Читать книгу Jail Speak - Ben Langston - Страница 11

Be a Man, Man

SHUT the car door. Look at the jail. Look at the towers, the razor wire, the coal-fired boiler plant, the twelve coats of blue paint on the locker-room door. Take a deep breath. Hold it. Smell the coal dust and iron and dirt and sweat. That’s jail. And jail is where dicks are measured. There are thousands in this one. And with all that measuring comes all the testosterone—buckets and buckets.

Smell it as you walk into the locker room. Soak it up. Look at the chew wads on the ceiling, the dried spit on the lockers. Add yours. Get in character. You’re a guard. Hear the lockers slam. Kick them to make noise. Here you can be loud. There’s no door on the bathroom. Walk in, spit in the urinal. Say fuck. Yell it for fun. Fuck! Come out and tape the serious guard’s locker closed. Then hide. He’ll swear and kick and spit when he finds it.

Open your locker. Put on the uniform. It’s gray. It’s black. It fits like a sack. Wear a watch. No phone allowed. Bring a pen. That’s it. No gum either. It can be used to make key impressions. Bring it in anyway. It doesn’t set off the metal detector. Leave the stab vest hanging on the hook. No one’s going to shank you. They haven’t yet. Slam your locker shut. Be a man. Slam it twice.

Walk past the guard with the hairy ass crack standing in only his tighty whities. He’s at the exit. Compliment his package. Nice bulge. Say it loud.

Stand at the gate. Get jacked because you wait. Kick on the gate. When it buzzes, open it fast, walk in, and hold it for the guard running behind you. Then slam it in his face. Bam. You’re a man.

Swear at the time clock. Fucking clock. Cry about the fingerprint scan. Fucking scan. Throw your keys and belt past the metal detector. Hold up your pants and walk through. When you’ve made it, watch the next guard start through. Then kick the metal detector. That sets it off. Then run.

Wade through the roll-call room. Hit shoulders, punch kidneys, step on every shiny black boot you see. And twist. When your name is called say HERE like you got a pair. Bitch about the block you get sent to. Fucking A block. Bitch about the lieutenants making the schedule, but only after you leave the roll-call room and walk out of earshot, and then go a little farther and then look around to make sure it’s clear. Then you can say it. Fucking white hats. But not too loud. Or they’ll put you at a worse post.

Slam the A block door. It’s 6 a.m. Ignore the night shift guards leaving. Call them slugs after they shut the door. Fucking slugs. They’re soft. They only come out at night.

Smell the block. It’s piss. It’s smoke. It’s piss mist.

Look up at the cells: 250 of them are stacked five stories high. They’re back-to-back inside a cage twenty feet away from the outer walls. Know that 500 inmates are up there sleeping. They’re about to measure you. Get ready. Grab a radio. It’s almost count time. Grab keys and a clipboard. That’s it, nothing else. No night stick, no pepper spray. You don’t carry all that mess in this jail. You have a made-in-Taiwan whistle on your belt. That’s good enough. Whistle if you’re shanked.

Get moving. You have to count two ranges. Hurry up. That’s two hundred dicks. Get in position. You have one minute until count. Climb the stairs to level 5. You have fifteen seconds. That’s a long time to stand. Catch your breath. Rest on the trash can. It’s not that dirty. Even if it was, who cares? Not you.

Hear the bell ring. Hear the sergeant say, Count time over the PA system. Hear him say, Lights on, be standing, be visible. And start counting. Just count heads. Check them off on the sheet. Don’t worry about names. You don’t care about names. Check off each cell. One, two, check them off. Keep moving. Go fast. Cell 501: one, two. They’re mean-mugging you. Mean-mug them back, look tough, or laugh, or stop and stare, that works. Cell 502: one, two. They’re smiling at you. Ignore both. Cell 503: one. There’s just one. He’s pissing. He’s looking at you and holding his dick. He’s measuring you. Keep your eye contact walking by. Measure him back. Cell 504: one, two. Their backs are turned. Keep moving. Check off cells.

Stop at cell 514. Look at the inmates still sleeping. Look at them not standing, their lights still off. You’re a corrections officer. Correct. Say, Count time. And wait two seconds. Then yell it. Count Time! And wait two more seconds. Then bang your clipboard on the bars as loud as you can until they stop pretending to sleep and stand up and say, “Damn, man, what you doing that for?”

You hear that? He called you a man, man.

Put an extra mark by the sleepers on the count sheet: check and check. You’re done counting. Go down and give the block sergeant the count: all. Then find the sleepers’ block cards. Know that block cards have mug shots and basic information. Report the jail crime. Write, “Not Standing for Count.” While you’re at it, draw mustaches on their mugs. Give them black eyes, earrings, dicks in their mouths. If it’s a third offense, give them a write-up. Unless you’re a member of the hug-a-thug program. Which you’re not. Of course. Write them up. Other officers are measuring.

Head back into the cage. Run the ranges. That’s your job for two hours. It’s not really running. It’s slamming. You slam cell doors, you walk, then you slam more cell doors. The guards in the officer station do the opening: twenty-five doors with one button.

Here come the inmates now. It’s breakfast, their chance at one serving of protein, fruit, dairy, and carbohydrates. Look at them fly out of the cells. Watch them pile down the stairs. Walk right behind and slam doors. Start at the top, range 5, push the inmates down with slams. Don’t take any shit. Don’t stop. Just slam. Let them know. Chase them out of the cage. Fucking slam them, man.

Take a break. You’re done for now. The inmates are gone for half an hour. Sit on the back stairs. Those stairs are gated off. That way you don’t have to deal with the inmate “CO, CO, can I stop by 237?” or “CO, CO, I need my cell opened” when they come back. Just sit and doze until you hear another guard’s radio or keys jingling nearby. Then act like you’re tying your boots so you don’t look lazy.

Stretch when you hear the doors open for the inmates’ return. Back to running. Once the inmates step inside, slam their cell doors with a full-on, full-body shove. Rattle the range. Let them know. Clear the range, the slams say. Move. Don’t listen to a word the inmates say. Let the slams answer.

“CO, I’ve got a dentist’s appointment.”

Slam.

“CO, I’ve got a library pass.”

Slam.

“CO, I think I broke my leg.”

Slam.

Go to the staff dining hall. It’s 9 a.m. It smells like meat. Get some. You want two jail hamburgers? Hamburgers for breakfast? Take them. It’s steak-fast. Take four. They’re free. Grab fries. Bump into every guard you walk behind on your way to sit. Wait until they’re drinking, then give them a push. Look at the table: sixteen guards grinding burgers. If you sit at another table, they’ll give you shit. Don’t get a sausage to eat unless you can take the dick jokes. Which you can, man.

Wipe your mouth with your tie. Head back to the block. Walk into the inmates heading to the yard. They’re six hundred deep. Punch through the middle. Say, Make a hole. Yell, Make it wide! It’s six hundred against one. This is when they measure you. Hear one yell, “Rent-a-cop.” You don’t know who it was. You don’t care. He wants you to crack. Don’t. But say something back. Tell the six hundred, the whole six hundred, to Rent a dick.

Walk to the fence by the chapel before going back to A block. Shake the fence with the vibration sensors. Shake it hard. Look up at the camera. Wait until the camera-room operator moves it toward you to check for escapees. Then flip him off—with both hands—and walk away.

Climb the stairs again in the block. This is where you’re at until inmates go to lunch. Slam doors. Rest on trash cans. Say No to the inmates. Say it over and over. Look at the dust in the air. Know that it’s skin cells. Breathe those inmates in. Catch the same loudmouth twice on the wrong range. Tell him that you know him. Tell him that there are 477 inmates on this block and that you know all their names, that you know his name, his number, his cell, his celly, his celly’s homies, his celly’s homies’ honeys. That will shut him up. Yours is bigger. Show him. Slam doors. Slam his. Lock him in.

Listen to Loudmouth still running his loud mouth. He says he can take you, that without the uniform you’re nothing, that you’re ugly, that you’re pathetic, a punk, a pussy on a power trip. He’s a cell warrior. He only talks tough once he’s behind the bars of his cell. Listen to him talk about your mother, and, because he sees your ring, your wife, too. That’s okay. Keep making rounds until you see him doing something in his sink, like dividing up a bag of BBQ chips into bowls. Be patient. Wait until you see him almost done: one bowl for him, one for his celly, and one for his celly’s homey’s honey. Now go to the back stairs and unlock the door to the maintenance space that runs behind the cells. Walk through the plumbing and dead roaches. Find the back of Loudmouth’s cell. Pull the rods that turn the water on to his sink—full fucking blast—to spray the hell out of his chips. Then listen to him him yell, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Go ahead and laugh. You win.

Brag to the other guard running the ranges. Tell him how you took care of Loudmouth. You can trust the other guard. Maybe. Listen to him laugh. He won’t rat. Maybe. He’s got your back. Maybe. He’s a guard too. He’s the same as you for eight hours a day. Maybe. You wear the uniform. It affects you. Let it. You like it. Be a man, you can. Strap on a big one.

If you leave the “I” in the car, there’s no “I” to hurt. There’s just you. And you’re a gate warrior. Inside the gate you’re the Institution. Life is simple inside, systematic, stab-resistant. But only if you act right, speak right, sit and eat your fries right.

Relieve the guard working the showers. Hear him say that the burgers are running right through him. Watch the inmates showering, all forty of them. Look at them wearing their boxers. That way they can do laundry—double duty. Some have their T-shirts on, too. It’s not allowed, but let it slide, they’re just T-shirts. Look at the soap: yellow bricks, state-issued. Smell the steam. Smell the soap. It’s industrial, extra strength, extra potent. It numbs your nose.

Stand in the door of the showers. It’s almost lunch. Give the inmates a ten-minute warning: Ten minutes. Yell it. Hear one of them yell, “Fuck your ten minutes.”

Fine. Teach them.

Wait just two minutes, then give them a one-minute warning: One minute. Yell it. Then turn off the water right away. Look at them trying to towel their suds off. Listen to them bitch on their way out. Then step out and slam the door behind them. Bathe in the conquest, man.

Watch the inmates run to lunch. Grab the clipboard with the count sheets. Go up the cage. Know that they get counted as soon as they come back. It’s a long lunch. Know that most inmates eat in the dining hall on hamburger days. It’s a rare meal. Because it’s good.

Count them up. They’re back. Check off each cell. One, two, check them off. Keep moving. Go fast. Cell 501: one, two. They’re still mean-mugging you. Mean-mug them back. Cell 502: one, two. They’re standing, looking tired. Cell 503: one. There’s still just one, he’s pissing again, holding his dick again. Hoping, no doubt, for a female guard to see. You’ll fix him tomorrow, the predator. He’ll see who’s bigger when his mattress disappears. Walk on by. Cell 504: one, two. Their backs are turned. Keep moving. Check off cells.

Give the count to the sergeant. Play cards with the guards in the station. Talk shit during the game. Table-whack, card-slap, and cheat until second shift kicks the door.

It’s time to go. Walk out without saying anything. Hear them say, “Fucking first shift.” Head to the gate. Line up at the time clock and fingerprint scan, single file, no pushing. Pushing slows down the process. The scan can be tricky.

Flow out the gate. Hold it for the guy behind you. Don’t let it close. That’s serious. That could start a fight. Everyone’s ready to leave. Walk into the locker room past the tighty whities and hairy ass crack. Open your locker and gear down. Unstrap.

Shut it nice and slow because you’re done slamming. Look at your phone. You have a text from the wife: “Need whole milk & size 3 diapers.” Get in your car and go ahead and drive. There are no more gates, just a short winding road through a wide-open field to get you off the property. Watch the jail in the rearview mirror getting smaller. Turn left and drive the speed limit. You can’t smell anything. Grab a tissue and blow your nose. The crust is black, but it’s out.

And home is where your wife says, “You’re on duty” while walking out the door, and your son doesn’t do the funny scoot in his pajamas on the hardwood floors anymore. He can walk. And when he’s naked and spotless from his bath, not even wearing a freckle yet, he yells, “Run freeeee!” while sprinting around the house, taking corners blind and at full speed, looking for somebody, anybody, to show his little booty-shaking dance to. You catch him because you know that he’s going to take a header down the stairs or dive into the dirty laundry, but mostly you catch him because you have about forty-five seconds to diaper him before he pees on the floor. Something he’s proud of. The punk.