Why I Committed Suicide (42 page)

The Mexicans have their own bond of language, culture and knives. They can make a sharp weapon out of
any
thing. They are mostly quiet and keep to themselves but they are the craftiest bastards I have ever met. They can make jewelry out of toilet paper and bed sheets to trade with people for commissary goods. Any ‘real’ jail documentary you’ll ever see will have someone wearing a cross of some sort around their neck. Odds are it was made by and bartered for from a Mexican. Usually one of the Mexicans in the group is educated and speaks great English. He’s not always the ringleader but he’ll be the one to communicate for the group if something goes down. He’s the one who issues the threat when the Hispanics want to watch a soccer match or the Tuesday night fights on the television or he’s the go-between guy to initiate barter. Unlike the blacks, who tend to fight among themselves, most of the Mexicans stick together.

There are a couple types of white people in here too. There’s the DWI crowd, who are usually good ol’ boys that are on their third or fourth DWI and usually have a baby on the way or an untrustworthy spouse or some issue going on in the real world. They are generally good guys that tend to have steady jobs as mechanics or in construction on the outside, but they tend to hate black people because they’ve never been exposed to their culture or lived with them in a confined space. Then there are some older white folks that are connected to someone and are usually in for big cases concerning truckloads of methamphetamine or some such. They have thousands of dollars on their books for commissary and a high-dollar lawyer that will pull them out for court a couple times a week until they get sentenced or go free. These guys have already been to prison at some point and their pasty white skin has a few dark blue tattoos that are faded and spreading. They usually just drink a lot of coffee and smoke a lot of hand-rolled cigarettes, whispering and conspiring on their section of the bunks.

Finally there are the young kids like me—the dumb fucks that did something stupid, usually for drugs or while on drugs, and they have landed in the pokey for minor offenses or felony drug offenses. Most of them/us got popped for burglary, possession or other things drug-related. We are the people that have no friends or family with money to get out, or our probation violations keep us here on a no-bond.

Here’s a typical section of conversation that I transcribed the other day while I was talking with a young meth-head white guy in here. Other than my occasional head nod or “uh-huh” he talked non-stop about shit like this for hours:

“.dude, I totally knew it was over the day we were riding in the car, cruising down the road listening to tunes going to visit HER fucking family. I’m like jamming along, cruising, gearing up for a round of “unfamiliar boyfriend in the house with her folks,” doing her a fucking favor right? Right. And so we’re right in the middle of Jane’s “Summertime Rolls”. Yeah that one. You know the part where it builds up to the climax right? And you know I only say ‘climax’ because I have actually had sex to this song and actually climaxed while it peaked. So we’re cruising listening and the song is building and right as Navarro is about to hit it, I mean jam the fucking notes right down our throat while the volume is cranked and do you know what she fucking does? She reaches over and she doesn’t turn the stereo down, no she turns the whole fucking system OFF. I mean sheesh, right? Bitch, fight with ME or whatever but you gotta respect the goddamn song. I’m talking major karma violation right? Right. I don’t care what kind of girl-shit she’s got going on. If it’s some B.S. Elton John top 40 shit, then FUCK YEAH turn that shit off and bring on your fucking feelings baby, I’m SO there for you, but in the middle of “Summertime Rolls?” I don’t think so. We’re talking a totally different class of song. Whether we’re going to visit her family or not, you gotta respect a fucking song like that. I mean I came all over two titty-dancers faces to that song man. If you don’t have the love, then you don’t have the love, and then you don’t get the love. You know what I’m sayin’ man? Fuck yeah. And everything just went downhill after that. Man e-v-e-r-y f-u-c-k-i-n-g t-h-i-n-g. I could hardly even look at her the same way. You gotta respect the tune man. You gotta, because music is in the air. Like a spirit. If you are pulling it out of the air then you can’t just cram that spirit back in a box like you didn’t summon the motherfucker. Damn that bitch.”

It goes on and on and on and on. Cruel and unusual punishment comes to mind, but what else do I really have except time to listen?

This is my third trip to the animal cages now and most people I talk to say they would rather be locked up in the Government Building with the hard-case criminals awaiting murder trials than have to stay in New Holland again. I don’t mind it too much anymore. The first time I was here I mostly just had to learn to adjust to the noise. Even asleep the place is buzzing with as many decibels as any of the loudest concerts I’ve ever seen, and there is always some cage that doesn’t sleep during the night and likes to play a loud game of dominoes or cards. I’m pretty good at dominoes, but when you play dominoes with the brothers you
have
to slam the black rectangles on the table as loud as possible and scream out your points along with a pointed insult to the other person or team in order to be taken seriously. I’ll catch myself laughing sometimes at the shit-talk that comes from my mouth. I like these late hours the most though. I generally stay up reading or writing letters to Jenifer while trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts and voices that keep obsessing me.

After reading through the Bible again for the second time, I’ve pretty much memorized and written detailed analysis of the Bible passages concerning trials and tribulations in the book of Job. My first inclination was to manipulate the passages and send them in a letter to my mother but I nixed that when I realized I must have deep issues of my own to deal with if I’m only using the Bible to try and make her feel guilty. The older black men think it’s great to see such a young man studying the Bible and some of the younger guys make fun of it since everyone turns to the Bible out of desperation as soon as they draw their “go directly to jail card.” It’s practically a cliché and the term is “Jailhouse Religion,” only calling upon God to be merciful when you’re in a desperate spot. I’m not too happy with Him right now so people can think whatever the fuck they want.

An old black man came into the cell the other day and after all the initial fears and comforts were taken care of he started to interact with the tank. He said his old lady and him got into a fight, which apparently is quite common. He said “She gets up in the middle of the fight and goes into the kitchen and starts cooking up a mess of meat. I’m talking bacon and sausage and hamburger. Everything we gots in the fridge. The whole time I’m lying in bed thinking what the fuck is going on? That bitch don’t never cook for me.” Next thing he knows, she comes into the bedroom screaming at him again, only this time she’s got a frying pan filled with all the boiling grease from the meat she was cooking and throws it on him in bed. He lifts up the blanket off the bed and catches most of it, getting a little burnt in the process, he pauses here to shows us some of his burns, and slams her against the wall. Yadda yadda yadda, next thing he knows, the cops come and he’s getting hauled off to jail. Fucked up.

There is no music anywhere, just the ambient noise of life in an endless row of cages. The echo of shit-talking conversation and dominoes slamming on the metal tables pop up sporadically. Like clockwork, the black guys watch Soul Train every Saturday morning at 11:00 a.m. With every TV in the animal cages tuned into the same station and each TV turned up as loud as it can go, the entire warehouse gets an odd echo-y stereo effect. It’s usually around the time they serve the special Saturday meal of bologna and white bread. I can’t eat that shit anymore but some people gobble it up like it’s the last food on earth. I guess in a way it
is
the only food on earth at the moment unless I can start eating steel and concrete. My stomach just can’t handle the cheap crap they feed us anymore. Some of the guys like to build a small fire under the stainless steel tables and fry up their bologna like it’s a Saturday barbeque. Soul Train day is actually alright in a weird way, a little manipulative and contrived but it puts off a positive vibe that kind of radiates through the entire jail the rest of the day. The dominoes slam a little softer, the card players talk a little less shit and tensions seem to ease up for a little while.

Unfortunately, while I watched, there was a guy killed in the cage directly across from us. It was just some minor skirmish that might have turned into a decent fight but didn’t get that far. While the guys were squaring off and doing that whole testosterone pre-fight bit where each person talks shit and they bump chests, one guy shoved the other and he slipped on the wet floor in his shower shoes and hit the back of his head right on the corner of one of the bunk beds. A spasm of nerve endings and he was dead before he hit the dirty concrete and hardly even bled while his body just lay there, quiet and still. Everyone backed away quickly and pretended asleep. Next thing I knew there were cops everywhere in their black storm trooper gear lining everyone in that cage up against the wall and beating out some answers. Turns out the guy who died only had about a month left to do on his very first misdemeanor charge. It’s a fucked up world sometimes. Guilty until proven innocent.

There is a lot of stuff that happens in this world that is turning out to be just plain wrong. How could I have been sheltered from all of this? If you can’t see it in here, then you can’t ever know how it is. Is the goal to rehabilitate or to annihilate us? In Jesus’ name I claim the justice promised in Luke 10:18.

Ever heard of the bad ass named Rasputin who dwelt among the Russian royalty before their first revolution? When things turned bad they stabbed him, hung him, poisoned him and drowned him because he was such bad ass that he just wouldn’t die. That’s the gist of it anyway. I’ve met a few fuckers in here that look about THAT tough and one of those guys in another cage across from ours has some sort of beef with me that started with him making kissy faces at me through the bars and trying to punk me out.

When somebody calls you some name or tries to gain verbal power over you it’s foreshadowing their physical domination and attempt at physical power. There are only two choices in here: flight or fight. The first choice is that you can smile and take the verbal assault, maybe even laugh it off, but that means somebody in
your
cage knows they can get away with the same thing and might try and punk you out. That means they feel like maybe they can make you their bitch. And if you are somebody’s bitch they can take your food, take your blanket or even force sex if it gets too crazy. I’ve seen enough male rapes and sex to warp me for life. They ALL started out with something innocent like borrowing a bag of chips or some Cro-magnum motherfucker making kissy faces through the bars like the gorilla across from me.

Your second choice is to stand up to the guy, no matter his size or the crazy look in his eyes. You might have to fight and you might get your ass beat or even killed, but people will learn that you are not going out like a bitch. You’ve got to convince them that they can fight you and that maybe they’ll probably win but you’re going to hurt them in the process and then you’re gonna be back and you’re not going to back off until somebody’s dead. I’m just hoping I don’t get stuck going to court the same day as Grape-Ape because he is fucking HUGE and I’ve said enough serious shit back to him where he feels like he’s got to stand up for his reputation now. We’ll see. I’ve only had a few minor skirmishes in the jailhouse and I’ve made out alright, nothing too serious.

It helps that I’m in better shape now than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m way too skinny but I do a thousand push-ups a day, lift the water bag weights we’ve fashioned out of plastic bags and I practice throwing combo punches using different styles. There’s this black Muslim in here that works out with me and he’s always pushing me beyond my limits when we work out. He’s short but stocky and strong with his own set of crazy eyes. We’re cool though. Most of the black Muslims are fine with the white devils since we’re all being persecuted in the same boat together. While you’re locked up, unless you have “White Pride” tattoos all over your body, you’re not a devil, just a potential devil. We greet each other with an “Asha-llama-lake-a” (forgive my phonetics) and get along just fine.

He saw Grape-Ape talking trash to me one day and liked the way I was able to spit smack right back at him without flinching. He even got into it with the guy for a minute, reminding him about us all being persecuted together or something to no avail. My Muslim buddy just kind of shrugged his shoulders after a while, it wasn’t his fight, but later on he asked me if I wanted any of his kin-folk to “talk” to the guy. As much as I would like to have the black Muslims take the guy out for me, there’s no way in hell I want to be in their debt in here. I very politely refused his hint of an offer. My best guess is that Jumbo is getting out soon anyway and if by fluke we do end up in a cage match together I won’t be here towrite. Or I’ll have a murder case. Either way I’m dead, so if it comes down to it, I fight.

3AM—How many months now? Grape-Ape has been gone for a while, released back into the fury of the world some time ago. I just realized that I am no longer afraid of the dark. I can no longer remember the time of my life when I was afraid of what might be lurking in the darkness. I’ve seen darkness in the hearts of men, men walking boldly in the daylight that could cool the very sun. At night the rats scurry above my head and the spiders still drop onto peoples’ faces as they sleep. They crawl down their shirts and bite them on the stomach or legs giving people those vicious welts. Nighttime has become something to embrace. A time when people sleep and I can creep around and look. This is when I am powerful. I know in my heart I could cut up the bottom of a person’s foot with a razor. I could get them in the neck if I needed to or even take an eye out lickety split-split-split. If I cut them on the feet it will humiliate them. When your feet hurt, you hurt as a person. You lose your confidence because your foundation is ruptured. I could kick Shaq’s ass if I cut up his heels and toes enough. It’s the equivalent of taking a baseball bat to the knees over and over and over. A Mexican showed me how they make their shivs down south. Take two safety razors (instead of one) and melt the blades side by side into the end of a toothbrush. That way your weapon will slice the flesh into pieces side by side. “Ain’t a doctor in the world that can stitch that kinda cut up,” he says. “That, or a sock full of dominoes, will ring their bell. Heh heh.”