Authors: Karen Williams
Thug in Me (11 page)
Chapter 14
I couldn't get his face out of my head. Three years had passed since his death and I still saw Tyson. It didn't matter if it was day or night, eyes opened or closed. His face always flashed before me. I would even hear all the jokes he used to crack, all the hope he had given me while I was there. Seems like such a fucked-up fate to me. He had spent so many years of his life in prison. How crazy was it that he dies the day before he was supposed to get released? What a sick twist of fate.
I had been going to that Bible Study Group that Tyson had talked me into joining to deal with this. I never applied for a pen pal again. I was going so I could put my focus and my thoughts into something before I drove myself crazy. I couldn't seem to get over the image of seeing Tyson lying in the bed, cut from ear to fucking ear, out of my head.
I tried to push the thoughts out of my mind but they never went anywhere but to the back of my head, forcing me to rethink them later on. When Tyson died I had learned that his death didn't just affect meâmany guards were saddened by it. It was hard to dislike somebody like Tyson. He was always happy, always smiling and trying to cheer people up. And it was hard to judge the actions of someone like him. If someone raped and killed your little sister, what would you do? He didn't belong in there. He never did. They all knew it. But still, he brought a lot of good to the prison.
The funny part was a few days later, after the riot, when I came back to my cell after showers, I found a beaded rosary on his bed. I was confused because only the Hispanic inmates wore the rosaries. I guess not all of us were divided by race. And I wondered why the riot even happened. I don't even think the men in here understand what it really meant, anyway, this whole notion of race and racism. To me the Hispanics and blacks had some of the same struggles. One way or another we were both being oppressed. It just didn't make sense that we feuded with each other.
After the incident, we were on lockdown for a minute. No visits, no mail, no program, which meant no activities. We ate, took our showers, and went straight to lights out. I didn't care either way. I also found out that the dude who killed Tyson was not just an ordinary dude. He was the son of the man Tyson killed, the man who molested and killed Tyson's little sister. I couldn't believe it. Tyson never knew.
In those three years nothing improved in my life. My mother was still in prison and my appeal was denied. I pretty much left it alone at that point. I didn't have anyone pushing me to fight anymore. That person was now six feet under. Calhoun would still visit me. But he said every time he did he felt like he was looking into the eyes of a stranger, not his boy. I simply told him that's what prison will do to you. Somehow along the way of being there you forget who you are and eventually you just don't care about how you were. Shortly after Tyson's death I had often talked to Calhoun about my friendship with him and when he saw how depressed I was about his death, he warned me not to get close to any inmates again. I promised I wouldn't. I meant it.
And today, after three years, I had a new person in the bed underneath me, in Tyson's old bed. It was weird seeing it empty all those years. And no guard dared putting another body there. Until today. Sometimes I wish they had never put him there underneath me and sometimes I'm glad they did.
I mean, he seemed all right, but me myself, I wasn't too social with anybody. For one, I still felt bad about my friend, for two, my mother was still in jail and it bothered the fuck out of me. And three, I was having a hard time getting over the fate that I had killed a man. All that was just too much to handle.
So when he came to stand by my bunk and introduced himself to me I didn't have too much to say to him.
“What's up, homie? My name Randy.”
He was brown skinned and lanky, with a low-cut fade. There was something weird about the look in his eyes. I couldn't put my finger on it, though.
I shook his hand. “Chance.”
“What did you do?”
I didn't want to get into that, so I didn't. So I instead I said, “something stupid,” and turned back to the book I was reading:
The Purpose Driven Life.
The Purpose Driven Life.
He studied me. “You don't like niggas, do you?”
I turned a page in the book. “No.”
“Well, good. 'Cause I love me some women. Man, I could eat me some pussy all day long! Clean it so good, I could put it back on the shelf. And I love fucking doggie style.”
“Well, you ain't going to find that in here.”
“What?”
“Women.”
“Man, I know. Lord knows I need me some pussy right now.”
I ignored his rambling and kept reading my book. But when he wouldn't stop, and felt he had to tell me his whole life story, how he got here and how much money he used to make on the street, I had no choice but to put my book down and listen.
“What's your favorite sexual position?” he asked me.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Aww. Come on, man. Your favorite position?”
I didn't respond, but in my head I thought, cowgirl. But to be real it just didn't feel right talking to another man about sex. And the fact that men did fuck each other in here whether they admitted it or not, made it worse. And plus, he was in the bunk underneath me. The shit just felt funny. And I wondered how many quote-unquote straight men went home and told their wives and girlfriends how they fucked these punks in here. Yeah. The powers that be made it just lovely for the black woman. You come in here, do your time, and bring something home to your woman . . . AIDS. It happened and was as common as someone giving another person a cold. Prison was a fucked-up place to be. I don't think I would ever be able to rid myself of the demons that prison had given me. I killed a man. I kept telling myself that it was self-defense and not because he killed my friend. But that shit still haunted me. I didn't think I could ever do something like that. I took someone's life. I thank God that I thought quick and hopped over the tier and didn't get caught. I also hoped God would forgive me.
“Man, what I wouldn't do for some pussy right now!”
I felt the same but didn't bother to tell him.
The mere thought of the cowgirl position reminded me of Toi and making love to her. We always made it an experience. From her sucking my fingers to her taking me all the way in her mouth. I closed my eyes and daydreamed of her riding me in reverse, which is what cowgirl was. She had a mirror in her bedroom and whenever we had sex in that position I would always see her titties bouncing up and down and her saying in a sexy voice, “Give that big dick to me, daddy.”
Just thinking about it made my dick hard and I wanted to jack off right then and there. Then an image of her fucking the dude she showed up to my visit with flashed before my eyes.
It immediately made me angry. So I snapped at dude, “Do you have anything else to talk about besides fucking?”
He laughed. “I'm sorry, dawg. I just miss my girl. She is fine as hell. I call her Hershey. She got some sexy-ass lips. She rocks one of them weaves, but I'm cool with it. But at night the shit pulls off like a damn wig! What they call them, man?”
“A lace front.”
Toi had one of those too. She begged me to buy her one for Christmas. The shit cost five hundred. Then she moved onto Indian hair from a spot called Pauline's in Bellflower. Damn. He kept taking me back to Toi. I wondered what she was doing right now. She was probably fucking that other dude she betrayed me with or moved on to another dude to screw. How in the fuck could she?
He was still talking. “She's built like a stallion, though, got the big booty and titties! She got her own crib, a new car, and job! I ain't gotta do shit but kick it.”
I wondered what she saw in him if she was all that. As a man, I would never feel comfortable lying up while my woman worked.
“I can pull some serious bitches, man. I got two more in two other cities. They all got the same credentials and they always break a nigga off!”
This nigga was probably lying, I thought. So I didn't give what he said too much attention. He didn't have to lie to impress me. I didn't have shit no more. I was a prisoner.
He saw my lack of interest so he changed the subject. “Aye. Which guards are cool around here?”
I shrugged. “I don't fuck with any of them. That's just me. The person who used to be on your bed was always the same.”
“Where he at?”
“Dead.”
“Damn! How the fuck that happened to him?”
“Riot.”
“Well, I feel you, but you gotta develop juice with the staff. That's how they look out for you and you get extra shit.”
I didn't respond.
That's when the guard came with the mail. Despite all the times I had written my mama, she never responded anymore. So I wasn't expecting anything other than a letter from Calhoun, who always told me about what he was doing. Which was never shit. He still was not handling his business. He still didn't have a job and he still was not taking care of his kids. One thing he was still getting in abundance and always bragged about was pussy! He had also managed in these past four years to stay out of prison.
My eyes scanned the top for the letter for the name of the person sending it. It simply said Deyja, with a PO Box address.
I narrowed my eyes. The name didn't ring a bell. I opened up the letter anyway and started reading.
Hello,
My name is Deyja. I am a member of Christ Baptist Church. I am a new member of Mrs. Grace's charity group. Since Mrs. Grace has always been of tremendous help to me with things I have gone through, I was given your information and agreed to become your pen pal. She said you had applied for a pen pal a few years before but never again. However, she said you were someone who would really benefit from a pen pal. Understand that my personal business, address, and phone number will never be discussed or disclosed in these letters and I have no problem if you don't want to discuss any of your info. Actually, I would prefer it. I have no romantic interest in you at all and never will. That is not the purpose of the correspondence. The purpose of this is to assist Mrs. Grace on her mission. She, like God, is a firm believer in forgiveness and converting nonbelievers to Christianity. I will also add a scripture for you to study in my letters. The purpose of our letters is to also bring some type of joy your way, with all you have to endure being locked up. I will write you one letter a month. I know that is not a lot, but with my job it is all that I can do. You can send all letters addressed to me to the address listed on the envelope.
Take care and here is a passage to get you started. Proverbs 3:5â6
That was really nice of Mrs. Grace to do that for me. When I went to her Bible study I only went to get my mind off of what happened to Tyson, the murder I did, and the reality that I had been in prison for four and a half years and was probably never going to get out. And now that I had someone to write, I didn't really feel like I could write her. What exactly would I tell her? I'm a convicted murderer? I'm sure she didn't want to hear that shit. But the more and more I sat there, the more curious I was to even see if she would respond to my letter. So after a few days of boredom, I decided to write her.
Hello,
Thank you for taking the time to write me. To be honest, I don't even know how to respond to this letter. I mean, what do I tell you? Where I come from? Why I'm here? Who I was before I got here? Who I am now? Because truthfully, after spending over four years locked up in here, I definitely don't think I'm the same person I was before this whole ordeal happened to me. Places like these will do that to a person. You end up becoming a person you never thought you'd become and end up doing things you never thought you had it in you to do. Often it is about survival. Survival day by day, period. So some of the things we do in here, I don't think anyone can judge us the way you would judge someone on the streets if they did the same thing. The reality is this: We are in a war zone worse than anywhere else, every hour of the day, and being that I was on the streets before, I can definitely testify to that. Even though you said that I can leave all personal information out, I'm sure you are at least curious about what I did to end up in here. I say that because I am curious about who you are. So I will just go ahead and tell you. I'm in here for something I did not do. I was convicted of a murder I swear I did not do. Plain and simple. I know a lot of men say this, that they are innocent, but I'm telling the truth. I'm innocent, as sure as the sun shines and the sky is blue. All I think about is who I was and what I had prior to coming here. I want it back so bad. All the hope I had when I first got here seemed like it died. I have very little hope left. Very little. I'm going to hold onto it because without it, I feel like I'm a dead man.
I will end this here and hope to hear from you again,
Chance
I sealed the envelope and placed it under my mat.
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