Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison (18 page)

It was my failure to resist being attacked that haunted me most. Why didn't I? Or scream? Or even try to say No to Red? Why did I have to be such a fucking coward? Sure I wasn't just a kid but even kids my age are known to fight back.

"But Timmy's a sissy," one of my friends once said about a fight we had with a gang of kids. He said it right in front of me, like I wasn't even there. I was too timid to stand up to him and say anything, so I just let it go. But I didn't really-his words still hurt.

I kept replaying Chet's advances over and over. I thought I knew what his intentions were, but I was taken by how friendly he was, and by the fact that he said he had a kid my age. That was probably a lie. After the coin toss, I had seen him laughing with other inmates about the rape. He was bragging and imitating how out of it I was because of the Thorazine. He seemed energized by the incident, as if it raised his standing with the other guys. The way he set me up and turned me out. That's what they called it when someone is raped. I "turned that boy out."

That's what happened to Bottoms, the chubby kid in my dorm. He was straight, or at least he was before he got locked up. He was turned out in the county jail, right after sentencing for stealing his dad's car. Car theft wouldn't have been enough to send him there, but he had an accident where someone died and he was convicted of felony murder. The poor kid didn't even make it to Quarantine before he was jumped and gang raped by sixteen guys, over a six-hour period. When they were done with him, the guy that set him up pimped him out for a pack of cigarettes. By the time he came there, everyone knew what happened to him, and he was forced to get a man. That's how he got the name Bottoms. It used to be Byron. There were dozens of stories just as gruesome, sometimes even worse.

I looked over at the double fence and gun towers. There was no escape. I would do what I had to survive in here. But what if my family found out? I was afraid Rick would just see the attack for what it was: I got what I deserved. It felt awful being so viciously assaulted and believing that I was responsible for it. And it felt almost worse knowing that Rick would agree with me.

Were it not for all the pain I was feeling after Chet fucked me, I might have enjoyed sucking Red's cock-at least until he made me gag and I threw up. I wished it been Scatter. He was so beautiful, and was also my age. His light brown skin. That muscular body. Those lips. I hated the way Red kept saying, "he's gay-he likes it."

I)id this mean I wasn't a man anymore? I could never explain the confusion that was going on inside my head. How could I explain it? That I had felt drawn here, or that I wanted to come to prison because it was the only place in the world where I knew there were people like me? Who would believe me? After all, they would think I was crazy. Maybe I was crazy. I felt responsible for what happened. "You made your bed," I heard Sharon's voice inside my head. Now I had to live with it. Was this my destiny?

I walked past I 1 Building, the bug ward, and reminded myself that I had a strong mind. That I would get past this prison term. I would do whatever I had to, and I wouldn't let my fear show. At least this way, I would feel like I had control. I tried to convince myself that this is what I had wanted. Maybe not in such a violent way, but I did secretly want to have sex with a man. Yes, this is what I had wanted. I was glad my sexuality was finally out and that I don't have to hide anymore. I felt detached-like I was outside of myself-watching it all on TV. I would put the bad part of what happened right out of my mind, just like my morn had done with us kids: we didn't exist-it never happened-I am going on with my life as if free from the burden of responsibility. Free from worrying about what they thinkbecause, in my mind, they never happened.

As I came around 9 Building the second time, a skinny blond queen named Cisco called out to me. I met him briefly, the day before, but I couldn't get away from him fast enough.

"Oh, Tim!" he waved wildly from the grass. He was sitting between two old white men. "Come over here, darling."

Cisco was in his late thirties, and the two men who were flanking him were each old enough to be my grandfather. Behind them, playing on a small black transistor radio was the Kendalls' "Heaven's Just A Sin Away."

"C'mon honey, come sit with Momma." He patted on the ground next to him. "You look all lost walking around the yard in a daze and all."

"I'm fine," I said. I was embarrassed by his attention. I just wanted to be alone for a while to sort things out in my head.

"I remember when I first came to paradise," he said. "You're gonna be fine, honey. A pretty young thing like you? You're gonna be just fine."

I didn't know Cisco. In spite of being embarrassed by his flamboyance, I liked how nice he was being. The first genuine expression of humanity I'd seen in prison. Maybe I could talk to him. The two older men looked on with smiles. I sat down on the grass, which was warm from the sun, but the earth beneath it was cold and damp. My state blues were already soiled.

"That's it," the old timer on the right said. "Come join us for a spell." He was holding a metal cup by the handle, and a can of Mountain Dew was resting in the grass. His teeth were yellow as was the D on his baseball cap. His face was wrinkled like a prune, and his eyes were blue and looked tired. "I'm Earl," he said, reaching out a hand.

My grandmother had died of cirrhosis of the liver, so I knew about the dark brown patches on his skin. "This here is Delmar," he pointed to his friend. "And I guess you already know our peroxide beauty."

"It's not peroxide," Cisco protested. He ran his long fingernails through his hair. "It's au naturale!"

"Of course it is sweetheart." Earl reached over and wiggled his car. "Of course."

I didn't know why, but I felt embarrassed. I wanted to get up and distance myself from such obviously gay men, but I chose to stay.

"What are you in for?" Delmar asked.

I was getting tired of repeating myself, but it seemed to be the opening for most inmates. What are you in for? How long you got? How much money did you get? I answered while looking over at Cisco. He was leaning back, on his elbows. He took his sunglasses off and placed them on his head. There was pool chalk smeared on his eyelids.

"Well, that's not so bad," Delmar said. He reached into his pocket and brought out a metal flask. "At least you'll get out one day." He poured a clear liquid into his cup. "When I get out of here, it will be in a pine box."

"And hopefully not much longer," Earl said, stretching out his own metal cup.

"What are you drinking?" I asked, smelling a familiar chemical odor. It didn't look like the spud juice that was still clearing my head and oozing out from my pores.

"Turpentine," he said. He picked up the can of pop. "And Mountain Dew."

"It's not the best . . . " Earl said.

"But it'll do!" Delmar topped off both cups.

"Are you serious?"

"Ninety percent wood alcohol," he said. "And maybe a few other things."

I couldn't believe they were going to drink it! "Won't it poison you?"

Delmar lifted his cup. "If we're lucky. We've been down a long time, son, and we just don't care anymore. I've already got a bit of the rot gut."

"How long have you been down?"

"Well, let's see, I first came to the penitentiary in '35, and Earl here ..."

"You've been here that long?" I interrupted.

"Not straight through, mind you, but in bits and pieces. We've been doing what's called Life on the Installment Plan."

"Well, anyway," Delmar said, "we hope it'll be over soon." He reached over and toasted his friend. "Hour by hour, we ripe and rot."

"And rot and rot," Delmar added, clinking his cup, "and therein hangs a tale."

Tilting their heads back, they quickly downed the mixture, closing their eyes and multiplying their wrinkles. I watched as they finished squinting. There were tears in their eyes as their faces relaxed. For a moment there, I could see the pain that was in their bellies. They were drunks. And I felt like I knew them well.

"Shakespeare," Delmar winked.

I didn't know what he was talking about.

Cisco was smiling up at the clear blue sky.

"Is that from an All Star Game?" I asked, pointing to Delmar's hat.

"What?"

"The Detroit Tigers hat with the red star?"

"Oh this," he grabbed his hat and looked at it. "This isn't the Tigers," he said. "Though it does look like their D. No, this is from the colored leagues in the '20s and '30s."

"The colored leagues?"

"The Detroit Stars," he said, handing me the hat. "Part of the Negro League."

"Was it separate from the majors?" I asked.

"Oh yeah. Coloreds couldn't play with whites until the 1950s," Delmar said. "That's when Jackie Robinson came in and broke the colored barrier."

"It's not the colored barrier," Cisco said. "It's the color barrier."

Cisco was from California, where they had all kinds of weird things, like hot tubs and communes and geodesic, solar-powered homes. Dad said it was the land of fruits and nuts.

Delmar took the flask and filled his cup. "They were more fun to watch than the white teams."

"And cheaper too," Earl said.

Cisco sat up on an elbow and looked at me, shaking his head. He rolled his eyes and flopped back down on the grass.

"We're runnin' low on Dew," Delmar said, shaking the empty pop can. "Cisco, why don't you be a doll and run up to the Commissary for Your Poppas."

"No way," Cisco protested, "I've been there three times already.

Delmar winked at me. His face was starting to look more pickled than when I first sat down. After a minute or two of silence, Cisco got up in a huff.

"You mens!" He wiggled his ankles back and forth to get into his shoes. "A girl can't get no rest around here!"

Delmar gave Cisco a handful of tokens.

Cisco took them, looked at me with a smile and then walked off toward 9 Building. "I'm a woman," he muttered. "I ain't no mule they can just keep sending up and down the mountain all day." As he walked toward the small white building on the edge of the track, I could see a hint of green in his hair.

I couldn't help but wonder if this was how I might end up in twenty years. Using pool chalk as eye shadow and drinking paint thinner to hurry my death. I wasn't like these people. And I was determined not to become like them, either.

"Do you like baseball?" Delmar asked.

"I used to," I said, looking out across the yard. Slide Step was raking the baseball diamond. "I sort of lost interest these last few years."

"Tigers?" He asked.

"Yeah." My head still felt numb from the day before.

"Well, there hasn't been a whole lot to be excited about lately."

This was true. I was beginning to feel nauseous.

I remembered when I first started watching baseball and when I first fell in love with the game. It was 1968, and the Tigers had made it to the World Series. I watched them play on our old black and white TV. It was a console television that shared the cabinet with a stereo and record player that didn't work. We couldn't afford a color TV because my parents were getting a divorce.

I remembered thinking, there wasn't anything in the world that was better than baseball. The Detroit Tigers vs. The St. Louis Cardinals. They called it the Year of the Pitcher, because seven pitchers had ended the season with an ERAS below two. Dad once said, "You could be the greatest batter in the world, but it wouldn't matter. You'll always be limited by what's thrown at you."

It was the sane year I moved in with Dad and Sharon. Mom said it was only temporary-until she got on her feet-and I had believed her. They split up because she had an affair with a guy name Dave. Dave was married too, but somehow he still managed to keep his family together. I couldn't understand why my dad couldn't do the same thing.

I started listening to baseball while sitting on the porch and waiting for my nom to pick me up for the weekend. I watched for her car as I listened to my small transistor radio. Sometimes Mom wouldn't call until two or three hours after she was supposed to be there. And other times, she would forget all together. The games made the time pass, and Ernie Harwell, the voice of Tiger Baseball, helped distract me from Sharon's ranting and raging about my no-good mother. She had broken my dad's heart, and he sometimes wouldn't cone hone for days at a time, which left Sharon even angrier. The white plastic earphones of my transistor radio were enough to escape her screaming.

When the Tigers won the World Series, they surprised everyone. They had gone into it trailing three games to one. But in the seventh inning of the seventh game, after nobody thought they could do it, the Tigers had rallied, and I was in love with baseball.

They were my only heroes that year. Even my brother Rick had run away from home. My mom, my dad, and even my big brother had all deserted me that year.