Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison by T. Parsell (fiction novels to read .txt) 📗

to be issued new prison numbers. If you had been though before, they'd place a B in front of your old number, indicating it was your second time, a C meant your third, and so on. Assuming I got out alive, I was already determined that there'd be no prefix added to mine.

The intake process was similar to the county jail. We were strip searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and showered. The only difference being, we were peppered with a delousing powder, which got into my eyes. It burned, and the redness must have shown in the numerous photographs they'd taken. One set for Lansing, the state capital; two more for the FBI, one was attached to my file, and the last one in the form of an prisoner ID "You look like my kid," one of the guards said, as he handed it to me. "He's a sophomore at Jackson High." I was surprised by his friendliness and how casual he seemed. Never get friendly with the guards, my brother warned, the inmates will think you're a snitch. Looking down at the photograph, the irritation in my eyes appeared as fear, which I knew I needed to hide. I never did take a good class picture.

I was a senior at the time, and I didn't like being compared to a sophomore, but I was skinny and my face was hairless. I looked younger than seventeen. With the exception of a few zits, which the food in the county jail didn't help, my skin was smooth.

"Move over there," the guard ordered, pointing to the next counter. His friendliness had disappeared. "Give them your file, so they can run a check for warrants and control holds."

Next, we saw the Quartermaster, who gave us our bedroll and clothes. State Blues, the inmates called them. They were a pair of dark blue pants and matching shirt. They wore like pajamas and looked like the uniform of a garbage man, but at least they weren't stripes and our numbers weren't printed above the shirt pockets. State Blues were the mark of fish, because as soon as most inmates were shipped to wherever they did their time, they'd immediately send for their street clothes.

"Only scrubs and fish wore State Blues," an inmate with a B-number said. Scrubs were guys who were poor, didn't have family on the outside, or lacked the game necessary to hustle some clothes. Hustle some meant stealing them from an open cell, snatching them off a weaker convict, or "getting some fat chick on the outside to buy them."

Later on, when my brother Rick came to visit, I couldn't believe the number of overweight girls in the visiting room, kissing and holding hands with young muscular inmates. Occasionally, the chaplain would be called to perform a wedding, and the inmate would be granted a one-time-only conjugal visit. Rick said as soon as these guys got out, they'd dump them for skinnier girls, but in the meantime, their hefty welfare checks helped beef up the inmates' lean, 50-cent-a-day job pressing license plates in the prison factory. And the girls didn't seem to mind all the foreplay they were getting in the visiting room.

The state shoes were like the kind my brother wore before being tossed out of the Air Force. I remembered, sadly, how he'd pay me to polish them and how proud I was that I could spit-shine them so well his staff sergeant could see his own reflection. But the state shoes had a dull shine. They looked downtrodden and miserable. Perhaps it was because inmates were forced to make them in one of the prison industries.

The classification process would take six weeks and would include a physical, educational and vocational testing, a psychological exam, and a hearing with the classification committee. But Inmate Classification should have been called Convict Orientation, considering how we were all being educated. Inmates who had been there before, explained to the rest of us how things were done. The men with older numbers, a B or C prefix, were treated with respect. While we were in the bullpen, however, we were all in the same position, so those who knew something were quick to brag about it.

There were dozens of prisons and camps in the state and tour different levels of security: Minimum, Medium, Close-Custody, and Maximum.

A memo, posted on the inside wall of the bullpen, explained classification:

Security Assignments are made in accordance with severity of crime, perceived dangerousness of inmate, length of incarceration, and past history of escape or violence.

Major concerns for the Committee include: limiting security risks, assessment of rehabilitation needs and maintaining the good order & security of all institutions within the Michigan Department of Corrections (MDOC).

As I read this, an inmate standing next to me translated: "However much time a motherfucker's got?-That's where they're sending his ass." Meaning, the longer the prison term-the higher the security.

I wondered why they didn't just say that, so everyone would understand, but then Rooster stood up and started imitating a southern lawyer.

"Irregardless of what this particular memorandum stipulates," he said, "Convict Classifications-are primarily determined-by the length of your adjudications."

"In other words," he grabbed his crotch, "The longer the dick-the longer the ride." He gave his pelvis a slight thrust, and everyone laughed.

"Man, sit your Perry Mason ass down, fool," the first guy said, smiling. "And mother-tuck all that mumbo jumbo M-D-O-C bullshit." He pointed at the memo. "It's very simple: If you're doing less than two years, you're going to camp. Up to five-medium-security. Anything higher, and you're going inside."

When inmates talked about going inside, they meant inside the walls of a close-custody prison. Inmates with long sentences, up to and including life, were sent there. They were surrounded by walls, motion sensors, razor wire, and gun towers. The older cons went to Jackson, while those of us under twenty-five went to the Michigan Reformatory (a.k.a. Gladiator School). At this point, I didn't know if the name the inmates had given the place