Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison T. Parsell (ebook reader play store .txt) 📖

"Fine." I got up and walked out, fairly pleased with myself for putting him in his place. Though it did occur to me, that it seemed to have ended too easily.

Back in my room, Paul said, "You shouldn't have done that. He was trying to befriend you."

"Well, I didn't know that," I said, disappointed that he wasn't proud of me. Far from it. "What was I supposed to do?"

"I think we need to go back there and clean it up," Paul said. "He's is the only thing standing between us and that A-hole Simon."

Goodman listened quietly as I groveled in his doorway, Paul at my side. "I'm sorry, I didn't know what to say, and I was nervous you were going to move us. We didn't do anything wrong, and Simon has been busting our balls. And ... I'm sorry I cursed at you."

"I tried to befriend you," he said. "And you shit all over me."

"But what about all these other motherfuckers?" Paul said. "It's a bunch of shit and you know it." Paul was incensed because they weren't questioning anyone else about how "close" they had become.

"I don't know what to say," Goodman said. "Simon's gone to the commander."

Paul jumped in, "You know what'll happen if they separate us, Mr. Goodman."

"Divide and conquer," he said, nodding, "but you two guys have been fronting yourselves off by spending too much time together-and disappearing."

I couldn't understand what was happening, "You mean because we spend a lot of time together, but don't get into trouble-that we're a problem?"

It was bullshit, and he knew it. If we had been hanging out with a man, they wouldn't have said a thing. But because we were two queers who stuck together they wanted to break us up. It wasn't fair. Besides, they knew that if they split us up, we'd be vulnerable to being attacked.

"I'll file a grievance!" I challenged.

"And say what?" Goodman said, looking at me. "That you can't be with your boyfriend?This is prison, boy. You got no right to be with anyone."

"And you call this befriending me?" I said.

"It's too late for that now. Simon's taken it out of my hands."

Paul and I went to chow together, but neither of us had an appetite.

"It's not your fault," Paul said. "Simon was going to have us separated no matter what Goodman said."

"I hate both those motherfuckers," I said.

The next afternoon, the guard told Paul to pack his belongings. He was being moved to D-unit. "Maybe I can get over there too," I said.

Paul shook his head. "There's no way. Our best bet is to wait a week or two and then you should asked to be moved to E- or F-unit. I'll wait a week or so and do the same. Maybe the housing officer will forget you and I aren't supposed to be in the same housing unit. In the meantime, we'll have to hook up at chow and at yard."

My stomach tightened. I didn't think I could ever eat again. I was losing not only my best friend in prison, but also the boy who had protected and taught me so much.

"Can I help King carry his stuff?" I asked the guard at the desk.

"No," Simon said from the landing above. "Get Williams or Nichols to help, but Parsell you stay here."

I tried to protest, but Paul stopped me. "Don't. It's not worth it."

"Yeah, boy!" an inmate called out from the side. "Your little Popsicle ain't gonna help you now."

Paul shot him a look, but he was unmoved. "Go on, bitch, and get yourself a man while you're at it."

"That's enough," Simon said. "King! Get moving."

I walked to my cell, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of knowing I was crumbling inside. "I'll see you at chow," I said to Paul. "Hang back if they call you first."

"I'll see you," Paul said. He looked at me, and I could tell he was feeling exactly as I was. He looked up at Simon and grabbed his bags.

Later that week, when I reported to work early, Sherry's door was closed. I sat at my desk and started typing job orders that were in my in-box. I didn't know who she was in there with, but it had to be another staff member, since she never closed the door with an inmate. I heard a man's voice rise, and I went to listen at the door to see if I could tell who it was. He sounded angry. "You'd make warden a hell of lot sooner, if you weren't such an arrogant . . ." He snatched open the door and his face dropped when he found me standing there.

He was a black man, in his late twenties. He was wearing a suit, and walked out without saying another word. He looked embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," I said to Sherry. "I was just ..."

"It's OK," she said.

"I just wanted to make sure ..."

"I said it's OK."

That afternoon, I tried to ask what happened, because I was dying to know who the man was. "Don't," she said. It was the first time I felt like she was closing me out, the same way Mom used to.

"What?" she asked, annoyed. "You think you're the only one who gets harassed?"

I'd never heard her take such a harsh tone with anyone.

"Don't worry about me," Sherry said. "I can handle myself. There are battles worth fighting, and there are some you can only lose. So I pick mine wisely. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"There are no victims in here," she said harshly. "Everybody feels sorry for themselves, but what about what you did to get yourselves here in the first place? What about the victims of your crime? How much pity do any of you have for them?"

"I didn't hurt anyone," I said.

"Yeah? What about the people you stole from?"

"It was a company."

"And the woman inside the Photo Mat? You don't think she was frightened? Don't you see? All you're worried about is how