Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison (45 page)

"I'd like to discuss forming a prisoner's progress association. We'd like to have permission to meet in the school," Spaulding said.

"That won't be necessary," the warden said. "We have these meetings for that." Spaulding tried to reply, but the warden cut him off. "Let's move on."

"Inmates' movies?" one of the white inmates asked. "We still have the issue of the movies being mostly about blacks." The black guys moaned in disbelief.

I was hoping Spaulding would bring Miss Bain's point about the content of the movies being a phenomenon of self-hate-but Warden Handlon said, "We'll have to table this for right now. The Reformatory and Riverside selects the movies, and we take advantage of their budgets by viewing them when they're finished."

I spoke up. "Excuse me, Warden Handlon? I noticed in the minutes that last spring you said the same thing. It we're saving money by letting them select the movies for us, why is the money still coming out of our inmate benefit fund?"

"That's enough," he shouted. "We won't have any sharp shooting in my meetings."

I was shocked, not sure that I understood why he exploded, but I could see that I better let the matter drop. The other cons looked at me like I was a fool. Here I had been proud of myself for digging up facts like Miss Bain had told us. I thought the inmates would be impressed. I should have remembered what she said about choosing your battles.

"Let's move on," Warden Handlon said.

Miss Bain later reminded me that Warden Handlon runs a tight ship. "It's not any different with staff. He's tough and demands respect. You can't question his authority, because you'll never win."

"Miss Kiley said he was mad at me for filing a grievance. Why would he care?"

"Grievances are one way his bosses measure how well he's running the facility. While he's penalized for them, they are one of many factors that indicate how he's doing. He keeps expenses low, he always looks for bargains, and if you suggest he spend money, it better be worth it."

"Well, he could just say that," I said. "He didn't have to yell at me."

"He probably yelled at you to keep you in your place," she said. "It's just his style. I wouldn't take it personally."

I knew she was telling me this for my own good. She didn't have to risk speaking out against the warden, but it reflected who she was; a brave person with a lot of integrity. I savored every minute I could hang out in her office and would have stayed the whole day if she had let me. I wondered if she hated being inside a prison as much as I did.

"I like what I'm doing," she said. "And I'm learning a lot from Warden Handlon."

"Really?"

"He's a legend in corrections," she said. "There's a lot you could learn from him, by studying him."

There was that word again-study. It seemed the theme of the moment. Paul was telling me to study the inmates, to see what I can learn about themand now Sherry was saying I could learn by studying Warden Handlon.

"But I hate him," I said. "And do you really think he likes black people?"

I knew it was a cheap shot, but Sherry made me feel I could speak openly. Handlon was a member of the local country club, and he'd lived in Ionia where there weren't any blacks. Those who worked in the prison commuted from Lansing or Grand Rapids.

"Warden Handlon has the ability to see the future," Sherry said. "He knows what it takes to get by. And whatever his personal feelings might be, he's going to be part of that future."

I looked at her and nodded. "But don't you think that he's prejudiced?"

"No I don't. He's led the department in hiring minorities. He's recruited down south to bring more in, and he's the one who interviewed and hired me."

"How was that? The interview, I mean?"

"He got all up in my personal business, for one," Sherry said, laughing. "Asking all kinds of questions he shouldn't have been asking."

"Like what?"

"Like am I dating anyone? How come I'm not married? Do you have any kids?"

"You can't ask those things?"

"It's not really relevant," she said. "It was like the guys on The Oracle making a big deal about your lifestyle. Anyway, I get along with him pretty well. He never talks to me like he does the others, because I respect him and I have his respect."

"How does that work?"

"Well for one, when he tells me to do something I don't agree withinstead of arguing about it, I say, `I'll do this, but I don't agree with you.' I never argue with him and I always do what he says. Some of the best lessons can be learned by doing something you don't want to do."

"Like not sharpshooting at his meeting?"

"He's been a good mentor to me," she said. "He's had more wardens come up under him than any other warden in Michigan. So I hope to keep right on learning. I have a future too, you know."

I looked at her and was amazed.

When Paul told me he couldn't be my man because he was gay, he was speaking to the misunderstandings of masculinity and power in prison. As gay men, we'd never have power over anyone, not even ourselves. Miss Bain challenged that notion. Here she was a woman, in a man's world, applying her intellect to get ahead. And she was doing this by taking on a mail to help teach her what she needed to learn.

In that moment, I had no doubt she'd one day make warden, even if she was a woman, in a man's world and fighting the odds. There was a lot I could learn from her. Paul was right: I needed to pick someone and study him. Only it wasn't going to be a man. I decided right then it was Miss Bain. She was who it was that I was going to study.

"It's all about a power trips and head games," Paul said. We were in the day room a few minutes before lockdown, watching the eleven o'clock news. "It's the same shit that pimps use to season their ho's."

"How do you know these things?" I asked.

"Taylor taught me," he said. "They use fear and intimidation, or they pretend to be your savior. They trick you into believing they're the only ones who can protect you-care about you. I'm sure if you were still with Moseley-he wouldn't let you come near me, because he was afraid I'd wise you up. Keeping you isolated was how he kept you in his control."

I nodded, remembering how Rock once threatened he would kill my entire family if I ever went to the guards and snitched on him. And judging by how he looked at nee at the time-I believed him.

"That's just part of the game," Paul said. "They break you down firstlike brainwashing. It's what they did to Patty Hearst." He nodded to the TV.

A major event dominating the news was the Jonestown massacre. Jim Jones, a cult leader, had convinced 912 of his followers to commit suicide by drinking Kool-Aid laced with cyanide. The commentators were making a connection to Patty Hearst, the newspaper heiress who had been kidnapped by terrorists and brainwashed into robbing a bank. They called it the Stockholm syndrome in which captives became sympathetic with their captors.

"You know," Paul said. "It didn't happen exactly the way you think it did."

"What?"

"Slide Step. When you first arrived at Riverside."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's the oldest game in the penitentiary. It's called the Underplay for the Overlay. Slide Step set the whole thing up."

I felt my heart drop. As much as I loved Paul, he had to be making that up. He was jealous of Slide Step, that's all. "Get the fuck out of here," I said.

"Oh he did," Paul nodded. "He had his eyes on you the moment you hit the yard. Taylor and I were standing next to him when you came in with the other fish."

"You're a fuckin' liar," I challenged.

The guard flashed the lights and shut off the TV. It was time to return to our cells.

"Why would he do that? It doesn't make sense," I said, refusing to believe any of it-was this Paul's way of manipulating me? For the first time, I looked at Paul skeptically.

"He wanted you to come willingly into his fold, grateful to him for rescuing you. Who wants a wife that's resentful about being there? It's easier to control you that way."

"But Slide Step didn't control me!"

"Look Tim, Slide Step has been doing time longer than you've been alive."

"He's not that old!" I said. "He's only thirty!"

"If you count his time in juvenile hall."

I was angry with Paul, because I didn't want to hear this even if it were true, which I refused to believe.

I went to my cell and kicked the locker door. It made a loud crash against the wall and resonated out into the hall. The noise reminded me of the first time Slide Step kissed me, and how relieved I was that he wasn't going to hurt me. At least not how I thought he was going to hurt me. But now I wished he would have beaten me. If Paul's story were true, a beating would have been easier to take.

The snow outside my window came down heavily. I could barely see the chow hall through the small windowpanes as they frosted over. I'd wedged pieces of toilet paper inside the cracks to keep the wind from blowing inside.

Sitting alone in the dark, I thought about something else Paul had said. "Inmates are always looking to destroy whatever good you had left. They're jealous that you've been able to keep something hidden away. Or maybe it makes them feel better-knowing they can take from you what's been stolen from them. But fuck 'em, you just don't let it happen. And the best way to do that is to walk around like you're immune to whatever goes on here. So if someone else is getting hurt, you look away, or better yet-you laugh about it to keep others from turning on you. It's play or be played-It's just the way it is."

In A-unit, because there were bathrooms inside the cells, they locked us in at night. It was comforting to know that at least for the next ten hours, no one could get into my cell. I chose not to believe it. Slide Step cared for me, and that was real. It was as if by telling ine that story, Paul was taking from me that one thing I had hidden away. I hugged my pillow and slowly fell asleep.

31

Go for the Grab

"Can I open that one, first?" I said, pointing to the long, gift-wrapped package at the back of the tree.

Sharon reached in and handed it to me. The tape on the end hardly looked tampered with, but I quickly ripped it open before she could notice it. It was the new tripod for my camera, which I wanted to set up right away.

"Let me have that one," Bobby said, pointing to the gift nearest him.

We knew what everything was because we had been peaking at them for weeks.

"Sharon," my dad said, "have them open this one here." He nodded to a four foot box that was brightly wrapped and next to the hall. To THE KIDs, it was labeled, LOVE SANTA.

We posed for a picture in front of it, waiting for the delayed shutter of my camera before we tore into it.

"Iget the blue one," Bobby shouted.

"I already called it," I said, "You can have the green."

"Well, I'm notgetting stuck with yellow," Billy protested.

Connie, we already knew, would get the red one, which none of us wanted. We knew that the Ford Motor Company windbreaker jackets were all the same size. The funny thing was, we hadn't opened the package yet.