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

right. The guard stopped and directed one of the inmates into the first dorm and then took two others and me to the second. My key chain had a brass ring on it that indicated the building, floor, dorm, and bunk: 10 Building, 2nd floor, Dorm 13, Bunk D. I was on the upper. Young Blood had the lower. Young Blood was an eighteen-year-old black kid from Detroit, whose cell was across from mine in Jackson.

A short, pudgy, white guy in his early twenties jumped down from his bunk.

"Hi," he said, smiling. "I'm Bottoms." He had shoulder-length, dirty blond hair, and his skin was greasy. His eyes had a bright gleam.

"Hi," I said, extending my hand. "I'm Tim."

We shook awkwardly as he tried to grasp my hand by the thumb.

Young Blood gave him a disinterested nod.

"You guys just come through the Bubble?" He asked.

"Yeah," Young Blood said, studying him as he undid his bedroll.

"What's your number?" He asked, still smiling.

Prison numbers were unique to each inmate, issued sequentially as you entered the system, so inmates could tell how long you'd been down by how high your number was.

"1-5-2-9-7-4," Young Blood said, not looking up as he made his bed.

"What's yours?" Bottoms looked at me.

"1-5-3-0-5-2." I came in a few days later than Young Blood, so mine was higher.

"God Damn!" Bottoms blurted. "The numbers are up to one-fiftythree! "

"Fish-ass motherfuckers," said a dark-skinned black man, as he came out from the bunk next to Bottoms. "I'm Frank," he said. He was friendly, but not smiling.

Frank was about 6 feet 5 inches tall and looked as though he weighed twice as much as me. "You motherfuckers are gonna get the floor wet," he said.

I must have looked puzzled.

"He means your drippin' wet," Bottoms said, "fresh out of the tank."

I smiled and nodded.

Bottoms smiled back.

Curious about what I'd heard about gays earlier, I asked, "Hey?Are there a lot of fags in here?"

Bottom's sparkle turned to a dull gaze as he focused his eyes to the floor. "Nah," he said softly, as if to shrug. He backed away and turned to his bunk.

I was embarrassed I asked the question. I hoped I didn't seem eager to meet any sissies. Seeing that Young Blood was finished, I unfolded my bedroll and began making my bed.

"Hungarian goulash, string beans, cornbread and grape drink," read the menu for that night's dinner. The full week's menu was attached to the bulletin board just outside the north side dayroom. Carrot cake was the dessert. It sounded pretty good after the bologna sandwiches we were given when we arrived. Corn fritters were on the menu for tomorrow's breakfast. I had never had corn fritters before. I wondered what they were. Corn for breakfast didn't sound very good.

Without a sound, an older man appeared to my left. I had finished lunch and was onto tomorrow's dinner menu before I had noticed him standing there smiling. His eyes were sparkling with the same flicker of light in his eyes that Bottoms had back in the dorm.

"Hello," I said, returning my gaze to the bulletin board. I moved onto Wednesday morning's menu. He didn't say anything, just stood there as quietly as he had appeared.

Thursday, Dinner: liver and onions, peas, scallop potatoes and grape drink. I made a grimace: even the dessert, lemon meringue pie, were foods that I hated. It looked like the grape drink was the only thing on the menu that I could have. Maybe they serve bread. I was just doing what I always did when I was frightened-I focused my mind on something else.

The guy was still staring at me.

"Liver," I said with a scowl, looking back at him.

"I'm Chet," he volunteered, "What's your name?"

"Tim," I was embarrassed by his intense stare. I wondered if he was stoned.

"Tim," he slowly repeated. "Where are you from, Tim?"

"Westland," it was a suburb just west of Detroit.

"Oh, I lived in Inkster for a few years when I was younger." His voice was gentle and reassuring. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

He let out a long whistle, "Sev-en-teen!" he said, stretching out each syllable of the word. He was considerably older. "You're a baby!" His voice held a hint of affection.

I smiled.

"I've got kids your age," his eyes drifted off my shoulder and into the distance, "somewhere."

I smiled back at him. I was pretty young compared to everybody I had seen so far.

"Why, how old are you?"

"What are you in for kid?" he interrupted. I wasn't sure he had heard my question.

"How much time do you have?" he asked.

"Two and half to four," I answered. I still hadn't grasped the reality of it.

"How come they sent you here?"

"I have to go back to court for an armed robbery," I said. "I haven't been sentenced yet."

"A control hold," he nodded, his face relaxing. "When's your court date?"

"I don't know," I shrugged.

His tone was encouraging. "What did you rob?"

"A Photo Mat," I said, matching his smile with a slightly embarrassed grin.

It looked as though someone had turned up a dimmer switch in Chet's eyes.

An inmate walked by us and yelled to Chet.

"Scandalous," the black inmate blurted. He smiled at Chet, but ignored me.

"You are just plain scandalous, Dawg!" He said, shaking his head. He opened the dayroom door and once more bellowed, "Scandalous!"

Chet looked at me reassuringly. "Pay no mind to him. That boy is half a bug, and his Thorazine must be running low."

"What's Thorazine?"

"Bug juice. It's what they give the bugs to keep 'em calm. Do you want some?"

"No!" I said quickly. I wasn't sure he was joking.

Chet just looked at me silently nodding his head, as though he was studying me.

"I don't do drugs."

"You don't do drugs?" There was a trace of doubt and surprise in his voice leading me to believe that he was serious about his offer of Thorazine.

"No."

"Never?" he probed with a puzzled look. "What about reefer?"

"Nah, it makes me paranoid."

"Do you drink?" He sounded like he was running down a checklist in his head.

"Oh