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

I looked at Paul and nodded.

The consequences of what we were considering had not occurred to me.

We had devised a plan of escape. On the face of the inside fence, was a tightly woven metal mesh that ran about halfway up. It prevented hands and feet from being able to climb it. And the rolls of constantine wire created an extra hurdle. But the gun tower on the corner fence, behind the gym, was often unmanned.

Paul and I discussed our route as we hid in the bushes and watched for movement in the tower. "I'm not sure I can climb the fence where the mesh is," I told Paul.

"I'll be right behind you," he said. "I'll give you a boost."

Paul had taken forks from the kitchen and rolled tape around the handles to give us something to grip. "But what if they bend?" I said. "You're not tall enough to boost me."

"Don't worry," he said. "You'll make it."

"Maybe we should wait and go over the gate to the rec yard, then scale the other fence in back." The fence that enclosed the recreation yard was different from the others. It was a single rather than a doubled fence, and the gate to the yard didn't have any mesh on it, so we could climb it easilywithout having to use the forks.

"Yeah, but then we'll have to climb the outer fence in back," Paul said. "And that one has the mesh."

"So what," I said. "If we wait and go on a foggy night, the guards won't be able to see us. So we can take as long as we need." There was another tower, along the back line of the yard, but that was only manned when inmates occupied the yard.

Paul looked at me and considered it.

He leaned back against the building, nodding his head. He looked relieved.

"We can slip out our windows in the middle of the night and meet over here." He pointed to corner of the gym. "Or better yet, I'll come tap on your window. I know how you like to sleep."

A couple of days later, when they were late clearing the morning count and called my unit to chow, I looked for Paul but couldn't find him. Certainly, the fog hadn't made it easier to locate him.

"Hey Tim!" an inmate shouted. "Your boy broke camp last night."

I stopped in my tracks. He did what? Suddenly, it made sense. The fog, the delayed count, they were off by one. I couldn't move. Several more inmates walked past, "He made it, Dawg. He got away!"

He was supposed to come get me! How could he leave without me? I'd never felt so abandoned, not even by my family.

"You should be happy," one of the inmates said.

He had waited for the perfect night. The fog was so thick the guards couldn't see the fence. It felt like a gunshot had crackled from one of the towers, and it hit me squarely in the chest. I couldn't breath. I looked over at the gates next to the gym to see. The barbed wire drooped at the top. I just couldn't believe he was gone.

I even watched and waited as the last of the white guys straggled out of D-unit. Naturally, Paul wasn't there. "He made it!" someone cheered. It was true. Paul was gone.

I went back to my cell and cried. Now I was truly alone.

A few minutes later, I was called to Unit Manager's office.

"I'm sure you're aware," Fitzsimmons, the ARUM for C-unit, said. "King escaped this morning. They've asked me to see if you know where he is?"

As if I would help them. Fitzsimmons was just like the others-a pompous prick who didn't give a fuck about Paul or me. They couldn't stand that we were happy together. Fags weren't entitled to happiness. Even inmates who raped the boy they kept weren't separated. If it weren't for these bastards, Paul would still be here. Well, fuck Fitzsimmons, and the rest of these motherfuckers. But I couldn't say that and jeopardize myself, so I simply shook my head no.

He started to say something, but stopped himself. "OK then. That's all."

I went back to my cell laid on the bed. I faced the wall, blocking out everything else, as I did the next day and the day after that. I had classes to attend, but I didn't care. A letter slid under my door. I didn't bother to get up. I left it there on the floor.

"C'mon," I said to Randy. "Please?"

"No way."

Randy was the best tattoo man in the prison. I wanted him to put Paul's name on my arm or shoulder, but he wouldn't do it. Yet he did everyone else's tattoos. He had taken apart an alarm clock, and attached a sharpened piece of guitar string to the hammer that rang the bell. Once wound up, the hammer went back and forth, puncturing the skin. He dipped the "needle" in ink that was made from torn-out pages of a Bible.

"You'll end of up regretting it," he said, "and you'll blame me."

"No I won't," I pleaded. "I really won't."

"I know how you're hurting right now, Tim, and I'm not going to do it."

"Fine," I said, and stormed back to my room.

The next day, news of Paul arrived. But it wasn't from the guards and administrators. They wouldn't tell us anything. We found out instead from a Grand Rapids newspaper. On the front page was a picture of Paul, leaning face down over the hood of a police car. According to the paper, he had broken into a house near the prison, tied up a young woman with a phone cord, stole her car and then headed toward the state line. He asked for directions before he left, so when she untied herself-she called the police, described the car he was driving, and the direction he was headed in. The State Police caught him in a roadblock. He was charged with breaking and entering of an