On the Yard (13 page)

“I didn't go out. I was in the hospital.”

“¿Verdad?”

“Righteous. How you making it?”

“I'm straight,” Gasolino boasted. His eyes glittered and his hand sketched a slow dreamy oval in the air.

“What're you straight on?” Chilly asked. “Lighter fluid?”

“No, man, good stuff.”

“Glue from the furniture factory,” Nunn said.

Chilly kicked the package of rolls. There were two left. “Eat these damn things,” he told Gasolino.

Gasolino squatted down between Nunn and Society Red, and pulled the package towards him with one hand, scooping the remaining cellophane free with a bearish swipe of his other hand. He took half a roll in one bite, and chewing, unable to talk, he motioned for Red's coffee. Red handed it over and quickly folded his arms. He turned to find Nunn smiling at him.

“What's funny, you tuberculosis-looking mother fucker?”

“Red, you're a side show.”

Society Red started to say
Your mammy's a side show
, but he remembered Chilly's warning and kept silent.

Gasolino cleared his mouth and leaned towards Chilly. “You got any action for me?”

“Nothing right now.”

“I get restless. Then these bulls start looking easy to me.” Gasolino grinned. “Maybe I fire on one of them.”

“That's a good way to get your ass gang-stomped,” Red said. “They work on you in shifts.”

“It's a form of group insurance they've devised,” Nunn added.

But Gasolino only stared at them, grinning his contempt for anything bulls might find to do.

A young guard walked up to them. His face was stern, probably because he was afraid no one was going to take him seriously. “If any of you men are assigned, you'd better move out.”

They didn't move or answer.

“Oberholster, I know you've got a job.”

Chilly stood up slowly. It was closely timed. Twice the young guard opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated, uncertain. Then Gasolino started hissing through his teeth.

“Knock that off!”

“¿Qué?”
Gasolino asked blandly, his eyes opaque and dim.

The guard made a shooing motion like a farmwife hustling chickens. “All right, break it up. Move along. Oberholster, you better get to work.”

Chilly moved off, Red at his side. After a few steps he started whistling “When They Ring Out Those Golden Bells,” a hymn he had heard his mother singing many times. He didn't remember the words or even that it was a hymn, but he whistled forcefully down the scale where his mother had once sung: “A glor-ee hal-a-lu-ya ju-ba-lee!”

“I'll think I'll hit the gym,” Red said.

“Okay, I'll see you up there.”

As they were passing the long stucco building that housed the education department, someone hailed Chilly, and he turned to find a man he knew as Juleson coming towards him. Juleson was a notorious state man. He had a yellow pencil behind his ear, and a bunch of keys hooked to his belt.

“Oberholster, can I borrow a box at three-for-two?”

“Maybe. Which draw will you pay on?”

“The second draw in December. That's about a month.”

“That's right. Did you learn lightning calculation in there?” Chilly indicated the ed building.

Juleson smiled. “How about it?”

“Sure, three-for-two's my game. What kind you want?”

“Camels.”

“Come on up to the gym, I'll get them for you.”

The gym was reached by crossing a narrow footbridge that spanned the industrial alley and then climbing three flights of metal stairs that zigzagged up the outside of the building. On the stairs, Chilly touched the keys at Juleson's belt. “You must be a wheel,” he said.

“Half of them don't open anything.”

“Then you might say they were decorative?”

“They were on the ring when they gave it to me. They don't give me a feeling of mastery, if that's what you're getting at.”

Chilly smiled. “Curiosity's my vice, and you're a stud who provokes curiosity.”

They were entering the gym with its stench of sweat and liniment. “Not intentionally,” Juleson said. Their shoes rang hollowly on the splintered planks.

“That makes a difference.”

He went up to the wire cage from which the athletic equipment was issued, and asked the inmate on duty, “Caterpillar around?”

“
Caterpillar!
”

The stuttering rhythm of a speed bag was audible from the boxing section, and from the opposite side in the weight-lifting section came the thump and ring of iron. A young blond man, over two hundred pounds, stepped through a door in back of the equipment cage.

“What's happening, Chilly?”

“Give this stud a box of Camels.”

“Three-for-two?”

“Yeah, but—” He turned to Juleson. “You pay me. That'll put it on a more personal basis.”

Juleson appeared vaguely uneasy, but he accepted the carton of cigarettes Caterpillar brought from the back room, and told Chilly, “Thanks.”

Chilly watched Juleson walk away and start back down the steps. He turned to Red. “That's one box I hope I get beat for.”

“You're jiving.”

“What's a box?” Chilly asked.

“It's the idea of it—no one burns you.”

“That's right.”

Chilly started off, then turned back. Red was already headed for the boxing section. “Hey, Red, let me look at that freak book.”

Lieutenant Olson, the officer in charge of household and the cellblocks, was cocked back behind his desk when Chilly entered the office. A jaunty fifty, he wore his uniform cap on the side of his head and affected a large soft knot in his tie His expression was lively, shrewd, and cynical. He was known as a good bull.

Now he made an elaborate pantomime looking at his watch. “Where you been, hotshot?”

“At my office,” Chilly said as he riffled quickly through the papers that had accumulated on his desk. “That is until one of your baby screws ran me off.” He turned to smile at the loot. “I wonder how he knew who I was?”

“We point out our natural monuments. And just incidentally, the heat's coming down on gambling. They might close you up.”

Chilly plugged in the coffee pot. “I'll just open up again.”

“Why not? As long as we've got you around, we always know who to watch.”

“Well, I'll be around,” Chilly said agreeably.

“Oh, they might make a mistake and cut you loose one of these days.”

“Lighten up, Loot, I've still got nine years to the board and they'll automatically deny me three more before they even start talking parole. You're looking at the only man in this state who ever got hit with the big bitch before he was twenty-three years old.”

Lieutenant Olson shook his head slowly. He was hooking paper clips into a chain. “I still don't see how you managed that.”

“I lucked it.”

“Well, you'll make it out one of these days. You'll still be a young man.”

“Sure.”

Chilly said “sure” without bitterness, it was just an agreeable noise, but the lieutenant sat up abruptly, balled his paper clip chain, and tossed it into the desk drawer. “No system's perfect,” he said. “Anyway, what the hell, if they'd let you out last year, you'd be back by now with a new number.”

“Most likely.”

“Look how you operate in here. I couldn't begin to list the shit you're in or have a piece of and I have people telling me stories every day. Just for openers, how many cons have you put that crazy Mexican on?”

Chilly shrugged. “You people let him run the yard.”

Olson was silent a moment, then he asked, “You going to make coffee, or just boil the piss out of that water?”

Chilly stood up to fix the coffee.

“I don't understand why you don't straighten your hand. Sooner or later the word's going to come down on you, and we're going to
have
to bust you—one way or another.”

“Loot, this isn't Sunday.”

“Okay, okay, it's your life.”

Chilly smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”

And Lieutenant Olson smiled back. “Okay, Chilly, pour the coffee. I don't pretend to understand you, and if I did I'd hire on as a psych—they're making better money than correctional lieutenants.”

Chilly placed the loot's coffee at his elbow. He returned to his own seat, stretched out, and propped his feet on the carriage of his typewriter. “Well, then,” he said, automatically assuming his educational voice, “strictly to facilitate the continuation of your meteoric rise through the department, and because we're such tight buddies, you can't expect a man to straighten up his hand if you don't give him any room to hope in. Now, that's me. You show me where I can make an A on that great report card in the sky, and I'll listen. I won't like it because it's not my game, but I'll listen, and if you can make sense maybe I'll play. But you can't do that. I don't see any light and there aren't any windows you can open for me. But I'm not crying, so why should you care how I amuse myself?”

“I'm told it hurts our image.”

Chilly stared for a moment, then burst out laughing. “I pass. I can't top that.”

“Seriously, Chilly—” Lieutenant Olson began.

“I know you're serious, Loot. So am I.”

When he finished his coffee, Chilly started typing out the distribution sheets for the day's supplies. He worked at this until Lieutenant Olson left to make a round of the blocks. When he heard the door close behind him he kicked his typing table hard enough to send it speeding across the room to slam against the far wall.

“Who does he thing he's shucking?” he asked out loud. Why didn't he go over to the hospital and tell some amputee, Grow legs, it embarrasses me to look at you?

Chilly walked over to look out one of the narrow barred windows that vented the back wall. He could see a corner of the football field, and beyond that a guard tower where a gun bull stood smoking a pipe, his rifle held at port, and beyond that there were several smooth crowns of green. Hills in back of the prison. A roan pony stood on one of them. In the moment that Chilly saw it, it tossed its head, galloped over the crest and was gone.

Chilly turned away. He walked to the door and called the porter. Then he sat down at Lieutenant Olson's desk. The porter came in, an old, white-haired Negro. He nodded and smiled. “Yessir.”

Chilly tossed the paper clip chain on the desk. “Take that apart,” he instructed, “and put the clips back in the box.”

The porter nodded again, no longer smiling. “Yessir,” he said, beginning to fumble the paper clips through his blunt fingers.

J
ULESON
wasn't enjoying the first cigarette as much as he had expected to. He sat at his desk in the education building smoking as deliberately as if it were a task he had been assigned, and the cigarette seemed dry and hot, without flavor. It occurred to him the carton might be stale. The cigarettes used to pay gambling debts were often passed from hand to hand until the pack was crushed before anyone actually smoked them. If half the things whispered about Oberholster were true, he was still holding cigarettes taken in a year ago. He imagined Caterpillar's thought: This stud ain't a regular. A regular, a tribesman, wearing his regularity like a bone in his nose or a caste mark on his forehead.

At this unexpected hint of bitterness, Juleson brushed aside his suspicions, and crushed the first cigarette in his ashtray. His expectations usually exceeded the accomplished reality. It was time, time and past time, that he accepted this and learned to question his eagerness. Now it occurred to him he could have made better use of his birthday gift. He could have used it to buy a toothbrush and some toothpaste. He hated the chalky taste of the state tooth powder and the brushes they furnished were worn limp in a week. He could have also bought peanut butter. It had been years since he had tasted peanut butter. Or shaving cream—his beard was too heavy for face soap. Other things available on the inmate canteen came to mind. If his aunt were going to send fifty dollars instead of five dollars he could find ways to spend it all. Still, there would be a dollar something left after he paid Chilly Willy, he would have to make better use of it.

He lit another cigarette and studied the inmates waiting to see his boss, Mr. Cleman, the supervisor of vocational instruction. Most waited patiently, but a few squirmed on the straight-back chairs as if they were locked in pillories. Mr. Cleman was still in records searching their central files to determine if they met the criteria established for the different trade training programs.

Juleson was not impatient at the delay. When Mr. Cleman returned all he would have to do was see that the men reported for their interviews in the proper order. Like most phases of his job this required only a quarter of his attention and a fraction of his energy. The only troublesome feature of the interview line was that the inmates persisted in imagining he had some influence over Mr. Cleman's decisions, and sometimes he was subjected to pressure from the applicants for special treatment. A few threatened, occasionally someone tried to buy, but most begged. Juleson winced each time he heard the ingratiating “Hey, man ...” He told himself they were trying to accomplish something, and in most cases something constructive—trade training was almost the only sensible way for a prisoner to occupy himself—but their methods, their clumsy attempts to con him were deeply embarrassing in much the same way as it depressed him to watch a chimp mimicking a man. Further, it bothered him to have to refuse them; not only would he have liked to help, but he knew they didn't believe him when he said he couldn't. He knew they put him down as a prick, or, in their contemptuous phrase, a state man.

He rocked around in his swivel chair and stared up at the portrait of Henry David Thoreau. Behind him Thomas Jefferson was hung, and in the glass partition that closed off Mr. Cleman's private office he could make out his own shadowy image. Down the length of the building his fellow inmates were working in wooden pens. Most were sitting idle, but a few, the teachers' clerks, were busy correcting papers.