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

"What?" she said.

"Oh, nothing," I said. I hated that I blushed so easily. "Can I think about it?"

"Sure. Can you get something to one by this Friday?" And with that, I bounced from her office. The prison newspaper! But what would I write about? I wanted to write about her-how she talked to me like a real person and how that made me feel. How nice it was to be called by my first name and how it was to believe that I was human again, in that little interchange. And that's exactly what I wrote about. I wrote about what a difference it made to be treated with dignity in a place that didn't seem to value it much. I wrote about how it elevated the spirit and how much that meant to me. I'm sure it wasn't well written, but she hired me anyway.

"Hood rat!" Paul said. "What the fuck is a hood rat?" He was incensed. "And I ain't from Hamtramack either. I grew up in Wayne."

Wayne was the town next to mine. Paul and I would have gone to the same high school, had he not dropped out and gone to prison. "How dare that motherfucker!"

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Paul. He looked like he was about to hit me."

"Listen, I'll take care of it," he said. "Don't you worry about nothing."

"Yeah right," I said. "What are you going to do? Blow him?"

"He's not my type," Paul said, "but don't worry, he's not gonna bother you again."

"You talk a lot of shit for someone who weighs about 120 poundssoaking wet."

"I'll kick your bony ass," he said.

"Oh now you're a big fitckin' man. If you're so fuckin' tough, why were you Taylor's boy?"

"Because I was raped," he said to me.

I didn't know how to respond.

"And because I'm gay," he said, finally. "That's why."

I stood there foolishly, wishing I hadn't said what I had.

"And like I said, pretty boy. You're not gonna have to worry about Moseley. Trust me. I'll take care of it at lunch."

As we walked to lunch, Moseley was waiting for me in front of the chow hall. They alternated the order the units were called to the chow.

"Wait here," Paul said and he walked up to Moseley. "Can I talk to you?" he said.

Moseley looked down at him without responding.

"Seriously," Paul said. "It'll only take a minute."

The two of them walked off, and I could see Paul talking to him in an animated way, with his hands making all kinds of gestures, but since they were going in the other direction, I couldn't hear what they were saying. As usual, Paul was doing all the talking. A moment later, they turned around and started to walk back. Frightened, I quickly went inside the chow hall.

The line split into two sides as it approached the metal serving trays. I inched my way to the left, and Paul came up beside me. Moseley went to the other side.

"It's taken care of," Paul said.

"What?"

Moseley was now getting his food directly across from me, and though he knew I was standing there-he wouldn't look at me.

After we sat down, I asked, "What did you say to him?"

"Don't worry about it."

"No! What did you say?"

Paul refused to tell me until we got back to our unit. I could tell by looking at him, that he wasn't going to budge. Not knowing was driving me crazy.

"Ever been to New York?" I asked, changing the subject.

"I went to Chicago once."

I was still thinking about the article I read in the prison library about the gay discos. I remembered how the guys in picture didn't seem like queens at all-they looked like Paul and me-though they were older.

"Ever go to a gay bar?" I asked.

"Nah. I wasn't old enough. Shit, I turned eighteen in here. But I'd like to, though. Gays are the only people in the world that have to go out and find their own tribe."

I remembered how I responded to disco music the first time I heard it. And now, how surprised I was to learn that it had originated in gay clubs. I wondered if it was some kind of weird subliminal mating call that drew gay men to New York.

The other two inmates at our table got up and left.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Paul leaned over and said, "I told Moseley you were about to go to The Man."

"You told him I'd snitch!" I nearly shouted, outraged that Paul had put me in jeopardy.

Several inmates looked up from the other tables.

"Why did you do that?" I demanded.

"Because he ain't gonna do nothin', that's why. He's leaving in a few weeks, and he's not about to do anything that will get his Correction Center pulled."

"So you made me out to be a snitch?"

"No, I didn't make you out to be a snitch. You didn't snitch on anybody. I just told him that you were about to."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"Nope. Listen Tim, around here. It's not what you do. It's what these motherfucker's think you're going to do. Perception is 99 percent of the law. It's not how you act, it's how they think you're going to act. How you carry yourself is 99 percent of reality."

I stared at him, not knowing what to think. "What about his friends?"

"Well, I'm gonna teach you how to play on these motherfuckers," he said.

"Play them?"

"Play on them," he corrected.

"Play on them for what?"

"You have to learn how to work these motherfuckers. Turn the shit around on their ass. It's the only way to survive in here. Especially if you're a young, pretty motherfucker like you or me."

Paul paused for a second and stared at me.

It was a lot to take in at once, and it was pretty shocking for me to see someone my own age who was as wise as Paul was. I also felt encouraged. He not only knew how to work the system, but