Out in the trustee dorms, there’s an upstairs mezzanine area on both sides. When I first came out here, my bunk was on two row, next to “Old School.” Honestly, he was only a couple of years my senior. So evidently, he must have had a hard life. He looked seventy instead of fifty. We were separated by a waist-high partition wall into cubicles.
While we do sacrifice some privacy, the trade-off is worth it. Cell blocks and buildings are rougher. There’s also the extra hassle of getting in and out of cells. So there, close quarters mean that we get to know each other’s routine just a little bit too well.
Old School wasn’t a bad guy. He’d simply fallen into the trap of addiction. Gangs, crime, and drugs are rampant down here. I’d recently transferred from the largest unit in Texas. However, I quickly learned that even though this place was a quarter the size–it had TEN TIMES THE TROUBLE!
I’ve done my share of partying before, but the stuff these kids are pushing is just plain dangerous. People have seizures, pass out, vomit, and worse. They capriciously call this “toon attacks” or “getting stuck.” Folks will freeze up like statues and stare straight ahead at nothing. Often, I’d find Old School on his floor like this, right after I smell him light up.
Many times, I had to remove a still-burning stick from his fingers and put it out. There were even some close calls, when guards would come in and I’d throw his stuff under his bunk and try to get him to snap out of it. “Look out, Henry! Fucking LAW is in here! Lay down and pretend you’re asleep!” Sure enough, when they smelled it, they would get mad as hell: “Next time I smell that shit at count time, we’re coming back with the dogs to tear up everybody’s house!”
Usually, Henry would just wake up to look under his bunk for his lighter and the rest of his stick. I never realized how deep he was involved until these gang thugs came upstairs on commissary day. He started arguing with them, then the biggest one slapped the piss out of him. They took off carrying his commissary bags. So I asked him: “Are they hogging you, School?” He smiled and shook his head no as he rubbed his cheek. “I owe them for the dope.”
Although I didn’t want to get in his business, I did start to keep a close eye on him. From time to time, I’d notice him digging through the trash or pulling the laces out of old boots. Curiosity finally got the better of me. So one day, I offered him a shot of coffee and asked, “whatcha makin’ school?” He didn’t look sad or depressed. He just smiled and said, “A three strand cord is not easily broken.”
I rarely go to breakfast. I like my morning quiet time. I drink my coffee, then clean the dorm before I exercise. That day, I was a little slow getting up, but I did hear the guard yell, “Last call for chow.” Then the door slammed and the place got really quiet. I must have dozed off. All of the sudden, the wall next to me started shaking. I bolted upright in bed and saw that rope stretched tight over the red iron up in the rafters.
I looked over the edge to see Old School swinging like a pendulum in wide arcs over the day room! His legs kicked like he was riding an invisible unicycle, and his hands grasped the rope behind his neck. I jumped up to grab a razor blade off of my table and cut the rope. It made a loud snap, which was followed immediately by the thud of Henry hitting the floor.
I ran downstairs to roll him onto his back. Blood was everywhere, and he gasped for air as we got the rope loose from his neck. I ran to grab some rags for his face. His mouth was moving, but he couldn’t speak. I grabbed him by his ankles and dragged him into one of the empty day room cubicles. “Keep quiet! I’ll be back.”
I ran to pull the rope down and mop up the blood. When I got back, he still couldn’t talk. His nose and mouth were bleeding, and I told him, “Come on! Let’s get you to the shower before they get back.” He was barely able to walk. Once we got him in there, I told him, “We’ll talk later. I’ll go grab your stuff.”
I ran upstairs to throw the rope in my house and grab his boxers and towel. There was a letter on his bunk. I threw that in my house, too, and went down to bring him his shower stuff. I rinsed out the mop and got ready to start cleaning. I kept thinking about that letter. I knew I was invading his privacy, but nobody needs to get mail like that! I ran back upstairs to open the envelope. Then I ripped up the letter and put it back inside.
People started to file back in from chow, and sure enough, that big bully and his cronies went upstairs to mess with Henry. I knew the big thug was only playing like he was going to slap him, but just as he reached his arm back, the lights turned on! They all ran and scattered like cockroaches. Evidently, the guards in the picket woke up from their nap and saw it on camera.
With Henry’s face the way it was, no amount of explaining was going to keep the thugs from trouble. More guards came in and School gave me that look, like, “What do I do?” I just smiled, put my finger to my lips, and said “SHH!” That wouldn’t be a problem, since he still couldn’t talk, anyway.
The guards found Henry’s commissary bags in the gang banger’s cubicle and returned them. I think there was a lot of extra stuff thrown in them, too! Everybody knew that Henry kept his mouth shut, because it was a week before he could talk above a whisper. With everybody always saying they were in the wrong place at the wrong time–it feels good to finally have been in the right place at the right time.
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