One North. A short story.

My right forearm

(ONE NORTH)

By

Justin H. Montgomery

© 2008 All Rights Reserved

“Let me suck your dick and I’ll give you a box of Top.”

            I didn’t know what to say to that.  I didn’t know what to say to that so I said nothing.  The silence drew out until one of us was forced to speak.

            “Did you hear me?” He asked.

 His question was plaintive.  I almost felt sorry for the guy.  There wasn’t enough empathy in creation for me to pull down my pants and let him wrap his goateed lips around my junk.  But still, I almost felt sorry for the guy.   Every week a new batch of fish walked onto Duck row in One North packing old sheets, blue wool blankets, and their little brown bags half full of Bob Barker hygiene items; and every week whoever this guy was hit them up for a blowjob.  

To him, those fish looked like someone spilled out a box full of orange jumpsuit wrapped Blowpops just for him to find their bubblegum center.

“Do you want me to suck your dick or not?”

 I did not.  But I was unsure how to say that to him.  This was my first day in a real prison. I was a twenty year old kid floating through another cell.  He knew that.  He knew I was clueless. The look on his face seemed to say to me ‘Hi kid, this is your new home and I am one of a menagerie of strange and curious sights you will see in your stay here at the Washington State Penitentiary Walla Walla.  There is no way out.  There is nowhere to run.  There is only concrete.  There is only steel.  There is only the madness of men.’

I wasn’t going to speak to this pasty skinned man wearing prison blues, pig skin black boots, and a handmade cross hanging from his neck.  In jail, before coming to prison, I had seen other crosses like it.  The Paisas would pull string from their blankets to make them.  They would spend all day spinning the strings together so they could tie tiny knots that would magically form crosses attached to necklaces.  The little pieces of God went for a pre-stamped envelope or two.  This one was red.  It stood out from the white t-shirt he wore under his denim jacket.  I stared at it and ignored him.

 “Whatever.” He said. 

The statement was punctuated by his slamming the mop into the bucket and pushing on.   He didn’t have far to go.  The next cell over was number 4.  I heard him ask the question again.   I heard someone next door tell him to fuck off.  It was probably a black man.  I couldn’t see. There was only his deep voice with its gangster inflection echoing through the nearly empty hallway. 

“You probably shouldn’t stand at the bars with a dick-sucker about.  It’s almost like opening the door for a Jehovah’s Witness.” Jerry said from the bunk behind me. I didn’t turn around.

His voice echoed in the bare cell then out into the bare hallway.  The sound bounced off the walls. It was trapped just like the rest of us.  There were thirty men living in their six foot by ten foot caves.  Somewhere down the tier someone laughed and talked about shooting meth behind a minimart.  I learned from whomever he was that rain water made a great substitute for spit when in need of something to mix with your dope before drawing it up into a syringe. I learned from someone else, a faceless pimp, how to keep my bitches in line. It involved back hands and curling irons and ‘taking no shit’. The talk grew louder.  Each person’s story competed with the others for space on the tier.  Eventually all of it became a mix of foolishness.

 “Maybe he thought you were looking for something.” Jerry said.  “Maybe he thought you wanted him to get on his knees so he could bring you salvation.  He bore his cross right?  Did you see it? All the ones like that bear their crosses. ”

I turned from the bars and looked up to Jerry who watched me. His eyes were stainless steel gray and unnerving.  I had met him that morning on the chain bus down from the receiving units in Shelton. I knew nothing of him, of his past, or of what conviction put him into this place.   He laid with one arm behind his shaven head. With the other arm he cradled his brown duck bag.  He looked like a study of a man in repose. He had his jumpsuit rolled down and tied at the waist using the sleeves for a belt.  His pants legs were tucked into his socks.  Carved into his flesh were grey green tattoos that writhed as he breathed.  There were swastikas, gang signs, names—and there were dates. The numbers jumped out from his arms like advertisements. 

“…What’re you in for?” He asked me after a long pause

His stare set me on edge. I felt bare and flayed before him.  He looked into me and judged me from behind a mask that resembled flesh but was really stone.

“…I shot a guy.” I said finally.

“Oh yeah?” I could tell he didn’t believe me. “Shot a guy huh?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I shot a guy.”  I said.

“What ‘d you shoot him for?” Jerry asked.

What did I shoot him for?  I asked myself that question often.  Why did I do what I did?  There were too many reasons.  I shot him because I wouldn’t burn people.  I shot him because I wouldn’t steal from people.  I shot him because I earned my money that way.  Everyone knew they could trust me. I shot him because I was getting paid by my friend to guard his house, his dope, and his girl.  He was out of town for the weekend and he wanted me to sit in his apartment with a gun and make sure no one did anything stupid.  Someone did.  A guy had tried to break in and steal his dope.  I shot him four times and missed pretty much everything vital. The guy had actually run away screaming. I got my friend’s dope and his girl out and safe and then I came back because, well, I had shot the guy. Someone had to take the fall. Thankfully my friend was renting the apartment under another name so he didn’t get involved.  The neighbors had pointed me out.  The cops arrested me. The guy I shot had gone on to make a statement at the hospital which implicated me. After the back and forth in court I had taken the plea bargain the prosecutor offered. All that sounded good but why did I really shoot him?

“For my name.”  I said. It was as good a reason as any.

“For your name?” Jerry was suddenly interested. “For your name?”

“Yeah.” I said. “Yeah, for my name.”

For some reason, I felt like I had won a victory. I kept my smile to myself.

“How do you go to prison for your name?”  He asked.

“...My name is Trust.” I said.

We locked eyes for what felt like an eternity.  Finally he nodded.

“Yeah, I get it, Trust. Yeah, that makes sense.” He said.  “You got paperwork on that?”

I left the bars and snatched my brown bag from the metal desk at the end of the bed.  I pulled my copy of my judgment and sentence from the bag.  It was seven papers that freed me from questions about my integrity.  I tossed the packet to him then sat down on my bottom bunk and put both feet up on the stainless steel toilet sink combo.  When my heavy orange plastic sandals hit it the toilet gonged like a mourning bell.  Beneath me the thin plastic mattress crinkled and popped as it took my weight.  I stared at the wall across from me. I saw swastikas, gang signs, names—and there were dates.  The series of pictographs cut into the white paint revealed the ancient red brick beneath. The symbols looked as if they had been painted in fresh blood.

I heard the pages flip.  In a moment the packet inched over the side of the top bunk.  I reached up and grabbed it and set it on the bed next to me.  On the front page I saw my charge ’Assault in the First degree’.  Below those words was my sentence ‘164 months’.  

“Welcome home youngster. You’re gonna be here for a minute.” He said.

“Yeah.” I replied.

I heard the crinkle of his paper bag.  It was followed by his judgment and sentence inching over the side of the bunk.  I reached up, took it, and read it.  Jerry was in for five years on a first degree burglary.  I passed the pages back up to him. 

“I broke into a house and stole a gun.”  He said.  “They got me because my dumb ass left fingerprints on the fridge and the microwave.”

Okay.  It was time to share.  It was the process.  Two men put into the confines of a cell were forced into openness. It was part of the game. I hated this game. I hated revealing the most personal details of my life to someone I had met hours before.  It was like a shotgun marriage. 

“What were you doing at the fridge and the microwave?” I asked, not really caring but aware that if I didn’t ask it would be seen as an insult.

“I was hungry and they had Hot pockets.” Jerry said the chuckled.  “I got busted this time because I love ham and cheese Hot pockets.  At least down in Nevada I went to prison for something real.”

“What happened down there?”  I asked, again, not caring.

“Well, I was strung out for a week on dope. I had been shooting meth in a hotel room with a couple of hookers I picked up somewhere, I don’t remember where.  Freaky bitches, I tell you.  They’d suck your asshole through the tip of your cock.  Anyway, we got down to our last eight ball.  I didn’t want to crash and neither did they.  We were broke and so I grabbed my pistol, walked down to a casino, and jumped through their cash window.  The cashier bitch was so scared she almost shit herself.  I grabbed a stack of cash, jumped back out and tried to leave like I owned the place.  Didn’t work.  They caught me at the door.  And I tell you what.  They did me just like in the movies.  Took me into a back room and beat the shit out of me.  I got saved from taking a hammer to the hands by somebody and their cell phone.  Some lady at the slots had called the cops and they showed up just as the hammer was coming out.  The security dude got a call and put the kibosh to the whole Mob business.”

Jerry sighed.  I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was smiling at the memory.  His pride was heavy in the room.

“I did ten years for that one.”  He went quiet for a moment.  “We’re both in on solid beefs.  I guess we can live together for awhile.”  He said.

“Guess so” I said. “If you can call it living.  Feels like we’re in a bathroom.”

“Yeah.”  Jerry said. “Yeah it does.”

I heard Jerry move. The bunk above me was made of a steel plate bolted into the concrete wall.  The center of the plate was bowed down from countless bodies laying on it. The metal looked stretched.  When Jerry shifted to find comfort the metal shifted with him. The loud pop startled me. I jumped when Jerry stuck his head over the edge of the bunk to stare at me. He smiled showing even white teeth.

“You aren’t a white boy are you?” He asked.

I smiled uneasily back at him and looked away.  I couldn’t take that stare for very long.  His face disappeared and the steel popped again. 

“You don’t look like one.  You look like a Mexican, but not like a Mexican.  You look like you have some white boy in you but then you don’t look like it.” He said. “Are you an Iraqi or something?  You from over there?  You a camel humper?” 

Jerry laughed.  It was a deep booming sound.  The voices from out on the tier quieted. There was envy in that silence.  

“A camel humper!?  Ha!  That would be something!  Come to the joint in Washington and get put in with a camel humper. That never would have happened down in the pen in Nevada.  One of us would have to p.c. up.” Jerry chuckled. “Yes sir, they don’t allow that down there.  The pigs or the convicts. You keep to your own.  I hope they get it right out on mainline.  I don’t want to live with no toad or nothing. You’re alright for now cause we only have to be on duck row for a minute. But I tell you, they put me in with some toad—I couldn’t abide that.”

“I’m not Iraqi. I’m part Mexican, part white, and part Native.” I said.

Again he laughed.

“Oh boy!  You’re a regular Heinz fifty seven aren’t you!” Jerry exclaimed. “That’s a rough one youngster.”

“Why’s that a rough one?”  I asked.

“Why?  You’re gonna see why. Your parents should have kept the races separate.  You can’t run with the white boys cause you’re a little too brown.  You can’t run with the Mexicans cause you’re a little too white.  And them Native’s—they are a strange bunch.  Who knows what they will do.  They might eat you.”  

Again Jerry stuck his head over the edge of the bed.

“Your mixed blood is going to keep you on the outside…” He said.

I heard keys rattling down the tier.  Heavy steel banged on heavy steel. 

“…And you don’t want to be on the outside.” He continued.  “There are monsters on the outside that will take your ass, stab you full of holes, and leave your rotting carcass on the big yard for the vultures.”

The cell door clanged as the steel pins inside disengaged.  Unseen motors whirred and pulled the door open with the sound of knives sharpening on whetstones.  I swallowed hard.

“Walla Walla. When I heard the name of this place I thought of Daffy Duck and Porky Pig and all the other Loony toons.  It’s a funny name for a prison.” Jerry said.

He jumped off his bunk and landed with the grace of a cat.  When his feet hit concrete he was moving to the door.  It was beautiful…and frightening. There was the power of life and death in his body.  At the cell door Jerry turned back and smiled at me.

“…She’s the Concrete Momma.”  He said and laughed.  “And she’s one mean bitch.  She’ll kill you Trust.  Oh yeah, she’ll kill you.”

Behind him other men in orange moved down the tier. Some laughed at unheard jokes.  Some stared into nothing. Most hung their heads and watched their feet. Jerry looked over his shoulder at the passing fish then back at me.  His smile went from slightly jovial to glittery diamond hard. 

“Mainline mainline everybody mainline.” He chanted almost sing song.  “Let’s get some chow.”

I didn’t know what to say.  I didn’t know what to say so I said nothing.  I said nothing, got up, and I followed him out into the unknown.

---

(This is a story I wrote in the last few months before I left prison. It was written as I thought about walking out of  my cell for the last time. I wanted to remember what it was like in the first cell I had been in. While the account is fictional. The experience wasn't. I tattooed the date when I walked out onto my right arm to commemorate my freedom. My date of incarceration is tattooed into my memory. It will never go on my body.)