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“You always know where I am now, eh?” I joke, recalling the letter he once wrote and how he worried about my various travels.

Philbert cracks a slight smile. “Do you still have that map?” he asks. “The one we gave you when you left?”

I don’t know. I probably have it somewhere, in my things. It’s probably at Ella’s house, or maybe it got lost in the shuffle when the cops raided Shorty’s place.

I shrug. “They didn’t let me bring things in with me,” I say. “Sorry.”

“How about we get you another one?” Philbert says.

I put out my hands, indicating the walls around me. “What do I need a map for now?” I ask him.

He ducks his head. “Right. Well, I guess I liked knowing you were carrying something we gave you,” he says. “It meant a lot to us that you kept it.”

The way he says “us” makes me feel lonely. I’ve had this feeling before, but I fight against it. It’s strange to feel so distant and so familiar at the same time.

Seven, eight years is nothing. Nothing close to enough to tear us apart. Anyway, how it is now is how it always was. I was always the one who couldn’t be quite like the rest.

I don’t know the name of the prisoner who dies in the middle of the night. All I know is what the guys are saying about him. Dead. Hanged by the neck. Jailhouse suicide.

They let us out in the morning, and we have no choice but to walk by the cell where it happened if we want to get outside. Away from the stench, which, strangely, isn’t made any worse by death.

They don’t lift the body from the cell right away. He dangles there, half hanging, half lying. Grotesque and crumpled and black and blue.

I try to close my eyes, but I can’t, in the end. It’s as if they know I can’t, too. They want us to see. Want us to think about his ugly, twisted death as if it were our own.

He did it to himself. Bound his bedsheet in knots and strung it around his own neck. Strung himself up from the
T
of his cell bars. We all have them, the places where the vertical bars meet the horizontal ones. We all have sheets, however filthy. We could all step out. At any time.

The shame the guards would inflict on us is made complete by the fact that we don’t leave. We stay. We take the punishment. We let ourselves be pressed down. . . .

Much as he hanged himself, Brother Hang was done in by forces beyond him. It hearkens back to the long-ago rope, swinging in the slight breeze. Death at the hands of the system. I’ve been reading about the black man in our world. It’s right there in the pages of every book Bembry hands to me. Brother Hang landed inside these walls because of a system that failed him.

The guard who knocks me down and puts his foot on my face, who drags me to the hole — he didn’t build these walls. He didn’t invent the word
nigger,
however well he’s learned to throw it. It’s all so much bigger, and so built-in.

Brother Hang found a way to free himself from prison,
I write to my brothers. Maybe it is the only way. This place is meant to consume me. I should just let it, and let it be done.

Reginald writes back, saying that when I am ready, he can free me from prison.
Don’t smoke cigarettes. Don’t take any drugs. And don’t eat any more pork,
he says.
I’ll show you the way free.

I wonder what sort of escape he’s planning, but at this point I’m game for anything. I clean myself up, get ready to make my escape. All the reefer, all the coke, and all the booze is far behind me. Now even the nutmeg haze fades, and I see myself. For the first time in a long time.

The mirror is little more than a sheet of metal. Whatever thin lacquer on the surface makes it reflect has grown chipped. I can’t really see myself clearly. My edges are blurred, not a crisp line in sight.

Only one thing I can see, for damn clear: I’m caged. A fucking mess.

I can’t get high off anything anymore. Nothing left but to be low.

I used to want to be low. Go down the Hill. Get into the darkness. Find the base of myself and roll around. I guess I finally found the bottom.

Prison is designed to break you, but I’m already shattered. There’s nothing these bars could take from me that hasn’t already been taken.

I’m ready,
I write Reginald.
I’m clean. Come and get me.

Reginald’s responding instructions make no sense to me.
Allah is supreme.

I’m waiting for the escape plan,
I write back.

Then I hear from my brothers that they meant religion as the escape.
Join the Nation of Islam,
they write.
Follow the Honorable Elijah Muhammad. Trust in Allah, and you will find freedom.

They’re not coming for me. The realization hits hard. The religions collide. My brothers’ Allah and the voices of the black men in prison who speak the same cryptic words. My father’s distant God. The Christ my mother spent so much energy appeasing.

There’s nothing there for me. I like it Bembry’s way — just reading. Reading. Reading.

I can’t get enough of these books. I consume the written word the way I once consumed liquor or reefer. It fills me in a way that is as powerful, as spiritual, as high. There’s so much to know, so much to think about and wrestle with, so much outside of myself. I
have
to get outside of myself, or I’ll die inside my mind.

I’m reminded of the days when I was a good student. I would rip through an essay assignment in a matter of minutes, and Mom would be so proud.

There comes a point when my body breathes a sigh, and there’s some kind of solace in this learning. A point when I stop wrapping my hands around the bars as if I could rattle them. Not a quick change. Not like the flip of a switch or anything. It’s just a softening, like the last comb stroke through the hair that makes it hold the conk. The strokes before mattered, even though you couldn’t feel it. One day I just notice that I’m not gripping so tight.

I can’t believe how much easier it is to get through the day now that I’m no longer in a constant state of fury. I don’t fight with the guards anymore. I don’t get sent into solitary. I spend every moment that I can reading. When it’s time to work, I go to the plate shop, and always do what I’m asked. Accept each tray of slop with a quiet “thank you.” Before long, people start coming to me for advice, and even the guards look at me with respect.

I get the word that my new good behavior has earned me a transfer out of Charlestown Prison. Where I’m headed is supposed to be better, they tell me. I figure it sure can’t be any worse.

The windows of the bus are layered with a thick metal mesh. It’s like looking at the world through honeycomb. We are further caged behind a fencelike wall between us and the driver and the guards, with their pair of shotguns.

It’s OK, though. I’m not afraid. I’ve been reading my books. I’m awake to the way they think now. Chaining us to the bench rails isn’t enough. They have to have us in a box. They have to have us know they could shoot us. At any time.

Norfolk Prison Colony, 1948

Norfolk Prison Colony is like a paradise compared to Charlestown. I count my lucky stars — that is, I’m reminded again that there is some luck to be had, even for a washed-up hustler like me. Heck, I’m only twenty-three.

For a second, I wonder if all the cigarettes and reefer I haven’t been smoking and all the pork I haven’t been eating actually add up to something. My brothers think that my new fortune is more than luck — it’s a sign from Allah that I’m supposed to do something different with my life. But thinking that way puts pressure on my chest. I don’t believe in signs. Only luck.

Thinking
luck
makes me think
hustle
. Think
numbers
. Think how to make a buck, and how to keep my mind busy so I don’t have to entertain these thoughts.

Turns out, I haven’t lost the touch.

Guys here at Norfolk get to listen to the radio. They broadcast baseball games, and Jackie Robinson is the hit of the day, the first black man in Major League Baseball. We tune in every game. Wouldn’t miss it.

Cigarettes are like cash around here. It’s easy enough to lay off some bets.

I lean my ear up against the radio, and I know perfectly well that it’s baseball I’m listening to, but for a while I could swear I’m hearing about Joe Louis. My eyes close of their own accord, and I can feel the living-room rug beneath my knees, Philbert’s breath upon my neck. I can feel the fight rise in me. Feel the hope and the energy and —

I wrench myself out of the memory. Jackie Robinson’s at bat. Focus now. Focus.

The task at hand is complicated enough. Numbers to keep in my head. Every swing of the bat, I recalculate Robinson’s average. By the end of the game, I’ve done the math problem a couple dozen times. I roll out the cartons of cigarettes and get ready to collect.

The Joe Louis matches from years ago were the most exciting, dramatic sporting events I ever heard. Why does it feel like nothing will ever raise me to such a fevered place again? I wonder if maybe I should be taking book on boxing. Jackie Robinson is the hot item of the day, but he isn’t the only game in town.

But I push away the wondering when it starts to draw me too far back. If I’m going back in time, I’ll focus my memories on the good days. Harlem. Numbers. Always hustling. Always stepping.

Don’t let it catch me. Don’t let it hold me down.

The Norfolk hustle is a cakewalk. It’s as easy as taking bets from the numbers, but with a captive audience. If they don’t pay up, there’s no way to dodge. They have to be right here every day. They have to face me.

One guy owes me better than a pack at this point. I go down to his block to try and find him. His bed is empty.

His neighbor says, “He’s in sick bay.”

“That’s no excuse,” I answer. “He owes what he owes.”

The neighbor is an old dark man. Sitting in the corner of his bunk, reading a black-bound book with a cross on the cover. A Bible.

He squints up at me. “When he’s back, you’ll get your payment. He’s good for it.”

Sure, he’s always paid before, but right now that seems beside the point. I’m glaring at this guy now. “Who are you?” I say to him. “Why do you want to get into this?”

He lays the Bible aside. “I wasn’t getting into it,” he says. “You came looking for my neighbor, and I was telling you where he is.”

He talks quiet and firm. He’s exactly like a hundred old guys I’ve known. The old miner on the bus. The weathered hustlers at Small’s. Some of the musicians at the Braddock. Bembry at Charlestown. West Indian Archie, even. Familiar. The sort of man who’s everywhere. No avoiding him. Always butting in. Trying to get his piece.

“You want to stand in for him?” I ask. “You want to take what’s coming to him?” I don’t understand the words coming out of my mouth.

The old guy stands up. “If that’s what has to happen,” he says. “But I’m trying to tell you, you’ll have what he owes you. Tomorrow or the next day.”

“Well, it’s due today,” I tell him. “Come on out, if you’re so hot to let me know how things should be.” I motion him forward with my fists up.

Nothing about what I’m doing makes sense. I threaten guys who don’t want to pay, but just so they’ll pay. I never have to actually do anything. Still, I motion him closer.

“I’ve thrown a punch or two in my day,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Are you a fighter, son?”

Every word he speaks enrages me further. “One more step,” I taunt. “And I’ll show you.”

I have never been a good boxer. Why did I invite this? I don’t need this. I never imagined he’d stand up. He’s a dark, stout Christian man. He’s got no beef with me. Why would he even agree to this fight?

Guys from the area circle around us, hooting. We face off, stepping lightly. The old guy squints at me, taking me in. His hands are large and meaty. In that moment, I know it’s already over. I know I’m going down.

An instant later, I know something else.

This man is my father.

I’m in the ring with him, fists raised to block any blows to my heart, before I understand.

This man is my father.

One squinted eye. A broad, dark face. A deep, dark faith behind it.

“Come on, young brother,” he says. “Let’s do this.” There’s resignation in his voice. Like it’s a fight he doesn’t want to have. I don’t see why; he got himself into this, same as I did.

But when we’re close, he lowers his arms. Looks at me, like he’s seeing something in me that he hadn’t seen before. “You know, I don’t want to fight you.”

“Put your hands up, old man,” I tell him. It’s not going to be over like that. I know, with every beat of my living heart, that this fight has already started. I’ve been in the ring with him seventeen years and counting.

“No,” he says. “But you do what you have to.” He comes close to me, so close I think he’s going to forget the fists and throw his arms around me. I hold my breath, but he brushes past me, returning to his cell.

I’m furious and shaking. “Don’t walk away.” At the core of my soul is the desire to punch him. In every fight of my life, I’ve been knocked down. Can’t get up. Can’t get up. Can’t land a punch to save my life. It’s just an onslaught. Every fight of my entire life leaves me lying on the mat. Arms over my face.
Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.
But they always do. I’ve been slammed into oblivion over and over.