Day 22
Monday – September 11,
2006: 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.
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 9th
grade, so not that many people know what you look like,” which I thought showed
incredible foresight on his part.
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.”
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