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

to the left a long cinderblock bench. The deputy told us to take a seat and to remove our shoes. My shoelaces were still with my other belongings that were taken at the courthouse, including my carton of cigarettes.

One at a time, we were called into the next room where there was a black curtain tacked to the wall, opposite a large Bell & Howell camera. The deputy handed me a letter board that read, Wayne County Jail. My name was spelled out in tiny letters. March 3, 1978, was indicated below.

"Hold it just under your chin," the deputy ordered.

I'd seen this a hundred times before, in the movies, but it felt chilling to see my name written along the felt grove. I was startled by a loud thump and dropped the board. The plastic letters scattered to the floor, but I couldn't see them because the large flash had temporarily blinded me.

"Oh Jesus," the deputy said under his breath. "Why the fuck don't they put these on a chain?" He came out from behind the camera and kicked the letters off to the side. I flinched, half expecting him to hit me. I guessed he could tell it was my first time.

After he reconstructed the board and took a profile, he led me to the next room where he placed a thin white piece of cardboard on an easel at the edge of the counter. He clamped a metal frame down to hold it into place, squeezed a dab of ink from a tube and used a small roller to spread it evenly across the smooth surface of the template.

"Relax," he said, ordering me to stand behind him, "and let me guide your hand."

He took my index finger and rolled it, left-to-right, onto the inked surface and then repeated the same motion onto the marked section of the cardboard. He captured each impression with a swiftness and precision of someone who'd been doing this a long time. When he was done, he handed me a piece of tissue, which was barely large enough to clean one hand. He didn't seem to care. "Have a seat out front," he said.

Next, I was handed a blue storage bin and told to take off my clothes and place them inside. The deputy pointed to the bench where two black inmates were sitting naked. A third nude inmate was standing up, his back to me, with his arms stretched to the side.

"OK, good," a deputy in front of him said, as the prisoner complied with each command. "Now open your mouth and lift your tongue ... OK ... Good. Run your fingers through your hair ... Shake it ... Good ... Lift up your balls ... OK ... Turn around and bend over ... Spread your cheeks ... Wider ... OK. Let me see the bottom of your feet. Good ... Have a seat on the bench."

The deputy ran through his routine like the one who had taken my fingerprints. As if he was working at The Fisher Body Plant-just putting in an eight-hour shift as the endless stream of chassis came down the line. The first inmate sat down, and the deputy pointed to the next. "Open your mouth," he said. "Lift up your tongue ... Run your hands through your hair ... Good ... Lift up your balls ..."

I could feel the blood draining from my face. I was afraid to take off my clothes, especially in front of everyone, but I didn't have a choice. I couldn't pass on the shower and take an F for the day, like I used to do in gym class on days when I wasn't sure I'd get through a shower without a boner embarrassing me. One time, when a kid looked over and noticed, he called me a fag. I wanted to die. So on school days, I'd jerk off right before I caught the bus, hoping it would relieve enough pressure to get me through the mornings, but gym wasn't until second period, which was usually enough time for my balls to regenerate and spring my shaft to an unmanageable attention.

When I was at risk of failing the entire semester, I tried to relieve myself in the bathroom right before gym, but there wasn't enough time in between classes, and people kept coming in. I was afraid they'd look between the cracks of the stall or from the shadows on the floor and see what I was doing. A couple of times, I slipped out of first period early, but there were always one or two guys in the bathroom, sneaking a smoke. So I kept failing gym and had to retake it. It was a stupid requirement for graduation.

So at the county jail, taking an F wasn't an option, and even worse, I was too hungover that morning to do anything before I left for court. I was hoping my hangover would get me through it, but it was awfully late in the day. I was really frightened, because there was now a lot more at stake than just being called a fag.

I set the bin down and slowly took off my clothes, hoping the deputy would finish with the others and take them away before it was my turn for the humiliating butt check. I was down to my underwear when he ordered the other three into the showers.

As they walked off, three more naked inmates carrying bedrolls and clothes brushed past heading out toward the bullpens. I tossed my underwear into the bin and sat back on the bench, cupping my shriveled source of embarrassment with both hands.

The other deputy stepped away, so I was left there, sitting alone. Goose bumps rolled over me as if a cold chill had swept the room. I shivered slightly, but my face felt warm.

Three more inmates were led in, handed blue bins and told to take a seat on the bench. I scooted over, hanging on for dear life. I clenched my