Jail Room Calling

            by Andrei Smith

 

I sit in the cold cement room staring out the window, ripped envelope in hand, watching the clouds roll past my small scratched window. The gang tags that cover the thick plastic’s inside have scarred my view of the outside world, leaving deep cuts in the trees and sky outside. The sun refracts off the cuts in the pane, leaving dots of yellow light scattered about the gray walls. These warm dots are one of the few pleasant things here in the county jail, where the food all tastes the same (like wet cardboard), the conversation is sparse and littered with curses words and retellings of fabricated gang stories, and your toilet is in the same room as your sink and your bed. You can’t have electronics, and most personal items get taken away from you within a week of you getting them. The mail is all read before you receive it, and the packages are searched and sifted through so by the time they actually fall into your hands they are sad bruised children, covered in red marks and bandages. The letter in my hands is from my brother, and I haven’t read it yet because I know it can’t be good news. People don’t tell their family members in Jail about the good things that happen to them, only bad things. Just last week, Jim across the hall got a letter from his aunt about the car crash that killed his two sons and his ex-wife. In jail everyone knows your personal business, and the word secret loses its meaning. The letter in my hand is written in cursive, and the sun lies on it, glowing it yellow. I can feel the eyes of inmates bearing down on me with casual suspense, holding their breath like pedestrians watching a car accident unfold.

The letter starts off laid-back with descriptions of the my brother Jon’s sons, who are apparently doing great at their private high school, and are stars on the Waterpolo team. People on the outs meander around in their thoughts, and they take time to get to the point. When you are in prison like me, sentenced to seven years, you want every second of human connection to be important, because socializing with real people is rare. Most people in Jail are so fucked up on the meds that they turn into zombies, sleeping all day, and groaning and moaning all night.

The sun is setting, so if I don’t stop daydreaming it’ll be to dark to finish. The men around me are still waiting, so I appease them and move on to the second part of the letter. The curvy casual letters become rushed and troubled as Jon moves on to talking about the real subject of the letter. My mother, Jane’s, condition is worsening; Hodgkin's lymphoma, and it has progressed to far to treat. I look up into the eyes of my prison mates, noting their wide eyed, naïve expressions. They follow my movements, waiting for me to punch a wall or scream at them. I do neither; instead turning to watch the sun change from white to red as it falls beneath the crest of the nearby hill. As it disappears I close my eyes and pull my scratchy blanket over me, pretending to fall into a light sleep.

~~~~

            Friday is yard day for the A/B block, the only chance during the week during get a taste of fresh air and lift weights. Since Marlon committed suicide with his dumbbells we haven’t been able to lift in our rooms, and even in the yard the weights are watched closely. Feirg County Jail housed mainly auto thieves and scammers, and most of the more violent gang bangers got kept more tightly held up in the other facilities. As I lifted my weights I tried to start friendly conversations with the other inmates. Eli was a good Jail friend of mine, and as he approached, I could see the excitement on his face.

“Ornette,” he loudly whispered, wide eyed and a smile on his face “ You gotta hold these for me man, don’t worry I’ll be right back, shits going down!”

I must have looked surprised enough to warrant extra explanation, because he continued,

“I just stole some pills from some loco fools over in the C/D block while I was waiting for my lawyer. As soon as I grabbed em’ off the table in the office, I told the guards that I felt sick, and wanted to go back to A/B block. So now they know someone took the case of morphine tablets, and they are locking down the C/D block. I’m… I’m… I’m…” Eli stuttered as he struggled to catch his breath “Gonna get called back to, so you got to hold on to these for me!”

            Without thinking, I grabbed the orange plastic bottle from Eli, and stuck it in the elastics of my pants. I saw three guards approaching so I smiled at Eli and said,

“Hey Eli don’t worry I’m sure you will win your case. Your lawyer was probably just late.”

He looked at me confused, but he realized my quick thinking as the guards grabbed his left arm and took him away.

            Thirty minutes pass before anything more happens. At first I hear the sirens of nearby

 

 

 

 

 

 

Joe Slipen has been at Feirg County Prison for as long as anyone could remember. A large mumbling man, his wire rimmed glasses sat slanted across his face as he stared through the reinforced glass of the wardens office out at us. A pillar in the community, Joe had a certain affinity for his shotgun a personal weakness towards oxycoton.

As I sneaked on hands and knees towards Joe’s office, I saw several units of armed guards running in the opposite direction. Finally reaching his grey shack, I stood up and knocked on the door.

“What are you doing here Ornette?” He said, his left eye bulging through the slot in the heavy metal door.

I told him that I needed to talk to him alone for a minute, which he accepted as a valid reason, seeing as we talked together quite often. Nicer than many of the other workers at the prison, Joe was one of the few employees at the prison that had a personality that I could relate to. Where the bars of my prison are steel and depressed, his are forged from drug abuse and loneliness.

Yanking hard with his weight, he opened the steel door, inviting me to sit and waddling back to his desk. His office smelt like old Doritos and sweat, and it had a pervasive sense of depression. The roof was low, the walls thick and cement, and the window light was sparse at best. Breathing heavily and leaning back into his chair, he invited me to speak. I cut right to the chase.

“Joe, I need a huge favor,” I said, pausing shortly as a the sound of a shotgun pierced through the walls, “I need to go see my moms…”

His eyes became slits as he analyzed my words. He stayed silent, leaving me to fill in the details.

            “I, ah, well, I have, I want to see my mom, she is dying, and I don’t care about getting caught, but I just want five minutes with her, too… you know, talk, but I can't have visitors, so I thought, if I gave you some drugs”

            “Wait,” He said, cutting me off mid sentence, his brow furrowed like California fault lines. “You think I’m gonna help you escape from this fucking prison, risking my future just so you can see you crippled old mother?” His voice became louder, “I’ll kill you before you get ten feet from this prison. That's my job, you stupid black ni…”

            Before he could finish, I stood up, grabbing my metal fold up chair, swinging it towards his skull. The connection between the chair and his head was short but sweet, and I could feel a smile growing on my face. As he slumped lifelessly into his chair, I struggled to breath, my own amazement stealing the air from my lungs. I don’t kill people. I steal, lie, and fight, but I never kill people.

            A gasp erupting from Joe’s lungs pulled me back to reality. Breathing now, but still very much unconscious, I had a few seconds to decide on a plan. As the commotion outside in the yard grew louder, I took the first bottle of pills from the elastic in my pants. Stuffing two pills his throat with my index and middle fingers, I emptied the rest on to his desk, laying the bottle on its side after wiping it clean of finger prints. Eyeing the bump that was growing on his forehead, I took his head and aligned the long red          mark with the metal desk. I quickly left his office, master keys in hand, allowing the metal door to loudly squeak on its tired hinges.

            Wearing Joe’s jacket over my orange overalls, I moved down the corridors of the prison on my hands and knees, staying in the shadows as riot geared police streamed past me. The air now smelt like riot gas, and my eyes flooded with salty tears. The shouting of prisoners and gunshots of the police now reaching a crescendo, I ran the last fifty feet to the doors. The door guard staring intently at his myriad of screens, I creaked open the front door, and ran into the welcoming sunlight.

            The sprawling lower class neighborhood of Fierg county looked very similar to how they had looked seventeen years ago. Dirty kids played on bikes outside the jail, and the commotion at the prison went unnoticed to the seventeen year olds who walked their children down the street in strollers. Other than the Occasional low rider, the streets were quite peaceful, lacking in the excitement and apprehension that I usually attributed to them. After walking around for half an hour through the streets of my old neighborhood, my mission floated back to the top of my brain. Remembering where exactly my mother lived took a far bit of time, but after asking directions from a number of passerby’s, I got a good general sense on where to go.

            It was a full hour of walking before I heard the first police sirens. The trumpets seemed to melt into the neighborhood, and I felt as if I was the only one that could hear them. My walk became faster, and I struggled to stop myself from constantly looking over my shoulder as I moved along the broken and cracked sidewalk. Other people on the street stared at me as if I was an oddly dressed ten-year-old playing hopscotch.

            The increase in the volume of the police cars pushed me into a fast run, dodging between parked cars and skateboarding teenagers like a caffeinated newspaper delivery boy. I passed many familiar streets- Keeler, Main, 31st, all of which brought back miniature crescendos of memory. The street where I first tested my training wheels, the corner where I sold my first drugs, the liquor store I unsuccessfully held up, all these things that hypnotized me with their nostalgic power. Running by my old school, I felt a jolt of guilt in the bottom of my stomach. It had all gone wrong in High School. Where I was destined to succeed I failed, dropping out shortly after being labeled gifted by the school board. My mother cried for days, knowing that I was selling drugs and gangbanging when I could be studying the Greek philosophers and statistics. I figured that there was no room for me in the crowded classrooms, and saw that by living the street life I could make the money I wanted, and get the respect I was sure that I deserved. My success only pushed my parents into deeper despair, pushing them apart, leaving my mom to fend for herself. I haven’t seen my dad since he left my mom, and since being in prison my guilt has kept me from writing to my mom.

            The Sirens are louder now, cars sweeping back and forth, combing the streets for me as if I was the last little tick in this otherwise prestigious community. Parents started to take their kids inside, the loud sirens reminding them of the gang wars of the past. I could see clearly the fear on their faces as I ran past their children, an orange jumpsuit criminal coming to reek havoc like a stripped tiger escaped from the zoo. The click of door bolts locking and yells of children being herded inside was quickly drowned out by the roar of a white police SUV speeding down the street towards me. I tried to concentrate, forcing myself to look forward and not backwards.

            Jumping two fences, I found myself free from the police search for a few moments in order to find my moms house. Running past angry dogs, I see white house after house, nearly identical in color and form like Lego blocks sorted by an obsessive ten year old.

            I round the corner to my street. I walk past two homes, and then turn again onto the sidewalk leading to my house. The sidewalk seems to stretch longer and longer as I walk down it, both my thoughts and the sound of police sirens dithering into the background. A state of calm consumes my mind, like the deep orange leaves on the trees that are ready to fall, and the bright blue sky. Memories don’t rush over me, they creep, moving slowly and grabbing at my raw soul.

            When I reach the front door, I’m only partially surprised to realize that I don’t have my keys on me. Instinctively I move to the side gate, pausing for a moment to look over my shoulder for authority figures. I jump the gate with ease, and the creek of the cast iron gate buckling under my weight is almost soothing to my ears. Reaching the back door, I find it closed but unlocked, and my hand reaches for the cold vertical handle.

            I think this is it. If my mom is here I’ll only have a couple of minutes to talk to her before the cops coming here to find me. Then they’ll bust in, breaking down the door, proving to my mom yet again how much of a fuck up I’ve become. I lean against the shingled wall to collect myself, and as my hands fall to my hips, they nudge an unfamiliar bulge in the elastic of my jumpsuit. I pull the second pill bottle out, and shake it, hearing the sound of the pills jump and play in the bottle. The plastic is familiar in my hands, and the child safe lid slides open in my hands like melted butter. I pore the pills into my hands and lift them to read the small text printed across their broadside. OXYCOTON they read, and I can hear the pills call me as they sit near my face. I lift my palm to my lip, and the avalanche of woeful reprieve tumbles into my stomach.

            “I’ve never not loved you Ornette” She says, stumbling through tears, her neon face flashing colors before my eyes, “I just never understood where it all went wrong…”

            “Mom, I’m sorry…” My voice trails off as the drugs tear at my attention, stealing my carefully thought out words. My stomach begins to turn, and I can feel acid in my mouth.

            After waiting for me to finish my sentence for thirty seconds, Mom starts to fills in for me.

            “Oh darling, there’s no need to be sorry. I just. Well. I know you are in trouble again Ornette, so you can have all the money you want, it’s under my bed in a suitcase. But… I just ask one thing Ornette. Ornette? Are you listening?” She asks, tilting her head sideways, looking into my eyes.

            “Yeah Mom, I’m lisssteninnnggg” I say, slurring my words, my eyes transfixed on the window that is bouncing on the wall like a child on a trampoline.
            “Ok Ornette. I just, this, I mean, I need you to do this. Ornette, look at me. I’ve already said goodbye to your brother. I’m gonna die soon, and… it would be better, no, no, you have to feed me these pills, I can’t swallow by myself… I want to go Ornette, I want to go see your father…”

            Her words bounce in and out of my conscious, as my mind swirls like whipped cream in the blender, my legs bending and giving way as I fall down to the hard wood floor.