Well, I got a job assignment. as a porter, here in Redwood Hall. Twice a day, 5 days a week. I will be either mopping or sweeping or some such, and on Thursdays I will probably distribute the laundry bags as well. I start Sunday (it’s Friday)
I don’t know why this should make me so anxious. Let’s face it though, I am a very anxious person. I come from a long line of anxious people, at least on my mother’s side. I am always rather ready for something to go wrong, in the case of this job, something like accidentally spraying Fantastik on the uniform of the warden during inspection. After all, being a nervous type, I am a bit of a klutz. I move jerkily, I am not smooth. And I can very easily trip over my words, as well as my feet. Yes, the word “hyper” applies rather exactly to me. And, to make things worse, I am filled with a sense of culpability about it.
Yet my father supplied half of my genes, and was notoriously mellow (a family story recounts my mother awakening my Dad in Chile, where they lived at the time, during an earthquake in 1956. “Steve, Steve!” she cried out, “un tremblement de terre!” To which he replied “It’s only an earthquake,” and went right back to his renowned nightly 8-hour slumber). So, I am somewhat suspicious of a completely genetic basis to my anxiety. I honestly believe it is not unrelated to the deep abiding fear gay children (yes, Virginia, it starts before puberty) have of being beaten up. At least this gay ex-child.
Obviously my tendency to be a bundle of nerves is not likely to be attenuated by my presence here as guest of the governor. Although, I am happy to report that my homophobiaphobia (that would mean a fear of those who fear homosexuals) is lessening daily. Tonight that secure trajectory was solidified by my visit to Canteen for (at long last) my monthly shopping spree. I spent 136 dollars and change, contributing both to the “Woods’” (Whites’) kitty and to the personal stock of merchandise of the “King of the Woods,” a fairly personable and rakish gentleman by the name of Jimmy. I also threw a few soups around here and there and no doubt will be the go-to man for a cup of java for next week. This is a role I am comfortable with. I have always been the recipient of such beneficence from my family, that I do not feel my bounty is quite “earned.” I didn’t feel that way about my ill-gotten profits dealing drugs either, which is why I didn’t just pay off my credit cards and get out of the business. I felt such easily earned money would have meant bad karma if I didn’t give most of it away.
I interrupted this to go to the bathroom, and on the way back was stopped by “Tank.” What a Drama Queen! He asked me: “ Will I get a direct answer if I ask you a direct question?” I answered: “yes, but only if I think it’s your business.” He then proceeded to embark upon the most indirect question imaginable, so steeped in prison jargon that I don’t even think I can accurately convey it. As he droned on (Pruno on his breath). I was reminded of Dr. Phil’s belief that 90% of questions are actually disguised statements. Very thinly disguised, in this case.
From what I could unravel, basically Tank wanted it known that B-wing is his sandbox. Ergo, he wanted to know if anyone else is trying to build castles in it, and if so, with whose pails. And was I getting sand kicked in my face? (Tank’s the kind of guy I am tempted to approach with my hand outstretched, but sticking through the open zipper of my crotch). Instead I just reassured him no one was “fucking” with me, I had not been approached to cover anyone’s drug debts, and no, I wasn’t passing out slips of paper with my locker combination on it. Ironically, the phrase that sums up that everything is copasetic in prison is “I’m straight,” so I told him just that. You can’t even tell the truth when you try, sometimes.
Luckily such ironic wordplay, though lost on Tank, has been the source of immense enjoyment for me all day, as I took out from the library “The Pocket Ogden Nash.” What a brilliant wordsmith and social critic he was, and absolutely perfect to read in tiny bites while waiting in one of the many lines that characterize life in prison.
In one of these lines this morning, waiting for chow, I saw a very attractive black female corrections officer at a table, sitting on one of the protruding steel seats. She was doing something I’ve never seen done by a woman. Her left foot was vibrating up and down in the nervous movement normally associated with adolescent males, particularly around the eighth grade. Another bundle of nerves besides me, it would seem. I can’t say that I blame her. After all, imagine, working here, where her imagination takes her!
MCO 2004
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