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

The next day, I was sent to Classification to receive my next job assignment. Since I had finished high school, I now needed a job. I had signed up for college, but that was considered extra, which I would have to attend in the evenings, in lieu of open recreation. One of the classes I signed up for was Corrections 101 where I learned that if I attended college courses while in prison, statistically speaking, my odds of coming back there was less than a third of that of other inmates. Some guards seemed resentful toward us going to college, as if we were undeserving of school or were taking something away from them. But only a few seemed to feel this way-and anyway, it didn't matter-since I was determined to never come back here again.

Miss Bain, the Classification Director, had her office in the school. She was a young black woman, and the inmates were crazy about her. Not that she did anything to garner their attention, other than being a beautiful woman who worked inside a prison that was filled with horny men.

"Gee, Miss Bain," an inmate said to her, once. "You sure look pretty."

"That's very nice," she said. "But I don't really need to hear that now. Do I?"

As rumor had it, the inmate was assigned to the kitchen for the rest of his stay, washing enormous pots and pans. With over eight hundred inmates to feed every day, he was kept busy.

As I made my way to Miss Bain's office one day, Moseley saw me coming and headed over to me. He had sent word to me that morning, via an inmate who told me Moseley was angry with me for not waiting for him after chow the night before.

"Don't let him try to blame it on the guards," Moseley told the inmate. "'Cause I saw him run off with that redheaded hood rat from Hamtramack."

When I saw Moseley on the walkway, I picked up my pace and tried to get to the school without making it seem obvious I was trying to avoid him.

Moseley cut me off before I reached the building. "Don't even try it, bitch."

"Moseley!" a guard yelled from around the corner. We both looked up. It was C.O. Miller. "Get your ass over here!"

He ordered Moseley around like a dog, which he knew he could get away with since he knew Moseley was about to go home. Even one ticket could delay his release.

When it came to the enforcement of rules, each guard was slightly different. Some would issue a warning or two before they wrote you up, while others, like the newer guards-would give you a ticket right away. But it also depended on who the inmates was, as well. If he were a known trouble maker, even the more lenient guards would write him up for a minor infraction, while a stricter guard might let something slide for inmates who kept to themselves and didn't cause problems.

It was a game everyone learned how to play, and the longer either side was there, the better they got at playing it. The guards were understaffed anyway, so they couldn't possibly enforce all the rules. If they did, the inmates would probably revolt-so it was a constant balance. Yet as an inmate got closer to parole, the guards had maximum leverage, which is why C.O. Miller was able to talk to Moseley like that.

Moseley pointed his finger at me. "I'll deal with you later."

I tried to pretend like I didn't know what he was talking about, but it was obvious to both of us. I dashed into the building. I should have waited for him the night before. I knew there would be a penalty, but I left anyway. Now what was I going to do?

Miss Bain's skin was a light brown color and her eyes were bright and expressive. She reminded me of Diahann Carroll, the actress that played Julia on TV.

Like the other professionals and administrative staff, she wore no uniform. Instead, she had on a dark brown suit, with a gold and turquoise blouse. She smiled at me, and told me to have a seat. As I'd find out later, she had majored in social work but when she graduated from college, jobs were scarce-so she went to work in corrections. She brought her passion for making a difference to the position, and so she stood out among the others. Meeting her for the first time, I doubted right away the rumor about her sending that guy to the kitchen.

"How are you?" She smiled.

"Fine," I said. "And you?" I was surprised to meet anyone this gracious.

"Very well, thank you." She read through my folder. "A Photo Mat, huh?"

I nodded and looked down at the floor. "It was pretty stupid, I know."

"Congratulations on your high school diploma, Tim."

She called me, Tim, and I almost beamed inside. It was a simple thing, but it felt so nice to be called by my first name.

"Have you given any thoughts about what you'd like to do next?"

"Not really," I said. "But I don't want to be in the kitchen."

She grinned. "Nobody ever wants to work the kitchen. Do you have any skills?"

Prison jobs varied anywhere from 41 cents to a dollar a day. So if your haircut came out lousy, or your eggs were burned and green-it was probably because some asshole had overstated his qualifications in order to get one of the better-paying jobs.

"I can type."

"Really?" She looked up at me.

"Uh-huh. I took it up in seventh grade."

"How well do you type?"

"About sixty words a minutes, without errors. Faster if I'm allowed a few." I was exaggerating a little, but I really could type.

"Can you write? I'm starting a prison newspaper, and I need writers."

"I keep a journal," I said.

"OK, I'd like to see a sample from you."

"On what?"

"Well, I don't know. What do you like to write about?"

I didn't know what to say. I blushed at the thought