American Rust

  “They serve breakfast for an hour,” the guard told him. “If you wanna eat you better get your ass moving.”

  He had forgotten he had been hungry all night and now he realized he had no idea where breakfast would be served. He knew better than to ask, he would have to find it himself He got up and dressed quickly. That was good making the belt last night, he thought, that was good preparation, from the cell next to him came the sound of a person noisily moving his bowels, it did not sound healthy. Everyone crapped basically in plain view, there was a small curtain you could draw but that was it.

  Get to breakfast, he thought.

  His cell was on the second floor, along a cement catwalk that ran down the length of the tier. There were steps at the end. It was high enough on the tier, fifteen or twenty feet maybe, you would not want to get thrown off. He wondered why they hadn't put a bigger railing up. But then it was probably a help if they got rid of a convict that way, it was all about numbers, available spaces, for instance they had reopened the old prison near Pittsburgh, the one they had closed after they opened this one. They'd decided they wanted to lock up more people so they reopened the old prison and started to use it again, and now they had two.

  Down on the main floor of the cellblock he followed the general direction of traffic. They were all looking at him but no one said anything, maybe it was too early for comments. In the wide main corridor the people poured in from the different cellblocks and there was a traffic jam of bodies, a backup. He stared straight ahead, up at the glaring fluorescent lights, he stared at the brightly polished linoleum, anywhere there was not a pair of eyes staring back. There was the smell of food and it was not good, it smelled like school lunches only worse.

  He reached the cafeteria where it sounded like a riot had broken out, pandemonium was the word for it, whoever wasn't shouting was talking in their loudest voice, hundreds of inmates, thousands maybe, and not a single guard. But there was no riot. It was business as usual. It was not a good place. It was a place you could get away with anything. He would have to find another spot to eat only it was not like that, there was not a prison restaurant where you could order a steak and have your booth.

  There were long institutional tables with the benches attached, most likely so they could not be used as weapons. As for the room itself it was segregated by race, blacks in one area of the room, Hispanics in another, the voices of young men shouting over each other. The whites were visibly a minority, a quieter group, they appeared to be older as well.

  In the white area three men were sitting alone at one end of a long table, they were clearly running things, they varied in size but they were all big men and equally sleeved with tattoos. One had a shaved head but a sort of open friendly look about him, another had a black watch cap pulled down to his eyes, the third had a blond pompadour he must have gotten up early to work on. Making a general survey, Poe figured fewer than half the people appeared unusually strong, the others were skinny or pudgy with stringy hair and unhealthy looks, meth- heads, your standard trailer trash. There were plenty of old men as well, just regular-looking old men, men of every age, really. Technically he was trailer trash himself, only he wasn't. He guessed he would naturally fit in with the better half, the only problem being he had only a football tattoo on one pectoral, over his heart, and another tattoo of his player number on his calf, he wondered about that now, how that would look to the others, he had not known he was going to prison when he'd gotten them. A picture of a knife would have been a better choice, a smoking gun. Or, judging from the tattoos the shotcallers had, something that indicated white power, an eagle, the Nazi SS sign was popular, there was one of Adolf Hitler but you could only tell by the mustache, other than that it could have been anyone, it was one of the stupidest- looking tattoos he had ever seen and the guy would have it the rest of his life.

  He picked up a tray and got in line, feeling at ease. He held out his tray and was served two pieces of white bread, eggs from a powder mix, sausage, and green Jell-O, he tried to move the tray to the side but they put the Jell-O right on top of his other food. He took a cup of orange Kool- Aid to wash it down.

  Carrying his tray he worried someone might try to trip him but no one did, he found a seat in the white area, at the end of a table by himself. A thin shaggy- haired man smiled and made eye contact with him several times, one of the speed freaks, half his teeth were missing. Poe didn't acknowledge him. A few others were sitting at the other end of the table, he nodded to the toughest-looking of the group but was ignored.

  A black man about Poe's age came and sat down next to him, he had short dreadlocks, sweatpants, flip- flops, and a torn T-shirt, he might have just come from a workout, he looked like someone you'd see in the gym. He didn't seem worried about anything. He had crossed the invisible line that denoted the white area of the room so maybe there were exceptions, the three white shotcallers took note but continued their conversation as before.

  “ ’Sup,” he said.

  “What's up,” said Poe.

  “First day's a bitch, huh?”

  “It's alright.”

  “Dion,” he said. He held his fist out and Poe bumped it and introduced himself

  “They probably got a freeze on your account so you won't be able to get no commissary today, no deodorant, shampoo, toothpaste, anything like that.”

  Poe immediately got the sense he was about to be hustled. “I don't need that shit,” he said.

  “You like being dirty, huh?”

  Poe didn't say anything.

  “Alright, Dirty. You look me up you need anything.” He smiled and held out his fist to be bumped again but Poe knew he'd just been insulted, he went back to his eggs. The whites at the other end of the table looked at Poe as if they expected him to respond and the man looked back as he walked away but Poe didn't say anything. He began to shovel the food into his mouth, he was getting a feeling, he began to eat as quickly as he could. Everyone smirked and went back to whatever they were doing, and Poe knew that what had happened was very bad, he had just been marked, quick as that.

  Another black man came up, crossed the invisible barrier, he was tall and very thick with a scar across his nose and forehead like a pink caterpillar, tattoos all over his arms though Poe could not make them out against his dark skin.

  “ ’Sup, Dirty.”

  Poe didn't say anything. There were still no guards in the room. More people were beginning to pay attention.

  “Yo, Dirty, gimme one of them sausages.”

  Poe moved the tray so the newcomer couldn't reach it.

  “Why thank you,” said the man.

  He stood up and reached for Poe's food tray but Poe slid it farther away. Then he put his face in Poe's and laughed loud so his spit went all over Poe's skin.

  “You got a problem, Wood? Don't want no niggas touchin your food?”

  He was talking in a voice so the other side of the room could hear him, the din was quieting down some.

  “I got no problem,” said Poe.

  It was definitely much quieter, the atmosphere in the room had changed, he was the center of attention. He would have to do something. He was not feeling strong.

  “I hope you came up to join your homies in here, baby.”

  Poe stared at his plate.

  “Oh you don't know no one, huh? Not a single motherfuckin soul up in this place?”

  Poe knew he should hit him but there was a definite racial feeling, the other blacks would jump him, there was no question about it. But he had no choice. He didn't want to fight, he could feel how scared he was, he had never wanted to fight less in his entire life.

  “You know I'll take care of you,” the man was saying, he softly stroked Poe's arm and the other side of the room erupted in laughter, even some of the whites were laughing and grinning, the man looked toward his friends to bask in his glory and Poe grabbed him in a headlock and rolled them both to the floor, rolled them so the back of the man's head hit the cement with the weigh
t of their two bodies behind it.

  The man was limp long enough for Poe to lock an arm around him and start punching him with his free hand, he didn't know how many times he hit him, he wasn't getting good leverage but it was enough, people were shouting a general encouragement, not for Poe but for the fight itself, he was leaning back and bending the man's head back with him, the man was punching awkwardly at Poe's face but it was too late, he had a very strong grip. He had a feeling he could break the neck if he wanted, he smelled sweat and hair oil, he was warm and he felt his strength coming back, the man was completely limp, maybe he'd been limp for a long time, and then someone kicked Poe in the ribs.

  It was one of the white guys.

  “Get up,” he said.

  Poe stood up. There was a crowd of men standing around, black and white only there were more of the black. He thought he'd get rushed but that wasn't their purpose.

  “Fair fight,” one of the white shotcallers was saying.

  “Fuck that sucker- punch- ass bullshit,” someone from the black side said. Poe started to get the shakes. It was just from adrenaline and he put his hands in his pockets so no one would see. There was a long awkward moment standing there. All of the white men in that area of the cafeteria were on their feet and finally one of the shotcallers seemed to make a decision, he nodded his head slightly in Poe's direction and Poe knew he was supposed to follow him. He felt the relief washing over him, it was like a bucket of warm water pouring down him. About a half dozen of the whites, the ones in charge, were headed toward the exit and he fell in step behind them. Then they were heading down the broad corridor between the cellblocks, they went to the end and turned, there was a metal detector ahead of them and metal doors, the men he was following gave a hand signal to some guards behind a Plexiglas window and the doors popped and they were all suddenly outside, in the rec yard in the bright sunshine, and he heard the doors slam shut behind them.

  It was warm outside, the sky was very blue and his eyes hurt. There was dirt under his feet. He continued to follow the tall skinhead until they were near the weight pile. The others from the table had followed them. It was very bright and his eyes were still adjusting, through the fences he could see the greenness of the Valley rolling away from him and, in the distance, not quite the river itself but the far bank of it rising up.

  They stopped when they reached the weight pile.

  “For a second we thought you were gonna get turned out,” said one of them, the one with the shaved head and broad open face, he winked at Poe, the first friendly gesture Poe had felt in days.

  The man with the blond pompadour, the leader, added: “You sure took your fuckin time thinking about it.”

  The others laughed and Poe wasn't sure what to do.

  “You'll be alright,” said the blond one. “You got it taken care of.” He grinned. “I'm Larry,” he said, “known also as Black Larry. Call me Black Larry, Larry, I don't give a fuck, really.”

  The other two introduced themselves. Dwayne, the friendly- looking one with the shaved head, and Clovis, who had the hat pulled down over his eyes. Clovis was substantially wider than Poe, he probably weighed three hundred pounds.

  Poe looked back to see if they were being followed. The doors to the main building were still closed and there was no one else in the rec yard.

  “Do those guys back there run the place?” Poe said.

  “Clovis,” said Black Larry, “did our young friend just ask if our black brethren ran this place?”

  Clovis made an imperceptible adjustment to his watch cap and said, “Believe he did.”

  Black Larry sighed loudly.

  “In the first place,” said Clovis, “do you see those little punks anymore, or are they still locked in behind that fuckin door there? In the second place, don't ask any more stupid fuckin fish questions.”

  “Sorry,” said Poe. “I just got here.”

  “We fuckin know that,” said Clovis.

  “I haven't even had my trial yet.”

  “Listen to this guy,” said Clovis.

  “That isn't something you want to go around telling people,” said Dwayne. “Other than us.”

  “Sorry,” Poe said again. He felt like he was screwing up, he was not sure what he should say. He would be quiet.

  “It's fine,” Black Larry said. “You're among friends.”

  “But you need to buck the hell up,” said Clovis. “Everyone's gonna be heart- checkin you until you get rid of that mopey- dope fuckin face. It doesn't matter how you fight if you walk around looking like a goddamn clown.”

  The other two nodded.

  “Alright,” said Poe. “I hear you.”

  “He hears us,” said Clovis.

  “He does,” said Poe. “Loud and clear.” He grinned and the others smiled, except for Clovis, who shook his head.

  “Me and him need to take a walk,” said Dwayne, “so he can get his hands washed. That one's got the fuckin ninja.”

  “Little Man does?” said Black Larry.

  “For sure.”

  “Who's Little Man?”

  “The one you hit. He's got the bug.”

  Poe must have had a look.

  “AIDS,” said Dwayne. He motioned for Poe to hold his hands out and he held them almost tenderly and looked at them, they were cut and there was blood drying but he couldn't tell whose it was.

  “You got any soap,” said Dwayne.

  “No.”

  “I'll give you some from my cell.”

  Black Larry said: “After that he needs to keep his head down a while. Least till we get this worked out with the DCs.”

  Dwayne nodded. He started walking but Poe was standing rigidly, he was not going to follow an enormous tattooed skinhead back to a prison cell and all the men burst out laughing.

  “Don't fuckin worry,” Dwayne said. “I ain't tryin to stick anything up yer butt.”

  — — —

  Dwayne had a cell to himself, three rugs on the floor, and a blue curtain with a design of the Virgin Mary. It was on the end of the block so there was light from the window in the cell and light from the big window in the corridor.

  “Got that out of the hospice,” he said about the curtain.

  As Poe washed his hands he smelled lavender. It was not prison soap. It smelled like a soap Lee might use and he washed his hands a second time. “How's all this shit get in here.”

  “About ten million ways,” said Dwayne. “Visitors, COs, they leave and come back at least once a day.”

  Poe must have made a face because Dwayne continued:

  “They make eighteen grand a year. Offer them a couple thousand to bring something in, there ain't many that's gonna turn that down.”

  “Except if they get caught it comes back on you.”

  “I'm doing life three times,” Dwayne said. “What are they gonna do to me?”

  — — —

  Later that afternoon he was back in his own cell. They had told him to stay in it until they came and got him the next morning, so he would sleep with his feet to the bars and head by the toilet where it was safe, where no one could reach and put a cord around his neck. A meager light came into the cell, the window was made of the same cheap plastic as the one in the police station, clouded yellow by the sun, the parts ordered and built by the same contractor, probably, getting rich hand over fist. Somewhere there were barons of prisons as there had once been barons of steel.

  Down on the main floor of the cellblock it was Jerry Springer on the televisions again, aunts who screw nephews, something like that, maybe not exactly but that's why people watched those shows, for the hope of it, he'd watched them himself but now they seemed distasteful. The inmates were shouting encouragement. He noticed he'd started not to hear it, the noise. His stomach was torn up, he was probably hungry again, even the little bit of breakfast he'd eaten had disagreed with him violently. He was glad he'd been alone when it happened. Even eating the food he'd known it would happen, it would make him sick
, come out before its time at one end or the other. But what choice did he have—he had to eat. That was his problem he had pampered himself His whole life he had taken it easy, it was his problem and downfall, the opportunities he'd had, he always took the easy way, and now this, even his picki-ness over food, even this was going to hurt him, he needed energy he would have to eat. He would need a shower soon as well, he was not looking forward to it, the shower room. It was not possible that it could be a good place. Except he still smelled like Lee, he would be washing that off as well, he wondered if he could save it somehow but there was no way, smells they came and went you could not save them, it was not like a picture you could make in your mind that you could refer to over and over.

  Dwayne had said someone would bring him food from the commissary, he knew it cost money. They had not asked him for money but he was not stupid, it would not be free whatever they gave him. He did not have any choice about it. As far as he knew he had every gang in the prison after him. Dwayne and Black Larry said they would settle things up for him, they would make peace, they just needed him out of the way while they did it. Backdoor agreements, he couldn't tell, he would have to trust them. The week he'd done in the county jail, it was not the same, it was guys in for DUI, small things, it was people going back to their regular lives but not here, these people lived here, it was their world.

  But that attitude did not help anything. It was not how you won games or fights, it was not how you won anything. It was another problem of his, his outlook. He was doing just fine. Thriving, practically. It would all work out, there was no reason to be pessimistic, he was not even here for good, he would get out, this was only the prosecutor trying to break him, he was not here for good, he was sure of it. It would be an interlude, a story he would tell in the bars. He was not the same as these people, it would all be figured out, there was no point in thinking otherwise.

  3. Isaac