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

"She studied sociology and psychology," I said to him, "but when she got out of college, there weren't any jobs, so she came to work in the prisons."

"What was she hired for?" Paul asked.

"She worked in the Control Center and then in the Tower."

"The Tower! She worked the gun tower?"

"Yep. Can you believe it?" I smiled broadly, proud to know someone as brave as she was. "I'll bet the gun weighed as much as she does, but she outscored a lot of the men at the firing range."

Paul said I was lucky to be working with Miss Bain and encouraged me to study her as much as I could. He said there was much I could learn from her example. Bringing me back to reality, he asked how I was doing with picking a man.

"I've been studying Jake," I said. "He works in the store."

"That's good," Paul said. "He'll be working when we have yard."

"He lives in D-unit, which means I won't have to spend that much time with him. Every time I come to the store, he stares at me and asks how I'm doing. And when I get up to the window, he always slips something extra in my commissary."

"He sounds like a much better choice," Paul said. He had been critical of the others I had been considering. The men knew we were "looking," and a few were eager to kick the tires. But it took me little while to notice the subtleties of those who talked a good game from those who had something going on. But at my age, what did I know about any of this?

In choosing a man, respect was the most critical factor. Whoever I chose would need the respect of others, especially if he lived in another housing unit. I studied how inmates interacted with Jake. He was quieter than most, which Paul said help him hold onto his power. I noticed that his friends seemed to look to him for approval. I paid attention to how he dressed, and the size of his commissary. His cell would be a tell-tale sign, as well, so I used my press pass to sneak over to D-unit for a peak.

Inmates personalized their cells with brightly colored towels that were sewn together to make bedspreads and matching curtains. Small rugs were purchased in the store. Inside their lockers, would be a well-stocked supply of store-bought soap, shampoo, and deodorant. Inmates who didn't have money, were forced to use the green state soap. Cosmetics were a status symbol, and those who had them made a point of bragging about it. "But a true player," Paul said, "was someone who had it all, but didn't need to show it off. For these guys, it's no big deal because they're always supplied and always will be."

Paul said the next thing to find out, was whether Jake was susceptible to being played. This was the trickier, because if he turned out to be coldhearted, then I find myself in a situation like I was in with Moseley. Moseley didn't care about me or any other fag for that matter. To him, we were just a piece of meat.

I wondered how Paul learned all this stuff. How many times had been raped, treated horribly, terrorized before he gleaned all this knowledge? But it clearly came out of a need to survive. Like me, he had been knocked around a few times. And he started a lot earlier than me-being locked up the first time at ten years old. When he came to prison, at sixteen, he was raped immediately. And he was raped again, at Riverside, right before coming here to MTU. When Taylor was thrown in the hole, a guy named Cowboy snatched Paul off into a laundry room and raped him repeatedly over a several-hour period. So it was out of survival that Paul developed the skill he needed to minimize what was happening here.

"Get a guy to fall in love with you," he said, "and that's your key to the kingdom. That's how you'll control them-with a silk glove. You get their nose wide open."

"Nose wide open? What does that mean?"

"You figure out what turns him on, and you give it to him until he grows dependent on you-and then you pull it out from under him. You get him to drink from the well, then you shut down the well. Giving it up only when he does what you want."

Paul said it was turn on to have this kind of power over someone. You find a guy who's lonely, and you fill the void. "It's supply and demand, baby boy. And as long as you have what he wants more than you want what he's got-you've got 'em. You just have to let him think he's driving the car for a while. When it's really you who's in the driver's seat."

I still wasn't sure I wanted to play to this game, or that I was smart enough to pull it off. But Paul said, "Everyone in here has a game-some kind of hustle to get by. I'm tired of being the sucker."

Paul's way of talking turned me on. He was street smart and wise and could disarm just about anyone. Like an actor, he changed his persona on a dime; from acting tough to sweet-talking someone, depending on what the situation demanded and what he was trying to achieve-respect, money, confusion. Whatever it was didn't matter-Paul was going to succeed.

He had what I wanted.

It was chilly in the TV room so Paul went back to his cell and returned with a blanket. He draped half of it over me, and we held hands under the cover as we watched Battlestar Galactica on TV. His hand felt warm in mine, and I wished we lived in a world where we didn't have to hide our affection for each other under the covers.

Two black inmates in the row in front of