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

called it Gladiator School. "Where motherfuckers fight each other off with broomstick handles and garbage can lids."

"A pretty boy like you," the psychologist added, "you'll need to get a man."

"Fuck that!" I said, my eyes darted to the floor. I could feel my face burning.

"If you don't get a man, you'll be open game."

"They'll have to kill me first," I said, sitting up in my chair.

"That can be arranged," he said, calmly.

He was enjoying the volley.

I didn't know what to say next, or how he'd respond to it. I studied the books that were sloppily arranged on the shelf above his desk. I was afraid to let my eyes look at him, fearing what they might reveal.

"Your life means nothing to one of these cons who's serving a life sentence. You'll suck dick, or you'll get your throat slit. And then they'll fuck you."

Now I was getting scared, and angry. This prick was having too much fun with me, and I didn't know what to do, but mostly I was scared. I couldn't believe they'd send me to M-R. I was definitely not a dangerous guy. Up until a few weeks ago, I was still living with my parents and reading comic books.

"Fuck you," I screamed. "They'll just have to kill me, You Motherfucker!"

"OK," he said calmly. He got up and walked to the door. "You can have a seat in the bullpen." He tossed my file into a metal basket and opened the door.

"Williams," he called out, reading from the clipboard on the wall. "1-53-2-9-7."

A black inmate got up from the floor of the crowded bullpen and crossed the hall. The psychologist shut the door to begin his next evaluation, and I sat in the space that Williams had just cleared, struggling not to let anything show in my face. I'd learn later, he wrote in my file that I was violent and dangerous and recommended I be sent to M-R.

"Yo! White boy," a black inmate with cornrows said. "What'd he say?"

"He said I'm going to M-R," I shrugged, pretending it didn't bother me.

"Damn, Homey! You're too motherfuckin' pretty to be going to no MR."

"Broomstick handles and garbage can lids," another blurted. "You're goin' to Gladiator School."

"Nah," Cornrows said. "How old are you, Blood?"

"Seventeen," I replied.

"Nah." He said, shaking his head confidently. "They'll send you to Riverside. There's no way they'll send some pretty white boy like you to M-R. No way."

1

Camp Dearborn

Color of Eyes: Blue Color of Hair: Red now, is Blond (8 weeks) Complexion: Peaches and Cream

Remarks: A darling baby boy who smiles and talks to his mommy like crazy. A sweet little bundle of joy. Timmy, at 8 weeks, you are Mommy's precious doll. I hope you will always make me as happy and lovable as you due [sic] right now.

First said `Daddy': 10 Mos. Da Da First said `Momma': 11 Mos.

Other First Words: See, Hurt First put together words: I don't want to

SOURCE: Mom's entries in my Baby Book.

As a boy, I spent my summers at Camp Dearborn. It was located in Milford, Michigan, about thirty-five miles northwest of Detroit. The camp was owned by the City of Dearborn and reserved for the use by its residents.

Dearborn was the birthplace of Henry Ford and home to The Ford Motor Company, where my Dad worked as a painter. During the week Dad stayed at home, while my Mom, older brother and sister and I were out at camp.

On 625 acres of rolling hills, trees and man-made beaches, the campsites offered electric hook-up for tents, pop-up campers and trailers like my Dad's recently painted Air Stream. There were six manmade lakes, paddle and rowboats, a large swimming pool, and playground equipment in the shape of giant rocket ships. I remember climbing up through the four levels of the spacecraft where I could navigate to far off galaxies with a large metal steering wheel. I wanted to be the astronaut who landed the first mission on the moon. Two chambers below was the emergency evacuation slide for when Mom called me to dinner or when Dad had arrived for the weekend. From the top of the ship, I could see our trailer at the foot of the hill. It looked like a giant blue marshmallow, ready for roasting on one of the many campfires that were held at night.

After dinner, I went up the hill with Mom to the shower house where she washed dishes in one of the deep outdoor sinks. It was where the real toilets were, like the kind we had at home. I hated the brown stinky outhouses that were located throughout the park. I was scared of bugs, especially spiders, and I was afraid of falling into the hole. The real toilets flushed and they didn't have all the creepy crawlers.

In the kitchen of our trailer, next to the fridge, Mom had taped all my ribbons to the Friday night talent shows. Mom loved showing them off. I had a ukulele with four strings, and I sang like Elvis Presley and the Beatles and everyone in the camp knew me.

"Hey! There's our little Beatle," someone said, as I walked with Dad down by the paddleboats. I wasn't even in school yet and I was already famous. Dad patted me on the head and rustled my blond hair. My sister had Dad's black hair, but I got his blue eyes.

My favorite song was "She Loves You" and to my young ears, I sang it as good as the Beatles. Mom cut my bangs so I looked just like them. And even before I got up on stage, the audience would start to clap and giggle. They loved my song so much that I'd been singing it all summer.

I won the talent show every week, except the last one, when Connie and her girlfriend won. I didn't think it was fair, because they couldn't even finish their song.

Connie and Laurie were two years older than me and had been practicing