Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison by T. Parsell (ready to read books TXT) 📕

"Hey," Nate whispered. "Don't you fuckin' snitch on us, bitch. 'Cause we'll get your ass," he said.

"Isn't that what you just did?" I felt the rage boiling up from the bottom of my soul. "You ... You ... tuckin' nigger."

Nate looked at me for a second, and laughed. "You fucking nigger," he mocked. "Go ahead, hitch, and snitch. Then I'll kill your motherfuckin' ass." He started toward me and I ran from the cell.

He was part of a gang, and its members were spread out all over the jail, so I knew I couldn't snitch on him-not if I wanted to stay alive. I also knew I was wrong for calling him a nigger, but it was all I could think of that could possibly hurt him. I wanted to hit him with the only thing I knew I could hit him with. And that's what he was to me. A big, black ass, motherfuckin' nigger, and if I had a gun-I would have killed him.

23

Help Ain't Gonna Come Runnin'

No Time Soon

Mom said that in 1953, when she first went down to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, to be with Dad in the army, there were separate bathrooms for blacks. 'I'd never seen nothin' like it," she said. "Your dad showed me separate drinking fountains and how they weren't allowed to eat in certain restaurants. No COLOREDS, the signs read, or WHITES ONLY. I just thought that was wrong. Now everybody knows there's a difference between blacks and nitgers."

Grandpa O'Rourke, who'd come for Sunday dinner, said, 'I ain't got nothin' against 'em. I just don't want to live with 'em, that's all."

Mom said, "Well, I know plenty of white people that are niggers, too."

Were it not for Slide Step, it would have been easy for me to lump all black prisoners in together, but Slide Step was different. And I knew that if he had been at the County Jail, he would have killed them both.

The deputy walked ahead briskly, without looking back. He pointed only once in the direction we were headed, as we entered a series of long corridors. There was an odd stillness in the hall-a quietness that seldom entered in the cellblocks-except when the deputies first pulled back the bolt on the heavy steel door.

The tinkling of keys, dangling from his belt, lingered in my ear, along with the thud of his heavy footsteps. I struggled to keep up. I felt dizzy, out of breath and ready to hurl. The fluorescent lights overhead gave off a halo as we passed under each one. A guard at the end of a hall flung his keys to the deputy who was escorting me.

The metallic jangling and clink-clank-rumble of tumblers turning opened the door with a loud screech. I winced at the sound. My senses were beyond overload. It was all I could do to grab hold of something to focus on. Yet, no matter what came to mind, I couldn't drown out the harsh sights and sounds around me.

The deputy leaned on the edge of the open door and tapped his key on the surface. He faced the other way, as if to avoid eye contact or the smell of my body.

"Where'd the sergeant go?" he asked the other deputy.

I stepped inside and couldn't hear the response as he slammed the door and locked it.

As it turned out, this was not an attorney visit after all. It was the Probation Officer who sat at a small table attached to the wall. He was there to complete the Pre-Sentence Investigation Report.

"Give a yell when you're ready," the deputy said to him through a small opening in the door. His footsteps faded up the hall, followed by the sound of a crashing gate.

The probation officer was a large man, with clammy white hands, who appeared unusually chipper. He held mine for an awkward moment as we shook. "Your hands are soft," he said.

I sat down, and he grabbed my right hand again, facing it palm-side up.

Inside the cramped space, there were two stools on each side of the table. The man was so large, his body spilled over the stool.

"No calluses at all," he said. "That's amazing." He rubbed my fingers with both thumbs. "Do you do any manual labor?"

"No." I took my hand back and placed it under the table.

There was a kindness in his voice that I wasn't expecting.

"Hey! What's this?" he said, looking at me as I started to shake.

I was still trying to process what had just happened with Nate and Loud Mouth. As if I were trying to deny it-but couldn't. I wanted to run, but my feet wouldn't move, so all I could do was sit there and tremble.

"Are you OK?"

I nodded.

"Are you sure?"

I shrugged. At least the first time it happened, I was drunk and drugged with Thorazine, so I didn't have to feel everything.

He sat silently, and I couldn't speak.

"Kind of rough in here, huh?"

I nodded, beginning to cry.

He handed me his handkerchief.

I couldn't believe I was crying in front of him, but I couldn't help it.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I shook my head.

"Well, you don't have to," he said.

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered me one.

"Thanks," I managed to say, but my voice was choked.

The side of my face hurt from when Nate smacked me, and the blood in my mouth tasted like metal. He lit my cigarette and put the pack away. I had left mine in nay cell, which I was sure were already stolen. "You're not having one?" I asked.

"I don't smoke." He smiled, gently. "I keep them handy, because I know what a commodity they are in here." He reached in his pocket and placed the pack on the table. "Keep 'em. I have more in the car."

All I could do was nod.

He let me finish my cigarette before he spoke again.

For a moment,