It was another day in cellblock hell.
Dominoes clacked against steel tabletops and cell doors banged shut with chest rattling force. Conversations competed, each shouting over the next, in a percussion of steel and flesh.
After three decades in prison, I have become numb on the inside. I have witnessed men swan dive from the third-floor railings in defiant middle finger to the universe. Anything, then to have served out life in a purgatory world while existing on a razor’s edge. Tragic? Sure. Shocking? I suppose.
Eventually the madness takes on the form of background static, forced upon the subconscious to deal with. The conscious mind checks out and washes its hands of it all.
So, on a sweltering day back when American troops hunted for Weapons of Mass Destruction, I’d had enough. I needed a break.
I wove my way through the throngs of convicts and crossed the cellblock. I jerked open the heavy door to cell 168, tugged off my t-shirt and threw myself onto my bunk.
The small floor fan offered no respite from the heat. I had saved for a month scrubbing all manner of DNA from community toilets to earn 17 dollars for that damned fan. At 12 inches in height, all it ever did was change my tiny concrete tomb into a convection oven. I laid staring at the dusty ceiling.
My eyes finally closed. I had all but forgotten about the heat when something thumped. Prison has a heartbeat of sounds and like heartbeats anything out of rhythm stands out.
I sat up. I rubbed at my eyes and the world splintered back into focus.
Another thump. Except this time, I was sure I had actually heard it. Something thumped against the wall as if someone in the cell beside mine had shoved a heavy slab of meat.
I clicked open the cell door and grumbled to myself. Whatever was going on in the cell next door, I had thought, better be good.
I peered through the slit window and what I witnessed stopped me in my tracks.
Two burly men punched at my 18-year-old neighbor, kicked him in the groin, and threw him against the wall. His nose gushed red. Crimson smeared shoe prints told the story.
Shit, I thought. They’re robbing him.
In the free world home invasion caught in the act brings the cavalry. Police screech to a halt, guns drawn, and the perp gets arrested, if not shot, by the homeowner. In prison there is no cavalry.
I lingered outside the door hesitating for what must have been eternity. I wanted to intervene, but it wasn’t my place to do so. I have learned; one is wise to honor prison’s unwritten commandments. Thow shalt not stick thy nose into other people’s business.
I dared another glance through the window.
I noticed one of the men now laid unconscious on the floor. The other assailant’s chest heaved and his foot stumbled about. Our eyes met, the kid and I, and he gave me a nod. I felt a grin crack across my face.
I went back to my cell.
I repositioned the floor fan in hopes of cool air before cursing its existence. Eventually the thumps ceased. I wondered who won the fight but realized it didn’t matter – nothing here matters.
My eyes finally closed. Alone in my cell I slept.
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