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

out for each other. He said it could be a very cold and lonely place inside these walls. I guess he could tell that I was a little lonely. I was so happy to be out of Quarantine and to have people to talk to. I was enjoying their company. It was impossible to hold a conversation when you have to yell over to a buddy in the cell next to you. Especially in Seven Block where it was so noisy. So far, I really liked Chet and his family. They were nice to me, and I felt very lucky that he was taking such a liking to me.

Chet wouldn't tell me how old he was, but he hinted that he had served as much time as I had been alive. So he sure knew a lot about jailing. If he came in at my age, he would have to be at least thirty-four. Holy cow!

I was curious about the spud juice that they were cooking up. I wondered how they cooked it and how it tasted. I tried to picture a homemade distillery and wondered if spud juice was like moonshine.

Chet offered me another cigarette, which I accepted.

"Count time," a guard yelled from the open door of the officer's station.

It was the first time that I'd seen a guard since they showed me to my dorm. It was the four o'clock count. We got up from the card room and headed back toward our dorms. Chet handed me the pack of cigarettes he was holding and told me to keep them.

"Thanks." I put them in the pocket of my state blues.

"Are you going to dinner," he asked. "Meet me in the day room and we'll go down together. They're having Hungarian goulash tonight. It's pretty good."

After dinner, I was standing in front of Chet's door. His cell was the first of the three private rooms on the hallway near my dorm. He wanted to show me a picture of a friend of his from The World. That's what inmates called the outside, The World. He handed me a picture of a pretty woman, who was wearing a lot of makeup.

"What do you think?" he asked, studying me as if he were expecting a reaction. I wasn't sure what he was looking for, but I wanted to give it to him.

Red bumped into me from behind and reached for the picture. He looked at me with his face just inches from mine and then down at the picture. "Is that Bobbi?" he asked Chet.

Chet nodded, but kept looking at me.

"It's a man," he said. His eyes showing the delight in knowing he had fooled me.

"Really," I said. I took a closer look. I couldn't tell that Bobbi was a man from the photograph. His tits looked real under the flimsy halter-top he had on. Embarrassed, I didn't know what to say. I thought about my last night with my brother and Candy, the prostitute on Woodward Avenue. Chet and Red studied inc as if they expected a particular reaction. I went to hand the picture back; but it slipped from my hand and fell to the floor, sliding under Chet's bed. Red muttered something to Chet as he bent down to pick up the picture. Red's manner made me nervous.

"She worked the streets for me," Chet boasted. He wiped the picture on his sleeve.

I remembered a book I read by Donald Goines, a writer who had done time in Jackson Prison. He described how queers lived like beauty queens in prison. That all it took to have a relationship with one was a couple cartons of cigarettes. Cigarettes were the currency of prison. The older queens cost five packs and up, depending on the merchandise. As long as they gave good head, convicts would be willing to pay.

I couldn't imagine that someone would pay for a drag queen on the outside, unless they didn't know it was man. Bobbi had fooled me. I wondered if he looked as convincing in person.

I stuttered something, self-consciously struggling for the words to excuse myself. "I'll catch you later," I mustered, and quickly headed toward my dorm. Except, I didn't want to go there, so I turned and walked back toward the day room. Chet and Red seemed amused by my sudden nervousness.

The day room was crowded and bustling with the inmates who were free until the nine o'clock count. Inmates playing poker hovered over piles of loose cigarettes, and the convicts in front of the TV were lost in Gilligan's Island.

The poolroom was nearly empty, so I decided to shoot some pool. I had played a lot when I was in The World. My brothers and I played while Dad drank with his friends at the bar, and at home we had a pool table in the basement.

Nearby, two guys played a game while two others sat on a bench smoking. They looked up at me when I walked in. I crossed the room and leaned on the windowsill to watch the game.

"How do you sign up to play?" I asked.

No one answered.

The guys on the bench just smoked their cigarettes and watched the game. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the guys lean over and say something to the man next to him.

"Six in the corner," declared the overweight Mexican leaning over the table. He was wearing a pair of state-issued white pants and shirt. He must have worked in the kitchen, as all the guys on the serving line were wearing the same clothes. The Mexican was the only one who wasn't smoking. I opened the window to let in some air.

He hit the cue ball with enough English that it curved backwards after hitting the six in the corner and stopping in front of the two-ball, which was a sitting duck for a shot in the side.

"Sweet," declared one of the cons on the bench.

I wondered if they had heard my question but chose