Thursday, March 26, 2015

No Mercy For Dogs Part 17

By Thomas Bartlett Whitaker

To read Part 16, click here

The specter of the shantytown in Monterrey stalked me as I rode the bus back to Cerralvo.  For roughly nine months I had been spasmodically bouncing across the emotional spectrum from near-manic restlessness to an almost total enervation; what I had witnessed settled me down finally into a position of gray hollowness.  When my Buddhist friends talk about “non-attachment,” I get it: it was my natural state, at least for a while there.  There are those that damned me for my “coldness,” and maybe they were right to do so.  I don´t know.  I can only say that there are times in life where not feeling anything is the only available survival strategy.

Upon returning to my new home in the taller, I sat in Emilio´s workshop for a few hours, simply staring at his workbench and tools.  If life were a chess game, you could say that I was in zugzwang, all potential moves to my disadvantage.  I eventually got up and continued cleaning for a bit.  The place still smelled like a refinery.  The spiders were sending scouts back into the place, and I killed as many of them as I could find.  I was not very successful, as I felt many of them crawl over me in my cot after I went to bed.  At first I swatted them off, but eventually I became so tired that I just left them alone.  They mostly followed suit.

Blackie found me the next day, and his master was not far behind him.  A few weeks prior to the Hammer´s fucked-up little loyalty test, I had purchased a package of three notebooks from the local Mercado.  I had never cared much about writing before, but I felt myself strangely attracted to the idea that since I had no one with whom to converse, I had better talk to myself if I wanted to continue having a coherent self to talk to.  Mostly I wrote letters to people from my past life.  I never intended to send them, and always ended up burning them every few days.  Sometimes I would wake up in the morning to find that I had simply covered a few pages with “I´m sorry” or other similar lamentations.  It was all very melodramatic, and I have no doubt that if I were to view these notebooks today, they would appear mad to me.

I was working on one of these diary entries around 2 p.m. the day after my return from Monterrey when Blackie came loping around the side of the taller, heading towards town.  He didn´t notice me sitting in the shade with my back against the wall, but his head snapped up when I called out to him.  His befuddled “wha?” expression morphed into doggie joy when he noticed me, and he came bounding over.  He was so happy to see me that he inhaled the last half of the hamburger I had left sitting next to me, in a move so swift and practiced that I barely noticed it.  Blackie didn´t put a lot of faith in chewing things, exactly.  His philosophy was more in line with swallow first, ask questions never.

“Oh, sure, eat my food, you Judas.  Where were you the other night when I needed you?” By way of apologizing he stuffed his snout into my glass and slurped up the dregs of my soda.

Not fifteen minutes later the Hammer came walking around the same corner of the taller.  Blackie was laid out next to me, his huge rock head resting on my thigh.  His thick rope of a tail beat the soil a few times when Papa Ramos came into sight, but he didn't bother to rise.  Neither did I, so the three of us just sat there for a moment.  I should have felt something, but I was just too tired.

“You followed your dog,” I finally commented, stating the obvious.

The Hammer shrugged.  “I see heem come this way, yes, but I alredy know you ees here.  No ees like you move to Argentina, Rudy.  You ees right across the road from my ranch.”

I shrugged back, and continued rubbing Blackie behind one ear.  The Hammer sat in the shade, on top of what remained of a small wall that once separated the taller´s outdoor work area from the field by the outhouse.  He seemed a little tense, uncomfortable even.  “You understand why I do what I do?”

I spent a few seconds analyzing the implications of his question.  Finally, I nodded. “I do.”  I did, too, in a weird way.  He had let me into his life based on bad information from his son, and had tried to save the situation by using me in Aldama for one of his little games.  Later, he began to worry that I might not bear up under pressure, so he had to test me a little.  I got it.  I wish that I didn´t, but he hadn´t survived this long in the narco-game by taking things for granted.

I seemed to be swimming in a thick river of calm, just drifting along, watching the world on the banks pass me by.  An author I read as a young man called this state “the zero,” which seems rather apt.  It´s always seemed remarkably strange to me that you can pretty much do anything when you take the “you” out of the equation.

Looking at this pint-size gangster with his huge ears and protean, impossible-to-pin-down personality, a large portion of whatever was manning the bridge wanted the Hammer to just shoot me and be and be done with this farce.

“We need to be clear about a few things.  You need to understand that I´m not going to be involved in your business, family, gang, cartel, or whatever you want to call it.  I mean really, really understand.  Not one of your ´I´m pretending to listen to you, but I´m really already seven moves ahead of you and you are already involved´ sorts of things.  You want me to build your ranch.  Fine.  Clean your stables? Also fine.  I don´t think I have much left in the way of pride, so whatever shitty job you can imagine for me, just tell me and I´ll do it.  But I won´t play those other games. You saw my face.  I´d have shot those guys, if the gun hadn´t been loaded with blanks.  I understand why you did what you did, and you got the answer you wanted.  Understand that ´can do´ and ´will do´ are not the same thing.  Do you understand this?”

He started to talk but I held up my hand, the empty place in my heart giving me strength.

“You've shown me two faces during my time here.  I know they are both true.  Most people would not be able to understand how this could be, but most people didn´t have my childhood.  I am appealing to the part of you that has shown me great kindness, the one that paid six figures so that Lucía´s parents could get pregnant, the one that subsidizes every branch of your family tree.  The one that even agreed to take me on, because we both know that if this had been pure business, you´d have stuck me in another town, far away from your children.  I´ve been mulling this over for a few months, and there is no way to explain your kindness unless you genuinely felt some compassion for me.  You´ve been an illegal in a foreign country, so maybe this is why.  I thank you for what you have done, but if I have worn out my welcome, just get me the ID you promised and I´ll be gone.  If you´d rather I stay – which is my preference because I´m really too tired to care about tradecraft right now – I really need for you to understand all that I have said, for this to be crystal clear.”

The Hammer sat there for a moment, just staring at me.  He picked a speck off his shirt, and then stood up and walked into the open back door of the taller.  I could hear him walking around inside.

“Come back to the ranchito.  Thees place is no good,” he said a few minutes later, standing in the doorway, looking out upon the unpainted gray walls of the adjacent buildings.

“Gelo, please answer me.”

He sighed.  “I begeen to theenk you nickname is to be ´El Mula´, you ees so stubborn.”


“Yes, yes, I understand.  You really want to leev here?  Ees a dump.”

I nodded.  “It could use a few things.  A chest or dresser maybe.  A fan, definitely.”

“Let´s go get these theengs.  My treat.”

I held up my hand again, sort of enamored it its newfound power to silence this man. “No.”

“¿Por qué?”

I thought about it for another moment, before answering.

“Turkeys. Pavos,” I continued, seeing the blank look on his face.  It didn´t go away even after switching to Spanish. “Pavos, hombre.  For a turkey, every day is really grand.  They have this nice human that keeps feeding them, protecting them.  It´s safe and warm in this building he provides.  Until Thanksgiving.  You know Thanksgiving?”

He nodded.  “Sí, sí. Indios.  White people.  Eat together before they keel each other.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, about to correct him, before realizing that he was pretty much right. “Uh…yeah, so then comes Thanksgiving.  All a turkey´s experience and knowledge actually works against its chances of survival.”

“I no going to eat you, Rudy.  You no have enough meat on you bones.”

“The point is, you have enough dependents, and I´m starting to think I have allergy to dependence.”

He looked around for a moment.  “You plan to carry a dresser on you back all the way from town?”

“Um…no,” I admitted.

“Then get een the maldita truck. ´Do you understand?´”  he mimicked, causing me to wince.  I hope I didn´t sound half as patronizing as his copy, but people who patronize as a habit seldom notice it themselves.

Both the furniture stores in town were owned by the same man, Don Hector.  I wasn´t expecting much, but the main branch turned out to be a huge multi-story warehouse filled with at least several hundred thousand dollars´ worth of product.  Don Hector had nearly everything, from mattresses to couches to ovens.

When the Hammer and I first entered the store, a short, plump woman with a guileless smile muted the television and stood up to greet us.  To her left sat a young woman with a punky sort of hairdo, who was busy jamming her fingers down on her cell phone.  She didn´t unglue her eyes from the screen until her mother commanded her to fetch her father.  Even then, she hardly looked up.  I have no idea how she managed to maneuver her way through the storeroom without tripping over a couch or footstool.

The señora seemed to know who Gelo was – no surprise – and treated him with a sort of servility that made me uncomfortable.  I was introduced as Gelo´s “American son” yet again, a claim which was repeated when the stern and corpulent Hector arrived from the back office.  While the señora seemed to believe the tale and welcomed me warmly, Hector's calculating glance told me he was not entirely taken in.  No fool, this man, I remember thinking to myself.

I had already mentally rehearsed the Spanish for the items I was looking for, and I was satisfied when my “father” raised his eyebrow at my improved linguistic skills.  With the air of a practiced salesman, Don Hector quickly guided me through his wares, selling me a 20-inch television, a small chest of drawers, a massive fan the blade of which looked like it had once done duty on a spitfire, and a small refrigerator that I didn´t need until he convinced me I needed it.  This last item was warehoused on the second floor, adjacent to a section of wall that was sealed off with a blue tarp.  I didn´t understand every word that passed between the Hammer and Hector, but the latter appeared to be complaining that the work crew he hired to amplify the back end of the store had taken off for three weeks to complete the “maestro´s” new house.  The Hammer clearly enjoyed telling Hector that I was working on his ranch for free.  Hector seemed surprised; I guess he thought that Americans didn´t deign to do manual labor and jokingly asked what I charged per hour.  The two elders had a good laugh that seemed fake to me, and I couldn´t tell whether the joke was somehow at my expense.

On the way back to my new digs, the Hammer popped me on the arm, and smiled at me from ear to ear.  “You perro! How you say ´astuto´ or ´taimado´? Sneaky?”

“Uh…sly, maybe?”

“Eso es! You sly dog.  I theenk you is a cold feesh but now I see you is muy táctico.”

I was completely befuddled.  “The fuck are you talking about?” It was strange, seeing him like this.  He seemed to have dropped about thirty years in tens seconds.

“Cynthia! La hija del Don Hector.  Thees girl, she no like anybody.  She punch Edgar once for trying to kees her, but she stare at you the whole time we in the store.”

“The girl with the phone? She never even looked at me once.”

“No, no, I see.  You too busy counting the beel.  But I watch, I see.” He pointed one finger to bottom of his left eye.

“Gelo, listen to me.  When it comes to women, maybe you see what you want to see. I mean, you have about fifty kids.”

“Okay, I take eet back.  You is cold feesh.  But you should marry thees girl.  Don Hector tiene un chingo de lana.”  To this he held up his hands in the Mexican gesture for a fat wad of cash.  “You marry her, I going to put puros colchones por toda la casa.  Mattresses as far as you can see”

“I think she´d be more likely to marry her Nokia.”

“Rudy, you ees the dumbest smart person I ever meet.  The dumbest smart turkey.”

I thought about it for a moment.  “I think I am going to have that printed on my business cards.”  He sighed, and let the matter drop.

The new furniture made my little nook livable.  The television only picked up a handful of channels, but one of them had subtitles in English, so I could watch cheesy novelas and see the English translation below.  I came to realize very quickly that these translations were somewhat less accurate than one might have wished, but it did help.  Nearly every day I fell asleep feeling like my head was a basin overflowing with new terms. 

The novelas made me feel very strange.  They were almost exclusively dedicated to chronicling the lives of some obscenely rich nitwits.  I couldn´t understand why a nation made up almost entirely of the Third Estate would choose to slavishly follow stories of the Second. Didn´t they understand that it was only their attention and admiration that made these imbeciles rich in the first place?  Didn´t they understand that these shows were cultural programming, keeping them distracted and entertained so that these very cretins could rob their country blind?  The shows didn´t make me want to be rich.  Mostly they made me want to punch these jackasses so they would just shut up.

My days devolved into a pattern of watching trashy soap operas, eating and sleeping.  I would occasionally clean and re-clean Emilio´s workspace, and beat back the still advancing arachnid battalions.  On a few occasions I went to the ranch to work on the block walls, but I always felt like it was time to go after a few hours.  I seemed to be on relatively stable footing with the Hammer, but how could I really know?  Whatever he said, whatever face he showed, I felt like the dumbest dumb person in the world, a mere baseline human involved in the games of gods who were dealing plays I couldn´t even see, let alone figure out.

Edgar showed up a few times to drag me back into the world of the living.  The kid had a good heart.  He could see I wasn´t in a great place and wanted to cheer me up, but his version of fun seemed tedious:  the same “vueltas” around town, the same catcalls to the same girls, the same Coronas on ice.  The truth is I didn´t want to feel better, I think. That part of my brain seemed dead; grief makes you feel like a stranger to yourself.  On several of these little forays Edgar got really excited and pointed to a group of girls, among whom Cynthia would always be present.  I have no idea how he could pick a single girl out of a crowd of hundreds; his radar was astounding.  He would always hit my arm, and make a goofy “eh? eh?” noise.  It pissed me off that the Hammer was telling people about his stupid theories.  She never looked my way anyways, and I berated myself for even thinking about such things.  Everyone here seemed to know each other so well that I felt like a threefold stranger, and in any case, I´d had a good woman once and it made no sense to go looking for yet another when my track record was so abysmal.  Who hasn´t been scarred by love, I remember thinking, and dismissed Edgar´s incessant hormonally-inspired quests.

A few days later both the Hammer and Edgar caught me at the ranch.  I had just set some tile in one of the more completed cabin rooms, and was admiring my handiwork when Edgar´s Ford Ranger pulled up into the shade of the mesquite trees.  Gelo unloaded a crate from the back of the bed, and presented to me his newest fighting rooster.  It looked and smelled like all the rest, so I wasn´t really able to see what he was so excited about.  Edgar was feeding off his father´s rare good mood, and started telling me about some party he was going to.  I just wanted to clean up my mess and get the mezcla off my hands and clothes.  He kept poking me in the side, and when I turned to swat his hands away he grabbed them and started dancing with me.  I punched him and he fell back, goofily rubbing his bicep.

“Gelo, what the devil is he going on about?”

“There is beeg party tonight.  Es la quinceañera for Don Felipe´s daughter.  He a beeg man in the PEMEX, has beeg office in Cadereyta.  But some of us know how he really got the moneys to start hees beesness.  Will be many peoples there.  You must go.”

“I ´must´go’? I´m not really big on parties.”

“Leesten,” he said, setting down his fancy chicken, which began strutting about the place.  “Party like thees, ees a time to show un poco de respeto.  You come for a few minute, maybe dreenk a leetle, maybe dance a leetle, then you can go.  Try to have a leetle fun, yes? You know thees word?”

“You are going?”

“Ah, diablos, no.”

“Then why – “

“Because Don Felipe, he show the respect to me.  You show me respect by going.  Everyone want to meet my new son,” he snickered at this last.

“Um…okay.  I´m not drinking his booze, though.  Ten minutes, and I´m gone.”

“Dreenk, no dreenk, me vale madre.”  He turned to see where Edgar had gone, before reaching into his shirt pocket and removing a small glass vial.  “Take thees, have some fun, cold feesh dumb turkey.  If you no leev a leetle, people is going to think you is some sort of pistolero, me entiendes?  You have to act the part a beet.”

I looked at the vial in the sunlight.  Inside was a packed matte, off-white looking powder.  It wasn´t my first time to have such a vial in my hands.

“This is an eighth?”

“Un poco más, about four gram.”

“Uh…thanks,” I said, tucking the vial into my jeans pocket.  I had no intention of taking any, but if he wanted to toss a couple hundred bucks my way, my poverty wasn´t going to dissuade him.  I made sure that Edgar understood that I would find my own way to the shindig, and not to come pick me up.  The last thing I wanted was to be dragged to the civic center two hours before the thing even started.

I could feel the party in the air two blocks away, a low rumbling of competing bass lines.  I could feel something else, too, a rising sense that I was going to regret this, that I should turn around and just leave.  This was dumb.  The streets leading to the civic center were packed, and I couldn´t help but notice how many of the cars had Texas plates.  I pulled my vaquero hat lower over my brow.  Brightly colored flowers adorned the doors, and scores of teenagers hung around outside, sneaking furtive sips from styrofoam cups.  The lights inside were nearly blinding, and I almost didn´t see the girl who bounded up to me with a lei and attempted to wrap it over my head.  It was my reflexes more than conscious thought that caught her hands, and her smile faltered as I lightly pushed them away.  Her daybreak eyes clouded up in confusion, and it didn´t take much imagination to see why.  She was maybe twenty or twenty-one, about as fine a woman as a man could imagine, wearing a tight little nothing of a dress that had more to do with semiotics than fabric.  I doubt she´d ever been turned down by a man before.  I left her standing at the door and went to the bar.  Bottles of El Presidente brandy and Hornitos Tequila lines the circular tables across the room, and an equal number sat within grasp up and down the bar.  My decision not to drink evaporated and I poured several ounces of tequila into a glass, tossing it back.  Thus fortified, I tried to take in the room.

The space itself was a rectangle roughly seventy meters wide and maybe ninety meters long.  The center was reserved for the dancers, of which there were at least seventy or eighty at any given time.  Despite the place being decorated with a Hawaiian theme, the deejay in the corner was playing pure Norteño music.  Hundreds of revelers lined the walls and sat at the tables, talking over the music.  After a time I saw Edgar and some of his cronies.  They were trying hard not to transmit the fact that they were stone drunk, and failing marvelously.  I noticed other people I had seen around town, too, but who remained unintroduced.  I had waited until around 9 p.m. to show up, and everyone seemed to be really enjoying themselves.

I began to see other men, though, static points almost completely lost in the constant movement.  These men were not physically of a type; some were fat, others thin.  Some word modern style of clothing, others dressed like the Hammer.  They all seemed to sit with their backs to a wall or to another of their kind.  They smiled, drank, and laughed, but none of them danced and none of them ceased to scan the room.  It looked casual, but the more I watched, the less it so seemed.  I also started to notice how when they refilled their cups, they barely added any liquor, for all the show.  This is one of the most potent memories I have of my time in Mexico; it comes to me unbidden at times when someone brings up the narco-war: a room full of beautiful, smiling, decent people, all taking pleasure in each other and their world, even as the monsters lay hidden in their midst, smiling at their inattentional blindness.  One of these men was sitting at a table next to what I presume was his wife and two children.  She was talking to him, and he calmly looked down into his lap.  I could see the blue glare of a cellular phone reflect off the planes of his glasses.  He stared at it for a moment, before he flipped it closed and brought his cup to his lips.  Over its edge, he scanned the room as he fake-sipped, coming at last to me.  We stared at each other for a long three or four seconds, until he tipped his glass to me.

Had he seen me at Aldama?  Did he really think I was the Hammer´s son?  Was that the acknowledgement a man gives another man, or a monster a monster?  I turned my back on the room.  Two men to my right were conversing in rapid-fire, completely fluent English.  The thought returned to me that this was stupid, stupid, stupid.  I noticed that behind the bar area stood the wide entrance to the kitchen.  A steady stream of waiters had been lugging heavy trays in and out of this space since I had arrived.  I knew there would be an exit in the kitchen, so I grabbed my bottle of tequila and walked towards the well-known din of kitchen sounds.  A few turns and one or two surprised faces later and I was walking out the back door of the center.  A low retention wall ran parallel to the building for fifty or sixty feet on this side, and I sat down on it.  From here I could see a portion of the dance floor through one of the windows.  People spun by and were gone, only to return again minutes later.  I took a long pull from the bottle.

Some people just fit in.  They just understand the right thing to say at the right time to the right people.  Some of us watch from a distance, trying to take the algorithm apart to see how it works; when we reassemble it and deploy it, the thing breaks to pieces in our hands.  You´ve got all this deep-level programming that tells you it is vitally important that you find some in-group, some place where the dumb shit you do won´t count against you quite so much.  People that laugh with you, not at you, and have your back if someone moves against you.  You had a touch of this when you were young, before culture and genes taught your peers that your differences made you the competition, made you a target, something to be excised.  The quickness with which your no-longer-friends turned their backs on you for one reason or another is astounding, and you never find replacements or even regain your footing.  For years, everywhere you go is enemy territory, every person you meet someone who will ignore you or worse. The worst part is, no matter how many times this happens, no matter how many times you are rejected, you do it to yourself.  You let them hurt you, because every single time, you leave open the possibility that this person might be the one to do otherwise.

So you change.  You flip through permutations of yourself so fast that you can barely keep up, until, magically, some random iteration clicks and a few people start to notice you.  Oh, you know it´s not exactly you they are seeing, not the real you, but who cares because the real you was crap anyways, and on some deep level beyond reason you know, just know, that nearly everyone is faking it, too, all the time.  You conclude that acceptance and even love of a false you is better than rejection of the real you, and before long you are so confused about what “real” even means that it ceases to bother you overmuch.  And then you wake up years later in a pool of your own blood and it all comes back to you and you can´t face it so you just run, run until you run out of energy at the tail end of a civic center in the backwater mountains of Mexico, a bottle of mid-grade tequila in your hand and an emotional landscape inside that looks like the Atacama.  And you feel nothing, nothing at all, and all things considered, you know this isn´t the worst that could happen.

You walk.  The desert greets you, embraces you.  It doesn´t judge you.  It just wants to kill you.  It´s not personal.  The bottle in your hand has never seemed like a reasonable escape, but you drink from it anyway, because what good have your beliefs ever done you?  And it´s there, and presence matters so damned much.  It´s gone eventually, and you know on some level that you must have spilled some because there is no frigging way that you just drank a fifth of tequila by yourself.  You sit on a large stone and in the distance the lights of Cerralvo compete against the empty sky.  The sky was winning, it deserved to win, things are just as they are supposed to be.  You remove the glass vial from your pocket, the vial of cocaine that you didn´t remember transferring from your work jeans to these, but hey, there it is and presence matters so damned much.  You can tell the stuff is good just by the way it crumbles under the pressure of your fake-real ID.  You pause a moment, hundred dollar bill rolled into a straw, to blearily view the situation.  There is something hilarious about snorting this cocaine with this bill off the surface of this empty bottle in the middle of this desert.  You laugh, and the dope blows away into the night on the out-breath.  No matter.  You have plenty, and it is good, it´s great. Greatgreatgreat.

The coke beats back the torpor of the booze for a while, so you walk.  The desert is yours. You´ve been running through it for months now, you know it´s tricks.  Once a cat that seemed to be about the size of a tiger but which in reality was probably just an ocelot rears up in the dark and takes flight, and you laugh and throw the bottle at it, shouting “say hello to my little friend!”  You start laughing again and then cannot stop, until you fall onto your knees and suddenly you are screaming at everything, but mostly at yourself.

You don´t know when you pass out, but you do know it when you are pulled from that nothing.  It is still dark.  At first you can´t figure out where you are, or what it is that is frantically pulling on your jeans.  You hear a growl and half-recall the ambushing coyotes, and you kick out fuzzily, connecting with nothing.  You think to reach for your knife but your hands don´t seem to be up to obeying orders and that´s when you hear a whine and a familiar snuffling noise.  You roll over and Blackie is trying to push you around with his snout.  All you want to do is evaporate again so you grab him and tell him to settle the fuck down.  You fall asleep to him licking your hand.

When you wake up, he´s still there, laying at your side, and now the sun is up and your head feels exactly like it ought to.  It takes you an hour longer than it should have, but you eventually stumble back to the ranch and sit down in your clothes in the shower, letting cold well water pour over you.  You take a palm full of Tylenol from the cabinet and walk back to your miserable little rat hole.  You want to sleep but you also know that there is something else you have to do, something that you realized in your half-delirious state the night before, something that you´ve been pondering all morning.  On some level, you know that it's wrong, that it is yet another thing you are going to be damned for eventually, but, fuck it, that account is already so far into the red that it´s never going to be squared so you just do the thing because survival isn´t mandatory and no one else is going to do it for you.  Consequences only matter if you are still alive to have to deal with them.

He was alone when I pulled my bicycle up to the storefront.  I was actually hoping Cynthia might be present just in case the Hammer saw things more clearly than I did.

“What you said yesterday, about what I´d charge an hour? Were you serious?”

Don Hector spoke no English, but my Spanish was now good enough to be mostly understood.  He pursed his lips for a moment, thinking.

“You know how to work?”

“I can lay block, brick, tile, I can weld, do basic electrical work like wall sockets.  I´ve never tried to do plumbing work but I can learn.  I can square your books and run numbers, if you want me to.”

“I cannot pay American wages.”

“I´ll take Mexican ones.”

“Then, you can start on Monday.”

And I did.  Because presence just matters so damned much.

Thomas Whitaker 999522
Polunsky Unit
3872 FM 350 South
Livingston, TX 77351

Thursday, March 19, 2015


By Tom Odle

Note:  Tom Odle is a regular speaker for the TRAC (Taking Responsibility And Changing) program at Dixon Correctional Center in Illinois. The TRAC Program takes place immediately following orientation at a parent facility. This program is designed to help offenders focus on their goals and enter productive programming while incarcerated which will enhance their opportunity reenter society successfully. The program consists of 15 hours of introductory instruction on topics such as criminality, substance abuse, behavior modification, relationships and family strengthening, employment, education, health & wellness and goal setting.

As someone doing a natural life sentence, and having come from under the sentence of death, which was issued to me at the age of 19, like some rite of passage, I have grown up in prison and seen, experienced and done things most people only see in nightmares.  Giving such a young person the sentence of death allows them to no longer care about consequences at their actions because any punishment that could be given fails in compassion to already having a death sentence.

That is what happened to me – nothing that could be done to me could be worse or supersede the death sentence so off I went into the arena of prison life a boy among men ready to make the men stand back and take notice of the boy with nothing to lose and ready to prove it.

Coming to prison left me with only one family member who gave me any thought after the circus atmosphere of the media died down and I was shuffled off to be executed and that was my maternal grandmother. Everyone else had written me off except her.  She was an old woman experiencing not only prison for the first time, but coming to see her grandson who was now considered among the State of Illinois worst human beings, deserving of having his life forfeited.  She would endure the humiliating searches before being allowed to come and see me, hear the remarks from staff questioning why she was wasting her time with me, but never once was she deterred from going through any of it because no matter who I was to the State of Illinois, I was her baby boy.

I often had to visit behind glass, chained up like an animal because I was in segregation most of the time for one thing or other, fighting, weapons, drinking, drugs.  She never really complained about it and tried to understand that this was prison and there were things one had to do to survive until she just got tired of it and told me that something had to give, either my behavior or her visits.  Of course, I promised to change because she was my granny, and all I had, but once out of segregation, I was back on my terror train and in segregation again.

Shortly after this, I was on a visit and saw a guy I had recently fought with and he was pretty messed up – cuts, swollen face, and bruises – but what humbled me most was how his kids and wife were crying because of how he looked.  I felt so bad for having done that to this guy.  I disrupted time with his family that was so precious, and why? He owed me $ 5? Bumped into me in line?  I can’t remember any longer. What  I do remember those kids crying and how I ruined that family visit.

That was when I decided I had to change my ways and I began reading books, self-help books, college books, painting, anything to help myself become a better person and even though I am not a religious man, I came to believe in karma. Because I was doing good things, good people began to come into my life and many are still here after many years and it continues even now, and I feel so blessed by these people.  I was finally able to stay out of segregation and hug my granny.  Looking back I feel foolish for doing all that I did to stay in segregation because I missed out on so many hugs from my granny and she is no longer with me to give them.

I was taken off Death Row in January 10, 2003 after about 18 years of waiting to be executed.  I hit population with a different attitude than I had when I entered Death Row and I took full advantage of all the programs that the Department of Corrections had to offer.

Because my behavior was very good I was able to get moved to a facility where there were many programs and because I was doing a life sentence, the administration helped me get involved in everything positive available.  I enrolled in college. As a kid in school, I would always make it by with a “C” which was okay for me, but on my first college exam I failed which was woke me up and I never failed an exam ever again.  I figured if I was going to do this, I was going to give it my all and I did.  I graduated Lincoln Trail College with an Associate degree in General Studies with Honors.  I spoke at the graduation, having graduated top of my class, the first commuted Death Row inmate to receive a college degree.  I have attended Anger Management, was in the art program that painted murals in the facility, worked a job, and was able to get to a better facility where I am able to move around less restricted, and feel less stress about everything revolving around doing time.  My granny has been gone for a while now, but not before she knew I graduated college. I have plenty of college credits and enough for another degree in Arts, which has left me with having taken most every class offered.

I took a course called Lifestyle Redirection, which is based on changing your way of thinking and helping you cope with issues that may be troubling you.  I am always looking to better myself and always get involved with these programs. I now participate in a TRAC program, where I speak to people coming in to prison and tell them basically what I have written to help them see there is another way to do things. When I close out my presentation I tell them that we are all somebody – a parent, a brother, an uncle, grandson, and we need to get out and be that somebody. I feel that with each passing day, I come closer to being the person I’m meant to be and that is a great feeling.

Tom Odle

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Thursday, March 12, 2015


By Christi Buchanan

I was 21 years old when I was indicted into the Virginia Penal System in the late 1980’s.  Soon after, a parole eligibility date was set for me. Farther ahead in my future I would “go up” for parole.  At the time that date was decided on Virginia was governed by Doug Wilder, the State’s first black governor.  The parole release rate back then was around 90% - it seemed like everyone made first or second parole.  I had high hopes.  Parole ruled the way I did my time.  Every day was begun with that magical date in mind.  Then, in 1993, Governor George Allen abolished parole.  It went retroactive, thank God, so I still felt hopeful.  Little did I know Parole would become an elusive ever-out-of reach-yet-always dangling-right-in-front-of-me-carrot.  By the end of ‘94 it was crystal clear that no one was ever going to make parole again.  The release rate had plummeted to around 4%.  My magical date was still ten years away.  Holding on to hope was slowly morphing into a struggle between life and death.

My first parole hearing came in December of 2004 – eighteen years into my sentence. I was as prepared as I could be.  My family had written letters to the Parole Board on my behalf.  Work supervisors and various staff members had also written recommendations and evaluations.  I also had copies of every certificate of completion from every class, vocation and group I’d taken. My ducks were in a row.

I woke up ridiculously early that morning and spent a lot of time “getting ready.”  By nature I am not a girly girl, but that day I did my hair and put on makeup.  I ironed my uniform, too.  I was nervous as hell so I drank a lot of coffee, which amped me up even more.  The parole hearings always take place in the administrative offices at the school building (which are very nice).  I was called over around 9 a.m. and went straight in.  The parole examiner (who is not a member of the parole board) spoke with me for about 2 hours.  I found out later that that was an unusually lengthy amount of time.

For the most part the guy was okay. It was a difficult conversation, to say the least.  But he was calm and polite.  He asked me to explain my involvement in the crime and questioned me about my co-defendant.  It was perfectly routine – expected, even until the last 10 minutes , that is I’d been sitting silently for a few minutes while he typed who knows what into his laptop.  Then, without warning, he said in a most dismissive manner, “You know you’ll never get out of prison.”  As the room iced over I could only stare at my hands lying imp in my lap.  I was frozen – all the air in my lungs instantly evaporated.  My eyes dried out and my brain cracked into a billion pieces under the pressure.  He let that hang in the air between us for those last 10 minutes and then coldly dismissed me with a flick of his wrist.

I was devastated.  All those years I lived and breathed and believed that there would be life after prison for me.  I moved through time on a mission, driven by hope.  My turn-down came back two weeks later with a big fat three year referral attached to it.  Merry Christmas.  I think I cried all the way through February.  My family was rocked by the news, too.  Anger over the deferral took a front seat to the grief of revisiting the ugliness of what I’d done.  It was a way for them to cope with it.  I suppose by fall I was numb, relieved even, that I wouldn’t have to face that man again –wouldn’t have to go through that hell again for a couple of years.

That man retired in 2005.  I’ve been up 9 times since then with a new examiner – a woman.  She is kind and straight-forward, candid.  We’ve had difficult, ugly conversations and rather easy ones.  She’s always blunt about the political atmosphere in Virginia.  Of the various personalities on the board she is fair and realistic without the affinity for total destruction.

Last year she saw me in November for about 20 minutes (the average time).  We talked about my accomplishments and plans for release.  It was nice and comfortable.  Hope had returned.  As usual the turndowns come back a couple of weeks later.  I thought it was okay  I mean, the reasons for my denial were the same as always.  High risk to the community, and serious nature of the crime, with a new one thrown in – do more time.  At first I thought that was the most honest thing they’d said to me yet.  I have four life sentences and have only served a fraction of it, so I took it on the chin.  I was just grateful I didn’t get a deferral.  As 2014 moved along, that comment, “do more time” settled down on me like a wet wool blanket.  I became impatient and bitchy, angrier by the day.  I systematically alienated the people I hung out with.  My personality had totally changed.  By September I was oscillating between depression and fury.  I couldn’t get over how the parole board seemed to only pay attention to crime and time. None of the work I’d done over the years – mentally, emotionally, academically – seemed to matter at all.  How much I changed and how connected I was to my family, the job skills I’d collected, none of it was being considered.  My remorse meant nothing.  I got really hung up thinking, “What’s the point in any of this?”  This misery infected me completely.

Then, one afternoon in early October, my counselor caught me on the yard.  Brightly – gleefully- she chirped that I had a parole hearing on November 17th.  I’d been dreading this and imagined my ears to be bleeding as she bounced off in the opposite direction.  Then it felt like my head exploded from the pressure and all these pent-up obscenities I wanted to shout at the parole board fell out on the sidewalk.  I felt raw, like an exposed nerve.  A few weeks later I signed up to see a therapist over in mental health.  I hated to do it (I do not trust shrinks) but I was desperate to get a grip before my hearing.  I was seen on November 4th and aired it out as honestly as I could.  I have to admit she (who happened to be the newly promoted director of mental health) was helpful, but more importantly to me, she didn’t try to get me to take some psychotropic drug that I don’t need.  I left agreeing to get in touch with her again.  I still felt out of control-, like I was hurdling off into space.  I still wanted to go into my hearing and just unload all that fury and depression on the examiner.  I was afraid that if she asked me what she always asks – “what have you been doing this last year?” – I’d come uncorked and spew forth a very sarcastic and vile response.  “More time!” I didn’t want to cut my nose off to spite my face, yet that’s exactly what I felt the urge to do.

The day finally came for me to face the music yet again and I wandered toward it emotionless and robotic.  I went to work to stay busy but did absolutely nothing.  They finally called me over around 12:45 p.m.  There were several people ahead of me so I knew I had a fairly significant wait.  Four people went up that morning and apparently the general consensus was the examiner was in a foul mood.  That must’ve carried over after lunch because every person who came out of that office was pale and distraught, all complaining of her mood.  By 2:30 I was no longer nervous.  I figured it was just going to be rough, so I might as well go to sleep until called for.  I mean, how bad could it be?

I found out around 3:20 p.m.  At first it was business as usual – small talk and pleasantries.  She asked me what I’d been up to since we last spoke and I navigated it successfully.  We discussed my home plan and potential job opportunities.  I thought “Pfft.  Bad mood? Please.”  After that she asked what I wanted the parole board to know and I went temporarily insane.  For some stupid reason I asked her if we could talk off the record.  She spun away from the computer and said, “Of course.”  We’d done so before.  I asked her to pull up my answer from last year, which she did.  She read the reasons out loud.  When she got to, “Do more time,” I heard someone say, “See – that pisses me off.” And was horrified to realize I said it.

That woman lit into me so hard I was pressed back into my chair by the force of it.  Over the next 20 minutes or so she mercilessly explained what parole meant and how they came to their decisions, all the while repeatedly reminding me that I have four life sentences.  Apparently I wanted more because at some point I had the audacity to ask her what the point of all this was.  Why?  Why did I do that?  She kicked the merciless up a notch and broke it down into no uncertain terms.  Parole is simply about crime and time.  Everything else – the work and education and letters and growth and change and remorse – though all very good and meaningful, mean absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things.  She explained that I don’t have a right to parole.  I don’t have a right to the meeting with her.  The only thing I have a right to is to “die in prison after serving a whole hell of a lot more time.”

What do you say to that?  All I could say was “Okay” I thought about what she said for a moment and then thanked her for explaining all that to me.  I told her I’d had an incorrect, misguided idea of what parole was all about and that I now understood and was grateful for it.  And I was – I am.  There is some relief in knowing that what I do and the support from home, while important and valuable, mean little in light of what happened and how much time I was given for it.  See, I thought there was some sort of checklist of things I was expected to do – achieve – standards I had to meet that they kept track of.  And although I wasn’t allowed to ever see this mythical list, I was expected to accomplish every item on it.  I still think it exists.  Only now I know all they really consider is what I can never change.  Knowing that takes the pressure off.  She said I would probably get my answer back in about three weeks.  I thanked her for explaining it all, wished her happy holidays and left.

I laughed all the way up the yard.

Parole hearings are terrible, wonderful ordeals that I never want to go through, but dictate most of my life around.  Even though the outcome has never been positive, I still would rather endure it, all that stress, every year, rather than live without it.  I have to say my life is in God – in Jesus.  It is my faith that gets me out of bed.  It is my faith that gives me hope.  It’s been three weeks now and so far I still haven’t heard.  I’m getting anxious about it.  If it’s another “no,” I’m sure I will be sad and disappointed.  But this time I don’t have any preconceived notions about my being able to affect their decision.  This time I know the bare bones, and that really does go a long way toward accepting it.  I was involved in a horrible crime and must be punished.

Hope I can go home.

Christi Buchanan 1003054
Fluvanna Correctional Center 1A
P.O. Box 1000
Troy, VA 22974

Thursday, March 5, 2015

Gotta Make 'em Pay! Part Two

By Santonio Murff

To read Part One, click here

It was an exceptionally hot day in mid-July when Abracadabra came moseying by like a cowboy who'd been riding the range too long. I was talking to Captain Lopez about a job in the O.D.R. (Officers Dining Room), which he assured me that I wasn't getting. O.D.R. food taste drastically better than prison food. Most of the offenders who prepare the officers' dishes have obtained their degrees in culinary arts. Officers usually quickly develop a respectful rapport with them, because they have to trust them with their food and beverages on a daily basis.

"Bishop! Brang it here!" Captain Lopez bellowed over my shoulder to a quickly disappearing Abracadabra. "Don't make me chase ya, Bishop!"

Abracadabra had sped up his pace the moment he heard his name. Hearing it a second time, caused him to pause. Sgt. Ike turning the corner in front of him ended all contemplations. He turned back to Captain Lopez, quickly making his way over to him. Chop-Chop strolled up to see why the Captain was yelling. "Hey, Man!" Bishop extended a hand as if to shake and Chop-Chop laughed. Officers and offenders were strictly forbidden from having any physical contact with each other.

"I ain't ya man!" Captain Lopez was no nonsense. "And, why you walking like somebody been tampering with ya backside back there," he nodded towards Abracadabra's butt.

Abracadabra shrugged good-naturedly, lifting his hands palms-up like he had no choice but to tell the truth. "Well, Captain, because I got a wedge of cheese jammed up my ass."

I burst out laughing and headed away.

"My God, what he say?" Chop-Chop was lost.

"What?!" Even Captain Lopez was taken back by that one.

"It's just twenty slices, Captain, to get me some toothpaste," Abracadabra smiled his snaggled tooth charm, "I gotta take care the few I got left."

"You got cheese in yo' butt?" Chop-Chop was still lost. "Who da hell eat dat?"

They laughed as she walked away shaking her head and mumbling, "Cheese in da butt.”

"Captain, ya know I love ya," Bishop hung his head as Lopez turned stern eyes and skeptic lips on him. "I come in on my off days, work late, and cover for others whenever and wherever ya need me, but now I'm at your mercy. I can dig, up-in-my-buttock," he worked his humor, "and give you this cheese, and you write me up, take my job, have to find someone else who willing to risk a heatstroke every day for ya by going in that furnace of a scullery...or we can just forget this ever happened."

Sometimes a situation is beyond words. This proved just such a situation. What's understood need not be said is a popular saying in prison. Captain Lopez knew exactly what Bishop was saying. Was twenty pieces of cheese worth losing one of your best and most dependable workers? Was it worth trying to find someone else who could be depended on to work the scullery with competence and without complaint? He needed not answer the questions.

So he didn't. He turned without a word and walked away to the Officer's Dining Room. Later, when he called Bishop to his office it was only to remind him that he owed him one. The cheese got sold. The scullery flowed smoothly. And, Chop-Chop learned about the "tuck-game," where offenders double wrap contraband like cheese in two bread bags and tuck it high up the inside of their thighs, snug against their testicles, so even if stripped naked the contraband will remain concealed from frontal view.

Everyone left the kitchen happy.

***          ***          ***

"You ain't nothing but a half-breed charlatan," Billy was red in the face with anger.

"I'm a fraud and you're a fool," Abracadabra laughed. "That's why you lost your hundred dollar bill and ya pan of oatmeal bars."

Billy took a timid step like he may attack, Abracadabra tilted his head like "do you really want to do that". Billy reconsidered, turned on his heels, and left the scullery with a final warning. "You're gonna get yours one day."

Billy and Abracadabra had a long history of dislike for each other. Billy was actually at the heart of his nickname "Abracadabra" sticking. Billy had come back from a visit, a year prior, bragging to anyone who'd listen about the hundred dollar bill that he'd smuggled back. All he wanted for the bill was five packs of Bugler cigarettes (FYI: In Texas, where all tobacco products have been removed from prisons, an offender can make more than four hundred dollars worth of commissary off five packs of Buglers.)

The minute he heard him, Abracadabra said, "Look at that cluck chirping to get plucked." He bought ten cigarettes from a friend at a discount of 10 for $8. (They normally go for $1 to 1.50 apiece according to the unit.) Then he struck up a quick friendship with Billy, assuring him that he could get him 7 packs for his hundred. The free cigarettes that Abracadabra plowed him with facilitated the friendship and easy trust that sprouted between them.

"I appreciate that, Bro, but it's got to be C.O.D. I'm not putting my money in anyone's hands," Billy was no fool. He knew if a story of lost came back instead of his packs, there would be little his 150, rail-thin frame could do about it.

"That's the only way I operate, Bro. I got my own cash. My boy breaks me off 8 for a hundred so I usually give 6 for a hundred and keep the two, but you're good People, so I’ma give you the seven.” Billy was all smiles at Abracadabra's words.

Nine cigarettes, a bunch of laughs, and only 72 hours later, Billy would've trusted the six feet, muscular, jokester with his life. So when Bishop amused the dayroom with his mystical magical powers, swearing that he could hypnotize people and make cash money disappear, Billy was all laughs just like everybody else. Only Playboy Pete was skeptical to the point of anger.

Him and Bishop got into a heated argument that resulted in Bishop yelling for Pete to bet something then. They ended up betting $20 in commissary. What had started out as fun and games, had turned serious in the blink of an eye, as too oft was the case in prison. Tempers flared, challenges were made, and fist usually flew. Bishop's face was still a heated scowl when he turned to Billy and said, “Let me see that yard. We're gonna eat good tonight...on this chump."

They'd eaten together the last three nights so Billy didn't hesitate. He knew Bishop had some kind of trick up his sleeve to fleece Pete of the $20 and he wanted to play his part for his partner. He kicked off his tennis shoe, dug in the sole and handed the yard (hundred dollar bill) over.

Bishop smiled. Pete smiled. I think, at that point, everyone in the dayroom watching knew that Billy had got taken. Yet, the show went on. Bishop expertly folded the hundred dollar bill in half long ways. Then with a demonstrative flipping of his wrist, folded it again, and yet again. "You see it!" He held it before Pete's eyes until he nodded.

"Now you see it, now you don't," he closed his fist around the bill with it before the eyes of dozens in the dayroom, bounced the fist over to Billy's lips and asked him to blow into the side of the fist. Billy blew and he turned his fist over so everyone could see that it was empty. "And you never will again," he finished with a laugh.

Everybody laughed, including Billy. He still hadn't caught on.

"I owe you twenty dollars, homie. You really made it disappear."

There was more laughter and discussion about Bishop's feat, before somebody posed the question, "When you gonna make it reappear?"

Bishop looked shocked at the question. "What?"

"Make my money come back!" Billy spoke up.

"Oh, I never learned that," Bishop walked away. "I can make it disappear, but I can't bring it back."

The dayroom erupted in hooting laughter. Billy looked crestfallen. "Quit playing, Bro. Give me back my money."

In short, Billy never got his money back. He could find no one willing to do anything to Bishop for him and he didn't have the heart to try and do anything himself. Bishop did indeed get eight packs for the hundred. He broke Playboy Pete off for the role he'd played in the plucking of the cluck, and even chunked Billy a pack for no hard feelings. Billy took it and kept his hard feelings to himself. I don't know who started calling Bishop "Abracadabra" after that, but due to the oft telling and the humor of the story, the nickname stuck.

Everyone began calling him that; everyone that is, but Billy.

And, now Abracadabra had plucked the cluck again, unleashing the suppressed hard feelings. "He wouldn't bless my right hand man so I had to get him," Abracadabra had explained.

Billy is a baker. The bakery is one of the most coveted positions in the kitchen, because sweets are going to sell--FAST! Billy's specialty is oatmeal bars. A simple, but delicious concoction consisting of 10 cups of flour, 10 cups of brown sugar, and ten cups of oatmeal with a sprinkle of baking powder and a stick and a half of boiling butter. You merely mix the ingredients, pack it down in a pan, bake it on 375 for 15-20 minutes, cover it with an icing made from sugar and "Walla!" you’re $20 richer.

Flash loved the delicious treats and wanted Billy to sell him a whole pan for half price. Billy flatly refused. Enter Abracadabra. "Give me $5 and I'ma give you the pan," he'd said. Money exchanged hands that day.

The next day, when count time was called and all offenders filed out to the chowhall to be counted, Abracadabra was in the restroom. The bakers went out and he went in. He calmly entered the bakery, went to the back, top racks, where he knew they kept their stash and relieved them of a still warm bake pan of oatmeal bars. He deposited the whole pan in the bottom compartment of the dishwashing machine, then turned it on high so the machine would be hot to the touch.

Once assuring himself that the goods were secure and not getting damaged by any leaks, he joined the other offenders for counts.

After counts, Billy quickly discovered the missing pan and first assumed that Captain Lopez had found it and discarded it or taken it to O.D.R. for the officers as he'd done before. He played such games, allowing the offenders to fret and threaten each other before summoning the bakery workers into his office to issue his own threats of termination for their thievery.

Abracadabra called it "double stealing," a form of poetic justice. "He stole it from the State and I stole it from him."

It was the next day, after Flash had sold half the pan to other offenders on his wing, and feasted on the rest of the delicious pastries with friends after a lavish spread (communal meal prepared with commissary items) that Billy had determined through an unnamed source that Bishop was the one who had stolen his sweets. He'd come barging into the scullery with his allegations and gotten something that he didn't expect: The truth.

"Yeah, I gott'em and we enjoyed them. And, if you don't get up out of here, right now, we're going to come together; black, white, and Mexican, and kick the holy hell out of ya." The scullery erupted in laughter at Billy's shocked expression. He'd obviously expected denials.

He said what he had to say, issued his warning, and quickly departed.

"Is d'ere no honor among thieves?" Martinez, the one who sprayed the trays clean before sending them through the machine to be sanitized queried.

"Not nary a tadbit!" Abracadabra cried and everybody laughed.

Another day in the kitchen. Another day of making them pay.

***          ***          ***

Sgt. Washington is a raven-haired exotic beauty with some astounding curves on her petite frame. A middle-aged military brat who'd seen and heard it all in her travels and more than a decade in the system, she has a warm understanding nature, but does her job with a calm competence and efficiency. Due to her undeniable sexual appeal, offenders confided any smidgeon of gossip from around the unit to her for a moment of her attention...and maybe a smile. Nothing went down in the kitchen that she couldn't get the scoop on.

So when Billy passed by her and discreetly whispered the question, "What's wrong with Bishop's arm?" She knew exactly what he was doing: dry snitching. And, she knew exactly why: the oatmeal bars. She gave a chuckle without even looking his way, and headed off, stepping in front of Bishop before he could turn the corner to the scullery area. "Just give it to me, Bishop," she extended a manicured caramel hand.

"I'd love nothing more than to Give-It-To-Youuu," Abracadabra's roaming eyes and the smirk upon his lips left no doubt to his meaning. "Unfortunately, I don't have time right now--"

"Don't play with me," Sgt. Washington warned.

"What? I don't have nothing," Abracadabra lied smoothly.

Sgt. Washington gave him that twisted lip, arched brow of skepticism African American women perfected. "Do a jumping jack."

Abracadabra did a one-armed jumping jack that made them both smile and offenders looking on laugh out loud. Had luck been on his side, all would've ended amicably with him turning over the goods and Sgt. Washington returning them where they belonged without much fanfare. But at that moment, Sgt. Ike turned the corner into them.

"What he steal now!" Ike didn't give an offender a chance. "Hand it ova, Bishop! NOW!"

Abracadabra knew that Ike would only get louder and more theatrical. The man would turn a loud fart into a threat to national security. He didn't play any games with Ike, he let the bag of punch fall from his armpit, reached under his shirt and handed it over. Ike's eyes expanded like saucers as his mouth formed a dramatic "O" of wonderment as if he wasn't well aware that offenders’ armpits were a common area that they secured and commuted contraband.

Chop-Chop walked up to look from Ike's face to Bishop's to the bag of juice. "Chees up da butt, punch up da pits--dis place is crazee," she continued on.

"Should've given it to me," Sgt. Washington shrugged and followed in Chop-Chop's tracks.

"Come with me, thief!" Sgt. Ike grabbed a firm purchase on Bishop's bicep and marched him to the Captain's office.

Bishop pulled his arm away, "I can walk."

Ike jerked out his pepperspray, "You try to run--I blind you! And, take you down--Hard!"

The looking on offenders laughed. Abracadabra just dropped his head with a shake of dismissal. Ike was comical, but a true Robocop (strictly by-the-book officer). The key to longevity in the kitchen wasn't not hustling, it was not getting caught hustling. The Captain knew what went on, even gave his tacit okay. As long as his hard workers didn't get greedy, chow flowed smoothly, and no heat was brought to him forcing his hand he could overlook the petty hustling.

Ike didn't understand such penitentiary politics and wasn't overlooking anything. He could quote the rule book word for word and enforced it to the letter. So there was no smile on Abracadabra's face when he stepped into the Captain's office with Ike on his heels. He crumbled to his knees, threw his hands to the heavens and cried, "I have sinned!" His passion was heartfelt enough to get a half grin from Lopez.

Ike slammed the bag of punch down on the Captain's desk like exhibit 1. "I catch him trying to steal!" He patted under his armpits twice like trying to put out fire. "Tried to hide from me--HERE!" He patted again.

Captain Lopez breathed a hearty sigh. He tossed the bag of punch to Ike. "Put that back where it belong." He dismissed a crestfallen Ike. Ike had expected fireworks, a "Good job!" talk of a disciplinary case, something. "Good job, Sergeant!" Captain Lopez brightened his whole world as he headed out with a firm nod of acceptance.

"Get up, Bishop," he ordered. Abracadabra rose. "Twice in one week? You need to chill out for a while, find a new profession, or tighten up, because you know what that third strike means." What's understood need not be said, but sometimes it's said anyway. "You're out!" Captain Lopez left no room for misunderstandings.

"Yes, Sir. Appreciate it." Abracadabra headed out...with a smile. He didn't like getting caught. It was bad for business. But, as long as he didn't get a case, he felt as if he'd won. "Got to be more careful," he chastized himself as he headed back to work. He would send the 10 breakfast sandwiches back to the wing to be sold at 50¢ apiece. He couldn't risk drawing any more heat to himself or the scullery today.

Flash stopped him on the way to the scullery. "I moved the breakfast sandwiches, Bro. I figured Ike would go shake down the scullery. Somebody snitchin'! Man, he went straight to that compartment in the machine where we keep everything."

Abracadabra's eyes slitted as he looked around the back of the kitchen area. If he could’ve seen Billy's smirking mug then he wouldn't have known the source of his bad luck, but Billy was sequestered in the bakery so he just nodded his acceptance of that fact.

"I put the sandwiches in the size 13 boots in the top left corner," Flash informed him. "What Ho-pez talking about? He let you make it?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I gotta chill though. I'ma just send them sandwiches on to the wing to be sold since I already gott'em." He started towards the boot room.

"I gotcha. I'll send'em back for ya. You stay out the way for a couple of days. I need my right-hand man to complete the mission." Flash halted him with a hand to his shoulder.

"Make 'em pay, Boss?" Abracadabra played along, glad he didn't have to move the sandwiches.

"Make 'em pay, like Ho-pez weigh!" They both headed off with laughter and a commitment to the mission.

***          ***          ***

No hustle is expected to last forever in the penitentiary. There are too many variables that you can't control. Too many eyes that will always spy the slick moves you make. Too many lips that will whisper what they've spied. Too many snitches, haters, robocops, and competitors--all vying to knock you out of the mix.

The kitchen's allure lies in its abundance of booty for sure; but more so in its blessing to the palate. Who don't like a delicious meal? Who can't appreciate a position which enables them to eat to their full? (Most of the time.) Working in the kitchen, you're no longer restricted to the sparse druel stingily doled out to the unit of offenders. You can purchase, barter, beg, or steal the almost daily treats made in the bakery, cheese-burgers from the cook floor, breakfast sandwiches from the O.D.R., peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cold cuts from the johnny makers' table. The possibilities are really endless. Only limited to the hustler's ambition and culinary skills.

Cellphones, narcotics, tobacco products--there are an assortment of precarious penitentiary hustles that are much more lucrative than the kitchen, but even those daredevils for dollars must turn to the kitchen for their pleasuring of the palate. As surely as everyone must eat to live; they must expend their funds, contributing to the kitchen hustle to eat good. In prisons, where pleasures are severely restricted, a great meal is only topped by masturbation as most offenders favorite pastime.

To truly understand these realisms, is to understand why Abracadabra was back upon his soapbox. Is to understand and truly feel his sermon.

***          ***          ***

The scullery was hot! In temperature yes, but also "hot" as in the slang for under extra scrutiny by the authorities. Still, Abracadabra had a full house as he stood upon the upturned milk crate and cried. "Willie D. told ya back in '94! You gotta let a hoe be a hoe!"

Martinez, Flash, Lil Chris, and I all laughed, familiar with the Ghetto Boys' song, and knowing exactly who he was speaking of. Word had gotten out and around, as it always did in prison, that Billy was snitching. Nothing had been proved, but it didn't have to be in prison. All it had to do was make sense to the shotcallers. Billy had already been accosted by a couple of nefarious characters who informed him in no uncertain terms that if he got in their business, if they even thought that he'd gotten in their business, he be finding out what that oven looked and felt like from the inside…while it was on--High!

"I'm not mad at Billy! And, ya'll shouldn't be either. To be angry or upset is to have expected more out of him." Abracadabra continued, pouring sweat.

"Preach on, Brother! You ain't said nothing wrong!" Flash laughed.

"He need some steel between his ribs," Martinez didn't smile. Lil Chris nodded.

"Nooo!" Abracadabra cried in mock despair. "We're hustlaz, not killaz. Besides, if we killed off all the Billys, what the bootie bandits gonna do?"

Everybody burst out laughing, dispelling the dark cloud that tried to move in.

"What's so funny?" Officer Andrews had strolled up to the outside grate unannounced. About five feet, thick, with braids, and full luscious lips she was so cool Abracadabra didn't even change his spiel.

"We talking about these hoes, Drew!"

"Well, you got a lot to talk about," she laughed.

"I call'em authority prostitutes! Pro-sti-tutes!" Abracadabra stamp his feet on the edge of the crate for emphasis. "They snitch on us to ya'll, Drew. They snitch on ya'll to the sergeants. They snitch on the sergeants to the Captain. And, will snitch on him to the warden. Authority prostitutes."

"You know them," Drew headed off with a chuckle.

"They want to make us out to be the bad guys, Flash," Abracadabra jumped down.

"Um-huh," Flash nodded his agreeance.

"But all we're doing is serving our fellow man...cakes, cheese, punch, spices, and whatever the hell else isn't bolted down!" He slapped hands with Flash, as his co-workers laughed. "We're the ones who enable the unit to burp with glee, and poot with pleasure! Weee, put the smile on the fat man's face." They all laughed as he threw his hands to the heavens with the drawl.

"You're my best worker," Flash snuck in.

"It ain't no easy thang being no Boss," Abracadabra shot back. "Surrounded by serpents, backstabbers, robocops, and Billys. But, I walk this treacherous walk to put a whole lot of joy in some sorrowful hearts...and quite a few snacks, sodas, and viddles in my locker."

"A small reasonable fee," Flash stepped to him with a nod. "It's the American way!”

"And, we're patriots through and through!" Abracadabra threw his arms wide.

"I love you, Bro!" Flash embraced him.

"I love you, Man!" Abracadabra hugged him fiercely and Chris hooted with laughter.

"Homes, you two vatos, crazy for real!" Martinez made his exit with a chuckle.

"We’re no more than what the system has made us." 

"Brothers in the struggle," Flash finished for him.

"Brothers in the struggle to not starve or stank," Abracadabra amended.

"And, Aaaamen!" Lil Chris ended the sermon, and got them all to work.

***          ***          ***

To read Part Three click here

Santonio Murff 00773394
French M. Robertson unit
12071 FM 3522
Abilene, TX 79601

Santonio D. Murff is a seven-time PEN Prison Writing Contest winner, award-winning novelist and essayist who is searching the planet for the right agent/publishing house for his anthology of rehabilitated prisoners’ memoirs and essays, Apologies From Within. He’s become the go-to author for dealing with prisoners’ rehabilitation and prison reform.
Santonio and his family THANK YOU for your support!!!