tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75047960690863003732024-03-07T19:15:45.834-08:00What I Learned TodayFrankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-29653454671309499052014-08-28T22:05:00.001-07:002014-08-28T22:05:14.467-07:00
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 32<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Thursday September 21,
2006: </b>I woke up feeling more depressed than normal. Envy of the sleep
eaters is growing within me. How they traverse the stairs, get their muck, eat
it, and go back up to sleep is beyond me. All of the vital functions sustaining
life have begun to abandon me. I never sleep more than an hour or so without
waking up startled. Going to the bathroom has become a gut-wrenching chore,
inducing sweat and cramps every time I park my ass on the Boeing. To top things
off, it looks like our three man cell is really a three man cell now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Just as dayroom was about to open Gangster began quizzing me
about my visit the day before. He is intrigued by the still existing normal
facets of my life; people from work, friends, etc. Just as he inquires about my
letters and who I am writing each one to, he wants to know who drove all the
way down here for a visit. There is no point resisting, he will not be ignored.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“So how do you know this guy?” Gangster does not meet many
new people on the streets, this much is clear.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“He’s a friend of mine for years. I guess we met at the
place where I worked.” He walked faster than I did when walking the perimeter
with me. I am not sure what point he was trying to prove by doing so.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“So you worked with him?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“No, he was a guy who came in there. I guess you could say
he was a customer or something. It’s a weird business, when you work in it you
meet a lot of people.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“What is he to you?” Realizing Gangster had some social
hurdles to get over was not surprising. Once I began to understand how high
these hurdles were it staggered my mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“He’s a friend.” It seemed obvious, but he misses those on
the streets.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Don’t get wise with me, Gilly. I’ll stick your head through
the wall. I mean, what is he to you that he drives all the way the fuck down
here to talk to you through glass on a telephone? You can call him and talk on
a phone from right there.” He gestured at the bank of phones.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well, my friend Tommy is more of a prop comic, and he can’t
get the laughs he needs over the phone, it’s very visual what he does.” To this
day, I do not know what I was thinking. Gangster let several seconds go by with
no response. I suppose he realized how unsettling I found it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Every step we take Gilly, there’s a wall right there on
your right for me to stick your head through, and yet you still give me an
answer like that? What’s the matter with you? You feeling suicidal or
something?” If he only knew. Gangster was the kind of guy who opposed suicide
and would kill you for thinking about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“What I meant was, he’s a good friend, and he’s probably
worried about me, how I’m holding up and things like that.” He smiled, and
gradually began shaking his head, as if he understood or now it made sense.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“What did he have to say?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Well, he didn’t have much to say, just small talk about how
people we know are doing, and stuff like that. Nothing of note or interesting
really.” He was so satisfied to hear this, it confused me at the time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Man Gilly, that’s nice. He married?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Yeah, wife, kids, the whole nine yards. A regular guy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“You know them? The family, you ever meet them?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Yeah, it’s hard to avoid them really. They live at his
house, so….” Before I could make another sarcastic mistake, he cut me off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“They like you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Well, I can’t really say. I’m not so sure anyone really
likes me. I’m a bit of an obnoxious jerk.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Yeah, no shit, I’m dealing with it, I noticed. Do they mind
you coming over and hanging out with him?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“I don’t think so, but I can’t be certain about what anyone
else is feeling or thinking. It’s all conjecture on my part.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Yeah Gilly, I’m sure it’s all that. Do you realize, when
you get out of here, if you do any significant amount of time, they ain’t gonna
look at you the same. And most people you know won’t want anything to do with
you. Things change.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“How’s that?” Gangster did not fish around for reasons to
make me feel bad, like he knew it was unnecessary.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Gilly, whether you’re guilty or not makes no difference,
you’re in here. That’s all that matters in the end. People might believe you
now, or when you were on the streets, but the longer you stay in here, the
guiltier you become in everyone’s mind.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Why is that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“I’m not a fucking psychiatrist Gilly, I can’t explain why
it works that way. I’m just telling you it does.” I remember feeling sick to my
stomach, even more so than before. <o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-74457936541421573292014-08-27T07:04:00.001-07:002014-08-27T07:04:28.245-07:00
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 31<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wednesday September
20, 2006: </b>Today I had my first visitor as a detained suspect of violent
crime. Being 40 miles away, in the furthest jail possible from where I lived
might just turn out to be a positive thing. The visit itself with my friend
Tommy was nice. He tried to keep the conversation lighthearted and joke, but Sisyphus
had an easier task. The fact our conversation was conducted through a pane of
thick protective glass, and spoken through telephone, did nothing to lend
normalcy to our chat. There was so much wrong with having to speak to someone in
this manner, I hoped never to have a visit again. Leaving the visiting area, to
begin the series of hand-offs taking me back to my cell, I felt an oppressive
sadness come over me. Running over the things Tommy said, the comings and
goings of daily life as a human being rather than a societal miscreant, seemed
so far away and removed from my life. The urge to cry was felt as strong as it
had been since my arrest. Already my mind was taking me through future
projections, of where I might be, and who I’ll never see again, and who I might
see again. Always the thoughts went to my children, with whom I already I had
missed so much. Calculating their ages – in a worst case scenario - the next
time I might see them made me simmer with anger as much as induce sadness. Even
if one is not a criminal deserving incarceration, certainly life has been
misguided at best, and immoral in scattered but consistent patches at the worst
times to be in such a mess. All I could think about in the wake of my visit
were the people gone from my life. The sense most were gone for good overwhelmed
me. I could not exhibit the least sign outwardly of my crushing sadness, lest
the jackals who feed on other’s pain would rise on their haunches at the scent
of weakness – as a shark detects blood droplets in the ocean from great
distance - never passing on an opportunity to derive joy from someone else’s
pain. I knew letting someone read my state of mind could lead to trouble,
because in my entire life, I never experienced the urge to simply beat someone
senseless as I was experiencing when I could pull my mind from sadness. I fluctuated
between rage searching for an outlet and sadness seeking a deeper hole inside
me in which to hide. Never seeing anyone I cared about again was a real
possibility, and the circumstances, regardless of my role and responsibility to
them was held apart from my newborn desire to hurt someone, anyone I could
perceive as deserving. Right after the visit, nearly everyone was deserving. I
began to reason to myself, ‘If I’m going to prison for being a violent thug,
why not get my money’s worth.’ It was natural to rationalize violence in this
setting, but under no condition did I think I might succumb to the notion
violence would help. Now I did not care if it helped. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-9119024736073718232014-08-23T05:05:00.001-07:002014-08-23T05:05:16.222-07:00
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 30<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Tuesday September 19,
2006: </b>Lenny and his cellie Bandit were moved to the ‘White Rep’ cell,
number 1. Three guys from each of the races which make up the vast majority of
occuppants – Hispanics, Blacks and Whites – occupy the first three cells. They
are allowed out of their cell from breakfast till the end of the last dayroom
when everyone is locked up for final count. They are charged with cleaning the
dayroom, showers, serving meals, and running errands for the guys who are
locked in the cells 21 hours a day. Boone – the white rep who was here when I
arrived - is the third man in the cell with Lenny and Bandit. He goes to court
Friday to be sentenced, and if the rotation holds true, I would be next to go
down there. It’s hard to understand how much moving to another cell providing
the opportunity to clean toilets after 75 maniacs fouls them, appeals to me.
Life is taking turns I just could never believe possible. Whoever said
“everything is relative” might have been in such a situation as myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Jeff bothers me. He constantly offers me advice out of the
clear blue with no encouragement from me. He operates under the assumption he
is some type of wise man. He is a 39 year old dope fiend who inherited enough
money once to travel to Australia and China then return to live in his van. The
trip was over 15 years ago, yet I heard about it within five minutes of meeting
Jeff, and he spoke about it as if he returned yesterday. He has been in and out
of jail so often, he cannot remember exactly how many times he has been
arrested. When he told me again, after I insisted he must know, he shook his
head and laughed. “I don’t know, cause I don’t care!” This made me wonder if
this was how my lawyer viewed me; did he think I could not remember my arrests
and legal entanglements, like Jeff? Half his teeth are gone, he was a 10<sup>th</sup>
grade dropout and has not worked regular – ever! How does someone make it to
nearly 40 years of age without ever having to be on time for work? Without ever
paying a utility bill? Or had a bank account or driver’s license, and yet still
view himself as a beacon to turn to in times of troubles? How does one reach
that point of self-delusion? I would really like to know, because on some
level, I envied Jeff. He was not stressed out by his predicament, in fact, he
did not even see this as a predicament. It was a place to get some sleep, eat
three meals a day, put on some weight and get healthy. While I was producing
something with my insides rivaling the worst sewer odors any third world slum ever
emitted, stressing over what to do with a lawyer I was fairly certain was
working against me, Jeff slept. While I waited in the line at the phones to
call the attorney, Jeff filled out forms to go to the dentist. “Think I’ll get
this tooth that’s been bothering me pulled while I’m here,” he said to in
passing as I stood in the phone line, forcing bile back down my throat. It was
like a day spa for those mentally relieved from the ability to engage reality. When
conversations around Jeff circled back to the inevitable topic, ‘What I am
going to do first when I get out’, Jeff never hesitated to respond. “I’m gonna
get high,” he would say time and again with nonchalance. Then the conversation
would veer into everyone talking at once about their drug of choice, and how it
was second thing they were going to do. Jeff was not a liar. There were no false
airs trying to impress other cesspool dwellers, when he was on the streets he
was doing big things. Jeff was not doing anything, did not intend to do
anything – except the aforementioned ‘getting high’ – and did not want to do anything.
As the other guys struggled to come up with the word ‘Broker’ or otherwise
explain their vast wealth and holdings which must be tended to before they get
high; or the supermodel girlfriend who is suffering through a painful celibate
period in their absence and must be carnally satisfied before they can think
about a dalliance with dope, Jeff just threw his plans out there without regard
for the collective think tank and their responses. When myself or someone else
could not or would not eat an unidentified object on our meal tray, Jeff gladly
accepted it and scarfed it down greedily. He never complained, never used the
phone, or expressed worry in any way detectable. He really bothered me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Two phone calls to my attorney were unsuccessful in making
contact. His secretary did not know his schedule for the remainder of the week.
That is what she told me. I am sure Jeff would believe her, but I am just a bit
more skeptical. Not that it’s doing me any good. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-88793117828221034002014-08-20T16:05:00.001-07:002014-08-20T16:05:58.222-07:00
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 29<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Monday September 18,
2006: </b>As soon as the dayroom opened, I went over to the phone bank and got
in line. There were four phones, and some of the guys spent nearly the entire
time allotted for dayroom yelling at their estranged subordinates on collect
calls that had to add up to quite a tally. One thing I quickly came to
understand, I was in the societal VIP lounge from another’s perspective, not
the cesspool. It was perplexing how many of the fella’s seemed to think without
them out there to tend to things, the world might spin off its axis. When the
guy in front of me completed the thorough verbal flogging of whoever was
unwilling to hang up on him, it was my turn. I only had 20 minutes, but knew it
was plenty of time if I could get the Officer of the Court on the phone. I
waited on hold for five minutes before he picked up. Following as brief a
greeting as possible, he asked what was on my mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“It’s that arrest that was supposed to have occurred in May
of 1996. What does it say I was charged with? Cause I got to thinking, it’s not
so much the fictional arrest that worries me, but the fictional charge.” As I
spoke, I struggled to maintain a calm voice and speak at a slow enough pace not
to tip off how worked up I was over this bureaucratic liable. Later, I realized
how hopeless my situation had become when considering I did not want the man
hired to defend my rights to realize I was upset with his negligent and
nefarious attitude.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Damn, when you began speaking, I thought you were going to
tell me you remembered the arrest after all. I don’t have your paperwork right
in front of me. I’ll dig it out. Can you call back in 15 minutes?” I looked up
at the clock.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“No, I doubt it. I probably wouldn’t be able to call till
this evening and I know that’s too late. How about tomorrow?” Hate for this man
was evolving from dislike within me as I had never known. How far could the
papers have been from his desk? How big was this office? He knew my situation
and accessibility to a phone. In hindsight, I think he withheld information so
no specific action could be requested on my behalf.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Well, tomorrow I’m scheduled to be in court all day, but
you can try. Court gets cancelled all the time.” We said good-bye and I just
knew I would never get the information on the phone from him. I returned to the
cell as the announcement dayroom time had come to an end rang over the speakers.
As I walked slowly along, my name was called from a cell. I looked over and saw
Lenny’s and the ‘Big Drink’ Bandit’s faces crowded into the small window of
their cell, calling me over. I walked close enough to speak through the door
crack without screaming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Where are you from out there? Where did you live?” Lenny
and young Bandit had actually bet on the response I found out later. So I told
them the name of the city I had spent the prior 15 years living in. Lenny
recognized the town right away. “Oh yeah! I know that area real well. We used
to go up there all the time to steal cars.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
I almost laughed at our connection. “Hey, that’s
interesting. I had a car stolen from me there!” My head was spinning all the
time now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-4289230181164318302014-08-18T12:07:00.001-07:002014-08-18T19:23:03.295-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 28<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sunday September 17,
2006: </b>The religious service from crazy-land lost some appeal this week.
Nothing makes me feel hopeful or see light, nothing brings a smile to my mind
or distracts me from the oncoming ruin. It feels inevitable now, as if there is
no use in trying, or even asking the attorney to do his job. My thoughts are so
one-sided it is hard for me to do much besides walk in circles, read, and write
letter after letter making derision of my plight. In the morning, as most
everyone sat watching the NFL pregame shows, Gangster circled the room with me.
Certain tidbits of my court appearance Friday were omitted from details shared
with Gangster earlier, mainly because I wanted to spare myself his response.
But those very details were eating me alive, and I had to tell someone just to
see if anyone else ever experienced or heard of such a thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“On Friday, I saw my previous arrests sheet, my lawyer had
it. There was an arrest on there which – I am telling you – never happened. I’m
not mostly sure, I am absolutely, 100%, sure.” I sprung this out of nowhere,
till then the conversation focused on food. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“What the fuck are you talking about, Gilly?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“On Friday, I saw this piece of paper saying I was arrested
in May of 1996. I am telling you it did not happen. I was never arrested in my
life at that point. I think I could remember the first time I was in that sort
of trouble.” Just talking about it I could feel an anger ruminating through me
like a simmering demon with horrific potential, and that was new.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“So you’re telling me on your list of priors, there’s a
mistake, right? That happens, someone enters a date wrong in the computer.” He
was not getting it, perhaps because he had a rap sheet with as many pages as a
novella.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“No, no, this is not a wrong date. Understand, I was not
arrested on a regular basis; as in never until March 12<sup>th </sup>1998, and
that was for missing two days of community service on the DUI I got in August
of 1996.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Then you were arrested in August of 1996! Get your fucking
story straight Gilly! The DA is gonna love you the way you tell your bullshit.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“No, I was not arrested. I rolled an old pick-up into an
avocado field, crawled out from under it, walked two miles to a phone, then the
police showed up while I was waiting for a ride to the emergency room. I broke
some ribs and hurt my shoulder. They put me in an ambulance and followed me to
the hospital. They wanted blood from me since I passed the seven Breathalyzer tests
they gave me, I refused and got a DUI.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Why’d you refuse Gilly?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Pot stays in the system a long time. And I smoked it a lot,
so they were going to get me on that anyhow, so I refused. But the point is,
after six hours or so I was released from the hospital and never arrested
officially, never taken into custody. I would not forget the first time someone
looked up my ass while coughing.” He did not respond, he was listening, which
meant I should continue. I was getting good at reading maniacs. “So I was never
arrested or charged with anything then, or even questioned about something.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“What does it say you were arrested for?” Gangster thought
pragmatically on these matters even if his final conclusions would often end in
savage beat downs, the decision to administer the savage beating was arrived at
pragmatically.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“I don’t even know. I was so flustered by the appearance of
an arrest, I didn’t get around to asking. I just figured, if it says I was
arrested, and I wasn’t, the charge is a moot point.” Gangster shook his head at
my naiveté on the particulars.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Gilly, if it says you were passing bad checks back then, it’s
gonna make no difference. If they’re claiming it’s any kind of violence charge,
they’re gonna use that to run your sentence up. Just like they do with the
three strike law.” I voted for the three strike law. On a purely superficial
basis, it seemed to make sense, until understanding its implementation, at
which point it imploded logically. “I never heard of someone having some
phantom charge appear on their jacket before, Gilly. Mistakes regarding actual
arrests – sure. But this is some other bullshit altogether. Better call that
lawyer first thing tomorrow. So he can tell you you’re wrong and don’t remember
your own life as well as the police papers do.” Gangster never stopped driving
home his point unless to punch someone in the face, driving his point home via
the alternate route. I welcomed his verbal belligerence. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Yeah, I guess I better.” I knew he was right though. That
lawyer – the heir apparent to the barrister who must have inspired Shakespeare –
was not even going to try and rectify something working to his benefit. It was
a screwed up situation, and I put it together, I was in the middle of it,
screaming inside for the truth.<o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-29015699095902801862014-08-17T08:25:00.001-07:002016-09-01T19:43:49.966-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 27<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Saturday September 16,
2006: </b>I did not sleep well last night. I met the latest lower bunk occupant,
whose name is either Jeff or Jim, then spent the rest of the night trying not
to answer Gangster’s inquiries. He was not content to be right, he wanted to
take over my case. In hindsight, I probably should have done everything he
recommended. Logic as I knew it – and granted I was no Socrates – dictated people
with life size tattoos of Jesus being shot-up by the devil on their bodies
cannot be taken seriously as counsel in what I viewed as a life and death
matter. He was not hostile with me, or angry. He exhibited more hostility in
order to clear space for junk food. I answered every question he asked me,
except one; “So what are you gonna do Gilly?” I just did not have an answer,
there was no money for another lawyer and I heard nightmares about the
appointed attorneys. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
The day room was on full weekend schedule, so everyone was
out at the same time. During the 6 hours of time out of the cell, I must have walked
5 or 600 laps. Walking and counting, trying not to let the doom I felt welling within
me take control. There’s a lot of mind games in county jail. The guys have one
objective; receive as little time as possible. Everywhere the lap walking took
me, I would drift in and out of the same conversations. Someone telling his
story, another guy offering his opinion, both exuding superficial optimism that
was paper thin along with confidence which was a complete pretense. The guys
want to be lied to, and I wished Gangster would lie to me. Maybe I would be
able to sleep then. My mind entertained options on how to deal with my problem
ranging from firing the lawyer to killing myself. The place was designed to
make killing oneself a difficult task requiring much effort, but I saw a way or
two it could have been done. I could not sit down at the table and watch
college football when asked to join the football fans. I could not stop writing
letters in the cell. It was growing increasingly tense in my head and I was
feeling myself slipping away, or at least slipping into something I did not
recognize.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Simple things, like paper to write on, or pencils sharp
enough to write with, began to take on such significance. We were not allowed
to have pens because they too much resembled knives, and we were expected to
stab each other with them, instead of writing. Gangster walked a couple dozen
laps with me, to follow-up on my case.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Ya know Gilly, I’ve been thinking, running through my mind
if I can remember anyone ever having the initial offer raised and I can’t. You
know what this is like? It’s like you walk onto a car lot, the sticker says ten
thousand. So you offer the salesman nine. But instead of bargaining with you,
kind of meet you in the middle, your salesman’s is saying 12 thousand. He’s
going above the sticker on the car, and it don’t make sense. The DA starts high
so he can come down. They started high with you, and went up further. I can’t
explain it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“I thought you stole cars, you didn’t buy them. What do you
know about haggling over price on a car lot?” I tried to smirk, but those
facial muscles were not working properly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Gilly, I used that example because I’m trying to speak your
language. What do you think, I don’t know anyone who has ever bought a car? You’re
a funny fuckin guy and all, but you better fire that clown you hired as a
lawyer. I don’t think you’re taking this serious enough.” I said nothing, but
it did not matter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“I know what you think about the court appointed shit, and
you’re right. You might have to request new counsel a few times then too, till
you find the right one. But that won’t cost you anything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Maybe it doesn’t show, but I am taking this as serious as I
am capable of taking anything. If I joke or seem hesitant to fire him, it’s
because joking keeps my head from exploding and I just can’t believe this guy
isn’t going to make the proper effort. I just can’t believe that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“You’re a stubborn motherfucker, Gilly, anyone ever tell you
that? I know you ain’t stupid, but if you’re going to be this stubborn, shit,
it doesn’t matter if you’re smart. You’d be better off being stupid; stupid
people can at least listen to reason when their life is on the line. You’re
gonna fuck yourself!”<o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-60486336872696039432014-08-12T21:29:00.001-07:002014-08-16T11:23:34.535-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 26<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Friday September 15,
2006: </b>Holding cells – the accused, randomly selected by the calendar of the
court – are loaded with variables and potential problems. It stems from the shocking
number of enemies people in jail have. Every time someone is moved to a new
facility, part of the intake process, or screening, is asking the question; “Do
you have any enemies?” which I found odd. They keep a list of everyone’s
enemies? I guess I found it depressing too; gang members with enemies’ lists’,
just like Nixon. The first time I was asked, it so caught me off-guard I
responded sarcastically, a reflex I soon lost. “Well, JJ Murphy
used to look for me in the 6<sup>th</sup> grade to beat me up, but he’s got to
be dead by now.” County employees take their job very serious when someone
tries to be funny. He looked at me without so much as a smirk, “So no
enemies then, correct?” It did not take long to stop going for
laughs in an environment where everyone wants to beat your ass.
It is one big tough room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
As each miscreant is fed into the holding cell, they search the faces for the familiar. Being with a world-class weasel
was preferable to being alone. But no one ever seemed to be
alone – except me. Everyone else coming through the door needed two seconds to find someone they knew. It was like a reunion, or me going into a
bar, except with bizarre-world nicknames; “Hey Worm! Yo, my dog Vermin, how you
been?” and so forth. The camaraderie often looked forced, motivated by fear. I never spoke to anyone first –
except once, which I’ll explain later – in a holding cell. For the most part,
these are people who go to jail for a living, forced temporarily together, then
tossed and tossed. There are at least two holding cells before boarding the bus
to court. Once there, three or four more is typical before court, then at least
two more while waiting for your ride back. Another one back at the home facility, so they can look
up your ass, then back to the 5.5 x 11.5 foot three man cell. As bad as the
cell was, when I arrived back each time from court, I was genuinely comforted by its confines. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Before going into court, in the last holding cell, I was
permitted to speak with my attorney. The conversation was conducted through a
3” x 12” slot in the door, located about two feet from the floor. Standing
there, bent over and screaming so he would hear me, my seven newest best
friends in the world hung on our every utterance. He tried to explain to me
what this day’s hearing was addressing, but I could not understand him, and did
not feel comfortable enough to ask him to repeat something I most likely would
not have understood had I heard every word. I quickly grow tired of screaming
“What’s that mean?” when trapped and surrounded by genius. But it was there, bent at the waist with my ear as close to the slot as I could get it, I learned the five years at either 80 or 85% had been removed as an offer and replaced by an offer of seven years at whatever the correct percentage was, which my lawyer did not care enough to determine. I had been bargained up. I am sure it happens, initial offers going up; it just was so rare I could not find another example of it in the coming six years. My case had quite a few of those infrequent peculiarities, beginning with being arrested twice, and ending with a little known and seldom seen parole surprise.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
In the courtroom, the man who would become the poster boy for spurious legal representation and gluttonous bottom feeding sat next to me in the villains section,
dressed in a suit clearly distinguishing him as a visitor and master of
disguise. My best effort to read and comprehend the paperwork he shuffled before me was futile. At best I could pull out snippets of data. <br />
<br />
"Hey, what's this here? Says my first arrest was May 17th, 1996?! I was never arrested in May of 1996. That's wrong." Now, at this juncture, I really hoped for some supportive response, this was cut and dry matter-of-fact stuff. Instead, he focused in on the page and rebutted me. <br />
<br />
"Yes you were, it says right here . . ." he proceeded to read the "facts" pertaining to the arrest that never happened, as if my problem were illiteracy. Momentary out of body experiences gripped me. When I reiterated the date of my first arrest, as in actually taken into custody, just as I was then, he dismissed me, sure that, simpleton which I was, had the dates mixed up. As soon as he felt I was properly defused he started to resell me on the idea of accepting the seven year offer, "Before they raise it again." I wondered if I refused deals long enough, could this grow into life sentence. When he paused from retelling me bad news about rescinded offers and other assorted tragedies<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>relating to how screwed I was, I asked a
question. “Can you file a Pitchess motion on my behalf regarding the way the
stories changed?” I saw the expression on his face do something. Until then, he
mindlessly spoke nothing specific enough to require thought, only heaping
discouragement upon me, hoping to suffocate me, so I would succumb. He remained a scumbag even when
he gave his words thought.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Where did you hear of that?” Spoken in a voice
reserved for the preposterous. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“I went to the law library at the jail and looked some stuff
up.” No way was I going to let him tell me what an idiot Gangster was, or I was
for listening to him. I thought each jail was required to have a law library
available, but then, I also believed innocent until proven guilty. He simply
switched targets, telling me the books are outdated and the application . .
.blah blah blah. He was not going to file the motion. So I asked more
questions. “I looked up mayhem and I do not see how they can charge me with
that, what are the grounds?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“There’s retina damage to the right eye, that requires
surgery, otherwise it’s a permanent injury.” I sat still, trying to stay
focused as rage gathered momentum within me. It took a while, but calmness
still controlled the surface. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“That retina damage is 17 years old. It occurred when an
older sister flipped a car over while driving drunk. There was already surgery
scheduled for September, this month, before this happened. If someone is in chemo and something like this happens, would I be charged with causing the cancer? Can’t we get ahold of medical records to prove this?
How hard can that be?” He never answered any of my questions directly which I did
not realize at the time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Can you come up with $3,500?” Lawyers never ask
questions unless they have the answer. “If you can,
then I strongly suggest you hire a detective to get started on this.” Words to
that effect anyway, I went into a state then, where I do not hear or comprehend
my surroundings, something I imagine people must experience on an airplane that
is going down. </div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-85635855046679786072014-08-10T13:13:00.001-07:002014-08-10T13:13:05.386-07:00
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 25<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Thursday September
14, 2006: </b>After spending much of the morning yesterday listening to Tom’s
bravado fueled ego spout off, insisting he was not going to move just because
Gangster told him to, 10 minutes after the dayroom opened he was laying prone
on the floor, injured apparently, in the throes of the ‘Man Down’ procedure. Medical
was called and they carried him off on a stretcher, the only malady plaguing
him; a bruised ego and delusional sense of self. I felt pretty certain the
medical staff would not be able to treat what ailed him. Gangster congratulated
me on seeing to it that Tom was gone when he returned from legal proceedings. I
insisted I had nothing to do with it. Then Gangster once again showed me how
well he understood this dungeon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Gilly, you gonna try and tell me that asshole didn’t try
and get you to take his side and have me moved instead of him?” It had not
occurred to me yesterday this could have been Tom’s motive. Whatever his motive
was, he was bad at practical application of action to attain a specific goal,
because he came across as nothing other than delusional and crazy, like so many
others in the herd. “He probably didn’t want to move without an ass beating.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
I found that perplexing. “You mean he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wanted </i>an ass beating?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“No Gilly, stop acting stupid.” It was no act. “I mean he
wouldn’t go unless he got he ass beat.” The whole thing was nuts, which was
perfectly normal now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Thursday around 11 A.M. or newest cellie arrived. A blond
haired surfer looking guy named Denny, who showed up pre-rattled. As Gangster
began the interrogation, he seemed uncertain Denny was hearing him, or
understanding him, or capable of understanding him. He displayed his typical sensitivity
by looking over at me and either laughing at Denny’s responses or making facial
expressions as if puzzled beyond his ability to comprehend Denny’s often
excessively obtuse replies. Denny’s voice was a stolid monotone which seemed
generated by a brain fully pre-occupied with other matters. He could not even
force himself to recognize what a potentially harmful interrogator he was being
questioned by, or just did not care. His answers were brief and soft spoken,
and not fully on point. Gangster looked his paperwork over. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Denny! It says here you’re a woman beater! Not good Denny,
not after O.J. They’re gonna come after you. Hot issue right now.” He continued
reading the paperwork. After another minute, he handed it to Denny. “You’re
fucked.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
He looked up at me where I was sitting in my regular spot
against the back wall on my bunk. “You got some kind of preliminary hearing
tomorrow, right Gilly?” Great, Denny was proving to be no fun to play with and
he was back to me. I guess it’s true about ‘playing dead’ if a bear attacks
you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Yeah, I don’t know what it is or what’s going to be dealt
with. It’s very confusing in there to me. Everyone talks very fast and in a
language that sounds like English, but it’s not.” I put my pencil down, giving
Gangster my full attention. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“You gonna fire that lawyer like I told you to?” This was
such a mind field. Not doing what Gangster said, even if the potential
ramifications had absolutely no bearing on him, still rubbed him the wrong way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Not yet,” I was evolving into quite a time-buyer, “I want to
see how things go a bit more. We haven’t done anything in court really yet.” He
responded with an incredulous forced laugh, designed to make me feel
unqualified to question him. I can read a lot into a laugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Alright Gilly, it’s your ass on the line. Remember what I
told you, he’s gonna sell you up the river to get some Mexican drug dealer off.”
Gangster spoke as if he had never been proven wrong in his life. “What you need
to tell this guy, since you’re not gonna fire him, is to file a ‘Pitchess
Motion’. If they changed the police reports, if the story changed, that needs
to be entered into the case as evidence for the judge to consider. He’ll tell
you no, because he’s a piece of shit and he knows you’re an idiot, so he’ll try
to shut you down. You must insist.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Why wouldn’t he do it if I ask him?” I just could not
believe things could be that convoluted in there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Gilly! He’s working with the DA’s office! When he fucks you
over and gets the Mexican dope dealer off, it’s all prearranged with the DA. By
filing this, he’d be fucking up his deal. Slowing things down and raising
questions about your case. He is not interested in raising doubt about you. He
wants you to look like you’re the worst piece of shit they’ve ever seen in
there. If he won’t file this, that should tell you all you need to know.” I
could not be certain if I was gradually going insane, allowing me to better fit
my surroundings, like a chameleon, or Gangster was making more sense.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></b></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-36431188697053009322014-08-09T18:22:00.001-07:002014-08-10T17:23:11.717-07:00<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 24</b><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wednesday – September
13, 2006: </b>Gangster had to go to court today, meaning right after our 4 A.M.
delectable breakfast menu was consumed, he was quickly called to sit in the
waiting cell for about three hours. It is unnecessary to call people for court
at 4 A.M. but every step of the process has the misery maximized to encourage
the squeezed to take a deal and move along to the next shelf. Back in the cell
Tom felt liberated by the absence and relief from the tension Gangster was so
skilled at producing. He was emboldened by the lack of an imminent punch in the face, this
had a strange effect on many of the guys, and I could literally see Tom
reverting into his more idiotic former self. Fear does keep people from acting
as much the fool here. I thought for sure he would rush to get back to bed
before I was asleep in direct violation of Gangster’s order, so I tried to
eliminate the concern.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“If you want to go back to sleep don’t worry about me. I can’t
go back to sleep after going downstairs and being frightened by breakfast like
that.” It was a joke, and the type of joke I would be making less and less of
in this milieu. Self-deprecating remarks or jokes in any form, under any
circumstances were not recognized by 99% of the population. What was heard was
an expression of weakness. That was the interpretation, and like running from a
dog or wild animal it was perceived as a sign to charge and give chase. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“I’m not tired,” Tom paced as Gangster usually did, “wanna
play cards or something?” I had yet to play cards, dominoes, chess, or any of
the house gaming options. There was always a lot of screaming, especially for a
chess game. I was amazed by the Muhammad Ali trickle-down effect on all
competition. As Ali would taunt and tease his opponents while he methodically
beat the daylights out of them, these guys would produce vein bulging screams
deriding their opponents worth, ability and often sexual prowess based on
moving a pawn two spaces in the second move of the game. It was disturbing to
observe at first, such gross exaggeration of ability and importance, and I was
in the group.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
But a game of 500 rummy on the cell floor, where no one
would be around to impress with delusional Muhammad Ali fantasies, somehow seemed
more stable, or at least less risky. There’s no way to produce a ‘Look-at-me’
moment when no one is there to look. So I agreed to play. During the first
hand, I scooped up about 16 cards to lay down three sevens, and Tom assessed my
play as that of a “card whore” and he violently kicked the bunk in a display of
displeasure. He was also probably thinking he was intimidating me because I
said nothing in return to being labeled a “card whore”. Days earlier a DA
referred to me as a “violent thug” and “threat to the community” in court, and
after that “card whore” lost a lot of its sting for me. My silence and
contentment to seemingly pick up every card Tom discarded to turn into points,
did something I simply cannot explain through any rational prism of thought to
Tom’s behavior. He began to say things vaguely at first; “card whores should
have their asses beaten”, to eventually, “I ought a kick your card whorin ass
for playing like that”, and other threats, which at best could only be
described as myopic. Tom might have been younger than me by a few years, but
time had not been kind to him. And while not a street fighter or brawler by any
stretch, I wasted a lot of time lifting weights at the gym. Tom had fragility
in his appearance of someone who’s liver might break if he were hit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
At the conclusion of the hand I slid the cards to him after
adding my points up and said, “Your <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>deal.”
Hardly what I considered fighting words. As best he could, Tom sprang to his
feet. He walked to the back wall and turned around to face me. His arms were
extended out from his body as if toothpicks were uncomfortably placed in his
armpits preventing them from resting at his sides. His chest was puffed out
indicating he was clearly doing the “jailhouse peacock” thing, and maybe what
is called for in the wild if a coyote or some other smaller predator is
spotted; he was trying to make himself look bigger. And he did; he looked like
a bigger, shot-out, idiot with a deconditioned body, which might fool a bobcat,
but from the floor of the cell it looked pathetic. Then he asked a question
which made no sense on the surface, but I realized it was a threat soon after.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“So what we gonna do about it, Holmes?” Never good to be
addressed as ‘Holmes’, and I never did come to understand that either. I had no
clue what the “it” was in that glue-sniffing cranium of Tom’s, but I knew what
he wanted. I felt my heart racing, not due to fear necessarily, but because I
just did not want to fight anyone over reasons so abstract Socrates could not pin
pointed the issue exactly. Very quietly, after I realized he was not going to
sit back down and deal without a retort, I ventured forth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“If I get up off this floor, I promise you, it’s going to go
real bad for you Tom.” I spoke these words with the intensity of someone ordering a venti latte at Starbucks. During my life, if I had been moved to threaten someone,
I was usually so upset by then, I was screaming. And probably drunk too. I
never said anything like this so calmly in my life, with a clear head, never.
He sat back down and dealt. <o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-45216031245228760122014-07-26T23:46:00.001-07:002014-08-14T21:26:17.559-07:00<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 23</b><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Tuesday – September 12, 2006: W</b>hen
Tom woke up Tuesday morning he was not as funny or entertaining as he was when
he went to bed Monday night. Tom suffered from snoring which might qualify as
sleep apnea. Up on top the bunk it was vibrating with each sudden and violent
reverberation. He was really making a racket, but I was willing to overlook it,
being as I had some stress induced gas worse than anything I ever
dealt with. Gangster did not have to request twice for me to climb down and
get on the Boeing next time. He told me if I do it again without climbing down
he would have to assume I don’t respect him. I answered him, “Oh, let’s not
even say that, ok?” <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“It’s as simple as that, just so you know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
I laughed nervously, instinctively stalling for time and
trying to think of ‘Valium Words’ since he was indicating a punch in the face
might be on the agenda. “I’m an up-and-down-getting motherfucker. I would have
done it the first time but I didn’t want to shake the bunk and disturb anyone’s
slumber. I’m stinky considerate. My lawyer’s not going to negotiate any time
off for me, but he got me nominated for most considerate ‘Cellie’ and most
considerate newcomer for August. Two new deals he has working for me.” There
was silence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Just get the fuck up and on the toilet. That was the worst thing I ever smelled. If you do it again, I’m gonna punch you in the face
before I throw up.” Great. The toilet did work. If I sat on it and flushed, it
vacuumed the air in its wind stream and removed the stench. Everything in the
place reeked of 19<sup>th</sup> century thinking, except the toilet which was
from the future. I am not sure if there was a message in that or not. I was
looking for messages and reading between the lines everywhere. My mind was
having cramps.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
An hour or so later I’m climbing down to sit on the
toilet. Perched on the Boeing, the relatively pristine silence was shaken by a jolt of
sound and energy erupting from the bottom bunk. I braced, anticipating
a second, third, and on into infinity. But it could have just been the one, an aberration;
maybe he swallowed his tongue. No, a second roaring nasal belch two feet from
Gangster’s head sounded. I was already wondering what snoring’s effect would
register on the respect meter. The third hacking sinus struggle stirred Gangster, and
before one or two more fleshy skids erupt, I hear “Are you fucking kidding me!” This was no joke. He
smacks the bottom of my bunk above him and shouts; “Gilly, you hear this?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
I answered from where I sat on the Boeing being vacuumed. “I’m
trying to time the flush of the toilet for between outbursts. If they both go
off at the same time, I'm afraid I’ll be torn in half.” He rolled onto his right side and
reached down, grabbing Tom and shaking him back to consciousness. Before Tom
knew he was awake, Gangster had the floor. “Fuckhead! Did you know how loud you snore?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Semi-consciously, Tom responded. “Yeah, I snore.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“You should have said something. Listen, your not allowed to
go back to sleep until you make sure me and Gilly are both sound asleep.” If I
hear you snoring before I get back to sleep, then I’m gonna wake you up and
knock you out, got it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Yeah yeah yeah,” Tom was catching a stutter I
thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
It was quiet for awhile and twice I saw Tom get up to see if
I was sleeping. He went over and stood at the door, looking out the window. He
would have to move out, by faking an injury or illness; or fight Gangster. To
remain in a cell like this or a dorm which might have 90 societal failures in one big room, you
would have to be very popular and well liked not to get moved. </div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-18468316464472278912014-07-26T05:55:00.001-07:002014-08-09T19:00:54.796-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 22<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Monday – September 11,
2006: </b>When football was on, it was the first time I really sat still in the
dayroom for more than a few minutes. Usually if the cell doors were open, I was
in the dayroom walking laps around the perimeter. I must have had too much time
to think, or I was trying to avoid thinking too much about the worst case
scenarios, but whatever it was, I found myself obsessing over the sort of things
I never did before. As I walked the perimeter I started counting my strides, to
see how many strides a lap required. Then five laps, to get an average number,
figuring that would be more accurate for reasons I can’t explain. I tried to
maintain a steady stride, right around three feet. Eventually this would lead to
me figuring out it was about 42.5 laps around to reach a mile. Then I began
seeing how many laps I could walk each dayroom, and trying to top it next time.
So when the football games came on yesterday, it might have been just in the
nick of time, because I’m not sure where that was going if I did not get interrupted.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
It was a weekend when both tiers were let out together and I
met some of the guys who were down stairs. I only knew them from seeing their
figures moping in the dayroom when I looked out the little cell door window. I
did not do much of that since window monitor was Gangsters position, and I did
not want to be blocking his pacing path. There was only one cell with white
guys downstairs, and two upstairs; nine of us out of 90. Two of the guys sat
and watched for six hours straight, as I did. Lenny was a large guy, two years
younger than myself and looking at his fourth term. My first cellie, Tim,
referred to Lenny as the “Silverback”, not to his face of course. The other
white guy joining the football watchers was named Darren. A 23 year old, fair
skinned freckled faced kid charged with 14 armed robberies. Lenny called him “Honey
Bun” because he bought more and more honey bun pastries on Tuesday’s and could
not make them last a week, so he upped his order each week until he was at
about 35 now and still done with them before Sunday’s games. Darren was also
known as “The Big [drink] Bandit” due to his inclusion of a big soft drink cup
in his hand at every heist. He would drive his pick-up with his bike in the
rear bed to a preselected location about two blocks from his intended target.
He liked video stores and subway sub shops and pizza huts. He would ride his
bike from where he parked to the store, empty cup in hand. Walk in, and if at a
food place, order something to eat. When the food would arrive and it was time
to square up he would calmly put the cup on the counter, open his jacket or
lift his shirt to show the cashier his gun and say; “put all the bills in the register
into the cup”. They would accommodate him, and out the door with his meatball
sub in one hand and a 42 ounce soda cup stuffed with bills in the other he
would go. A quick bike ride to the getaway truck and 14 times it worked without
a hitch. Eventually he made the evening newscasts and someone he went to high
school with recognized him and notified the authorities. As he finished the
story, Lenny added; “That’s why you gotta drop out of school by 9<sup>th</sup>
grade, so not that many people know what you look like,” which I thought showed
incredible foresight on his part.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Monday morning brought with it another cellie for us in cell
24. A 39 year old fella who said he drove a tow truck, and apparently, housed
and sold stolen property much of which was acquired on the first job. We were
all dumber than we thought we were, or at least not as smart as we were certain
we were. Either way, this new guy, Tom, was going for the number one ranking.
Gangster took about a minute to feel the guy out before he started throwing
mental haymakers at him, asking question after question. He was using his false
sincerity voice, feigning interest in anything Tom wished to expound on. Tom
sat on his lowest bunk and Gangster paced as he shot the questions. Tom was
unable to say “I don’t know” and Gangster liked that he had a fountain of
information, a veritable authority on any chosen subject from which to gain
wisdom. Every so often, either Gangster’s question (done deliberately) or Tom’s
answer (done in Zen-idiot fashion) was so preposterous, Gangster would glance
up at me with a big grin to make sure I was following the proceedings, as if
ignoring this was a possibility. This ended only when the cell doors clicked
open and as I walked out with Gangster he said; “I’m gonna let this guy stay
Gilly. This kind of stupid doesn’t come along every day.”<o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-71618178601850325402014-07-23T21:41:00.001-07:002016-09-01T19:34:49.265-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 21<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sunday – September 10,
2006: </b>Sunday mornings continued with its recognizable routine, underway
with the unlocking of cell doors, the self-righteous and the serendipitous vied
for slots to scream at the captive congregation. Among the fella’s with a desire
for creating “look at me” moments – never in short supply – jailhouse preacher
and religious fanatic provided superb opportunities. As best as I could tell,
perhaps the only time some of the guys ever dabbled in the arena of patience
was waiting their turn to place the assemblage under their thrall.
Incarceration guarantees a dearth of significance or purpose, so the illusion
of meaningful behavior while espousing one’s newfound belief system at the top
of the lungs was attractive by contrast. At least, that’s how it looked. There
was not a guy at the “service” I could envision in church on the streets. It
had been a few years since I last attended Sunday service regularly, so maybe
the churches were full of people with head and face tattoos now, I can’t say
either way with certainty.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
While the preachers preached, football fans went about
organizing a gambling pool for the NFL season openers. It was a two Top Ramen
soup buy-in. Top Ramen are the gambling chips of prison and jailhouse casinos,
their value adjusted to match the gouging rate of the facility. Gangster
insisted on paying my way into the pool with such adamancy it might have
sparked something detrimental to my already diminished well-being to disagree.
I won fortunately, and was able to repay the loan by the kick-off of the Sunday
night game. I did not know if he was setting traps for me or attempting in his
own way to be, well, less than anti-social. He seemed sincere and genuine, but
he probably seemed sincere to the missing paperwork guy when he pinned him against
the wall too. I had yet to see him hit anyone, but I was 100% certain if it
came time, he would not hold back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
By approximately 8 P.M. all shaving razors acquired at the
window during the day must be returned. They make an announcement or two
demanding the razors return. If this goes unheeded, the tone of voice on the
second announcement indicates ignoring this responsibility will have negative
consequences. In another races cell (It is worth noting it was not a caucasion
error, because Gangster considered this an egregious act, to be misinterpreted
by other races as disrespectful, and could result in real problems. To insure
white awareness on the issue, in Gangster’s introduction anti-pep talk each new
arrival received, a crystal clear threat was made as prevention.), someone mistakenly
placed the razor at the sinks edge hovering above the Boeing toilet. Someone
else flushed the toilet and in a flash the razor vanished at 200 MPH down into the
vortex of the turbo toilet. Tonight was the night I learned what happens when a disposable
Bic razor disappears.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
By 8:30 everyone was marched cell by cell to a big room with
wooden floors which some called “the gym”. I had not seen the room in three
weeks, and never saw it used in a “gym” capacity during my stay. Around the
room perimeter, 90 of us were told to face the wall, remove all our clothing,
and kneel. I almost whispered 'I hope this isn't some weird dating ritual County employees have' to Gangster, but if I made him laugh and got him in trouble, I'm sure it would have been time to punch someone in the face.While the vast majority of County employees, many from other “tanks”,
gathered in our evacuated area with the intention of ripping each cell to bits,
a smaller group – which overcompensated for their lack of numbers with raging hostility the likes of which I had not yet experienced in my life.
- <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>methodically went around searching the
clothing and naked bodies for a razor blade. I knelt facing the wall when I
could have sworn I heard a County employee say; “Lift your ball sack.” I did
not turn as my reflexes beckoned to satisfy my curiosity and check my hearing.
Whatever I thought I heard, it would be repeated 89 more times. Before it was
repeated however, I heard “bend over, spread your cheeks and cough three times.” A request
synonymous with having a gander up someone’s ass, and something they liked to
do an awful lot in there. My mind scurried for understanding as I clearly heard
the “ball sack” line again. Gradually, I came to realize they were checking
under testicles and up rectums for razors. If they were doing this because
there was precedent, then I had underestimated the level of mental illness
kneeling facing the wall. If it was done just to deter future razor disappearances, further degrade and accelerate
dehumanization, then there was a level of mental illness among the County
employees I had underestimated. Judging strictly by the behavior each group was
exhibiting at the time, I lean toward the latter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-80005218408290767012014-07-21T17:49:00.002-07:002014-07-23T14:11:20.193-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 20<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Saturday – September
9, 2006: </b>The weekends were only different if the County employee’s followed
the rules and gave us the “extra” dayroom time the schedule called for us to
have. No guarantee. We would spend the weekend without a third member in cell
24 I was informed, because Gangster ran yesterday’s addition off <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>without much effort. The guy arrived with no paperwork; a serious faux pas by the current standard. Gangster explained he pressed the guy up against the wall and told him he had 30 seconds
once the doors opened for dayroom to get busy producing paperwork or he’d “beat
the ever-loving shit outta him”. To look at him one needn’t be prodigiously
intuitive to think he meant it. It would appear he yearned for such
opportunity. He had shown me his right hands knuckles with great pride, and
they were indeed well chewed and used for pounding objects which only
reluctantly gave way to make room for those invading knuckles. The hand itself
looked disfigured; warped by time and effort spent in the endless pursuit of
those who preyed upon children – to hear him tell it. But anyone, I suspect,
who did not respect the savage pecking order of their new environs was likely to feel those knuckles. It kept
crossing my mind how stupid someone had to be to attempt establishing
their own beliefs in such a soulless, lawless place as the one
assembled and designed by the <em>Law</em> itself. Time
and again a new arrival with an ego for the ages would be dumped into our
desperate midst, telling us he was the new sheriff in town, only to have
the gumption abruptly stomped out of him in vivid living color. It was never anything
but ugly, and though it got gradually easier to look at with each passing behavioral correction, it remained unsettling to the point I had to look away before the rearranging
of priorities concluded. Before they were through with me though, I would be waiting
for the corrective action and welcoming the change it would produce in the
asshole in question. Some people cannot learn any other way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Gangster jumped ugly on me over the weekend too, but as I
came to expect from him, without the malicious intent. Intent however did
not predicate malice from entering into his tone or words anyhow, it just was
not deliberate, and with Gangster, this was a formidable difference for which I was
grateful. He asked about my meeting with the lawyer, interrupting me at his
choosing when he needed more information than was forthcoming. “What’s your
lawyer’s name?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“David G.[Hispanic surname], you ever hear of him?” Whether
I deliberately left this detail out to spare myself a racial lecture – as everything
in this world was broken down along racial lines – I am not sure. Maybe so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Gilly, for someone who seems smart you make incredibly
stupid decisions! How the fuck can you hire a Mexican lawyer?” I did not try to
answer. There was no answer, I was smart enough still to know that. “This guy
isn’t going to help you. He’s going to trade you off, use you as collateral
with the DA to get one of his own off, or less time. You’re fucked if you stay
with him.” I did not follow. I had no idea what he was even talking about. This
guy went to law school in America, not Mexico, I could not understand his
statement. Not yet anyway. I actually thought Gangster was reacting typically
for someone as institutionalized as himself. It was a mistake I made repeatedly
during the first months; dismissing good advice from people who knew the
system and all of its absolute corruption, so much better than I did. I<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>still mistakenly thought the truth, and
justice mattered then. I could not have been more wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
I actually argued with Gangster over this, which was odd,
since if he put forth the idea the earth was flat I would have agreed on
point. He explained how the DA has quotas, time which must be meted out each
day, week, to make the monthly numbers. Lots of jobs - high paying unskilled
jobs, as well as over educated figures reigning terror over the scum – count on
the system being overstocked. It’s as simple a method of job security ever devised,
and even the U.S. Supreme Court cannot bring change to the corrupt ways.
It is well documented now the C.C.P.O.A. has given the finger to the
High Court, and instructed them too, to go fuck themselves, just as they have
every other entity which tried to pull back on their terroristic approach to
juris prudence. Nothing can stop power which feeds off public ignorance
and fear except a well-educated populace. That will never happen in America,
California, or anywhere else under plutocratic control.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
The point Gangster was making, was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my attorney</i> would allow for me to be given excessive time, in a
trade or deal which allowed another of his clients – an Hispanic one perhaps, who
paid a higher fee (drug dealers, I quickly learned, have money to spend on proper representation, and are categorized as non-violent offenders, therefore subject to only 50% of sentence.) and would certainly result in countless referrals after word
of his great service spread among his clients contemporaries. So for someone to walk away
with probation and a program, the five years they should have received must be accounted for some place else. It sounded crazy to me, and given the source, I
found it easy to dismissed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a fool, what else can
I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-21481494396385284642014-07-16T15:21:00.001-07:002016-09-01T06:17:15.344-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 19<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Friday – September 8,
2006: </b>I got the call over the intercom around 9AM to get dressed. I’d be
going down to meet with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> new
lawyer. Being absent at that point meant I’d miss the arrival of our cellie de
jour and the reception he would receive by cell 24’s very own, one-man
unwelcome wagon, which suited me just fine. It was not yet comfortable for me
to watch another human, being emotionally flogged and mentally disemboweled in
the name of creating space for junk food. Over time, I fully would come to
understand, even welcome such logic, but at this early stage of the journey
through the societal cesspool, I still had more than mere remnants of my former
self floating through my worldview.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
The guy I went down to meet handed me a business card with
one hand while shaking my hand with the other, as a method of expediency I
suppose, because he was in a hurry and had two other clients to meet with after
me. No point wasting too much of his time; it was my life after all that was at
stake, not his. The card said he was the same guy I had spoken to on the phone.
Everything else associated with the phone conversation had changed. He spoke to
the DA, and afterwards, came away working for them. “They have a really tough
case against you here.” I said nothing in response. Not a single word, and if
my facial expression changed, well, then I guess corpses can change facial
expressions. He was waiting for something from me, to rebuke and shove back
down my throat. He had already been paid. He did have a few questions for me,
which, as I reviewed them later in my head, did not really pertain to the case.
He wanted to find out if I could raise any more money; borrow from a relative,
sell a car or some other possession. Then, in retrospect, he asked me the
strangest question of all; “What’s [the “victim’s”] cell phone number?” I
didn’t hesitate, I just gave it to him. Later it dawned on me; ‘why didn’t he
ask the DA for that number?’ Probably because the DA knows <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> attorney is not supposed to be entering into a personal
relationship with someone in that position too. Not being familiar with the
inner workings of the system, I could not quite explain my uneasiness after
meeting face to face with this man other than to say intrinsically I knew he
was not on my side. I just did not understand the corrupt, but completely
legal, back room dealings which go on between defense attorneys and the DA’s
office. All I knew for certain at this juncture was the man I spoke to on the
phone was completely different in every way from the guy who sat before me
then. He reiterated the deal for five years at 85%, offered to me on my visit
to court by the public defender, except he stated the five years at 80%. Later, much later, I realized he was so uninterested in my case except for bartering purposes regarding reduced time for other clients, that he simply did not care enough to get that detail correct. Having refused such a deal then, it was even
more deplorable coming from a guy who just accepted $5,000 to negotiate on my
behalf.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“As your attorney,” and he delivered this line in believable
fashion, with a straight face, “I highly recommend you take this deal.” I could
not believe the gall, but I had read a little Shakespeare. In Henry VI the line,
“the first thing we must do is kill all the lawyers”, relates to the common man’s
frustration, I believe, with the power the law has, through its ‘officers of
the court’, to wreck someone’s life. I understood the play just a bit better
than when I woke that morning. My mind was both blank and racing at the same
time. Nothing came out of my mouth, I could not formulate words yet. The only
word coming to mind – and it came over and over – I kept to myself; scumbag.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
I returned to the cell a little after 3PM. Though it was
probably less than 200 feet each way, moving the miscreants about is low on the
priority list. And while not leaving the building, strip searches complete with
a quick peek up my ass were still conducted. After seeing the cell full of food
Gangster pulled from his ass, the County employee’s penchant for looking up
there made a little more sense to me. Gangster was alone in the cell when I got
back. “Why the long face, Gilly?” One thing I quickly realized about Gangster,
he had this surprisingly astute ability to read people. Climbing back up onto
my bunk, I began to explain how things went with the lawyer. Before I really
got started, he interrupted me. “Hey Gilly, I really do wanna hear how it went
down there, but before you tell me, I have another thing I wanna ask you about.”
I could hear my brain say, “uh oh”, and my stomach knot up. He paced back
and forth with his hands behind his back, looking down at the floor. “You’re up
there writing all the time, what the fuck are you writing?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
I felt myself pause, hesitant to answer even though
the truth should not result in a pseudo-heart attack, nervous breakdown or even a permanent
stutter. “I’m writing letters.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Duh Gilly, what the fuck else would you be writing? I didn’t
think you were up there rewriting the Constitution, I mean <i>who</i> are you writing
the letters<i> to</i>?” ‘Where the hell is our new cellie?’ This was occurring to me
then, ‘why isn’t he here yet?’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Friends, and some of the people I worked with.” I
heard my voice apologizing in tone, at least, if I could not figure out why I would apologize yet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“What are you writing about? I mean, you’re up there all
fuckin day writing these letters, what the fuck is so interesting that you have
to tell them? Why are you doing that?” He was not looking at me as he paced and
interrogated, different than his tactics with BD and the guy I think was Glenn.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“No one I know was ever in jail, and I just write about
stuff, you know, that's here, that I think they might find interesting, or funny.” I was acutely
aware I was discussing Gangster’s home, even if he was not, and I was treading
very carefully not to insult the guy who was essentially my host by suggesting the
place was absurd or ludicrous to the uninitiated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“So you write funny stuff, huh? Why don’t you read me something
that’s funny? Ya know, I could use a good laugh too. C’mon Gilly, read
something funny to me.” He looked up finally at the conclusion of his request.
He did not have his regular war-face on, but I had no indication what this new
face meant. So I scrambled through the six page letter I was working on and
tried to find something funny, and I read it to him when I did. It was
immediately rejected.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
He made a brief snarky sound followed by, “Yeah, that’s real
funny Gilly, read something else.” The way he said it, so quickly and so
curtly, was different. So I read something else I thought might be funny.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Then he answered, “Yeah, that’s real good too, but that’s
not it either. Read something else.” I heard the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">either</i>, and I saw the devious smirk on his face he attempted to
hide by keeping his head down while he paced, and I knew what he wanted. I
cleared my throat and began.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“The new guy I have for a ‘Cellie’, who goes by the monicker
‘[name of town] Gangster’, might just be the scariest person I’ve ever met.
Whoever has week four in the ‘When will Frankie die in jail’ pool, your money
is looking good.” At which point he spun around and exploded towards me. I did
not know what was about to happen, and my first reflex was to raise my arms to
shag incoming blows. But his right hand which began whirling in my direction as
he spun stopped a foot in front of my face and had a finger extended,
pointing to my nose. “Whoever’s got week four should double down,” he yelled in
as gregarious a tone of voice as I had heard from him yet. It spooked me. Then
I watched him laughing hard at my reaction and shaking his head. “Gilly, don’t
leave your personal letters and shit laying around on your bunk when you go out
like that. Fold ‘em up and tuck ‘em under your bedroll or something. People don’t
care around here, they’ll pick your shit up and read it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-44457589967536613932014-07-15T14:53:00.001-07:002016-09-01T00:50:16.514-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 18<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Thursday – September
7, 2006: </b>Our new ‘Cellie’ - I believe his name was Glenn - did not make it
till lights out. He hit the button screaming “nervous breakdown!”
semi-hysterically even by the tough asylum grading. Gangster did not try to
yell over him. I could feel the bunk shaking from his laughter below me. I am
certain I was not as happy on the streets as Gangster now appeared, his heroin
hangover over. His mood was also buoyed by the wad of illicit contraband he
pulled from his rectum, which he used to perform his of version of the loaves
and fishes, resulting in a stockpile of edible garbage. He probably did not
operate as efficiently on the streets as here. It’s hard to pull something out
of your ass and produce enough food for a month on the outside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
The same crew as the night before arrived to pick a nervous
and stuttering Glenn up from where he sat on the toilet. He walked into the
cell Wednesday morning with his chest cartoonishly puffed out. The pose was so
strenuous to hold, he could not breathe and got dizzy. He did not have both
feet inside number 24 yet when Gangster greeted him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“What the fuck are you supposed to be, huh?” I assumed it
was a rhetorical question or I would have buzzed in, that’s how ridiculously
obvious he looked. “A fuckin orange peacock?” Our new cellie was off to a bad
start, and the look on his face had no comeback in it. In one minute,
Gangster literally and figuratively deflated him. Then he went about picking
him apart the way I have seen lawyers pick apart witnesses in the movies,
except with a much cruder and vulgar vocabulary and maybe an indication or two
of psychopathic behavior. The bottom line was, with all the groceries Gangster
accumulated, there wasn’t enough room in there for another guy; 300 Top Ramen
soups, while nutritionally empty, still covers a lot of cubic square feet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Glenn’s stutter amused Gangster in an interesting way to me:
he wanted to take credit for it. After Glenn left, or rather, was escorted out
sobbing with a blanket over his head, Gangster got up and stood facing me. “Did
you hear the blubbering and stuttering coming out of the Peacock’s mouth? He
had snot all over his shirt <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>pants.
That’s not so easy to produce Gilly! He turned into a crying, stuttering,
little bitch after I let the air out of him, huh!” Glenn – if that was in fact his
name – was not a small guy, nor was he old. On the streets, without knowing
either of them, one would have thought it a fair fight. I did not get an
opportunity, nor did I seek one, to speak to Glenn directly. He seemed
confused, of course Gangster’s rapid fire style of questioning in order to
defeather the Peacock might have had something to do with it. But anyone stupid
enough to walk into a County jail, with, pound for pound, some of the sickest
people in the world, believing yourself capable of being a one man ‘Shock and
Awe’ repellant force simply underscores his fuzzy relationship with reality.
Still, Gangster was taking mental illness where I never saw it go before.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“That stutter wasn’t there when he came strutting in. You
see how he was walking Gilly? Wonder what song he had playing in his head for
the soundtrack to go with that puffy-walk. I hope that stutter he had by the end of the day, stays as bad as it was when he left. Fuck him,” he said as he gave
the back of the cell door the finger. <o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-13426232993406767452014-07-14T07:09:00.001-07:002016-09-01T00:39:08.989-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 17<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wednesday – September
6, 2006: </b>The life I led prior to being arrested was vague and ambiguous, at
best; a desultory existence devoid of any real goal other than changing how I
felt each day. No planned steps were ever followed up upon, because nothing was
ever planned. Nothing about my life defined who I was because I never figured
out who I was. Now, this methodical behemoth which was operating broken and
crippled from overwork and unable to perform the task of its original intent,
was set to define who I am for me. I stood on the highway and waited for a
truck to run me over because something scared me on the side of the road, now,
it was too late to get to the curb. Much time was spent pondering how I
nurtured this dilemma. I went through life in a self-manufactured haze;
judgment impaired and my cognizance addled intentionally. I placed the ‘kick
me’ sign on my back. All this made it hard to blame someone else for kicking
me. My demeanor could not be described as benign, not by a longshot. Being a
New Jersey native living in California, much of my behavior – behavior I was
oblivious to, having soaked in it for 24 years growing up – was misinterpreted
at first by the natives; an asshole New Yorker. Maybe, but not with malicious
intent. As I reflected back, I saw who I once was as unwittingly obnoxious, and
more than a little misguided and sick. Not a violent thug, though the tag was
about to be attached to the rest of my life. The truth would never matter again
if it did not matter now. Looking like someone who could bust someone’s head if
prone to punching heads, does not mean people are being hit. But wounded people
will reach for any weapon of convenience I have learned, regardless of who is responsible
for the seminal injury against them. I lived so recklessly, so careless with
how I behaved and the things I said, if the tumblers lined up wrong, the target
I placed on myself would be too big to miss, making me the perfect place to
dump such emotional pain. An underachieving, semi-conscious, aimless oaf.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
So I took the money intended for bail and gave it all to a
lawyer. During my first visit to court with the court appointed attorney, I
felt uneasy watching her shuffle piles of papers and repeatedly asking me my
name. She dealt with those she represented the way someone doling out free
samples at a fair deals with the endless stream of moochers; she never looked
anyone in the face, and said the same things over and over. I was offered a
deal that day for five years at 85% time, meaning I would do roughly four years,
three months. An outrageous miscarriage of justice. From what I know about laws
and courts now, if the truth mattered and facts were taken into account, this
belonged in civil court. Since I had no money to sue for, and the State of
California now pays people for being “victims”, this was the most lucrative
avenue to pursue. The money was sent to a man who claimed to be an amateur boxer
before he went to college and law school. This appealed to me because a boxer
would know a right handed person would mark the left side of someone’s head. He
also should have an understand that such a blow cannot be delivered without marking
the hand, and the difference between a blow from a fist and a blunt object,
like say a door. I thought he would be on my side. That is how I thought it
worked. I would discover as the weeks went by, I was wrong on every
preconceived idea I had regarding this attorney, and how it worked.<o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-8572244271199317042014-07-13T03:16:00.001-07:002016-08-30T17:55:20.783-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 16<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Tuesday – September
5, 2006: </b>The guys who excelled at being incarcerated, grizzled veterans of
society’s seamy underside, were good at odd skills which rarely translated to
any purposeful function on the streets. Sleep-eating at breakfast was one of
those skills. Guys would come out of the cells resembling zombies with
concealed weapons – in case someone woke them – and lifelessly traverse
stairways and other vertical mobile sleepers without bumping, as if possessing
the same innate sonar bats have. They would eat breakfast asleep, a chore
simplified since none of the food required chewing. Everything I ate for six
years seemed to have the consistency of thick cream of wheat; even the soy
burgers. If meals were served on a paper plate instead of a tray, I would have
rolled the contents into a funnel and poured them down my gullet. That would
have saved time, especially at lunch and dinner when the grizzled veterans are
wide awake and lecturing simultaneously. There is an unusually high percentage
of loud speakers in there; Sunday morning religious ceremonies aren’t the only
place reserved for screaming. There is often thunderous woofing in the bathroom
and shower due to the acoustic echoes which the guys would then attempt to shout over
by raising their voice even more. There are few things as bewildering as being
on a toilet or in a shower while someone holds you hostage by
attempting to scream over himself three feet away from you. Whether standing in
the shower naked or sitting on the toilet, it's a no-win situation; a
yell-a-thon where everyone wants to win. How does one determine the winner?
Apparently volume is the pivotal factor, because often I would struggle to make
sense of what was being said, especially in the shower, but the spit and wind
flying out of the lecturer’s mouth would indicate importance. Also, it helped
to recognize changes in the shades of the face barking out brilliance and spot
bulging veins as tells. I almost never understood what a guy who had his face
stuck in a can of paint for nine months before arriving was trying to express
to me, but during the nine year term I did at St. James elementary school at
the hands of the so-called “Sisters of Mercy” (a bigger lie than calling prison
guards “Peace Officers”) I developed a survival mechanism which allows me to
appear completely zeroed in on what’s being said to me, nodding on cue
instinctively when needed, and live to walk away. None the wiser.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
After breakfast the professionals lay immediately in their
bunk and there’s no way of knowing if they have any recall of breakfast or not,
it is rarely discussed. I would stay awake either reading or writing letters.
Gangster had not fallen into any discernable pattern of sleep yet since ending
the dry heaves and fade ways. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
morning he was up and pacing by nine. Every few trips, he would pause by the
cell door and glance out through the tiny window, eclipsing it from my view with
his head. He talked to me and asked less provocative questions than he did to BD,
not trying to incite me, but just to control the air in the cell. Finally, he
stopped and stayed planted by the door. “Well alright,” he said in a tone I long
ago associated with pep talks before readying to charge onto the field of play.
“Gilly, it looks like my new chew toy is about to be delivered.” He turned
around rubbing the palms of his hands together, a typically maniacal look
covered his face. He always looked as if he might be thinking something devious
and evil, and on some level, he probably was too. To this point, I had heard
nothing make me think otherwise. “I am gonna make this sonofabith wish he had
more respect for the laws of our society, Gilly!” Another new feeling crept
over me; I was feeling sorry for someone unseen and unspoken to in my life,
that I knew was walking into an ambush, and I never gave thought to trying to prevent it from
happening; not a remote consideration. Jungle rules were in effect.<o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-61782269464921253452014-07-11T14:09:00.001-07:002016-08-30T15:37:03.773-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 15<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Labor Day Monday –
September 4, 2006: </b>Holidays were marked by the hollow feelings brought on
by highlighting what was missing from my life, and an extra piece of fruit on
the breakfast tray, still served promptly before 4 A.M. The fruit was nice, the
excessive reflection playing on a loop in my head was maddening. Thank God I
had Gangster to drag me back to earth. Well, maybe his intent was to drag
people another level down from there, but for now at least, he was content to
stop at earth with me. No one was transferred to our cell on Sunday, which I
came to learn was a day set aside for maniacal religious observances and very
little movement of the societal miscreants. To my relief, Gangster was
seemingly giving me a pass to some degree, and after an entire day together in
the cell I emerged with nothing more than a nickname he and he alone would call
me for the rest of our relatively brief time together: ‘Gilly’. It was short
for ‘Gilligan’, which spoke more to his assessment of me after spending most of
Sunday grilling me and searching for points of weakness or vulnerability to
exploit. To both my relief and surprise what seemed to interest him most about
me, was the same thing that did with BD. When he asked, “what do you do on the
streets?’ Instead of replying “dumpster diving” as BD had, I told him where I
had been working. It did not take long to realize Gangster did not know many 9
to 5 types. At least, he did not have routine interaction with them, unless one
considers beating someone up and taking their car routine. He wanted a full
rundown on my case; details so he could properly assess the situation for me. I
was coming to understand the guys who get arrested and go to jail for a living,
were very good at predicting outcomes. At least guys like Gangster were, because
they were not afraid to deliver bad news. Discussing cases is topic one and
nothing else comes close. Guys like BD were always telling people they would
get off, charges would be dismissed, and that they had “nothing on them”, which
I would find interesting when I could not avoid hearing him. He would tell a
guy caught on video, with DNA evidence at the scene and marked bills in his
possession, “they got nothing on you”. Then he would ask the guy for a piece of
fruit, or tea bag, or something else he wanted. In time, I came to appreciate
Gangster’s approach of giving the bad news to you straight and taking from you
what he wanted. It was simpler and less manipulative. My anxiety and stress
levels were too maxed out for games and Gangster was not much for game playing,
tough he was fairly skilled at inducing stress and anxiety without them. Although
a case could be made mentally unravelling BD was sort of a game. He also wanted
to know about what I liked, meaning what were my drugs of choice. When I told
him, “I drank a lot of beer and smoked a lot of pot” he refused to believe me. I
admitted, of course, there were other things too, but beer and pot made up
probably 98% of my life’s excessive indulgence, and I had often gone years
without anything else. He insisted I had to have shot dope at some point and
inspected my arms for needle marks. Junkies can locate the tracks I would come
to learn, and after a thorough going over, he was satisfied I was not an intravenous
drug user. He was; for that fact, seemed to think everyone was too, and the
majority of guys in there were quite comfortable with the notion of sticking a
needle into their arm, or anywhere else they could find a vein if the arms were
shot out. Over the coming weeks, as I began to lose weight while the other ‘Woods’
(short for ‘woodpecker’, and the term used for non-skinhead white guys) were
fattening up, he speculated as obnoxiously as possible about what a lush I must
have been out there to be losing weight so fast. He was fairly accurate in his
assessment, as usual.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Late Sunday night, something happened which I never even
considered possible. If I had considered this event in advance, I would have to
be very worried about my thoughts, so I am glad it shocked me as much as it
did. I sat up on the top bunk, face down writing a letter. Gangster sat on the
powerful commode and without even looking directly towards him, I could see he
was sitting in somewhat of an unorthodox manner, given that seats intention. He
was tilted off to one side, his head appeared down between his knees, one hand
reached between the legs and the other around and underneath the side which was
tilted up. He was emitting an odor which was beyond offensive and something he
would not tolerate from someone else. This odor would have long ago prompted
him to scream “Flush!” The toilet, much like a jet engine, sucked air through
its formidable mechanism along with whatever else came its way, and gaseous
emissions could be minimalized. If properly sealed when sitting, it created a “pop”
when standing from the suction. I saw a bed sheet flushed down it once. If a
small dog were to be walking by and someone flushed it, the dog would be sucked
from the floor and disappear into its maw. But the stench coming from whatever
was going on over there caused me to pull my shirt up over my nose. For the
first time since being there, I truly regretted not having a pillow (a pillow
is a luxury item, “this ain’t a fuckin hotel” I was told), because if I did, I
would be suffocating myself with it at this moment. “Got it!” Gangster
proclaimed down to the floor, then he popped up to his feet, his right hand in
the air shaking a filthy looking baggie the way a victorious athlete might wave
a championship trophy after a grueling contest. I lost control of myself and
asked a question. I am not certain, but it might have been my first unforced verbiage
with Gangster. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“What’s that?” It was a reflex really, speaking at that
point. He explained we go to the store Tuesday, which was – as was almost
everything at this juncture of my life – news to me. Once a week in County, and once per month in prison, if there is
money placed on your “books” by an outside party, a commissary slip is provided
and you can order Top Ramen soups for 67 cents apiece, or some other edible
atrocity at an extreme markup. Going to the store, I would come to learn, was a
big deal. The slip is turned in by 10 A.M. and around 3-4 P.M. trustee inmates
who feel they deserve a tip from you for delivering the goods, show up with
your order in paper bags. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“This,” Gangster said, shaking the bag in my direction, “is
going to fill this cell with food by the end of the week.” It invited a follow
up question, but for the first time in my life which I could recall, I felt
restraint and patiently waited for more details. He turned his back to the cell
door in case a rare or ambitious public servant might walk by and peeked in. He
unraveled the baggie to produce two more baggies, thankfully each much cleaner.
He tossed the outer covering into the jet toilet. One bag was much bigger than
the other and appeared to be high grade marijuana which I am certain I would
smell had the confined area not been doused with Gangster’s odiferous colon.
The other contained a smaller amount of something I could not identify, but
would soon find out was heroin. He held the two bags up, one in each hand. “This
one is for them, and this one is for us. You watch me trade a couple needle
thin joints that’ll burn like fuses for sacks of groceries on Tuesday. But
right after lights out tonight, we can do this,” he indicated the hand holding
the heroin. I had never done heroin. Somehow, at that age, 45, under those
circumstances, it did not seem like the right time. Had I been with Mick and
Keith at Altamont I am sure I might have gone the other way, but I just could
not see the point here. “I don’t want any, thanks though.” He smiled but did
not verbally address my response immediately. I thought later that it might
have been a test, and if I took it, I would have failed some obscure
demarcation limits he had imposed on me in his head. The use of the words “us”
and “we” by him were troubling in a way too, though at first I could not say
why. But it was clearly preferable to “dumpster diving piece of shit”. Things
were rolling in randomly to my thought processor. After I gave him the
mini-bible I had accepted from the jailhouse pastor rather than explain my
objection to organized religion, I had to watch how he was going to combine
heroin and religion in cell 24. He tore a page out of the mini-bible, rolled it
up nice and tight, then used it to snort a line of heroin from the stainless
steel tabletop. He stood, turned and looked at me before exhaling. “You don’t
know what you’re missing Gilly”, he said with the release of his breath. No argument
there. He sat on the metal stool and began tearing out several more pages with
diamond-cutter precision. He tweaked each loose page of religiosity a few times
to his liking, then proceeded to carefully place weed into them and roll joints
for the marketplace, and it was a sellers’ market I would come to see. The
first one he rolled he held up to me, I thought so I could examine his craftsman-like
skill, so I nodded affirmatively and said, “Nicely done.” He was very mellow
which had me wishing he could be rigged to some type of heroin-drip device for
the duration of our time together. He laughed at my evaluation. “I don’t give a
fuck what you think,” he said with a grin (thank God), “take it, it’s yours.
You’re the pothead.” I reached for it the way a cowboy in an old movie reaches
for the gun that’s been slid across the floor to him, so the guy who is about
to kill him can say he did not shoot an unarmed man. I held it nervously in my
hand for a few minutes. Then while he was busy producing one after another
pausing only to snort more heroin, I tore an opening in the stitching of my bed
roll and slipped it in there. “Gilly, by Tuesday night, we are going to have
bags of food lined up and stacked to the ceiling along that wall.” He pointed
to the only stretch of wall accessible. Again he said “we”, and maybe because
he used it in conjunction with “Gilly” it occurred to me: he’s the ‘Skipper’,
that’s his perception; I am the proverbial ‘Little Buddy’. Oh well, it was
still better and much safer than “piece of shit dumpster diver”. Labor Day was
spent making deals and placing orders. He worked the dayroom with the aplomb of
a powerful politician working the crowd on his home turf where he knew he was
loved and admired. I spent the day walking in circles around the perimeter of
it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-43937109944794397612014-07-11T10:49:00.001-07:002014-07-11T10:49:59.804-07:00
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Day 14<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sunday – September 3,
2006: </b>At 8:45 last night, BD went “Man Down”. The institutional term for
being found on the floor or unable to walk and calling for medical help. Maybe
with the Gangster sleeping just above him, it was more of a premonition than
actual medical condition. Gangster picked at BD with casual truculence when confined
to the cell, which was 20 hours per day on average. He was remarkable in his
creativity involving mental and emotional disassembling and battering of
people, if the word can be used to describe a brand of cruel torture where the
ultimate goal is provoking a swing, so he may then mercilessly pummel BD
without a new charge; ‘Mutual Combat’ is the nomenclature for beating the shit
out of each other. All the sleeping and dry heaving left Gangster invigorated
and refreshed and incapable of keeping it to himself. With his newfound zest,
he immediately put everything he had into draining the will to live from all
around him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Each cell in county jail, in addition to the pristine if not
lavish metal furnishings and turbo-powered toilet, comes with the final
antiquated vestige of the once admired and noble concept of ‘Presumed
Innocence’; the cornerstone of the American Judicial System, which has been
replaced by a bundle of cash. A speaker/intercom system built into the wall and
covered by a nice metal plate which blends aesthetically with the metal stool
and matching table. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is an inside joke
among the roll-callers and overeducated ticket punchers which is not funny if
financially unable to make bail. You are guilty if you are still there and the
wheels of justice now turn strictly in attempts to maximize the sub human’s
worth to them, to keep the defendant in their gooey web, to feed the strongest
union in the history of California; The C.C.P.O.A. The California Correctional
Peace Officers Association. This politically active covert group influences
everyone from judges’ sentences to State Assembly people when laws are being
created or redesigned, or anyone who campaigns for office with their hand out.
People who are ‘Presumed Innocent’ still have rights such as being able to ask
for help in a medical emergency. Prison cells have no line out for emergencies,
and ambulances less than a mile away on ground can take an hour to arrive. It
is made abundantly clear to anyone who can take a hint: we are a commodity, not
a human. They care enough not to let one escape, but it’s ok to die. Realizing
I am siding with the “scum”, not just because I am in the group, but because
hypocrisy for monetary gain is wrong when I did it, and it is profoundly worse
when institutionalized and sanctioned by the State. Why is certain immoral
behavior and corruption acceptable if it appears to be only hurting bad people?
They are still stealing from the taxpayer and they are typically returning an angrier,
more dangerous individual to the streets. The system as it is set up now,
polishes the anger, refines the danger, and then redirects back into society
more volatile than before. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not see
how that helps anyone except those union members.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
BD, in a new dramatic voice he must have held back for the
occasion, screamed quasi hysterically into the holes of the metal plate as he
held the button. As he pleaded, using his best life-and-death voice, Gangster
stood behind him yelling equally loud and without the oscillation in tenor BD
was so effectively injecting into his voice to give it more of a cry for help
or wailing effect, Gangster’s barking was drowning him out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Don’t listen to this piece of shit, he’s fine. He just
wants to get out cause he’s scared. He’s a dumpster diver. If he’s lying on the
floor when you get up here, don’t put him on a stretcher, wipe your boots on
him. He’s a piece of shit dumpster diver.” As long as BD tried to speak,
Gangster went on behind him. After a half dozen tries or so, BD just started
screaming, “HEART ATTACK! HEART ATTACK!” repeatedly till even the most
uninspired county employee on the other end could not feign confusion. They
both looked psychotic, and then it hit me: once BD was gone, I would be the
lone depository for that 255 pounds of egregious psychosis until someone else
shows up. One need not be a student of psychology or human nature to arrive at
the conclusion, once BD left, Gangster was not suddenly going to undergo a
personality change. All the venomous baiting and innuendo Gangster hurled about
like well-aimed harpoons were going to continue to fly. I suddenly felt like
Poland on August 31, 1939. What I could not help but be taken aback by – and everything
from the cuisine to swastika tattoos on foreheads were constantly knocking me
for a loop – was Gangster’s refusal to tone it down even when the staff entered
the cell. As the medical crew scooped BD from the cement floor and uniformed
county officers stood by at the doorway, he seemed to turn the volume down, and
the venomous content up. “You’re a piece of shit and you always will be BD.
Next time you dive into a dumpster why don’t you stay there!” The officers told
him to tone it down. He did not seem to notice them. “Save everyone some time
guys, just take him upstairs and toss him right into a dumpster. You hear that
BD? They’re taking you home! You fuckin coward!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
After everyone was gone and the cell door locked, Gangster
got up and started pacing. I never looked up from the letter I was writing. “You
hear those fuckin cops tellin me to shut up?” It was only the two of us, so he
had to be talking to me. “Yeah, I did.” The awkward silence prompted me to fill
it. “How come you didn’t just do it, make it easier on yourself, aren’t you
worried about retaliation?” He stopped pacing directly in front of me forcing
me to look up into the eyes of the predator. “What are they gonna fuckin do?
Arrest me? Fuck them.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
It was not as long or bad of a night as the potential suggested.
Gangster was behaving like someone who lived for food just leaving an
all-you-can-eat buffet. He was temporarily satiated I hoped, long enough for
them to get someone else in here, which I knew, due to the overcrowding, would
not take long.<o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-49191738166926722162014-07-08T12:59:00.001-07:002014-07-08T12:59:47.136-07:00
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Day 13<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Saturday – September
2, 2006:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>The ‘Gangster’, despite his
obvious mixed feelings regarding religion, rose from the dead today. After
about 40 hours of decomposing from within, a radical paradigm shift, as abrupt
and nerve wracking as an earthquake was underway in cell 24, which, not
coincidently, suddenly felt even smaller than its 5.5 X 11.5 feet. As the
geographically designated Gangster resumed living, those in his immediate
vicinity felt a little closer to death. I know I did, and BD would fake a heart
attack by lights out in order to escape any further familiarization with our
Lazarus-like cohabitant. As color returned to the Gangster’s face, venomous
words followed, almost entirely focused on BD. BD suffered from an inability to
do nothing and say nothing, or recognizing such a path of behavior as an
alternative route to survival. Gangster tormented him about dumpster diving and
asked why he didn’t take a second job as a doormat. He wanted to suggest a
third job.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Why don’t you, you know, rent yourself out as one of those
things. Ah goddammit, what are those things called? Hey, what do they call
those things people spit in.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Without looking up from the letter I was writing, I knew he
was talking to me so I answered. “A spittoon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Yeah, that’s it. You could be a spittoon too!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Gangster passed his time like that. Some people read books.
Some abused easy and convenient targets to amuse themselves. Others waited
their turn to read one of the three newspapers which were delivered to the
dayroom – one for the blacks, one for the Hispanics, and one for the whites.
The newspapers were segregated. So were the dayroom tables. Not only couldn’t a
white sit at the designated ‘Black’ tables under any circumstances, but he had
better not walk between them either. I discovered this while standing in line
at the observation desk where the county officials sat watching us behind a
very thick, difficult to see through, pane of something I’m sure was not
regular glass. I was waiting to return the razor I was given to shave with, as
was required by the overseers. Supposedly the guys like to keep them, break
them apart, and fasten the blade to a toothbrush in a way that allows the
toothbrush to slice flesh instead of brush teeth. As soon as the official said
he marked me as ‘returned’, I bolted for the TV set where the last pre-season
game by the local team was about to kick off. Unfortunately, the shortest
distance took me directly between the black’s tables and it never even crossed
my mind I was committing an offense. I sat down and watched the kickoff. Before
it was 2<sup>nd</sup> down, ‘Boone’, an amicable enough Skinhead and white rep
was sliding down beside me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Did you see what you just did?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Me? What?” I did not have to fake ignorance. As time went
by, the preposterous nature of the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>local
customs wore off and I accepted and took for granted behaviors I find hard to
explain, but at this point, I still did not know if he was kidding me or not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
“Dude, you walked right through the black’s tables.” I still
was not sure what he meant, and good rep that he was, he read my face. “Not
only can’t you sit over there, you can’t walk between their tables either.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
It had not been two weeks since I joined the other side, and
habits from my prior life, like impulsively reacting with questions to things I
found silly, had not left me yet. “Is that their idea or ours?” I could see the
swastika on Boone’s head move as he narrowed his eyebrows and his forehead
furrowed, pondering my inquiry, or maybe whether he might bust me across the head
when I was not looking. “Does that really matter to you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
He had a point, that’s why he was the rep. He said he
already apologized to them on my behalf, so I did not have to bother. What I
did have to do was 123 ‘burpies’. Burpies are a name given to a full body and
cardio workout designed to be done is confined settings. The fella’s would like
to believe it is an exercise regimen devised by Navy Seals or some other heroic
unit in case they are taken prisoner of war; which is quite different than being
taken prisoner of peace. The number, 123, had some kind of added significance
to it also, and it was explained to me but it has escaped my mind. It might
have been the number one arrived at if you added up all the digits in Hitler’s
phone number or something along those lines. The Third Reich was getting a lot of
references among the guys I was to be aligned with in the event of a fracas. They
were like ‘Bizzarro World” historians, and I could not help but wonder how so
many people could come to see and interpret historical events so incorrectly.
He spent most of the 1<sup>st</sup> half with me up in my cell going burpie for
burpie with me until we were both sweating profusely, even though no one was
permitted to take a shower for about six hours. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-85358695142526138262014-07-03T07:02:00.001-07:002014-08-10T16:27:50.634-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Day 12<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Friday – September 1,
2006: </b>I did not sleep well anywhere: A condition irritated by being
relocated to worst class and bunking a few feet above a guy named ‘Gangster’
who’s shadow was big enough to park a car in. The fact he was in a foul mood when
up – to walk three feet and bend over the toilet to wretch – did nothing to
quell my insomnia. In time, I would come to recognize heroin withdrawal for
what it was, but back then, I was under the impression I would soon have the
flu. The only time he spoke to me in 24 hours was indirectly when he yelled at
whoever was tossing and turning so much and shaking the bunk. On one trip to
the toilet I glanced down to where he was bent over in nothing but his boxers,
barking inhumanly and uncontrollably into the stainless steel turbo-powered
commode Boeing would have been proud to engineer. There, on the back of
his right shoulder, spreading under his arm onto his right ribcage and across
the whole of his back, then disappearing under the boxers momentarily before
continuing onto his left thigh, was one enormous tattoo. I tilted my head to
gain better perspective, confirming my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me, and
once the image came clear, it became very clear: there was the Devil, holding
Jesus in a kind of headlock with his left arm, positioned behind him. Satan
held clutched in his right hand a syringe of a hypodermic needle with his thumb
pressing down on the plunger as he drove the needle into the right side of Jesus’
neck, clearly against his will, judging by facial expressions. It was chilling,
not due to any firmly held religious beliefs instilled during my nine year term
under the menacing hand of the ‘Sisters of Mercy’, but because I suddenly
realized I was trapped in a cement box with someone willing to adorn himself in
such profound blasphemy which on some level, he had to be thinking was a good
idea. Before he raised to an upright position, I looked away and down at the
letter I was writing in my lap. It might have been residue from the nine years
of suffocating intimidation pressed upon me by the ‘Sisters of Mercy’, but not
making eye contact with a predator was instinctive to me. Eye contact opens a
subtle door in the mind of the predator, and invites them to create perceptions
about the prey. The perceived reality never ends well for the limping wildebeest
at the watering hole, and the predators among humans I encountered did not maim
or kill merely as a result of hunger. Things began to dawn on me,
unnerving the primitive part of my brain and its reflexive functions. It took
time for me to become aware, but my heart would race without me moving; my eyes
would blink rapidly; I could not go to the bathroom or sleep; my <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Medulla oblongata was misfiring from sensory
overload, triggering the flight instinct while the cerebral cortex dealt with
the reality that there was nowhere to run, and fighting without rules or
scoreboards never held much appeal for me. This attitude placed me in a quiet,
though distinct minority. On this night, in one unmistakable moment of clarity,
I realized how differently I thought compared to my new cohabitants. About 50
of us sat surrounding the lone TV in the dayroom that evening. I was down, sitting
on the floor in front of the six or so tables - divided up evenly between the
races – watching the movie ‘Casino’ with Robert De niro and Joe Pesci. At one
point, someone is caught counting cards or cheating the house in some way, and
results in the patron being taken to a back room. As part of the lesson the
cheater is taught, some Casino goon abruptly and shockingly – at least to me –
thrusts a knife into the back of his hand as it is held down on a table. The imagery
caused me to reflexively turn away. In doing so I found myself suddenly looking
into the faces of the crowd around me. To say no one else found the scene
unsettling is too understated. I saw smiles and expressions of pure unmitigated
joy and pleasure in response to the stabbing; a complete lack of anything which
could be construed as appalled or even mildly disturbed. It rattled me, and I
soon got up and walked in circles around the dayroom’s perimeter alone. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-14319546089439081382014-06-21T07:51:00.002-07:002014-06-21T07:51:29.912-07:00
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Day 11<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Thursday – August 31,
2006: </b>Around 6 A.M. Tim’s name was called over the PA system and told to “roll
it up”, which meant gather whatever was passing as possessions together and
prepare for departure. He would be going to one of the County’s two camps for
the remainder of his six weeks. By 7 A.M. Tim would be the first person I met
along this sordid path, get to know only the most intimate and gruesome details
of their lives, then abruptly depart and never see them again. In about 98
percent of the cases that was just fine with me. As soon as he was gone, BD hurriedly
moved his bedding material into the middle space of the three bunk stack. I was
in the top bunk which suited me as well as any bunk in a toilet could. It was
the only bunk with enough visibility after lights out to read and write. The
lower bunk was a couple inches above floor, and to the minds of those
unfortunate enough to care about such logistics, the least desirable. The middle
bunk mattered to the same minds far more than it should have, and such
significance to seemingly meaningless statuses would become an ever increasing
part of life now. Around 11 A.M. I watched through the small window on the
metal cell door as the latest arrivals, none of whom looked new, entered
single-file to their new residences. Two were dispatched to lower tier cells
and the third walked slowly behind his uniformed escort up the stairs towards
us. He was tall, well over six foot, and though appearing exhausted, was not
too tired to scowl constantly. Our cell door clicked to unlock and the officer
swung it open for our new cellie. He walked in and stood silently until the
cell door clicked closed. I was sitting on the top bunk writing a letter, BD
stood as the official greeter. “Is that your shit on the middle bunk?” he asked
BD, to which he replied affirmatively. “You have five seconds to move it or I’ll
flush that shit down the toilet.” I tried not to stare, but there was nowhere
else to look. BD moved quicker than I had ever seen him move as he returned his
bed roll to the bottom. While he was relocating, the new tenant looked at me. “What’s
your name?” I said “Frankie”, and nothing more. He extended a large hand which
I shook as he said, “I’m the [name of city] Gangster.” I did not quite catch
what he said, or so I thought, or hoped. As he repeated the ritual with BD I
listened more closely, and sure enough, he said it again. Nicknames were
everyone’s way of trying to remain anonymous to those charged with recording
our activity and punishing us accordingly. The theory was it would make it more
difficult for a snitch to tell on someone if they did not have a real name to
give to the authorities. Plus, everyone seemed to think it made them slicker
and more unique. After rolling his bedding out on the middle bunk, Gangster
proceeded to dry heave in the heartiest fashion I had ever the displeasure of
witnessing for about 45 minutes. Then he laid down and slept – only grudgingly
waking for meals and to sporadically though violently dry heave – until the
next morning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-82770017761821670572014-06-20T08:16:00.001-07:002014-06-20T08:16:22.393-07:00
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
Day 10<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wednesday – August 30,
2006: </b>My Cellie Tim went to court today. During a drunken melee he hit his pregnant
girlfriend in the head with a brick – twice. Despite two sets of stapled
sutures on her skull, she was still writing the judge in the case pleading for
Tim’s release before the baby is due in October. It’s Tim’s third time being
locked up – once in Nevada and before here in California - on a violence
related charge and he’s still just barely 30 years old. My other cellie, who
gives his occupation upon greeting people as “dumpster-diver” without a hint of
shame, goes by “BD” (though neither are his initials, and I did not ask what
the letters might stand for) was impressed by Tom’s story when he returned. He
told us how his girlfriend, now over seven months pregnant, threw herself down
in hysterics at his hearing threatening to harm herself if Tim wasn’t released
for the baby’s birth. He showed us copies of the letters she wrote on his
behalf. I stood next to BD as he read them and I pretended to read along. I was
too preoccupied to read, and too confused to ask or say anything pertinent. And
I was not sure what was pertinent. BD smiled so wide reading the letters I
wondered what I was missing. Handing them to Tim, BD offered congratulations. “This
is great, you did great today. Nice that she’s still on the team.” Tim chuckled
and offered this explanation: “Must have been the second shot, cleared her
head.” They laughed at the conclusion. Then Tim finished telling us how he
accepted the next deal and would be out in six weeks. Hearty high fives were
exchanged and I felt even stupider then when teammates expected me to trade
high fives at softball games, but as with softball, I went along to suit the
environment. Tim would serve a grand total of four and a half months on a third
violence related charge. It was slowly dawning on me the legal system was as
random and arbitrary in its application of what was referred to as “justice”
and “due process” as a drunk was with his emotions and responses. He’s either
going to tell you how much he loves you or hates you, and little logic will be
applicable, but it will be expeditiously delivered. Also, like a drunk, the
court can be easily manipulated by someone who understands it. <o:p></o:p></div>
Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-14545690768783986672014-06-19T23:40:00.002-07:002014-07-26T05:03:16.457-07:00<br />
Day 9<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Tuesday – August 29, 2006: “</b>Why
shouldn’t someone talk to the police when they get arrested?” That was my
question when my two “cellies” began to criticize my open communication
approach with the arresting officers, as well as the detective the County I.T.
guy eventually overruled to order me arrested. My father worked in law
enforcement for nearly 35 years, the last eight years or so as chief of a large
metropolitan police force. He and his friends were as good and decent as any
people I ever knew, but this was a new generation; weaned on ‘Dirty Harry’
movies and being used as political tools, drifting ever further from the role
of peace keeper. Police officers did not have quotas like sales people in prior
times. In fact, the philosophy had changed 180 degrees; where once, how few
arrests were made in a precinct was the determinant of a successful force, now
how many convictions it could produce determined success. Also, to be frank,
neither of my cellies struck me as particularly erudite gentlemen, though I’ll
admit, both were shockingly well read. They had favorite authors, some of whose
names I did not recognize, and yet, when writing, could not spell rudimentary
words when necessary. They read incredibly fast too, different than myself,
scanning information more than absorbing provocative thought from the page. I
am still working on a theory explaining how someone can be a speed reader <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> an illiterate writer. I thought an unspoken
competition existed between them to see who could read faster. This was the
perfect<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>place for such an illogical
contest; there was a constant shortage of books, so why not rush through and get
back to staring at the ceiling or conducting impromptu seminars on
methamphetamine manufacturing. The uncontested king of conversation topics was
what your charge was, and what strategy you would choose in court. Everyone
knew how to work the proceedings in court to minimalize their time. It was
familiar territory for the vast majority, and with few exceptions, they
received lesser time than originally offered by the DA, or much less time in
some cases. “Never take the first deal,” I heard dozens of times as I skulked
around the dayroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first offer was
five years at 85%, which I refused, and before I left the courtroom, I became guiltier
and a more horrid criminal in the DA’s eyes (another cog in the machine whose
modern office has quotas) and the offer was raised to seven years at 85%. It
did not go that way for too many people, especially white people. At mail time
legal papers would also be distributed. I was handed the latest police reports
on my case. Now I understood why one should never speak with police unless a
lawyer who is paid excessively to be there is in attendance, just as a lie
detector with no attorney present to stop the tester from manipulating results
was a bad idea. If a detainee opts to discuss events leading to the arrest, what
happens is the retelling of events is opened to the interpretation of fiction
writers with conviction quotas who recreate events to best serve their agenda.<o:p></o:p>Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7504796069086300373.post-29312925055868083012014-06-11T13:09:00.001-07:002014-07-26T05:02:25.496-07:00<br />
Day 8<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Monday - August 28, 2006: </b>When
the cell door unclicked and access to the dayroom granted, most everyone
flooded out of their cells, then paused to look at each other, exchanging some
bad vibrations in greeting before moving on to other matters. I had come to view
the assembled collective as an obnoxious yet dangerous idiot. Maybe because the
voices I heard first and foremost were the ones most desperate for attention.
Quickly in this setting, one realizes the ability to differentiate between
negative and positive attention has been lost on most everyone. Right and wrong
takes a regular beating in this crowd too, but for me, it was expected. I assumed
those were conscious neglects. My general assumption was this was a group of
ignorant, incapable dolts, with a sense of entitlement and the common sense of
a tree stump. Then the library cart showed up. Walking with the collective herd
towards the cart I heard the strangest things: complete sentences; finished
coherent thoughts; well-formed opinions on something other than drug use; all
spoken in tones one might encounter, well, just about anywhere else but here. I
wanted to select something to read off the big cart, but I could not
concentrate. There were still arguments going on all around me, but no one was
going full volume. Instead of mindless exchanges where the tone and volume
overruled content, these were more challenging in context – almost as if
debating. I remember looking at this shaved head covered in swastikas and other
obscenities bending down to reach for a book on the lower shelf with his left
hand – the hand with the word ‘Hate’ tattooed clearly on each finger just below
the knuckles – and plucking some thick volume from it. “Mitchner! I fuckin love
Mitchner.” It threw me off balance. ‘The Skinhead who was telling a tale
involving car theft and guns yesterday loves Mitchner?’ I almost said it out
loud to myself I was so stunned. All about, discussions about favorite authors
and genre were taking place. It was surreal. I tried to focus on a book to
select but the conversations were distracting in a way overhearing
conversations about drug use and incorrigible behavior were not. A literary
opinion on Stephen King was offered. “Don’t waste my fuckin time with all those
descriptions. Fuck that. Just tell the fuckin story. I don’t give a shit how
many petals are on some fuckin flower that’s got nothing to do with the story.”
It was not the University of Iowa Master’s Program, but it was as unexpected as
any other form of civility - deranged to suit the circumstances - would be to
my mind under the conditions. <o:p></o:p>Frankie's Nightmarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06259819659579500310noreply@blogger.com0