Authors: Karen Williams

Thug in Me (5 page)

BOOK: Thug in Me

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I stared down at my tray that consisted of a slim amount of what looked like chili beans, some string beans, and a square of Jell-O and two pieces of bread. It was a far fucking cry from smothered pork chops, oxtail stew, enchiladas, jambalaya, lasagna, and curry chicken my mama used to cook for me

Damn, I hoped my mama was okay and I hoped she was not sitting, stressing over me. But I knew she probably was. What mother wouldn't?

Regardless of what was on the tray, it could have been some lobster. I wasn't hungry so it wouldn't have tasted good to me, not with all the stress I was dealing with. The last thing I wanted to do was eat. However, I knew that I had to put on a front with the other prisoners so I picked up my spoon and began to scoop some of the chili beans in my mouth. I didn't taste them and they felt heavy on my tongue. I chewed a few times and fought the urge to spit the shit back onto the tray. Instead, I attempted to swallow, which was hard when I had a lump in the back of my throat. After a few tries, I was able to get it down. Guards walked back and forth around us while we ate.

We were not given much time to eat the food. I gave up on the chili and ate the piece of Jell-O.

That's when dinner was called, whether you were done or not.

We all went back to our cells.

I climbed on top of my bed in silence. Just as I managed to get on top, I almost fell when I saw six black dudes crowd around our cell.

The tallest one said in a raspy voice, “Get the fuck of that bed, nigga, and come here.”

I looked down, thinking they were talking about Tyson.

“You, muthafucka!” He pointed a finger at me.

I slid off the bed and stood so I was facing him. Like I said, I never considered myself to be a punk but something about six big black niggas in front of my cell had me shook. The main dude had three teardrops that were darkened in and trailed down his face.

“Aye man. Don't be giving them fucking Mexicans no food!”

At first I didn't know what he was talking about. Then I remembered at dinner how I had given a guy some corn bread on the serving line.

“I didn't want it and he asked for it. I didn't think it was a big deal.” I didn't even think anyone was paying attention to what I did on the serving line. But I guess they were. That meant I had to watch my every move while I was there.

“I don't give a fuck what he asked for! And it is a big deal. You young and dumb but you need to learn the ethics of jail, or you gonna get yourself killed.” He pointed a finger toward the ground while saying, “In here it's us against them.”

I nodded my head at what he said. But to be honest, I didn't have a problem with Hispanics. But I had to be smart and listen to what he was saying. I wasn't home anymore. I wasn't free. The rules out there didn't apply in here.

“Next time a Mexican or white boy or anybody that ain't black ask you for something you tell them hell no. And if they got a problem with it you fuck they ass up! We'll worry about the rest. You ain't home no more, nigga. Welcome to the muthafucking jungle.”

I nodded.
Hell realized
is what I wanted to call it. Maybe hell was even better than this. I couldn't imagine anything being worse. I had to get out.

“Take it to your cells!” a guard yelled.

The dudes all walked away.

Chapter 7

Sure enough, the next morning when I was passing through the serving line I was given scrambled eggs, two slices of bread, and some oatmeal.

A different dude tapped on my tray. He was Hispanic.

I glanced his way quickly and shook my head. I went to my table, sat down and started eating some of my eggs. Eating was still a struggle for me. But I knew I had to keep face in here.

I was about to put my spoon in my oatmeal when I paused, seeing the same dude that had asked for my eggs standing over me.

Out of nowhere, he stuck his finger in my oatmeal.

“What the fuck you doing?” I demanded.

The man made a
tsk
sound.

All eyes were now on him and I. Before I could make another move the dude rushed me. I flew from the metal bench from the impact and to the floor. The man got on top of me and started throwing punches. I used all the strength that I had and managed to flip him onto his back. I straddled him with my body and socked him square in the jaw. He grunted and tried to throw another punch. I ducked.

He used that as an opportunity to get me off of him.

Once he had me off of him, we both rushed to our feet. I had one fist balled and the other wide open waiting to catch one of his fists and crack him with my free hand.

I did just that, grasping his wrist and cracking him square in his face again.

There was cheering going on around the mess hall.

That's when I zeroed in on the officers who were yelling for us to stop and drop to the floor.

But if the other man wasn't going to stop, then I wasn't.

And he wasn't.

Even though he had no wins with me. And he knew it.

I was grabbing every punch and giving him one every time. His face was bloody and he was stumbling around and shaking his head weakly.

I knew I had to do this.

And if they got a problem with it you fuck they ass up!

Somebody grabbed me by the back of my shirt. It knocked me off balance and I fell to the floor. At first I thought it was one of the guards but it was an Hispanic inmate. The dude I was fighting spit in my face. The saliva splattered in my eye, making me temporarily blind for the moment.

That's when I felt his nails rake down my face. It started stinging.

Blood trickled in my eye.

I was blinking rapidly to get my eyesight back. But I still wasn't going to let this dude beat me.

I grabbed him by his neck and continued to work on him like my life depended on it.

I punched him over and over again, taking all the aggression I had inside of me out on him for fucking with me.

I gave him fist after fist after fist, breathing rapidly as I did until all he could do was lay in a heap, breathing hard.

That's when the guards finally grabbed us both and led us away.

The hole was even smaller than my actual cell. I didn't really care, though.

I was in that room all day until they let me out for an hour of exercise and that hour felt like five minutes. But even then, I was still in an enclosed space that looked like a cage.

Shortly after rec, I was sent back to solitary and a guard came to my door.

He stepped in the room and closed the door.

“You know who I am?”

“No.”

I had seen him before. He was a stocky black dude with a bald cut. He had to be about six-feet-four. He was dark-skinned with a hawk's nose. His two front teeth were gold.

“I'm Roscoe. When we one-on-one you can call me Roscoe. When we with the other inmates and my peers, you call me sir. And today is your lucky day.”

“Oh yeah? How is that?” I didn't have anymore more lucky days. I knew that as sure as the sun was shining.

His voice was husky. “Listen up,” he told me. “You supposed to stay in here for a week for that shit you pulled in the mess hall.”

What shit did I pull? I was attacked. But I didn't bother telling him this. I doubt he gave a damn.

“I can get you out today along with some money on your books.”

I couldn't care less about having money on my books. And I also figured that whatever he wanted me to do it wouldn't be anything legal, else why would he come to solitary to tell me? Why would he need to speak to me in private?

My silence prompted him to continue. But I wished that he wouldn't.

“I can drop it by here and when you get released back into regular pop, you can sell it in here for me.”

“Sell what?”

“Dope.”

“You serious?”

“You stupid muthafucka! I read your file. You know how long you gonna be in here? For life. It's best you make some friends while you in here. And it's best you make friends with me.”

It sounded like a threat more than anything.

I took a deep breath.

“Nigga, you shot a cop. The fact that you didn't get the death sentence is only 'cause you shot a black cop.”

“I ain't killed nobody.”

“Yeah? You probably didn't. But it don't matter. You gonna pay like you did. You know how many niggas are in here for some shit they didn't do? You know how long? All they fucking life. And you can forget about that appeal bullshit. It takes them forever to even respond and when they do it is denied. I done seen it happen enough to know. So fuck that keep-hope-alive. This is it for you. The only alive you gonna see is behind these fucking walls. You might as well make the best of it. And this is the best place to sling. I make a killing in here, man. Niggas in here depressed and shit about being away from their family. Niggas wondering who fucking their girl. They can't fuck. The only release they get is looking at the female guards and jacking off or fucking these
punks
in here. Then they gotta deal with how that shit makes them feel. Their form of therapy is getting high. So you need to go on and get on my team, dawg.”

Deep down in the core of me, that shit he said was exactly how I felt. I did feel my life was over and whatever life I fucking had left, I felt like I was going to be spending it here. But I wasn't going to do a muthafucking thing for his crooked ass.

“I'm not slinging your shit.”

“Come again?”

“You heardâ”

Suddenly he took his baton and slammed it into my stomach.

I couldn't breathe for a minute. I fell onto my side and resisted the urge of fucking him up. It was just me and him in there anyway.

But I didn't. I just stayed on my side and inhaled a ragged breath.

“You stupid muthafucka. You just fucked up. Now! You on my bad side.”

He left the room, closed and locked it back.

Chapter 8

It turned out that I didn't spend a week in solitary. Instead, due to a rat biting I ended up with an infection that caused a high fever. I spent nearly two weeks in the infirmary, which was the medical unit.

I was then sent back to my cell.

I figured there was no reason to act fucked up toward Tyson anymore. He wasn't the reason why I was there, and he didn't do anything to me.

So when he held out a fist for me to dap, I dapped.

He went over the politics of jail. The dos and the basic don'ts. I listened to what he had to say. I figured for someone who had been in there for ten years he knew what to do to survive.

“Hey man, you fucked dude up for disrespecting you during breakfast,” he said, cracking up laughing.

I gave a small smile. “I did what I had to do. I can't have everybody else thinking I'm soft and testing me too.”

“Right. Right. I like the way you think. I'm for sure getting out this place.” He was doing push-ups as we talked. I was sitting on my bunk.

“What did you do?”

I paused. I knew that question was coming. Do I tell him or not? Would he look at me differently? Would he be too scared to be in the same cell with me? So instead of telling him I asked, “Man, what did you do?”

“Assault with a deadly weapon.”

“What was the deadly weapon?”

He paused on his push-ups to show me his two fists. “My hands. And I tried to beat the muthafucka to death with them.”

I blew out some air. “Why?”

I thought he was a probably just another gangbanger messing with people for no good reason like my dumbass friend Calhoun, or maybe he was just a reckless fool. But his words surprised me.

He stopped doing his push-ups and sat on the floor.

“Some sick muthafucka took my baby. My baby sister, Mia. He straddled her and forced her to go down on him while he went down on her. Then he penetrated her like she was a woman. He sodomized her.” He shook his head. “There wasn't much left of my baby sister when that sick muthafucka got through with her. When he was done taking her innocence, he strangled her to death. Every time I think about it, I wanna break out of this bitch and go after his sick, twisted ass again. I was trying to kill that muthafucka! But he got saved by the bell as far as I was concerned. The cops arrested me and his ass is lying in the hospital some fucking where in a coma. She was only six-years-old. She was the only family I had.”

His eyes got watery.

“Why did they call your hands deadly weapons?” I asked curiously.

He stood and bounced around the room, making jabs with his fist. “'cause I was on the U.S. Olympic boxing team, baby!”

He bobbed and weaved in front of me. “How you think I got the name Tyson? I came out the pussy swinging!”

I laughed at the comment but didn't really believe he was telling the truth about being on the Olympic team.

“Before this shit I was the man, baby!”

“Now what?” I asked, suddenly believing him. We were in prison; why would he lie?

He stopped and stood facing me. “Now nothing. I'm in here. My dream of having a career as a boxer is over.”

I nodded.

“But I ain't gonna be in here forever. I'm gonna get out this bitch soon.”

I didn't say anything. I wanted to ask him how he pulled that off. Maybe he didn't, maybe he had pretty much done all of his time. I told myself this 'cause I didn't want give myself any type of hope and then it gets shot down. So I was scared to even ask him his opinion about my situation. I didn't even wanna bring it up.

How I felt didn't stop him from asking, “What about you, homie? You feel comfortable telling me what you did?”

After what he just admitted to me, how could I not?

“Murder.”

“What? Why the fuck you kill somebody? They say the quiet niggas are the ones you gotta watch out for.”

“I didn't. The shit don't make a bit of sense to me. One minute I'm living my life and the next the cops are busting in my house and are beating my ass. Then I'm in jail for murder. The icing on the cake is having a man I never seen before in my life, testify against me and say that I shot an officer I also ain't never seen before in my life.”

“That is some crazy shit, man.” He sat on his bed while saying, “What's even crazier is the fact that it has happened to so many men in here.”

I nodded. That gave me hope that someone would believe me. But then his next sentence shot me right back down.

“You know what's even crazier?” he asked me.

“What?”

“That they are never freed. They end up dying in this bitch. Dying fucking innocent.”

A few hours later, during rec, I thought back to Tyson's words in the cell: the prison politics. He said in prison the only people you are allowed to congregate with are those that look just like you: black men. If I was ever caught kicking it with a white, Asian or Hispanic, I would be considered a traitor and possibly killed. It went that way for the other races as well. I saw that segregation alive and well here. And it was here on the yard. Hell, I didn't want see it now but it was my reality.

But to be honest, I kind of wanted to stay separated from all of them and not be associated with anybody. So I tried to keep a low profile and keep myself isolated on the yard. I waved a hand at Tyson, who kept gesturing for me to come over to where he was with the blacks. The dudes that came to the cell and checked me about the corn bread were present in that group. And they kept glaring at me.

I started walking the track by myself, hoping I could clear what was left of my mind. I was surprised that I hadn't went crazy yet. I missed my mom and Toi. I still had not heard from Toi. I kept telling myself that she was probably dealing with the shock of her man going from being in her face to being behind bars. Because those other thoughts, like maybe she was done with me or moved on to another man, were sure to drive me crazy. I already had enough to worry about. I had to find a way to get myself out of this prison. I had to. That is what was keeping me going: Knowing I needed to come up with some way out.

I continued to walk on the track. I kept my distance from the other men walking on it. So when I heard some sets of feet walking behind me, I increased my speed.

They increased theirs also.

I tilted my head to the right slightly, to see who was walking behind me.

Shit. It was two big corn-fed-looking Hispanic dudes.

I closed my eyes briefly. I knew they were going to give me heat for the shit that went down in the mess hall. Some shit that wasn't my fault. I was just doing what the older dude who came to my cell had told me to do. But the more I thought about it, I knew that I was defending myself. I had a right to do that.

“You think you special
, mayata
? You trying to be a shot caller? Huh?”

I kept walking.

Another one said, “
Mayata
, don't you hear this man talking to you? You better fucking answer.”

“My muthafucking name ain't
mayata
.”

I knew what
mayata
meant. It meant “nigger” in Spanish and I sure as fuck wasn't responding to that here or nowhere else. And if I got jumped for that shit, hey, I'd just take one for the team.

“We don't give a fuck what your fucking name is. Just answer the fucking question.”

“No, I don't think I'm special. And look, I don't need this shit. I ain't asked for no shit from none of y'all.”

“Well, you got it.”

BOOK: Thug in Me

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