking banks, O.G. It's like this international conspiracy."
You Got Nothing Coming Page 8
