American rust (21 page)

2. Poe

H
is cell it was a very small place, a narrow rectangle, the front side was open but there were bars. Like a dog cage. A horizontal slit for a window, too small to squeeze through, he tried to figure out what direction it was, where he was facing in relation to the river and his mother's trailer, to Lee's bed or the couch on her porch. Except no. It would only depress him further, those things—they did not really exist for him anymore. He wondered if Lee would come to his trial, even that he couldn't be sure of and Christ this thin mattress he couldn't sleep, he didn't even have a magazine, eventually his mind would turn in on itself. Inevitable as tides. A turning in. A padded cell, smearing himself with excrement.

He would make a belt for his pants. He sat up and after a minute he was able to tear a long strip from his bedsheet, thread it through the loops of his pants, it would be serviceable, a good belt, like a pirate. Then he was done and once more there was nothing to do.

It was noisy in the cellblock, the televisions were off but there was music playing from every direction, little radios, people banging on metal, conversations shouted across the cellblock, he listened to them they were completely pointless such as
Yo Dee what up?,
the reply inevitable:
Coolin
or
A'ight.
Things that did not need to be said. Talk for the sake of talk. He had always hated that, there could be silence it was golden. Or had he? He didn't know. But he hated it now it was under his skin he was very irritated, physically, by the noise. Only it gave him something to focus on, the noise, it was good, annoying but good, he crushed his thin pillow onto his face to make it quieter. He would mind his business. He would suffocate himself. He took the pillow off his face. That would be his rule he would mind his own business, there could be a murder going on and he would mind his business. He was a big man and they would leave him alone.

It began to die down around midnight, though it might have been ten at night or three in the morning, he didn't know. They'd taken his watch. Finally a small amount of morning light came in and he heard footsteps and keys jangling and then his door clicked open. He saw the face of another young CO, a young face with a sparse mustache, trying to look hard.

“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 weight 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.