Prison Time Read online

‘Yes. Since I was a teenager.’

  ‘How was your family life?’

  ‘Normal. Great parents who raised us well, a younger sister who I teased a lot. They encouraged our interests and further education.’

  ‘Why did you do drugs?’

  ‘I don’t know all the reasons. Maybe so I wouldn’t feel like a fish out of water. My drug-taking increased to dangerous levels during relationship breakdowns.’

  ‘Which drugs did you use?’

  ‘Club drugs. Ecstasy. Special K. Speed.’

  ‘Do you know how Ecstasy works?’

  ‘It raises serotonin levels in the brain, so you get a blissed-out feeling.’

  ‘Correct. How long have you been doing yoga?’

  ‘Since my arrest. Almost four years now.’

  ‘Yoga systems have been around for over 5,000 years. Yoga can help the brain,’ he says. ‘The Dalai Lama had neuroscientists monitor the brainwave activity of Buddhist monks and they found increased gamma-wave activity. By exercising the brain through techniques such as yoga, we know that you can restructure certain parts of the brain.’

  ‘Neurogenesis?’

  ‘Yes. The brain is malleable in small but significant ways. For example, a brain scan of a musician listening to music will show more biochemical activity in specific areas of the brain than when you or I listen to music. And that’s what you’ve been doing with the yoga you’ve written about. What are you looking to get out of these therapy sessions?’

  ‘I want to understand myself better. I don’t want to go through life having runs of success followed by knocking everything down. If I can understand my past mistakes, I’ll be less likely to repeat them.’

  ‘Yoga and psychotherapy should give you a growing awareness of yourself. You must learn to be happy in the present – with or without success. You certainly shouldn’t be beating yourself up – whether consciously or subconsciously. I’m going to have you do a personality test this week and we’ll go from there. Do you have any questions?’

  ‘Will you be here for the foreseeable future?’

  ‘I’d like to say yes, but frankly, with DOC, you never know. DOC is like a glacier moving incredibly slowly – every now and then, a fragment chips off. You never know if you’ll be in that fragment.’

  I leave impressed by Dr Owen’s knowledge, thirsty to lay out more of my thoughts and feelings for him.

  26

  ‘Here’s a motherfucking good read,’ Two Tonys says, entering my cell, waving a book.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, writing at the desk.

  ‘One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Solzhenitsyn.’

  I put my pen down. ‘I’m not even going to try to pronounce that.’ I stare at a thin, worn-out copy.

  ‘Check it out and let me know what you think.’

  ‘I’ll start it today,’ I say, keen to discuss the book with him.

  Ken barges in, nudging past Two Tonys, destroying my good mood. ‘We should be cellies when Long Island leaves.’ Long Island’s release date – 10 December 2005 – is approaching. A few prisoners have asked to move in because I’m not a troublemaker.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ I ask, recoiling.

  ‘No. I’m serious. All you do is read and write. You don’t smoke. You don’t do dope. You don’t get involved in any drama. You’d be a good celly.’

  ‘You’re too volatile,’ I say, my voice tense. ‘I need peace and quiet to write. You snap when you don’t take your meds.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t wanna be my celly?’ he asks, hands on hips.

  ‘Listen, Ken, this ain’t fucking happening,’ Two Tonys says, shaking his head.

  Ken turns towards Two Tonys with an expression that says, What’s it got to do with you?

  ‘Dating agencies make a fortune matching motherfuckers,’ Two Tonys says. ‘I’m looking at his profile and looking at your profile: no fucking match!’

  I breathe easier, as Two Tonys backs me up.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ken asks, scowling.

  ‘You’re too fucking crude for him. He’ll be writing and trying to do his fucking yoga and you’ll be farting and giggling all fucking day long. You’re gonna have to forget about it.’

  ‘Says who?’ Ken yells.

  ‘It ain’t gonna work, Ken. In the mornings, this guy runs a fucking office in his cell, with all his blogging. How’s he gonna do that with you taking a shit every five minutes?’

  I stifle laughter.

  ‘I got to shit when I got to shit,’ Ken says, knitting his brow.

  ‘And the last celly you had, all he did was read his fucking dictionary. He made Daniel Webster look like a fucking chump. And you almost choked that motherfucker to death, too!’ Two Tonys says.

  ‘So who do you think would make a good celly for Ken?’ I ask, hoping to steer him elsewhere.

  ‘He can live with killers, robbers, psychos – any violent motherfuckers. No child molesters. But really he needs to be by his fucking self.’

  Ken shakes his head, turns and looms over me. ‘I’m moving into this room when your celly leaves!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say, looking him squarely in the face, emboldened by the presence of Two Tonys.

  ‘You ain’t got no fucking choice!’

  ‘Yes, I do. I have to sign the move slip.’

  ‘Not if your arm’s broken.’ Ken smiles and nods, slowly, victoriously, and leaves.

  ‘Don’t sweat that piece of shit,’ Two Tonys says. ‘He ain’t gonna do nothing. I’ll fucking see to it.’

  I dread the return of Ken, but the next day he shows up in a good mood after knocking someone’s teeth out. Flaunting the wounds on his knuckles – skin hanging from bloody indentations at the top of thick fingers that look like hairy sausages – he doesn’t mention moving in. I suspect he’s trying to schmooze me.

  Frankie arrives to play chess.

  Nodding at Frankie, Ken says, ‘And I’m gonna knock this motherfucker’s teeth out soon if he doesn’t pay back the $5 he owes me.’

  Frankie’s eyes widen. ‘You’re gonna do what?’

  ‘We’re gonna have problems if you don’t pay me back that five bucks,’ Ken says, swelling his chest.

  Frankie’s jaw flexes. ‘You’ve got me fucked-up talking like that.’ His lips harden until they almost disappear.

  My breath speeds up. I brace to deal with mayhem.

  ‘You better pay up, motherfucker.’

  ‘Why? What are you gonna do?’ Frankie asks.

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  ‘Try me. You’ll find out, motherfucker.’ Frankie steps forward.

  Almost chest-to-chest, they yell at each other.

  ‘Hey, come on, guys.’ I spring off my chair, wedge myself in between them, raise my hands and rotate my torso to push them apart. ‘Let it go, guys. Frankie’s just come here to play chess.’ For a few seconds, their eyes bulge, locked in a death stare, and my heart pumps louder.

  ‘You better pay up, motherfucker, and, England, I’m still moving into this cell!’ Ken leaves.

  ‘I’m gonna teach that motherfucker a lesson one of these days.’

  ‘Him moving in here is my worst nightmare,’ I say.

  Frankie squats and slides the chess set from under the bottom bunk. ‘Englandman, are you ready to play strip chess? Whoever loses each game strips something off.’ We sit on the floor, cross-legged.

  ‘No, Frankie,’ I say, rapidly setting pieces up. ‘I don’t want to see you naked. You know I’m straight.’

  ‘That’s not what She-Ra said.’ He gazes up from the board.

  I laugh. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That you guys were making tortillas.’

  ‘Tortillas!’

  ‘It’s when you flip-flop. One guy goes, then the other guy goes. That’s two guys making tortillas.’

  ‘She-Ra would never say that about me.’

  ‘Ha ha. Gimme a little taste, then.’

  ‘Of what?’
>
  ‘Chicloso. You know, prison pussy.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Aren’t there enough cheetos for you in here?’

  ‘There’s never enough.’

  ‘Not getting any play?’

  ‘Hell no! Justin offered to come in and get freaky, but he ain’t all that. He told me he could suck a dick real good. He’s too fucking old. He’s lost all the rubber bands holding his asshole together and he calls himself good. I’d have to kidney punch him a few times to tighten him up and then his asshole would look like this.’ Frankie coils a forefinger to a thumb.

  ‘What about George?’

  ‘I was thinking about having him do my house cleaning. Naked.’

  ‘How much would you pay him?’ I ask, amused.

  ‘A 25 cent soup – and he’ll be lucky.’

  After chess, Frankie leaves, but quickly returns, panting. ‘Englandman, I need toilet paper. Two dudes just fought like bears in my neighbours’ cell. I need it to clean the blood up.’

  I grab a roll from under the bunk. ‘Here you go.’

  Twenty minutes later, the yard is locked-down. Guards – aware of the fight – go door-to-door, checking knuckles.

  27

  ‘I can’t believe you broke up with him,’ I say in a sympathetic tone to Jade at Visitation, barely able to contain my excitement at seeing her. I want to ask what the break-up means for us but don’t want to come on too strong. ‘I don’t blame you. How’s he reacted?’

  ‘He’s kissing my ass now, calling all the time. But it’s three years too late!’ She rolls her eyes.

  ‘Three years is a long time. You must be pretty sad.’

  ‘I am in a way, but also relieved. Did you get the calendar pages?’ she asks, referring to the Luis Royo pictures she mailed, of women in Gothic settings.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say, smiling. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I love dark artwork, the sensual undertone. Art should be provocative. I’ve always liked books about vampires and darker fantasies and storylines.’

  ‘You’ve got that vampire spirit like me.’

  We laugh. ‘Nosferatu!’ she shrieks, referring to my portrait on the front page of the Phoenix New Times. ‘I’ve watched vampire stuff since I was a child. By eighth grade, I was reading Anne Rice, which is full of all kinds of indiscretions and complex dark relationships.’

  ‘So does my dark side appeal to you?’

  ‘It does. But it’s not your dark side that I love. I think that you’re very intelligent. You and I can converse on a level that I have been able to converse with very few others – ever – in my entire life. The banter between us creates a unique type of chemistry.’

  ‘I’ve noticed that about us,’ I say, grinning, soaking up her energy, her laughter, the warmth in her eyes, feeling cherished and secure.

  ‘I find you attractive, but it’s definitely – and it may manifest itself in a physical form – a mental and intellectual level that we identify with each other on.’

  ‘I agree,’ I say, imagining leaning over the table to give her a kiss. ‘I’ll never forget when I first saw your pale, mischievous Irish-looking face and I said you looked half Irish terrorist.’

  We laugh.

  ‘You called me a terrorist for a really long time.’

  ‘Why don’t we walk along Lovers’ Lane?’ I say, hoping to kiss her outside. ‘We can hold hands around the picnic tables.’

  Outdoors, I take her hand in mine. I intertwine our fingers and grip her hand tenderly, the physical connection making me feel closer, causing a shiver of delight. I’m proud that the heads of prisoners and guards are turning towards her, yet frustrated because the attention makes kissing impossible. We walk several laps by which time people are no longer staring at us. I suggest we sit at one of the picnic tables furthest from the building. Below the table, our legs touch, starting ripples of pleasure that go to my head; combined with her scent, looks, eyes, freckles and lips, this multiplies my urge to kiss her, to abandon all caution and run the risk of disciplinary sanctions and the visit being cancelled. Kissing requires the guards to be distracted and the security camera to be pointing elsewhere. I scan the area. The three guards seem to be looking everywhere all at once, robotically. The camera is moving this way and that. I sigh. But, eventually, the guards approach a table and accuse a prisoner of inserting drugs into his anus.

  ‘We should kiss now while they’re busy,’ I say, rubbing my knee into her inner thigh.

  ‘I ain’t keystered shit!’ the accused prisoner yells.

  ‘But they’ll end the visit!’ Jade says, pressing her leg against mine, generating semi-arousal in my trousers.

  ‘You need to come with us to a dry cell!’ a guard yells – a dry cell holds a prisoner under observation until he excretes the drugs.

  ‘People get away with it all the time,’ I say, excitement heating up my entire being.

  Jade stares with the same reluctance as the accused prisoner.

  ‘It’s now or never,’ I say, leaning forward.

  Two guards grab the prisoner.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go for it now while he’s getting dragged out.’

  ‘Fuck you guys!’ the prisoner yells.

  ‘OK.’ Jade starts to lean …

  ‘Attwood!’ yells a sergeant I hadn’t noticed, standing against a wall far from my side, slightly behind me. ‘Come here!’

  ‘Shit,’ I say.

  Jade’s face fills with fear. The visitors and prisoners turn to watch us. Embarrassed, I stand and approach him.

  ‘How about I write you up and end your visit, Attwood?’ he barks, scowling.

  ‘What for?’ I ask, shocked.

  ‘What’s going on under that table?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, assuming he thinks I’m smuggling drugs.

  ‘Why’s your leg touching hers so much?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was.’

  ‘Don’t lie or I’ll end your visit!’

  ‘OK. Sorry. We’ll go back inside.’

  ‘I’m warning you verbally this time, Attwood. Any more physical contact and your visit will be ended. Resume your visit.’

  Back in the building, I say to Jade, ‘He must have X-ray vision to have noticed our legs like that.’

  ‘We’d better stick to the rules, then,’ she says, shook up.

  Now’s the perfect time to bring out the surprise. ‘I’ve got something for you. I’m going to go get it.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asks, her eyes brightening.

  ‘You’ll see.’ At the guard station, I request what I pre-ordered. A trustie fetches a bouquet – flowers grown in a garden that prisoners, including She-Ra, tend. African daisies. Bachelor’s button. Zinnias. A long dwarf sunflower.

  Admiring the vivid colours, sniffing the petals, Jade blushes and beams.

  When the visit ends, we stand. Commotion commences as the visitors hug and say goodbye. Noticing plenty of prolonged kissing, I hug Jade. I kiss her and she responds. A charge runs through me. I want to close my eyes and get lost in the kiss, but I have to observe the room to ensure we’re shielded by the flow of visitors obstructing the view of the guards. The warmth of her lips and their taste soar my spirit to the day’s high.

  In my cell, I write to my mum, telling her that Jade has all of the characteristics I could ever want in a woman. I write to Jade:

  Developing feelings for someone in prison is a road I swore not to go down since the Claudia heartbreak. With that said, I must admit I’m falling in love with you. It’s something I didn’t expect to overwhelm me as much as it’s doing right now. I’ve got all the classic symptoms. Thoughts of you make me happier than anything. Your pics soothe me and cause me to smile. When people here ask who the ‘gorgeous chick’ at Visitation was, I feel so proud. Reading your mail gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling.

  I don’t believe this crap about me reacting to you because I haven’t been around a woman in a while. Sparks were flying between us like I’ve neve
r felt before. Things we both wrote parallel how we each feel with pinpoint accuracy, and I’m still gob-struck. At the visit, I wanted to convey the intensity I felt for you, but I couldn’t do it. I was afraid, and maybe too proud. It seems I’m much better at writing these things down than having the balls to say them to your face. Perhaps that will come if I’m lucky enough to see you here again.

  Your visit changed my world. Things for me now can’t be exactly as they were before. I’m not going to fight how I feel for you. I’m just going to let it happen, come what may.

  A few days later, I receive a response:

  I put your flowers in water as soon as I got home. They are still sitting next to my bed. I even took some pics of them, so they will never be forgotten. I cannot wait for you to get out of prison and see you in the outside world. I am looking forward to our future conversation and banter. Hopefully your prison exit is sooner rather than later. I miss you and will be waiting for you on the outside. Until then, keep safe and stay healthy.

  Take care of yourself,

  Jade

  28

  The most terrifying thing about prison is rape. Although I’ve avoided it, I’ve met victims and heard horror stories. There are times – such as when Bud’s cronies were joking about raping me – that I felt particularly unsafe. Trying to gain knowledge in the hope of avoiding it, I ask She-Ra when she is visiting my cell why she thinks prisoners rape other prisoners.

  ‘Two reasons,’ She-Ra says in a sombre tone, sitting on the bottom bunk. ‘Sexual desire to perform the act and anger.’

  ‘In what proportion?’ I ask, sitting on a chair.

  ‘I’d say more than half out of anger or hatred.’

  ‘Hatred of themselves or their victims?’ I ask.

  ‘Probably both. Taking anger at themselves out on their victims.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who was raped in prison?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Oh my God, She-Ra! I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ She-Ra says, her expression blank. ‘I’d like you to post what I’m about to tell you on Jon’s Jail Journal so that public awareness is raised about prison rape.’