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

yeah," I responded, smiling, "like a fish."

Chet smiled, and the flicker returned.

"Well, then," he said with delight, "have I got a party for you! I've got a batch coming off tomorrow. We'll have a welcoming party."

"Really!" I whispered excitedly. "You've got booze in here?" I had heard that inmates made their own liquor. I remembered a scene in the movie, The Longest Yard, where Burt Reynolds and another inmate had booze hidden in a plastic bag inside their cell toilet. But that was the movies.

"Spud juice, my boy. The best brew this side of Jackson."

"Wow! How do you make it?"

Squinting his eyes, Chet bent forward and imitated an Asian accent. "Ancient Chinese secret," he said. We both laughed because he was imitating an old laundry detergent commercial.

"Don't listen to that lying motherfucker," blurted a voice so close behind me that I felt a breath on the back of my neck. Startled, I turned around. "This boy wouldn't know how to brew spud juice if his momma's life depended on it." He was a black man with sideburns and a thick mustache that came down past the sides of his mouth. He looked like the actor in the television show, The Mod Squad, except that his hair was wavy and cut closer to his scalp.

Chet shot back at him from over my shoulder, "Oh, now don't you bring my mother into this, Boy!" He said it with an extra emphasis on the word boy. The man broke a smile that displayed a perfect set of teeth that were nicely framed by his mustache and dark brown skin.

"Oh, I'll bring your mother into this all right," he said as he brought his full attention to me. He was standing fairly close. I looked down at his feet; he was wearing worn-down brown leather slippers. Perhaps that was why I hadn't heard him when he walked up behind me.

He smiled broadly at Chet. It was clear they were friends. "And I've got your boy," he said, as he grabbed his crotch and squeezed it, "hanging right here."

I laughed, nervously, and was glad they were friends just teasing each other.

Chet put his hand on my shoulder, "Meet my newly adopted son," he said with a paternal pride, "This here, is Tim."

"Well, well, well." He was studying me intently. "Mr. Blue Eyes."

Embarrassed, I smiled, and we shook hands. This time I locked thumbs as we shook. As I tried to take my hand back, he grasped my hand like a regular handshake and held it for a second and then cupped his fingers and glided the tips across the surface of my palm and then curled his fingers and interlocked them with the last joints of my fingers. His hand awkwardly slid off of mine as I unsure what I was supposed to do. He looked down for a second but then smiled as he looked back up at me.

I felt foolish I didn't know the secret handshake.

"He blushes," the roan said.

Chet leaned over to my ear and whispered, "This man here is one scandalous Motown motherfucker." He said it loud enough for his friend to hear. "His own momma wouldn't trust him."

"Hey, I'll tell you what," he calmly retorted, "My momma is a big of bull dagger, and your momma is her big ass bitch."

Chet and I both laughed.

"I see The Man's sending babies up in here now," he exclaimed, as if the entire north side of the building should be outraged. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen!" he exalted. "God Damn! What's your number, Son?"

"1-5-3-0-5-2."

"God Damn!" He raised his voice as if the world should be outraged.

"I got drawers older than this boy," Chet declared from over my shoulder.

I smiled and wondered why they had called them drawers and not underwear.

"The numbers are up to one-fifty-three!" He kept his eyes locked on mine.

"Why? How old are you?" He looked to be as old as Chet.

"Old enough to be your daddy." He looked over at Chet, and they both chuckled.

"How old is that?" I asked, curiously, still smiling.

"I'm almost thirty."

"OOOOOoooooolllldddd," Chet mocked.

He didn't acknowledge Chet's comment.

I did the math in my head and questioned whether it was possible for him to have fathered me at twelve years old.

"Let's go sit into the card room, Tim. I'll introduce you to Taylor here, nice and proper like."

Chet put his hand on my shoulder and led me to the card room, where two black guys were sitting.

"Don't worry about the liver, Kid," Chet boasted. "We don't eat that shit in here."

"That's right!" Taylor said.

"Cook up!" an inmate named Red piped in, loud enough for the guys in the TV room to hear.

"Hey! Let's have roast beef tonight." Taylor said.

"We do our own cook-up," Chet ignored the others.

"Yeah," Red said, leaning over to me. "Do you like meat?"

"Hold up Red," Slide Step said from across the room. "Give that boy some room."

Red was a black man with really dark skin. He was named Red because his eyes always looked bloodshot. They were slanted and gave the appearance that he was almost Asian.

Red threw his hands up at him, as if to say, "What? Did I say anything?"

Slide Step ignored him and looked out into the day room. His feet were propped up on another chair, and he was leaning back with his arms casually crossed in front of him. Slide Step wore a scraggly beard and a knit wool hat stretched over what looked a big ball of hair.

"How old are you," I asked Slide Step, sensing that he was pretty old.

"Thirty." He seemed amused that I was interested in his age.

"Wow, that's pretty old."

He smiled and looked back out into the day room.

Red and Slide Step, like Taylor, were part of Chet's family. Chet explained that you had to have a family if you wanted to survive inside the penitentiary. He said it was very difficult to make it on your own, especially if it was your first time.

When you hook up with a family, he explained, you look