I sit on a blanket he brought down for me and wait until I hear his body sinking against his mattress, the cheap springs wincing under his weight. Taking out his diary from where I’d hidden it, I read another entry.
NOVEMBER 12TH, 2010
“GOING TO PRISON IS LIKE DYING WITH YOUR EYES OPEN” (BERNARD KERIK)
Losing yourself in repetition is easy, and that’s what prison life gives you.
A structure so neat and linear, days mesh into weeks, then into months—and before you know it—even into years.
I miss Chow Time at 6:00 a.m. every day because I’d rather chew on my cellmate’s leg than eat the breakfast they serve. And Pedro? His leg has seen some pretty rough shit, along with the rest of his crack-addicted body.
I’m a welder at the prison’s general maintenance shop. At 32 cents an hour, I won’t get rich, but at least I’ll be able to afford some Ramen noodles from the canteen.
I work alongside an old English wiseguy named Godfrey. They nicknamed him God in here for a reason. With a distinctive limp that promises a good story behind it, he spends most of his time listening to classical music or hanging out with Seb— another British inmate who I think’s gay by the way he looks at me. Ninety percent of the people here want to f*ck me, but Seb? He looks like he wants to take my butthole on a dinner date and buy it flowers. Maybe even a piece of nice jewelry.
Frank told me that I shouldn’t mess with Godfrey.
Beware of God, for he is very powerful and can seal your faith.
I fly low and work out. Read even more. Four or five hours of reading, every day. Skip the college classes and other bullshit programs they offer, as if you’ll walk outta here into the open arms of society. If life gave you the San Dimas card, a full house is not in your future. Hell, you’d be lucky to have a roof over your head when it’s all over.
But I go to the self-help class because they make you sign up for this crap, and because what else is there to do in this shithole? My options are limited, my time—boundless.
At dinner, I hang out with Frank and his Stockton crew.
San Dimas is known for county gangs. Forget about the blacks, the Latinos, the whites. Sure, there are jump offs between races every now and again. Mostly, though, we keep things civilized.
Other than the Aryan Brotherhood. They’re a pain in everyone’s ass.
Literally.
I walk into my cell today to see a guy I don’t recognize. He’s big, fat, with a homemade swastika tattoo adorning his meaty neck and the face of every illiterate hillbilly from the flicks. Bald, of course. Prison sucks the youth outta you.
“Can I help you?” I grunt.
“Na. But I can help you. Seen you around.” He leans his shoulder on the wall, one hand tucked in his pants. His eyes zero in on my crotch. “You need protection.”
Ignoring him, I reach under my thin mattress, tugging out a paperback. He clasps my arm, his hand greasy. “I said,” he grits, “you’re a pretty boy. Bend. Over.”
I wait for him to throw the first punch, but he just jerks me closer. He’s fatter, bigger. I’m lean but strong enough to take him. Then again I don’t have the AB behind me in case shit goes south.
And it will absolutely go south, judging by the hungry look on his face.
But not the kind of south he’d like to stick his dick into.
“Look, man,” I say calmly. “I’ve nothing to lose. Don’t make me kill you. My ass ain’t worth it.”
He thrusts me into the wall with a thump, his nose brushing mine as he gets in my face.
“Eyes like whiskey, hair so soft, lips full like a girl’s. You think people haven’t noticed? Let’s take a trip to the shower, pretty boy.”
I’m about to do something that’d haul me into ad-seg for a long-ass time, when I notice a shard of glass making its way to my skin. The sharp edge travels along my neck before it passes my cheekbone, poking into the Aryan *’s chin. Frank’s crumpled-paper face follows the blade as his lips find the tattooed man’s ear.
“Back off, Hefner. Can’t you see he’s just a kid?”
The Aryan guy’s eyes never break contact with mine. I’m still sandwiched between him and the cracked wall when he lets a rotting sneer loose.
“Careful, old man. You’re no shot-caller in here. We are.”
Frank snorts. “Hefner,” he says, digging the shard into the man’s skin. “There’s only one shot-caller, and that’s God.” He refers to Godfrey Archer, not the almighty. “Now, this one’s not for taking. Get out.”
Hefner’s few working brain cells command him to f*ck off out of my forty-eight-square-foot cell, and after an impotent stare down, he dissolves back into the murky hallway of our floor.
“I could’ve handled him myself.” I tug my hair up. “But thanks.”
Frank doesn’t acknowledge my appreciation. Just shoves the shard into my hand, curling my fingers around it.
“Keep it safe. Goddamn, Nathaniel. You are too f*cking pretty for San Dimas. You better toughen up or your * will be wide enough to push a watermelon through by the time you leave.”
With that, my old neighbor turned rape-preventer walks away, leaving me and what’s left of my pride feeling even smaller and less significant than my tiny room.