This is Entry 11 of an ongoing serialized memoir.
Start at the beginning → Superpower
Tail has started to object to me working out in the cell during lockdowns. He says it makes the cell “stuffy”. For that reason, I’ve limited body weight exercises to when he’s out in the pod. Simple planks, squat thrusts and hand stands. Working on alignment and tonal strength rather than bulk. Maybe I’ll get brave enough to start exercising out in the yard when the boys aren’t playing basketball. It’ll be a stretch for me, though. I’m loathe to be spotted in “The Yard” with the scrutiny it brings.
In the corner of the pod is a table with a jigsaw puzzle spilled out on it. When I’m not playing cards or sitting and writing on my papers, I work on the puzzle. From this corner, no one can sneak up behind me. As an extra challenge, I won’t let myself reach for a piece until I’m certain it fits. So I sit and stare and spin and fit the shapes around in my head and get lost in making order out of chaos. I find comfort in the certainty that all the pieces belong somewhere. There is a correct answer. A widening contrast to radio silence I’ve had from Lawrence Kline and thus the outside world.
A chair scraping across linoleum breaks my focus. A Lakota twists into the chair. A gappy smile with a chipped tooth and a straggly goatee that provides little cover for his blocky chin. Hollow Horn slides into the seat across from me. His hair has been chopped unevenly so that it stands up at weird angles.
After clicking in a couple of pieces, he breaks the silence.
Waaang, so what is it that you are doing when you are just sitting there during lockdown.
How do you know I’ve been meditating?
I hear things.
I shrug.
I’ve seen that in the movies. I’ve tried that shit on my own but my mind just keeps bouncing all over the place.
Well… it’s a practice. You get used to your mind wandering off and bringing it back. That’s the practice. To be honest, I’ve been spinning way out of control here. I can’t reach anyone on the outside. My friends. My family. I don’t have any idea what’s going on. My mind is the only thing that I have control over and I barely even have that.
Yeah, your deal sounds grim.
I look up puzzled.
He smiles and gestures at the walls.
I go on.
I’m stressing it man. I can’t reach out and let my people know to lay low and I can’t reach any one to bail my ass out of here. I just blew a shitload of money. My car, which I just bought, got seized.
Hollow Horn interrupts me with a wave of his hand.
Things, my friend. These are just things.
We go back to the puzzle. Keep working our sides. After plunking a in another piece, he goes on.
Well, Waang, the good news is is that things are gonna get better. The bad news is is that it’s not going to happen anytime soon.
For the second time, I hear myself laugh.
You know any martial arts?
I want him to believe that I do - that the meditation practice is the tip of the iceberg of a powerful mind and body training.
Some. I studied Aikido for a bunch of years. What about you?
Yeah. I’ve been studying martial arts for a long time now.
What kind?
Chinese boxing. You know, like Bruce Lee. Kung Fu and Judo.
Where did you take classes?
Nah. I’ve been learning from reading books in the library. Books and movies. And then I take what I learn and practice it. Street fighting. You can learn a lot from YouTube.
Yeah, I guess you can.
Bro, I’ve been living on the streets for years. Hustling meth and coke - don’t get me wrong, I don’t use. Strictly business. But this jail shit is for the birds. I want to fight MMA. I’ve been fighting my whole life. Might as well get paid for it.
Hollow Horn pushes his seat back and dips back into the flow of inmates doing laps.
Something that has me completely spun out is that my laptop and passport were amongst the things they impounded and the hard drive contained a archive of all my photos.. Photos taken while I was working as a private chef on yachts and family compounds. Private islands. Mansions. Photos of enormous Kolas taken in Ganja gardens on random homesteads. That paired with my passport, fat with an additional leaf of pages stapled inside of it. Stamps that covered all parts of the globe Jamaica, China, Cuba, Indonesia. Between my passport and the photos, a story could be woven about someone living life well beyond their means. Truth be told, 90% of my travel was around work.
Still, amongst my fellow inmates, I want to appear as big as possible without being a threat. A Big don’t-fuck-with-me Dog. It isn’t something that I’m used to trying other be. I’m more accustomed to being the little screen blip that I want the authorities to register me as. A little Asian man that you would wave off as a nerd - but not too nerdy. There is nothing to see here. I am not the droid that you are looking for.
Another regular at the puzzle table is a Lakota man with shoulder length snow white hair. He lurches as he walks with deadened step, his mouth a ruin of brown and yellow teeth.
I ask Tail about him.
Oh yeah, dat’s da Paint Huffer bro, he pretty much lives in here. They let him out and he comes right back in. He spins a finger. Revolving door.. Here he can get three squares and roof over his head. Safer for him here especially when it gets cold out. He’s got ‘Trustee’ status around here which makes it so he can do the laundry and clean the meeting rooms. But dat boy’s barely got two brain cells left to rub together.
As a puzzler, he has unique style. He will pick a piece up and methodically try every side and every available position going down the line until he’s exhausted all possibilities or it mercifully clicks as it snugs itself into place. When that happens, he’ll glance up to make sure I saw, give me a smelly smile and then pick up another piece to begin the process over again.
I try to offer my fellow puzzler a nod of approval and a close lipped smile but I’m holding my breath while I plot my escape.
My nose has started to bleed. I can’t tell if it’s from the forced ventilation or the general lack of nutrients. I’ve decided to start drinking the packet of powder that comes with each meal instead of handing them to Tail. It’s laced with Aspartame. I’m pretty sure that’s carcinogenic. In the nutrition facts, it lists “Vitamin C - 100%”. Sweetness headache guaranteed.
Given my nosebleeds, I’m willing to adjust. My body needs something. But eating the bright red spork may be a denser caloric intake than the slice of Wonderbread that comes with our meal.
Rather than go for a tissue, I try to snort the iron-tinged clots back and swallow them down. Best to keep my scent out of the water.
Twice a week our laundry is collected by the Paint Huffer and washed in these cheap white non-industrial washers from Sears. Everything gets mixed together. You don’t get your own socks or tightie-pinkies back - just your size.
At PCJ, it is a violation not to wear socks out in the pod.
Whenever I wear socks, I make sure they are turned inside out.
As for the tightie-pinkies, I’ve opted to go commando style and have started to leave my spares out for Tail to find.
I suspect there’s a reason for the constant flushing and snacking. Diabetes.
We never talk about it.
A public defender came to visit me today. Having finally given up hope on Lawrence Kline reaching my people, it felt like my only move. She lacked the polish of Lawrence Kline and her file folder spilled over with cases. She promises nothing but thinks that she can get the bail reduced. When I jot down some cell numbers for her to call to render aid, she frowns and folds a page over it. It doesn’t inspire much confidants. Maybe confidence. Maybe both.
Our pod has been changed from “Classification” to “General Population”. According to Tail, the jail is too full and they need more space for more hardened prisoners. The inmates that they move in now, have the rough hewn looks of more seasoned criminals. Sixth senses firing, I scan the roughly shaved heads, pimp limps and tattoos trying to discern the significance of, well, EVERYTHING.
Tail is similarly agitated.
A fight breaks out in the upper catwalk across from us.
As the guards funnel in to break it up, Tail hovers at the edge of our locked door to get a better look. Smacking his closed fist into his open palm he mutters a warning.
Remember how I told you they were going to move my ass to the Max? Boy, ain’t no pussy footing around here no more. The Max came to us. Welcome to the gladiator pit, Wang! Running Deer asked for a cell change because that white dude’s BO stinks and he yammers too much. Request - DENIED! So what’s Home Boy gotta do but take things into his own hands?. Beat his ass? Now they GOT to move him. Ha. It’s a good thing I like you, Waang. Yup. It’s a good thing. We are stuck here together for a reason.
Click there to go to the next installment —> The Madrone