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

the structure and security of prison. It seems counterintuitive, yet it would explain why guys were always coming back. Prisons are awful places, but you learn to adjust and after a while it becomes a way of life. I thought of the old timers I met at Riverside, the ones who were doing life on the installment plan, and drinking paint thinner and Mountain Dew. I was not going to become one of them.

I remembered how frightened I was the first time I got out. I was sent to a correction center in downtown Detroit, and as I stood at the corner of Clark and Vernon, I was afraid to step off the curb when the light turned green. It was as if I had forgotten how to cross the street-afraid I'd be run over by the busy traffic. They had given me a food voucher for a Coney Island, which I couldn't eat. And then I remembered the despair I had felt, just a few weeks later, when I realized how hard it was to make it in the free world.

Job prospects were difficult enough with the economy in a recession and the auto industry in the dumps. But then having to take a Department of Correction's job search verification form with me-to every place where I asked for an application-did wonders for getting me hired. I couldn't believe how quickly my dreams all seemed to vanish. At one point, I felt like I was more content inside prison than I did in the outside world. At least while I was in prison I had something to look forward to. On the outside, I had nothing. And worse-I didn't have a clue how to go about getting it.

I violated my parole by getting drunk and running away from the Correction Center. When I came back, the parole board gave me a six-month flop, which I was just finishing. But this time it was going to be different, I was determined to make it out there.

This time through was no easier than when I had been a fish, because everyone knew my story. I wouldn't punk up with anyone by choosing a man. I wasn't going to be anybody's fuck boy any more. At least violence was less of a threat here, since most of these guys too were waiting to be paroled soon.

I stayed calm, even when someone pounded on my cell door and hollered, "Good night, faggot!"

The guards were now flashing the lights for lock-down for the night.

"We'll get you next trip," another inmate yelled.

A few nights earlier, a black guy had tried to corner me in the bathroom-him and three other guys. As had been the case with Moseley, I walked a fine line-because any fights or complaints that might occur in my final days could delay my release. All the inmates knew that, so some took advantage of the situation. Even so, I was not about to let myself be victimized again. I'd grown up at least that much. Luckily, I saw the others hiding in the stall before they were able to grab inc.

"Next time, Baby Boy," the inmate shouted. "That ass is mine!"

That was Carlton; he was on the ride-out list for 7 Block. The board flopped him for having drugs in his urine. He had been out of prison less than thirty days.

The guards pulled the release breaks, and the lock engaged in my door.

I dropped to the floor and did some push-ups, which helped me to vent my anger. It was my last night, in this inverted world, and the rage from my time in prison had swelled inside of me. It had been four years since I first came here. I was locked away between the ages of seventeen to twenty-one years old. So while some kids were away at Penn State, I was sitting in the state pen. It was some education.

When I first went in, I spent most of my time checking out from what went on in here. That had now changed. I struggled to remain present. But being present all the time had its drawbacks. It made me paranoid for one, and the cumulative effects of all that adrenaline can wreak havoc on your body's nervous system. Instead, I found another place-an inbetween world-where I stood with my eyes wide open and my feelings locked away. It was as if an invisible force field surrounded me and nothing could penetrate it. Inmates could call me whatever they liked-faggot, snitch, punk-ass-bitch-but they weren't going to put their hands on me. Not if I could help it.

I was still on the floor, when I sensed someone watching me. It was the guard, Hughes, who had stopped in front of my cell. His eyes, like his hair, were old and gray. He had been indifferent to me since I first arrived, and even now, had a half-smirk on his face as he looked down at me.

"Good luck tomorrow," he said. "I hope you make it."

Then he said something I hadn't expected.

"You don't belong here."

They were simple words, plainly spoken, and yet they rang in my ears. The door at the end of the corridor squeaked open and then closed behind him. Perhaps it was an accumulation of everything that had come before, but what he had said triggered something inside me. I began to bawl uncontrollably. I didn't belong there, and all along I knew it. I tried to muffle the sound, but couldn't suppress the noise. Nor did it matter anymore.

"Yo!" an inmate yelled from down the hall. "Who the fuck is that?"

Another voice hollered, "Someone needs to give her a dick!"

Fuck 'em all, I thought. They could drown in my tears for all I cared. The rage, pain, and sadness escaped from me like a broken pipe, releasing all the pressure of emotions that had been suppressed so long that I had grown numb.

I lay there on the floor, curled and still, soothing my face against the cool